After saving the world, you're plagued with nightmares of your boyfriend falling from the radio tower.
pairing: steve harrington x henderson!reader
words: 2.1k
contains: heavy angst, eventual fluff, established relationship, character death (but not really), graphic descriptions of fatal injuries, nightmares, description of a panic attack, near death experienc, lots of trauma, use of pet names for reader (baby, sweet girl), female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: steve angst lovers please rise! this one got me i won't lie. i hope that the action is okay too, struggled a lot with that but we got there in the end!
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Red lightning flashed across the sky and the radio WSQK tower seemed to groan beneath you as you lean slightly over the railing to see just how high up you were. You swallow when you realise that you were so high up that you couldn’t even see the ground. The thought that this could be a mission you wouldn't come back from briefly crosses your mind.
“You be careful now, baby,” comes Steve’s voice, his hand falling on your lower back like an anchor that reels you back in. Your boyfriend seems to have a midas touch when it comes to reassuring you because your shoulders relax almost instantly, your body always so attuned to his. “Dustin will kill me if I let you fall.”
The corners of your lips twitch into an almost smile. “If I fall—Dustin would be fine as long as he got my bedroom,” you say, a quick glance back over the edge before you step away from the railing and look at Steve.
He looked stupidly good in that backwards cap that sat on top of his head. You knew he had worn it for your sake, you knew it the moment he had slid it on and winked over at you. You wanted to be mad at him but you told yourself you’d get him back for it later. If there was a later.
“Funny,” Steve murmurs, zero amusement in his eyes as he looks back at you, his fingers curling into your jacket like he was trying to ground himself. “But I’m serious, if you fall I—”
“—Steve,” you interrupted him before he could let the thought in, your hand reaching for his in an attempt to reassure him with skin against skin. “It’s gonna be fine. We’re gonna be—”
“No, no, no, guys—it’s not lining up.”
Your blood turns cold at those words. A horrible sense of foreboding creeps in.
“What do you mean it’s not lining up?” Steve asks Lucas in a slightly panicked voice while you look up at the tower needle, at the rocky surface of the abyss above that was coming down. Your eyes focused on deep rifts that were emitting an eerie red glow that did not align with the needle.
“Look! The tower needle. It’s not lining up with the rift.”
“Shit!” Steve exclaims, his hand in yours tightening, his fear palpable as the abyss moved ever closer.
You could feel your heart pounding in your chest. You couldn’t concentrate on anything other than Steve’s hand in yours and trying to ignore that feeling deep in your gut that felt an awful lot like dread.
Because that if the abyss hit that needle—the tower was going right down with it.
Everything moved quickly after that. Dustin was frantic as he yelled down his walkie at Hopper. The others around you scramble to hold onto something, anything and Steve drops your hand so that he could grab you around the waist, pulling you against him as you all braced for impact.
You look up at him, seeing the fear in his eyes. “Steve, I love—”
“—don’t you dare say that, baby. Don’t you—”
“Watch out!”
The moment that the tower needle crashes into the rocky surface of the abyss, the whole tower moves.
The platform beneath you shakes violently. Everything feels uneven. Figures move around you as the others stumble, as they cling onto the railing like it was their very last hope.
And Steve—he slips backwards, letting you go so that he doesn’t pull you with him.
“Steve!” You cry out, your hand frantically trying to reach his but to no avail. He stumbles back before smacking into the railing on the other side of the platform.
You don’t think—your grip slips from the metal railing as you go to rush after him, to save him but—
The sound of metal groaning above you makes everyone look up.
You felt as though you were frozen as you watched the needle bend—the sound seeming to reverberate through you. Shrill. Piercing.
You barely have time to comprehend what was about to happen before the needle finally snaps.
“Look out! Look out! Look out!”
You knew it was Steve’s voice but in your panic, you couldn’t think of anything else besides getting to the man that you loved.
Someone screams out your name. Once, twice. You were sure that it was Dustin. You were sure he was yelling at you to stop. That it was too late. But as the needle falls, as it crashes onto the railing besides Steve—everything else ceases to exist.
Because the railing snaps off and Steve stumbles back.
Your world tilts—everything feels as though it was moving in slow motion as you try to reach for Steve’s hand. There was a moment when your fingers brushed against his. When your skin touched his and for that moment—you almost believed that everything would be okay. But your hands were too clammy to hold on to him and he slipped right through your fingertips.
“Steve!” You cry out, your voice breaking along with everything else inside of you as you watch Steve Harrington—the man you loved, the guy who had only hours earlier promised that he’d marry you the second all of this was over—tumbles over the edge of the platform.
A sense of numbness swept over you. A numbness that creeps down to the tips of your fingers. A numbness that makes it hard to comprehend what had just happened. Because Steve Harrington could not be dead.
You move without really thinking. Someone yells your name again as you look over the edge, expecting to see Steve—expecting to see him hanging from the platform with one hand. But you only see darkness below.
The moment you realise that no one—not even Steve Harrington—could survive that fall was the moment that the truth finally hits you—brutal and absolute.
Steve Harrington was dead and there was nothing you could do.
A scream rips from your throat, one that pulls at your vocal chords. One that feeds on the agony of seeing the love of your life being claimed by gravity. You barely feel the tears spilling down your cheeks, barely feel the hands that were grabbing you, pulling you away from the edge to stop you from joining Steve in death.
You hear your name being called frantically and in your grief, it almost sounds like Steve. But you knew it wasn’t because he was dead. He had plummeted to the ground and he was dead. His body lay broken on the ground five hundred feet beneath you, his bones smashed to pieces, his skull caved in from the impact of the fall. The heart you had once fallen asleep listening to no longer beating and those big, hazel eyes of his unseeing.
It didn’t feel real.
It wasn’t real.
It couldn’t be real—
You jolt, your body trembling as you wake. You felt cold. Everything felt cold. Your hands shook violently and a violent sob ripped through your body before you could stop it. The image of Steve falling replaying over and over again in your head—
“Baby, baby, baby—please—.”
You don’t even register the fact you had been thrashing violently in Steve’s arms until you heard his voice. Until his arms tightened around you, until he had grabbed your wrist to stop you from hurting him or yourself.
Steve.
Alive. Alive. Alive.
But he couldn’t be.
You had watched him fall over the platform edge. You had seen the sheer terror in his eyes right before he had fallen. The fear. The panic. The realisation that he was going to fall five hundred feet to his death. The realisation that he was leaving you behind, that the future you had planned together would never come to fruition.
“Y-you’re n-not re-real,” you cry out, your sobs that are so heavy that they shook your entire body. “Y-you’re de-dead—”
“—baby, I’m not dead,” Steve tells you, his voice breaking as he holds you, his arms around your waist tightening as he pulls you back against him, trying desperately to ground you. “Listen to my voice, I’m not—”
“—b-but I-I saw—”
“—I know baby,” Steve murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple as he pulls you close as though trying to fuse the two of you together. “I know what you saw and it’s not real, okay? I’m real. I’m here. I’m alive. Please believe me, please—”
But it was difficult to tell what was real and what was not when everything around you felt blurry, when your body felt as though it was still up on the platform watching him fall. You felt cold, you couldn’t stop shaking and despite knowing deep down it was just a dream—that Steve had never fallen from the radio station, that he had been pulled to safety by Jonathan—the grief you had felt was still all consuming. You felt it in every bone, every nerve, every cell in your body and all your boyfriend could do was hold you while you cried.
It wasn’t the first time you had a nightmare about him falling from the tower and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
“I got you,” Steve tells you. His own voice cracking as he struggles to control his own emotions at the sight of your distress before gently manoeuvring your body so that you could face him. “I got you, baby. I always got you, okay?”
It was when your eyes finally met his and you saw life in them—saw none of the terror and panic that you had seen right before he had fallen—that you started to focus back on reality.
Steve. Beside you. In bed. Warm.
Steve. Alive. Holding you.
Steve. Alive.
“S-Steve?” You murmur out, your breathing uneven as your fingers unclench before they reach for him—for the coarse hair that covers his chest. Your fingers slide through the hair there so that you could feel his heart beating beneath your palm.
“Yeah. I’m here, baby,” he tells you in a thick voice, his arms like a vine around your waist as he pulls you flush against him. “Not going anyway. Okay?”
You nod, small sniffles escaping you now as you lean forward to bury your head into his chest. The thump, thump, thump of his heartbeat against your eardrum—the reminder that he was still here, that he was still alive—making the panic that had built up inside of you settle. It didn’t leave, the anxiety of losing Steve never truly left but it settled. Because he was here. He was alive.
“I’m sorry i-if I w-woke you up,” you say quietly, dreading to think of what you had done, what you had said whilst you had been dreaming. If you had screamed, if you had yelled out in terror as Steve had fallen from view—
“Don’t apologise,” Steve tells with a small shake of his head. “Please don’t—”
“—I just—y-you can tell m-me if it’s to-too much.”
There was a moment of silence and then—
“Sweet girl, you could never be too much,” he tells you in a voice that was somehow both firm and gentle. “I promise you. Never.”
You nod, blinking away the tears that still lingered before you look back at him.
“I just—I-I love you so fucking much and—almost losing you it—it—it just—”
“—hey, hey, hey,” Steve soothes you so lovingly and gently that you could burst. “I love you too, baby. But you didn’t lose me, yeah? Not going to leave my girl when I still need to put a ring on her finger.”
That pulls another laugh out of you and Steve’s beams at the sound of it.
“There she is,” he hums, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your cheek. “My love. My light. My future wife.”
Your face burns but you can’t help but feel warm inside at his words.
“Sap,” you murmur, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you look at him.
“I’m your sap,” he tells you, one his hands cradling the back of your head gently while the other rubs up and down your back—a motion that acts as a soothing balm to the deep ache in your chest. “And I’m here for as long as you want me.”
You let out a small laugh despite everything and Steve feels something tightening in his chest at the sound as you pull away enough to look up at him with eyes that were still glassy with tears.
“Is forever okay?” You ask him in a voice so quiet that Steve had to lean in to hear.
Steve smiles faintly, lifting one large hand to wipe away the tears that had spilled down your cheeks with his thumb. “Forever is more than okay,” he tells you sincerely before leaning in and pressing his lips against yours. You melt into it. His lips against yours yet another remainder that he was alive. That he was real.
Standing there in the light of the window
Wearing that same smile
Man, it's been a while
But I knew it, I knew you
When your former childhood best friend climbs through your bedroom window with a bruised and battered face, you take care of him but you aren't quite sure if you can forgive him.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 6.4k
contains: eventual fluff, angst, childhood friends to strangers to lovers, description of physical injuries from canon level violence, steve being a dick, elements of king!steve, mild bullying, mention of sex, unrequited (but not really unrequited) love, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: this was meant to be a blurb but i got into the story too much to keep it that way!
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You met Steve Harrington at five years old—the day that your family had moved to Hawkins. Elizabeth Harrington had knocked on your door with a plate full of freshly made brownies and a young boy with his arms wrapped tightly around his mother’s leg.
It took barely any time at all for you to be introduced to each other. Before you knew it—your mom and his mom were letting you guys run riot while sipping on homemade lemonade in your backyard. His dad and your dad later became business partners. And you and Steve Harrington? Your lives intertwined and you became inseparable. He chased after the boys who pulled your pigtails in the park and you held his hand after the first time his dad had ever properly yelled at him. He was your best friend and you were his.
And somewhere along the way, you had fallen in love with him. You hadn’t planned on it, in fact, you had actively tried to stop yourself from developing any sort of feelings for your best friend. But it just sort of—happened. You constantly thought of excuses to go over to his house just to see him, you spent way too much time on baking his birthday cake and you had cried yourself to sleep after he had told you his first kiss had been Lucy Hayes behind the bike sheds.
You told yourself you’d get over it. That being best friends was enough.
But then high school happened. High school—where Steve had slipped into the popular crowd with ease while you remained in the shadows. Where Steve went to parties while you stayed home to do extra credit.
You slowly felt him slipping away from you. He stopped sneaking in through your bedroom window to watch R rated horror movies that he had stolen from his parents VHS collection, he stopped knocking on your door in the morning to take you to school and he didn’t come to the annual trip to the lake house the summer after freshman year, opting to stay home and throw a massive party instead.
You told yourself it was fine—that you were just growing apart but you’d eventually find your way back to each other.
But then in your sophomore year, he invited you to one of his parties and your friendship came crashing down over a game of truth or dare.
You had never seen the Harrington house look so messy.
The front yard was littered with beer bottles and red solo cups, there were several smashed glasses in the kitchen and you swore you even saw a couple rolls of toilet paper hanging from the chandelier in the foyer.
All you could think as you sat on the couch in the basement, squeezed between Steve and a very intoxicated Carol was that you hoped for Steve’s sake that Elizabeth and Danny Harrington never saw their house in this state. You were pretty sure Steve would be grounded for life if they did.
You felt Steve shift beside you as he leaned back to take a long swig from his beer, eyes flickering over to you briefly before he looked away.
You weren’t entirely sure why Steve had invited you to his party, he had hardly said a word to you all evening and you felt like some pathetic lost puppy waiting for him to come back to you. You had a feeling that he had only invited you to alleviate some of the guilt he may have felt for ditching you last week to hang out with Tommy but you were beginning to wish that he hadn’t asked you at all. Parities were not at all your thing but you had wanted to try because it was Steve and your feelings for him made you do things you didn’t want to do sometimes. Especially when he looked so stupidly handsome in that green shirt of his.
“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” Steve asks you with a gentle nudge of your arm. The subtle contact sends a jolt through you and you have to force yourself to act natural as you turn to look at him.
“No, thank you, I’m—”
“—of course she doesn’t want a drink,” Carol slurs from beside you, leaning over you to talk to Steve. You shrink backwards against the couch, mostly to put a little distance between you and Carol and the smell of vodka coming from her that was almost overwhelming. “She hasn’t—” she hiccuped. “She hasn’t drank all—” she hiccuped again. “All night. She’s such a square.”
You don’t say anything but you feel your face grow hot in embarrassment as Carol talks about you like you weren’t sitting right next to her. The worst part was that Steve didn’t even stick up for you. You hate the fact you weren’t surprised by that.
Your leg begins to bounce, you were trying to quickly think of an excuse to leave. Not that you really needed one, Steve didn’t seem particularly bothered by your presence.
“Steve, I need to—”
The sound of jeering cuts you off and the words quickly die on tongue as Tommy and a few more of Steve’s friends stumble down the basement stairs.
All you wanted to do was leave but Tommy was already squeezing himself between you and Carol and you had no choice but to move closer to Steve, your thigh pressed against his and his arm flush against yours.
The uncomfortableness you felt was churning horribly in your gut, your leg was still bouncing nervously and yet, Steve didn’t say anything. He didn’t even ask if you were okay, despite his legs lingering on your knee as it bounced anxiously.
“Who’s up for a game of truth or dare?” Tommy asks, one arm slung around Carol while the other nudges you with a gleeful smile. “Maybe it’ll get Little Miss Goody Two Shoes over here to loosen up a little.”
“Tommy, let’s not—” Steve begins but the laughter around the room cuts him off. He glances at you, as though he was trying to reassure himself that you were fine—that this was fine.
You watched as Steve’s friends dared each other to take a shot of hot sauce, to strip off their clothes and jump naked into Steve’s pool. Your stomach turned as you heard them ask each other the most intrusive questions about each other's sex life and at parts, even Steve laughed.
And then, it was your turn.
You shifted uncomfortably, Tommy’s elbow digging into your ribs as you looked to Steve for help. But he was too busy smiling over at one of the cheerleaders to even register your discomfort.
“Truth,” you say finally, figuring that it was the safest option. At least then they couldn’t dare you to skinny dip in the pool.
“Are you a virgin?” Carol asks you bluntly.
Your face warms, the answer is written on your face and all you wanted was for Steve to notice your discomfort, for him to help—
“I take that as a yes,” Carol mutters audibly as some of Steve’s friends laugh, making your face feel as though it was burning from shame. “Not surprised by that—”
“—Carol,” Steve says in a half arsed attempt to rein his friend in as you shift in your seat once again, your eyes flickering down to your lap as you avoid eye contact with everyone in the room.
“What?” Carol asks Steve as Tommy struggles to keep in his laughter beside you. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“—could you just—”
“—oh c’mon, Steve. We just wanna get to know her. S’only fair. You lost your v card last month so we were just curious about hers.”
Your entire body turns cold. Everything around you blurs, you feel a strange mix of feeling both too hot and too cold as you turn to look at Steve—who you find was already looking at you. Of course you were jealous, of course you were upset about Steve losing his virginity to someone who wasn’t you and of course it felt as though someone had twisted a knife in your gut at the mere thought of it. But it wasn’t just that—it was also the fact he hadn’t told you about it. It made that distance you had felt between you and Steve feel too loud to ignore.
“Oh, are you jealous?” Tommy asks, nudging you as he takes note of the look on your face with glee. “You see that, Stevie? She’s jealous she didn’t get there first—”
“—dude,” Steve interrupts, the tips of his ears turning red as he looks away from you. “Don’t be a dick.”
Despite the fact that Steve had finally stood up for you, you couldn’t help but feel it was half hearted. Almost as though Steve’s heart wasn’t really in it, as though he was more concerned about what his friends would think of him than whether or not they were making you uncomfortable.
Tommy shrugs, the slight smirk tugging on his lips that told you he was absolutely not done being a dick.
“Fine. Whatever,” Tommy mutters with a quick glance your way that Steve doesn’t catch. “Your turn then, Steve.”
There was a brief pause where Steve didn’t say anything. You could feel his eyes on you and for a moment, you wondered if he was about to ask you if you wanted to leave, if he was finally going to put you before his stupid friends. But then Steve shifted beside and you knew that he had looked away.
“Dare,” he says.
You knew almost instantly that Tommy or Carol was going to give him a dare that would somehow upset you. Perhaps he’d dare Steve to make a move on that cheerleader right in front of you, maybe they’d even go upstairs and—
“I dare you to kiss the person sitting to your right,” Tommy says, a cruel smile tugging at his lips as he watches Steve’s expression shift. Because the person sitting to Steve’s right—was you.
The first thing that you registered in response to Tommy’s dare was the laughter from his and Steve’s friends, it was Carol’s small glance towards you and the way Steve had gone completely still beside you.
“No,” Steve says simply without even so much as a glance towards you. “Not her. No way.”
The way he said, the finality in his voice made something stir in your gut. Shame, embarrassment, humiliation—you weren’t sure. Perhaps it was a sick connotation of all three that was stirring in your stomach.
Not her, he had said. Like you were the very last person he would ever want to kiss, as though kissing you was in some way repulsive, even. The laughing didn’t help, Steve’s friends muttering to each other about your inexperience made it worse and all the while—Steve Harrington, your best friend since you were five years old, didn't say a damn thing.
And that was your breaking point.
You stand up from the couch, your legs feeling wobbly despite the fact you had only drank lemonade all evening. Your entire body felt hot from embarrassment but now also from the anger that was beginning to rear its ugly head. The anger you had felt towards Steve that you had quietly buried after months of him letting you down, months of cancelled plans, months of him putting his desire to be liked over his friendship with you. You suddenly felt so angry that your hands shook slightly and you knew you had to leave because you were seconds away from bursting into tears.
“Oh, look how upset she is Steve,” Carol cooes cruelly, gleefully watching you as Tommy tries (and fails) not to laugh. “She looks like she’s going to—”
“—fuck you, Carol,” you spat, white hot anger burning through you now as you turn to look at Steve a final time. You see the panic settle in his eyes as he half rises to his feet—before you walk away from him—walk away from him and his stupid friends, his stupid hair and his stupid handsome face.
You push through the sea of bodies that had congregated in Steve’s living room, not caring that someone had smashed one of Elizabeth’s priceless vases or the fact that there was a large stain in one of the rugs. All you cared about was getting out of Steve’s house and as far away from him as possible.
You were almost successful. You were halfway down his driveway when the sound of Steve calling out your name as he stumbled after you reached your ears.
“Wait—” he calls out, almost frantic as he manages to catch up with you, his fingers slipping around your wrist in an effort to stop you from leaving. “Let me just—”
“—just what, Steve?” You snap, unable to keep the anger and hurt out of your voice as you turn to face him fully. You almost wish you hadn’t because the look on his face was so desperate that the thought of pulling away from him almost hurt.
“I just—I didn’t mean it like that,” Steve says quickly, his chest heaving as he looks back at you. In all the years he had known you, of all the years of friendship he had only seen you angry once before. That time you had spent all day making cupcakes for a bake sale just for Steve to accidentally drop an entire batch of the perfectly iced cakes. You had been so annoyed at him you didn’t talk to him for almost two days.
But that was nothing—nothing—compared to the look on your face as you stare at Steve and wait for him to explain himself.
“It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you, I just—”
“—oh my god, do you seriously think I’m pissed off about the dare?” You ask, unable to keep the anger out of your voice as you wrench your arm away from him.
Steve looks slightly hurt at the loss of contact and opens his mouth to respond but you’re quick to cut him off. “I don’t give a fuck about the dare, Steve. If the thought of kissing me grosses you out then it—it’s whatever.”
“But I—”
“—I’m pissed because—because you let your ‘friends’ treat me like shit and you didn’t say a damn thing about it!”
Steve looks stunned and that only makes the anger coursing through you grow hotter.
“I tried but they—”
“—well, you didn’t fucking try hard enough!” you exclaim angrily, your voice breaking as the first of your tears started to fall. You felt pathetic, humiliated as tears spilled down your cheeks but most of all—you were heartbroken that your best friend and the guy you were head over heels in love had become a stranger to you.
Something in Steve’s expression shifts at the sight of your tears. His face softens as he says your name and takes a tentative step closer but you step back. The dejected look on his face when he realises you had stepped away from him seemed to break something in you.
“I wasn’t thinking,” he tried to explain and you could almost feel his panic—the way he was looking at you, the way his fingers twitched as though he wanted to reach for you. “I didn’t think they’d go that far—”
“—but they did and you didn’t s-stop them,” you say, your bottom lip quivering slightly as you harshly wipe away your tears with the sleeve of your cardigan.
“I’m so—”
You knew he was about to say sorry—you knew it by the look on his face and you knew that if he did, that you would want to forgive him. The way you had forgiven him for every other transgression over the past few months because he was your best friend and you loved him.
And so, you had to stop him before you forgave him once more.
“—you’re a coward, Steve,” you say in a voice laced with anger, hurt and every emotion you had been bottling for the past few months while Steve Harrington quietly forgot about you. “You’re a coward and I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”
The silence that greeted your words was one of the loudest you had ever heard.
You weren’t even sure if you meant it but you couldn’t take it back now.
Steve looked as though his entire world had come crumbling down around him, as though your words had been a dagger that you had driven directly through his chest. You knew it would hurt him, you knew it would upset him and perhaps that was exactly why you had said it.
“Oh,” Steve says thickly, swallowing a lump that had risen in his throat as he looked back at you, his big, puppy dog-like eyes almost pleading with you to take back the words that had just left your lips. “I—I see.”
I see. That was all he had to say. After well over a decade of friendship, after years and years of always having your back, years of ‘I’ll always be here’ and seeing each other's worst and best days—it would all end over two little words.
You waited. You waited for Steve to argue with you, for him to beg for your forgiveness like he had the last time you were mad at him. But he didn’t say a damn thing.
“See you around, Harrington,” you mutter, his surname feeling foreign on your tongue as turn around and walk away from him before you could burst into tears.
And the days that followed, Steve didn’t even try to talk to you.
And so, from a distance you watched as Steve Harrington morphed into King Steve. You watched him be a completely different person, watched as he continued to surround himself with people like Tommy and Carol. You heard the parties he threw next door when his parents were out of town that carried on until the early hours or had to be shut down by cops, you heard the way girls he slept with spoke about him and eventually you heard all about him and Nancy Wheeler.
You couldn’t deny that hearing about Steve’s life through rumours hurt. Nor could you deny that the ending of your friendship had devastated you in a way that you hadn’t been expecting and that watching Steve carry on as normal, seemingly completely unaffected by the end of a decade-long friendship, hurt just as much.
You had almost knocked on his door on his birthday but had stopped yourself. You told yourself not to dwell on the past, told yourself that things changed despite the fact your feelings for Steve never seemed to waver and the fact that you still loved him despite everything.
But that all changed one night in your senior year.
You were drifting in and out of sleep, the rain hammering down outside, smacking loud against your window kept rousing you. But it wasn’t until a particularly loud smack against the glass that you finally jolted awake.
You blink, rubbing your eyes sleepily as you glance towards the window to see if it was hailing.
But you nearly scream at the sight of a shadowy figure standing on the garage roof just outside your window.
You open your mouth to yell for your mom but when you realise it was Steve Harrington—drenched to the bone, rapping his knuckles harshly against the glass—all thoughts of yelling out leave you.
Instead, you don’t move. You barely even breathe. You were in some sort of state of shock at the sight of him at your bedroom window after all these years.
You manage to stand on legs that feel wobbly and unsure of themselves, walking cautiously over your carpet and towards the window.
And when you finally see his face clearly through the window pane—at the dark bruise covering his eye, the blood spatter over his face and look of quiet desperation in his eyes, you unlock your bedroom window without much thought.
Steve stumbles into your room, water dripping down from his hair and his clothes onto your carpet. But you’re too busy gasping at the state of his face to worry about that right now.
“H-hi,” he stammers out, his teeth chattering and his cheeks slightly pink from the cold.
Hi? Was that all he had to say after years of silence? After forgetting about you like it was easy? After he didn’t fight for you?
You had the urge to yell, to scream at him but the sight of his beaten face stops you.
“Steve, your face—”
“—that bad, huh?” Steve asks, trying to smile but instead wincing in pain.
“Sit down,” you tell him, watching as Steve’s eyes flicker around your room, taking in everything that had changed over the past almost two years—the colour of your walls, the posters you had hung up, the polaroids of you and Steve you had taken down. “I um, I’ll get something for your face.”
Steve nods, wincing again as he sits down carefully on the edge of your bed, trying not to completely soak your sheets with rain water as he does so.
You take a deep breath before you turn and leave your bedroom to grab the first aid kit from your family bathroom. You’re careful to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake your parents who would certainly have a few questions about why your former best friend is sitting on your bed with a bruised and battered face.
You walk quietly back into your bedroom with the first aid kit in your hand to find Steve hadn’t moved from the edge of your bed. But he was holding your stuffed teddy bear in his hands—the one he had won for you at Hawkins Fair when you were twelve years old, the one he had called ‘Little Stevie’ before handing it to you with a bright smile on his face.
You close the door softly behind you and Steve glances up, carefully placing Little Stevie back down onto your bed.
“You still have him,” Steve murmurs quietly as you sink down onto the bed beside him.
Your face warms and you hope it isn’t noticeable as you open up the first aid kit.
Truthfully, you hadn’t thrown out anything that was connected to Steve Harrington. The polaroids were tucked away safely in your jewellery box and even that shell necklace he had made you when he was seven was in a memory box in your closet. You just couldn’t bring yourself to throw anything away after the end of your friendship but you also couldn’t look at them anymore without something inside of you breaking every time you looked around your room. Little Stevie was the only thing you hadn’t put away—because truthfully, you couldn’t sleep without it.
But you don’t tell Steve that.
Instead, you let the silence surround the two of you as you pull out several small gauze pads and antiseptic. Steve lets you work silently as outside, the rain continues to fall, the wind howls and there’s a distant rumble of thunder.
You start first by pouring a small amount of antiseptic onto a gauze pad before you gently dab it over the small gash on his cheek. He winces and hisses in pain but he doesn’t pull away.
“What happened?” You ask him quietly a few minutes later, the cuts and blood wiped from his face as you carefully inspect the bruise around his eye.
The sight makes something tighten in your chest. Though you hadn’t talked to Steve in two years, of course you heard the arguments that happened next door. Usually after one of Steve’s parties had left the Harrington home in a state. Steve had never had the best relationship with his father as Danny Harrington expected only the best from his son and Steve had never been able to live up to that, even from a young age. But though they argued, you had never thought it would escalate to something physical.
“It—it wasn’t your dad, was it?”
“No,” Steve says quickly, too quickly which makes you look at him carefully, wondering whether or not he was lying for your sake. “Really. It wasn’t my dad. I swear. It—it was Billy Hargrove."
You blink. You hadn’t been expecting that. Sure, ever since Billy Hagrove had strolled into Hawkins High like had already owned the place he and Steve had sort of rivalry going on but you weren’t aware it was bad enough for Billy to do something like this.
“But why—”
“—it’s a long story,” Steve says, jaw tight and looking away from you briefly.
“That’s it?” You ask him, pulling away from him as you look from his face to the bloody gauzes that sat in your lap. “You come into my room after two years of ignoring me—”
Steve’s expression falters and he says your name but you shake your head, getting to your feet and causing the first aid kit to fall to the floor at your feet.
“—no Steve, it—it’s bullshit! Okay? Do you have any idea what it was like for me to watch you slowly decide to just not give a shit about me anymore?”
Steve swallows at the sound of anger in your voice. He knew it had been coming and he knew he deserved it but he didn’t know what to say. Because there was no excuse, he knew that he had hurt you in immeasurable ways and he knew he most likely did not deserve your forgiveness. But he wanted—needed—to try anyway.
“I know I—”
“—and now you show up years later with a busted face and expect me to—”
“—I thought Billy was going to kill me tonight.”
That shuts you up. Your eyes widen and you look at Steve with a horrified expression and in your stunned silence, Steve decides to keep talking.
“I had a moment where he was landing hit after hit after hit I thought—I thought ‘this is it’ and all I could—all I could think about was—it was you.”
You’re completely taken aback, you were so stunned that you almost forgot to be angry. Almost.
“All I could think about was how—how I never got to make things right with you and how much time I wasted caring about stupid shit like being popular. Caring too much about what other people thought of me when it really didn’t matter. When I already had someone who liked me for me. And instead I—I treated you terribly, I strung you along and I should never have done that. Not to you. You didn’t deserve it.”
Your eyes stung and you had to look away, not wanting Steve to see how close to tears you were. Because the truth was that you missed him. You missed so much that it was almost a physical ache in your chest. You missed the way Steve could make you laugh even when you really didn’t want to, the way he used to sometimes snort a little when he laughed really hard and the way you could be completely yourself around him.
Steve says your name again but you don’t look at him, instead you sniffle and look down at the first aid kit you had dropped, at the various medical supplies that were now scattered over your floor.
But before you could even think about picking them up, Steve is already doing it for you. You swallow, taking the opportunity to wipe your eyes as Steve bends down, carefully putting the gauze, the bandages and antiseptic bottle back into the box.
He snaps it shut, placing the kit onto bed beside him before he finally looks back at you.
“I’m really fucking sorry,” he tells you, the sincerity in his face making your throat tighten. “For everything. For being an idiot, for trying to be someone I’m not. For letting you down, for making you feel like I didn’t give a shit about you. I’m sorry for not standing up for you that night. I’m sorry I didn’t try and fix things after and I—I’m sorry for not saying all this sooner.”
You nod, your bottom lip trembling slightly as you look back at him, slowly sinking back down onto the bed beside him. “You really hurt me, Steve.”
Steve swallows at that, his eyes turning glassy as he looks back at you. “I know. I was—a colossal idiot. There’s no excuse for it. I hurt you and I wish I could take it all back but I can’t. All I’ve wanted to do these past few years is make things right with you but—but you were right, I was a coward. I was scared—terrifed—that you hated me or—”
“—I could never hate you,” you tell him.
Steve’s eyes soften and he looks back at you with a hopeful expression.
“Really?”
You nod, flexing your fingers against your bedsheet nervously as you look at him. “Really. I was hurt, upset and I was angry but I never hated you. I don’t think I could ever hate you. Not even for a second. I just—I was worried about you. I didn’t want you to become like Tommy or whoever else you were hanging out with because I know that’s not really you.”
“I was still an asshole,” Steve says thickly, the shame evident on his face as he looks down at his lap. “I still did things and said things that hurt people and I can’t take any of it back.”
“No,” you agree quietly. “You can’t.”
It’s quiet then between the two of you—the only sound is that of the thunder rumbling outside. There’s a flash of lightning outside your window but still, neither of you say anything.
“I’m sorry too,” you tell him quietly as you look down at your lap. “For saying I didn’t want to be your friend anymore. That—that wasn’t true I just—I knew I would forgive you straight away if I didn’t.”
Steve shakes his head, corners of his mouth twitching as he hesitantly lifts a hand to rest on your shoulder. His touch alone sends something hot and electric coursing through your body. “Please don’t be sorry,” he tells you. “I should have grovelled for forgiveness and I didn’t. I was—fuck—I was such an idiot that night. I didn’t have your back the way I should have done and I’ll never forgive myself for that. For upsetting you, for making you cry, for letting people talk about you like that.”
“You have no idea how much I think about that night and hate myself for what I did and what I didn’t do. How fucking stupid I feel for letting the best thing that has ever happened to me walk away without a fight.”
You turn to look at him, your expression softening slightly. “Steve—”
“—no, I mean it,” Steve insists, turning to face you fully now as he grabs one of your hands and squeezes it gently. Water drips down from his hair and onto your skin but you couldn’t care less as his touch warms something in you. “You are and I’m sorry it took me losing you and almost dying to realise that. I was just—I couldn’t admit it to myself. I was stupid. So stupid. And I think—I think I was scared to be honest with myself.”
Your brows furrow at that while your heart pounds against your chest. “Honest about what?” You ask him quietly.
Steve looks at you for a long moment before he reaches for your other hand. You let him take it as the look in his eyes keeps you rooted to the spot.
“That I was starting to fall in love with you and I got scared.”
All the air leaves your lungs at that admission. Out of all the things you had expected Steve to say when he climbed in through your bedroom window, you had never in your wildest dreams expected him to say that.
“I was—shit—it’s so fucking stupid now that I think about it but I just—those feelings scared the shit out of me. I mean—you were my best friend and yet, I was always fucking thinking about you. And so, I did all stupid shit to try and forget about you and it never worked. I partied, I listened to Tommy when I fucking shouldn’t have, I messed around because I thought I’d get over you.”
“I even lost my fucking virginity while wishing it was you beneath me the entire time. Nothing worked—nothing ever worked and so I—I thought distance would help but it didn’t and I let you down. I made promises and didn’t keep them. I made you think you were unimportant to me when you were the most important person in my life.”
“Steve—”
“—and that night—the night when Tommy gave me that dare—I didn’t kiss you because I was grossed out by you. God no, far from it—of course I wanted to kiss you. But I didn’t wanna do it if it was just a dare.”
“Steve—”
“—I just—I wanted it to be real and not at a party, not in front of Tommy and Carol or any one of those other assholes and—”
“Steve!”
Steve shuts up almost instantly. His eyes were wide and his hands were still holding yours tightly as though he was trying to ground himself.
You look back at him—at the guy you had loved for longer than you could remember—and you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him anymore.
“You know—I never threw anything away,” you tell him quietly. “I just—I couldn’t bear to look at things that reminded me of you because it hurt too much. Because missing you was like—it was like a constant physical pain. Something I couldn’t get rid.”
“Really?” Steve asks quietly.
“Yeah,” you say. “I even kept the shell necklace.”
Steve blinks once, twice before he laughs and the sound brings you the sort of warmth that even fire couldn’t ever bring you. You felt it in every pore, every nerve, every cell in your body. It made you feel lighter, made the storm outside feel insignificant.
“Why would you keep that?” Steve asks, still laughing quietly to himself. “It was so heavy and—”
“—because you made it for me,” you say simply with a small smile. “And that—that meant it was important to me.”
Steve blinks. He looks back at you with an unreadable expression as his thumb drags itself across the skin of your hand and seems to steal the air from your lungs.
“I made you it because the shells reminded me of you,” Steve murmurs fondly, eyes seeming to shine as he looks back at you. “I thought the shells were pretty and—I thought you were pretty too. Prettier than the shells, obviously.”
Your face feels hot and it was near impossible to fight back the smile on your face now.
“You told me you were practising for art class,” you say quietly, head tilting to the side as you look back at him.
Steve smiles a little before shaking his head. “I lied. I was trying really hard to impress you but seven year old me had no game.”
You laugh then and you see the way Steve’s eyes light up, the way he can’t help but smile when he hears your laugh, when he was finally the reason behind it again.
“You didn’t have to do anything to impress me Steve,” you tell him after a moment with a soft smile. “You already did.”
There was silence again and then—
“Do you mean—”
“—yeah,” you breathe out, unable to look away from him as you squeeze his hands a little tighter. “I—I’ve been in love with you for a really long fucking time, Steve.”
The moment that follows felt as though it lasted for a lifetime. Steve was looking at you, seeming to forget how to breathe and you begin to wonder if you had been too forward when one of Steve’s hands slips out of yours to gently cup your face.
“The feeling’s pretty fucking mututal,” he murmurs before his lips seal over yours in a kiss that took your breath away.
Everything seems to slow down around you. You were vaguely aware of the first aid kit clattering to the floor as you kiss him back with no hesitation. your fingers sliding into his still damp hair while his hands gently cradle the back of your head.
You’re already breathless, unable to think of the world that existed out of Steve Harrington’s lips against yours—no thoughts about the rain splattering against the window or of the lightning that flashed across the sky outside. Because everything seems so dull in comparison to Steve’s lips moving against yours, against his hands that you were holding you like you were something sacred.
He was the first to pull away—catching his breath as his eyes couldn’t help but flicker down to your lips that were wet, swollen and so inviting that he already wanted to dive back in again.
But he also knew he had to earn your forgiveness first and that wouldn’t involve being twisted in the sheets together.
“Let me take you out tomorrow night,” Steve murmurs, his thumb gently wiping away a smear of his saliva from your lips and trying not to give in. “Make up for lost time, yeah?”
You smile a little as you consider his offer, your eyes flickering over the bruise on his face. “Let’s wait until the bruise fades first, yeah?”
“Oh,” Steve says, trying to keep the disappointment out of his face as he looks back at you. “Yeah um, totally I—”
“—but I wouldn’t be opposed to a movie night,” you say with a small smile. “If you were to come up to my bedroom window again with a few movies I probably wouldn’t say no.”
Steve blinks but then—he smiles and he looked so devastatingly handsome that it was difficult to not pull him in for another kiss.
“It’s a date,” he tells you, leaning in to press a gentle but firm kiss to your forehead. “Little Stevie can join us too.”
You laugh and Steve can’t help but join you—thanking his lucky stars that you had opened your window for him.
summary: after one of the war’s bloodiest battles to date, james goes missing in action. but not even the brink of death will keep him from coming home to you ⊹ 1.4k
warnings: blood/injuries, dehydration, near death
note: not proofread :)
· ─ ⋆⋅✶⋅⋆ ─ ·
It takes a great amount of effort for James to ease himself onto his knees in front of a little stream. He splashes his dirt-stained face with the cool water, sighing in relief. His tongue feels dry as sandpaper, but he doesn’t dare take a sip. The last thing he needs is to fall ill from a dirty drink of water. After taking a few moments to stare longingly at the stream, he pushes himself up and trudges up the bank. Wandless, bloodied, and splinched.
A dodgy apparition to save his own life brought him to the middle of the forest, fifty kilometers from home. Fifty-five if you count all the stumbling around he did trying to find his way.
He thinks he could’ve walked it in a day at his best, but maybe he’s being generous with himself. In his current shape, after all of what he’d call short breaks (and what anyone else would call fainting), it takes him three.
That’s three days he’s missing. Three days in which you must think he’s dead.
What was left of him on the battlefield? His broken wand, the chunk of his shoulder he left behind when he apparated, maybe a bloody footprint. A black layer of soot would’ve settled over all of it from the blast that nearly killed him, had he stuck around.
He did not run, by the way. He’s not a deserter or anything of the sort. He didn’t receive the command to retreat, but he’s sure it was coming, or that he had simply missed it. It was clear as day that they had lost that battle long before James made his exit.
Technically, he was supposed to retreat to a designated safe house, not his own backyard (overshot by fifty kilometers), but his mind wasn’t exactly clear, and all he could think was that the safest place in the world was you. You and the little cottage in the highlands that had become a safe house for the Order, and something of a home for you and James.
Maybe you don’t believe he’s dead, despite the evidence being pretty damning. He likes to think that you’d have more faith in him. He likes to hope that this hasn’t crushed yours.
It’s late in the evening, the autumn air dropping several degrees below what’s comfortable, when he starts to recognize his surroundings.
Fueled by a renewed burst of energy, he makes it home before the sun sets. Pink and orange hues cast over his and your home when he emerges from the trees. It’s like out of a painting, almost too beautiful. He would think he’s hallucinating if it weren’t for the old splintered fence that he can feel under his palms. He pushes through the gate, which squeaks at the hinges the way it always does.
James doesn’t feel like he’s walking to the house, more like floating. It’s all very hazy and dreamlike, and Merlin he really hopes he’s not hallucinating.
The back door is locked, but he knows where to find the spare key—under the pot of pink flowers. Never mind, it was the purple ones, but they all look the same to him, even when he isn’t drunk from his injuries.
The house is dark when he enters, just barely illuminated by the last bits of sunlight through the windows. The first thing he sees is a pitcher of water on the kitchen table, and he can’t resist scooping it into his good arm and taking a large gulp straight from it. Only one, because the pointed tip of a wand jabs into his back, and he slowly puts it down.
“It’s me,” James coughs. His voice is so raspy it’s nearly unrecognizable. He turns his head slowly to show you his face. To see yours.
Your eyes widen like you’ve seen a ghost. Maybe you think you are. You shake your head once, like you don’t believe your eyes at all. Or like you don’t believe him.
“Do you remember the first thing you ever said to me?” James asks, running his sandpaper tongue over his cracked lips. “It was second year. I was in the library with Sirius, being a shit. You shushed us, so I walked over just to be a bother, and you said, ‘For someone who talks so loud, you think you’d hear how stupid you sound,’” he says with a smile, as if he were recalling the sweetest compliment. “And then I-”
“You pulled on one of my pigtails,” you finally speak, your voice just above a whisper. “And you called me a bug.”
“I meant bookworm, but I couldn’t think of the word,” James laughs, turning around completely now that he’s sure he’s proven himself. “I couldn’t think of it ‘cos I was too flustered when you looked at me with those eyes. I was just twelve, but even then, knew I was a goner.”
You lower your wand. Without taking your eyes off James, you place it on the table. It rolls to the floor with a clatter, but neither of you even flinches. Slowly, you reach out to touch him, like the verbal verification wasn’t enough for you to trust that he’s real. Your fingers brush his cheek, and his head involuntarily tilts into your touch.
“It’s me, love,” he murmurs, his eyes falling shut. His limbs suddenly feel very heavy. Finally, in the safety of your touch, his body is ready to give out.
A sharp sob captures all your breath, and it’s the most heartbreaking, beautiful sound he’s ever heard.
“I thought you- What happened? Are you-?” You have a frantic look in your eyes as you scan him for injuries, which you find many of. You push his cloak out of the way and find the bloody makeshift bandages, made from his shirt, stained a dark crimson color, almost brown.
“Oh, James,” you practically whimper. You usher him into a chair, lip caught between your teeth in worry. “You need to sit. Where in Merlin’s name have you been? What- what happened?”
“Shh, just let me look at you for a minute, won’t you?” James murmurs, catching you by your hand as you lift his cloak again to inspect the suspiciously hollow area of his shoulder wrapped in what used to be his sleeve.
You stand above James, him slumped in his chair, and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, even with your puffy, bloodshot eyes and messy hair. But you just won’t keep still, so he can admire you. It’s incredibly frustrating.
“No, I need to get the dittany. You’re hurt, James, you- you’re more than hurt, you’re-”
“‘M fine,” he insists. If he could just have you in his arms for a moment, he’s sure he’ll be healed.
“No, you’re not!” you say shrilly. “You’re half dead. I thought- I thought you were-”
James thinks, privately, that he almost was. There were times he thought he couldn’t possibly keep going, he couldn’t possibly muster the strength, but just as things were beginning to go dark, images of you would flash in his mind, and he’d get back up again.
He doesn’t voice those thoughts. He can’t have you know how close he came. Instead, he brings his hand to your cheek and asks, “You think I’d die on you?”
“One day you might not have much of a choice.” Your lower lip wobbles, chest aching because you thought you lost him. Because in times like these, you so easily still could.
He shakes his head once, brow set in the same determination that got him here. “Not even the deepest grave could keep me from coming home to you.”
He swipes at your tears, which haven’t stopped falling since the moment you thought you lost him. You place your hand over his, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles.
“Let me heal you, so we don’t have to confirm that theory.”
“Okay, m’love,” James mumbles, eyelids drooping.
Things get really fuzzy after that, but he feels your hands and the warmth of your magic, bringing him back to life.
Hi darling, i absolutely love your work and I’m not sure if you’re taking requests rn. Feel free to ignore this if not. But I had this idea for a Steve Harrington imagine. I just saw a vid where a girl pranks her bf and making him think they had a date scheduled for tonight. Imagine Steve panicking because he thinks he forgot. I mean- someone has to keep that fine ass man on his toes..
You'd been giddy all day to get home and play out your wicked scheme on poor, unsuspecting Steve, but you'd underestimated how easily you'd give in to your guilt and confess. You'd meant to convince him that he'd blown off an important date, all the way up until he was practically begging for mercy, then you'd lend it to him and admit that you'd been teasing him. But in your defense, you hadn't known that Steve had the capability to melt into a pathetic little puddle of apology kisses and promises for next time, but he does and it sobers your giddiness quickly.
"What?" His brows furrow, smoke practically coming from his ears as the cogs in his brain grind against each other, "That- no, that's next week."
"I said that last week," You pout, your arms crossed and your shoulders squared, "Which means last week, 'next week' meant this week. So today. And you missed it."
You'd made plans for 'next Friday' on Sunday. But you're betting he doesn't remember the day you said it, and you'd dabbed on more makeup than usual to give your lie more credibility.
It works, and it works well. Steve's shoulders slump, and his chest heaves along with it, the very picture of having his wind taken out of his sails. It's almost impressive, how he deflates, and he reaches his hands out like they're bracketing your waist, but he doesn't dare touch you.
"Honey," He starts, and his voice is careful, soft and tinged with guilt, "I'm sorry. I'm so- fuck, I'm so sorry, I- I swear I didn't stand you up. I thought- I thought it was next week. I swear it was next week," He huffs, dragging a hand through his hair and returning it to its spot, reaching for you without taking the initiative. You're in a dress that sticks tight to the shape of your body, and you're immediately struck with the feeling of wanting Steve's hands on your hips now. But you're supposed to be stronger than this, even if he is ridiculously endearing.
"Please don't cry," He studies your expression carefully, "I- I understand if you're angry at me, but please- did you cry? I don't want you to cry, I don't want to make you cry."
Your heart twists in your chest, and now you're worried you might begin tearing up like he's pleading you not to. You hadn't even made that big of a deal out of it- at least, you could have done far worse, running mascara down your cheeks or stomping around the house. But Steve's got a soft heart, and you'd forgotten that in your haste to get one over on him, "Steve-"
"I can take you out this Friday," He offers, inching closer but drawing his hands inwards, still held on either side of you, but never touching, merely begging, "I- I can take you out tomorrow. I'll call out sick, and we can do whatever you want, we can go shopping, or we can go see a movie, or we can go get dinner, or we can do all of that, or something else, and then on Friday-" He swallows, his adam's apple bobbing, "On Friday we can go out like we'd planned. I'll make new reservations- I'll call everyone else on the list and beg for their spot, I swear-"
"Steve," You repeat, more urgent this time, but he's alight with frenetic energy, eyes round and shiny and devastated.
"I'll pay them to let us take their table," He insists, "And obviously I'll pay for dinner- I was gonna do that anyways. Fuck," He realizes, "Did they make you order while you were waiting? Did you have to pay, that's- that place is expensive," He fumbles for his wallet, and you catch his hands before they can wrestle out a bill that's too large to be carried casually.
"Steve, stop." You speak gently, calmly, apologetically but he doesn't listen. Instead his face scrunches in a wince, and he flips his wallet open with purpose.
"No, I-"
"Steve, stop- stop, I was kidding!"
His fingers still where they're parting the fold of his wallet, touching the edge of a twenty dollar bill already.
"I was kidding," You repeat, more insistently this time as you pry his hands off of his wallet. You set it on the table beside you, clutching his hands to your chest and squeezing, your heart searing in your chest, "Oh my god, it was supposed to be this stupid prank, I don't even know anymore. It was next Friday. I was just- baby, I was just kidding, and then you went crazy and I felt bad."
"You were kidding?" He asks carefully, his brows pinched slightly in the middle, scared for your answer.
"Yes," You gush, sympathy coursing through your veins, "Steve, honey, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! That was so mean- I didn't think you'd panic!"
"It's next Friday." He reaffirms, nodding so that his hair bounces in place, "Fuck, thank god. You-" He refocuses on you, eyes narrowing, but his lips curve upwards and you feel his hands slip out of yours and down towards your waist, "You pranked me?"
"I'm so sorry," You feel mortified, hot-cheeked and guilty, "You were supposed to be kind of funny about it, but you were just perfect, and now I feel like an asshole."
"You are an asshole," Steve mutters, but it's through a smile that makes it sound like a term of endearment as he leans down to press his lips to yours. It's a kiss you almost feel like you don't deserve, so you barely kiss back, but it's hard when his hand cradles the back of your neck and tilts you back.
"You know how many concussions I've had?" He asks, forcing his face into a stern glare, "You can't joke about stuff like that because I probably will forget a date one of these days, and then I'm gonna think you're punking me."
"Don't forget our anniversary," You plead miserably, hiding your face in his chest as soon as he lets you, "But after what I just did to you I think I deserve to be stood up on my birthday this year. God, you tried paying me!"
"I won't stand you up on your birthday," Steve soothes, his smile evident in his tone as he squeezes you tight to his chest, "Maybe I'll be twenty minutes late to Valentine's Day, though. Just to teach you a lesson."
Hi lovely! Speaking of camp counselor James, I’ve always wondered what those training days were like when he and reader first met. I love reading those early first impression moments, and I was wondering how it was for them or what James thought <3
Thank you for requesting lovely!
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
camp counselor!james x fem!reader ♡ 824 words
James’ parents raised him to reach out to people. He learned early in life how to go up to anyone, put on a smile, and ask politely if they’d like to be friends. It may have been a skill he was supposed to adapt as he got older. Remus teases that James has brought preschool social norms into adulthood; Sirius says it’s part of his charm.
Either way, it’s that old instinct that makes James choose the seat beside you.
Your fellow counselors are cloistered around a long cafeteria table, getting acquainted while you all wait for the camp manager to join you and training to begin. It’s early enough that the sunlight coming in through high windows is bright and buttery yellow. Those who have had longer drives to camp are nursing paper cups of coffee while watching the others chat, bleary-eyed. It’s the sort of table where you can only really talk to the few people seated nearest you, but James hasn’t seen you talk at all. You’re smiling, your eyes sweet and attentive while you listen to the others around you.
When there’s a lull, he gets your attention. “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.”
You turn with a look of mild surprise. Your smile takes a moment to return, hesitant, as though unsure if James had really been talking to you. “Yeah, I think they’re going to have us do name tags first thing,” you say. “Not many of us know each other.”
“Have you worked here before?”
You give a sort-of nod. “Last summer, for a bit. I only worked the first session.”
“Oh.” James remembers vaguely having that option, but he hadn’t considered that people would actually choose it. He hopes it’s not common; he’d rather keep you for the full summer. “What about this year?”
“This year I’m staying the whole time.”
James grins. “Me too. It’s my first year. Maybe you could show me the ropes?”
Your eyes flicker over him quickly, like you’ve done it before you could think. When you blink, they’ve stopped. “You don't seem like you'll need my help.”
The camp manager comes in to greet you before James can ask what colors you’d like in your friendship bracelet. You don’t join in on the murmuring or commentary some other counselors do, listening patiently and raising your hand when he asks who’s been through the general training before. There are other, specialized ones counselors can take to get certified for various activities—swim instruction, archery, management of the ropes course. You raise your hand to volunteer for the last one, and so does James.
As he watches you, he decides that he doesn’t think you’re completely reticent by nature. Just a tad shy, maybe. You seem like the sort that needs to get comfortable with people.
Luckily, despite what Remus says, James can be patient.
He is also tenacious.
James collects other friends throughout the day, but he doesn’t give up on you. He finally learns your name when you all paint them on wooden rectangles, and he asks you to show him how you’ve done the clouds around yours. He partners with you for your ropes course training, talking his way through the awkwardness of practicing taking harnesses on and off of each other. At dinnertime, another counselor’s story about a kid in a previous year who took a shit in her bag (not out of malice, she claims, but desperation) makes James shoot lemonade out his nose, and you laugh, bright and startled. James feels strangely proud for having caused it.
With eyes still watering, he nods at your plate. “Not a fan of grapes?”
You’ve stopped looking surprised when he talks to you; a victory in James’ book. You look only slightly chastised. “Just picky, I guess. These ones are sort of soft.”
“I’ll trade you my fries for them.”
You blink. “Are you sure? They don’t usually serve fries. You should enjoy them while you can.”
“Two fries per grape,” he negotiates.
You seem to debate with yourself for a moment before deciding they're James’ luxury to give away if he likes. You push your plate towards him, empty but for the few grapes, and take a few fries in return.
“Pleasure doing business with you.” James crunches a grape (you’re right, they are a bit soft) between his teeth and holds out his hand.
You raise your eyebrows, but put your own in it, shaking.
“I think we should be friends,” he says. “Do you want to?”
Your eyebrows travel further upward. “I don’t know if anyone’s asked me that since we were little.”
“I don’t know if I’m supposed to take that as a compliment or not.”
You smile; it makes your lashes kiss at the corners. “It’s not an insult.”
“So?”
“Sure, James.” Hearing his name in your voice makes James grin inexplicably, and you grin back at him. “I’ll be your friend.”
i saw a video where the wife texts her husband that she’s leaving while he’s busy and he immediately gets up and searches for her to stop her, do you think you could pls write that with clark? thank you!
Ty for requesting! fem, 0.7k
Clark gets a wrinkle between his brows when he’s reading. It’s an expression completely paradoxical to his own enjoyment; he looks like he could throw his tablet across the room and never read again, but he’ll tell you how great it was later, over dinner or laying against you in bed.
You are, admittedly, attention-seeking as you write him your text. But can you be blamed? You figure anyone with a boyfriend like yours would seek his attention, and often, especially when you’ve been home from work for three hours waiting for him to finish his book so you can make dinner together. He insisted.
You created a new recipe for work that got the third page in the Daily Planet’s spread a few days, and though Clark had the privilege of trying it many many times while you were developing it, he insisted you make the finished product together to celebrate your ‘genius’ and to ‘appease’ his stomach, which loves your cooking.
Im leaving, you type, pondering how best to get him to come and love on you. text me when ur done with ur book <3
You add the heart because you don’t want him stricken by the text, and you certainly don’t want to start an argument. You’d just like him to dote on you and also some dinner. Usually you’d simply tap him on a hard shoulder and say, Hey angel, did you forget the time?
The text pings. Clark reads a few more lines of his book before he puts down his tablet and takes his phone in hand, tapping in his password, and opening your texts. He reads the newest one with a pinched brow, then his head snaps up as he gives a small, fearful gasp.
“Hey, where are you going?” he asks, scrambling up off of the sofa toward you where you’re half hiding in the kitchen. “Don’t leave.”
“I’m just gonna do some errands and stuff while you’re reading. Oof–”
The air puffs out of you from the force of his grabbing. He takes you into his arms and folds you into an embrace that smells like woody pear blossom and almond oil, your face forced into the curve of his neck. “Why didn’t you say something, bubby?” he asks, sounding truly, sincerely heartbroken. He pulls his arm up your back and makes another small gasp. “Jeez, look at the time. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was getting this late! Gosh, I bet you’re starving to death, poor girl, I’ve completely neglected you.”
You wrap an arm behind him, feeling the solid planes and shapes of his muscles beneath your warm hand. “A little,” you say, too soft, too silken. It’s nearly silly how small your voice sounds.
Clark just sighs. “Don’t go get errands without me, sweetheart, you need something to eat first. You can’t skip dinner, you’ll give yourself a headache. I’ll give you a headache,” he says, sounding rather self-loathing. “Sorry. I’ve ignored you.”
“Well, yeah, but that’s usually how reading goes.”
“I thought there wasn’t a ton left–” He tips your head back. It’s not forceful, and yet, at the same time, you feel moved, like you don’t have much choice in things as he handles you into whatever position he’d like you to be. He smiles when he meets your eyes, presses a short, sweet kiss to your cheek. “So sorry. I’m a jerk.”
“Clark, it’s okay–” He pecks you and starts cutting off your words, “I’m not mad– I didn’t want to waste– my evening– sat at the bar scrolling– on my– oh my god– on my phone.” You giggle, kissed into tingling lips and warmed by his big hands running up and down your back. “Can I have another one?”
Clark leans down slowly to give you another kiss.
“We will make dinner right now,” he says into your mouth, “so please don’t leave. How’m I supposed to cook with my heart missing?” It’s so insanely corny, you wrap yourself around him like an octopus. He shifts backward to take all your weight. “Is this a yes to staying?” he asks into your cheek.
hi mae! I’m finally done with finals and it’s getting warmer but I’m sick for the 4th time this year. this year!! I was wondering if you could write a doctor!remus x reader who’s a frequent flyer? I love reading all of your work and thank you for taking the time to write :))
Thanks for requesting angel <33
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 825 words
Remus enters the exam room looking sorry for you.
Despite yourself, you feel the corners of your mouth twitch. “What?” you ask, sore throat making your voice unusually husky. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
Your doctor’s lips twitch in turn. “I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to make jokes,” he says.
You shrug. “I think I’m starting to get used to it.”
“To what? Being poorly?”
You nod, and he clicks his tongue, taking a thermometer from a drawer on his way over to you.
“That’s not ideal,” he says while he settles it in your ear. "Not that we want you miserable, of course, but it would be my preference for you to be used to feeling well instead."
You hum impartially. "It makes me appreciate breathing more."
Remus looks at the computer on the room’s desk over his shoulder, reading the notes the nurse who checked you in typed up.
“Your symptoms are the same as a couple of weeks ago?” he checks just as the thermometer beeps.
“Yeah,” you confirm.
You must sound as enthused as you feel, because Remus smiles ruefully as he places his hands gently on either side of your face. His fingers probe gently around your neck and underneath your jaw. You never know what to do during this part. Remus looks very concentrated, so you try looking over his shoulder, keeping your own expression neutral. Though you must reveal something (that, or Remus has spent so much time with you you've formed a telepathic bond) because he asks, “That hurts?”
“A little, yeah.”
Remus hums compassionately. He reaches back towards the desk to pick up a cotton swab. You must be feeling rather comfortable with him (or possibly just too fatigued for pretense) because you sigh morosely.
“We already know what it is,” you try. “Can’t you prescribe me the same stuff as last time?”
“We need a positive test first.” He takes up a popsicle stick, and you open your mouth begrudgingly.
Remus makes quick work of it, at least. He swabs the back of your throat in a couple of quick passes, already taking the stick out when you gag with a murmured, "Sorry.”
“Back soon,” he promises, putting your swap in a clear baggie and stepping out.
You swallow against the uncomfortable feeling that lingers in your throat. The act of swallowing hurts, too. This is the fourth time you’ve been under the weather in as many months, and you are, for lack of a better word, sick of it. It’s no pleasant task dragging yourself to the doctor’s office each time, sitting in stiff chairs under harsh lights when all you want is to be underneath the covers of your own bed. Remus makes it easier, though. He’s an easy presence. He makes you feel looked after rather than looked at.
It’s a minute later when he returns to sit with you while you both wait on your test results.
“So,” he says, pulling up a stool in front of the computer, “I last prescribed you antibiotics on the twenty-fifth. Do you remember when your symptoms cleared up?”
“Um.” Your throat scratches painfully. You try to clear it. “A few days after that. Maybe three?”
“And they came back when?”
“Yesterday.”
He glances at you, one brow slightly lifted. “You came in quickly.”
“I’m starting to learn the drill.”
Remus laughs. (Almost. His mouth twitches, and he makes an amused sort of sound in his throat. Always a victory.) “Fair enough,” he says. “So, yesterday. That’s about two weeks in between. You finished the full course of antibiotics?”
“Of course,” you say, nearly offended. You thought you'd established this is not your first time.
“Just checking.” He types something into his computer, one corner of his mouth quirked up amusedly. “Have you been to see an ear, nose, and throat specialist?”
“What, like cheat on you?”
Remus grins outright now (another victory). He swivels his stool to face you. “We’re on our way to qualifying this as a chronic case. If it comes back again after this round of antibiotics, you might consider seeing an ENT to ask about a tonsillectomy.”
The thought is strangely daunting. It’s taxing enough forcing yourself out of bed to come see Remus; you don’t want to begin the process again with someone else.
“Can’t I keep seeing you?” you ask.
Remus’ expression softens. “Of course you can. I just thought you might want another opinion.”
You shake your head. “I’m good.”
His mouth twitches again, like you’re making a joke. He sombers, though, as he looks at you for a long moment.
“I’m sorry this keeps happening to you,” he says. “You must be tired.”
Maybe it’s the sudden shift to earnestness, but your reply is a bit too genuine and far too self-pitying. “Yeah.”
Remus doesn’t begrudge you it. “We’ll work it out,” he promises.
The thing is, you have absolute faith that he will.
Absolutely loving your fics, especially the Harrington House series. Can you write some angst with a happy ending? Steve and reader have an argument and the older kids either hear it or can feel the tension between them, and how they address healthy relationships have arguments but they’ll always love each other.
Thank you! Please keep up all the fics they are wonderful ❤️
Summary: In the heat of the moment, you make a comment that strikes Steve heavily - and your kids are left wondering where their parents stand.
WC: 3.6k
Warnings & What to Expect: hargrove!fem!reader, arguing between Steve and reader, the babes get scared that their parents are falling apart and ask about divorce, reader struggling with the relationship w/ her father, very brief mentions of death & abuse, complicated relationship dynamics, lots of angst - ends with fluff.
Harrington Household Masterlist
currently writing this series based on requests, so if you have any ideas - please feel free to send them my way 🫶🏻
Main Masterlist If Interested!
Peach’s Note: anon, what a beautiful request 😭kinda got carried away with the angst, oops! thank you for your kind words, hope you enjoy lovie ❤️
tysm to everyone showing love on my works - it means the world. requests are open! feel free to send anything Steve or Gator Tillman related and I can certainly try my best 🫡
thanks to this queen for the song inspo ⤵️
You and Steve rarely got into arguments, but when you did, they could be pretty intense - both of you carrying stubborn tendencies along with the learned trait to be on the defensive side, a consequence of growing up in broken homes.
It’s why you’ve got your arms folded against your chest, standing across from Steve - on opposite sides of the kitchen island dividing the two of you, just like the topic at hand.
The argument started small in your bedroom, but the moment your voices started carrying louder you moved downstairs - not wanting to alert your babes of the growing tension between you two.
But the Harrington kids are nothing if not notorious for being curious, and can’t help but scuttle down the stairs after you - feet padding quietly, taking a seat silently on the stairs in the living room. The wall that they’re leaning against borders the living room and kitchen - blocking the view, but not the sounds.
Your twins sit with baited breath as they listen to you and Steve bicker - their four year old brother sits behind them, not fully understanding why they’ve congregated on the stairs but not wanting to be left out. Your toddler likely would have joined them had she not been taking her afternoon nap - would’ve given away their hiding spot too.
Your oldest boy saw them sneaking out of their rooms - slinking to the staircase. When he heard the tone of voice his parents had, he encouraged his younger siblings to move back upstairs.
But then he heard it - the reason why the argument started in the first place, and he realized it was his fault why you and Steve were fighting.
“You called my father, Steve,” you seethe, glaring angrily at your husband.
“I told you, I’m sorry,” Steve replies in defeat, frantically running his fingers through his hair, which is completely disheveled from the stress of the conversation.
You shake your head, “Sorry doesn’t cut it. How could you do this to me?”
Steve rubs at his eyes in frustration, “He asked me to reach out to him, babe. What was I supposed to say, no?”
“Yes, you should have said no,” you reply exasperatedly, hands flying up in disbelief.
You’re referring to the fact that Steve’s given Neil a call to extend an invite to your son’s upcoming graduation from high school.
Neil was a terrible father to you growing up - never laid his hands on you, but did so to your mother and brother. He imploded your childhood, forcing your mother to leave and causing the bond you once had with your own twin to break.
When you saw him at Billy’s grave five years ago, you had frozen in shock because it was like seeing a ghost. After Billy died, Neil had picked up and left you behind with Susan and Max, and you hadn’t heard from him since - assumed he moved back to California.
You had been pregnant with your youngest boy then, had placed a hand protectively on your stomach when your father stood up to face you. You expected disgust or to be looked down upon as you used to be, but Neil had begged you to stay - apologized to you, promising he was different, sober. He shared that he lived only a couple hours north near Fort Wayne, Indiana and wanted to reconcile - wanted to meet his grandchildren.
After a tearful conversation with Steve about it, and about the importance you were trying to teach your children about forgiveness; you decided you could give it a try.
It was a slow, painful process; you’ve only seen your father a handful of times in the years since he’s been back, but watching him with your children was always devastating. Because he was good to them, really good to them, and it made you ache at the unfairness that he couldn’t have been good to you when you were younger.
Despite Neil’s personality change, things were still tense between you and your father, and you certainly didn’t feel like he deserved to be sitting in the crowd watching your first born graduate.
“He’s his grandfather, baby,” Steve says gently, “and my parents are going, and things have been better lately, so I just thought-.”
“You thought wrong,” you bite out, cutting him off, “You went behind my back, Steve.”
Steve deflates, “I didn’t intend for it to be like that.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” You question, eyebrows raised accusingly.
Steve swallows thickly, because he knew you’d most likely shut it down without even talking about it, but his boy had asked him to reach out to his grandfather; and Steve’s realizing it was a huge mistake to not mention it to you.
You jump in before Steve can reply, “You knew I wouldn’t want him there. And, guess what? I don’t. He’s not going, and that’s final.”
“That’s not,” Steve clears his throat, fears you won't take his next statement well, “that’s not your decision to make, honey.”
“Excuse me?” You nearly hiss out, blood boiling hotter by the second.
“It’s not our graduation, it’s his,” Steve’s head inclines upwards - thinking his boy is tucked in his room when really he’s been sitting just feet away this whole time.
It’s at this moment, that your teenage girl finally caught her siblings snooping and laid into them - making them feel remorseful for being nosy.
“This is a huge invasion of their privacy, and you should all know better than that,” she whispers harshly, eyes cutting to her older brother because he more than any of them should know their parents' stance on minding your own business.
Your oldest’s chest feels tight, hates that he’s the cause of the issue and can’t force himself to move away. Your girl tries her best to get the rest of the littles to leave, only successfully convincing your youngest boy who couldn’t fully grasp the significance of what was happening.
“God, Steve, don’t you get it? That man’s the reason I wasn't sure if I was ever going to have kids. Why should he get to celebrate an achievement of one of them that he has nothing to do with?” You bark out bitterly.
Steve hesitates, trying to be civil with you - always tries his best to be patient no matter how heated you get, “Maybe you need a new perspective, baby. He’s trying to start over with you - with our children, because of how wrong things went in the past. It doesn’t mean you have to forget everything, but he is trying.”
“There is no new perspective, Steve, because if he hadn’t shuttled us all to the absolute hell hole that was Hawkins back then maybe Billy would still be alive - wish he would’ve just kept us all miserable in California sometimes," you clench your teeth, frustrated tears starting to pool along your lashline.
Billy may have been an insolent asshole, but he was someone you once loved before all the bullshit; and you always felt like if things had been different, maybe he could’ve changed. It’s the remark about your brother that unsettles Steve though, and his composure starts to slip.
Steve levels with you, “If you hadn’t moved here, we never would have met.”
It’s a harsh reality check, and you already know where he’s headed with that comment.
“Steve-,” you start, but he cuts you off - a cue that he’s upset with what you said.
“If we never met, we never would have gotten married,” he grits out, and you see the twitch of a muscle in his jaw.
You feel your throat constrict, eyes tearing away from him because you can feel shame radiating over you at his final blow.
“If we never got married,” he forces the words out heavily as if they’re glass against his tongue, “then we wouldn’t have those six beautiful children where we get the privilege to celebrate their accomplishments."
The broken words spilled from his lips force your eyes to look at all evidence of the love your six kids have brought you - the collections of shoes hastily kicked off by the front door, the random toys scattering the floor in your living room, the wonky, chipped nail polish on your fingers from your ten year old girl when you let her practice on you last week.
The tears finally trail down your cheeks, and you furiously wipe them away. Steve stares at you, face passive - he’s itching to round the island and hold you - but he’s a little devastated at the connotations your words have.
“That’s not what I,” you cry, sucking in a sharp breath, “that’s not what I meant.”
Steve’s nodding already, “I know, baby. I know. What happened to Billy wasn’t right, and it never will be. I’m so sorry for that. I didn’t mean to make you cry, honey. I just want you to realize that those words have weight to them.”
You bite your lip, stifling a sob trying to wrack its way through your chest.
“I know you’re angry at him, baby. But when you say you wish you never came here, it makes me feel like you wish the road that led you to me never happened,” Steve gulps hard, not wanting to make you feel guilty, but needing to express how the words hurt him.
It’s there, that your three children who still sit hidden behind the wall know that they’ve overstepped - should not be hearing this conversation, and yet they’re rooted to their spots.
Steve continues, voice thick with emotion now, “God, and I know that road was hard for you. You didn’t deserve any of that, but you’re talking about erasing the beginning of my entire world.”
It feels like your heart’s been cleaved straight in half at the assumption, because it’s not what you meant at all - but can understand that it came off that way.
Steve can tell it’s your breaking point, moves swiftly towards you - pulling you fiercely against him. Your hands clutch tremulously at his back, and you’re crying so hard you feel like you can barely breathe while Steve tenderly tries to console you - hands brushing your hair back, running up and down your back, planting kisses to your hairline.
Your tears are surely staining the soft material of his shirt as you grip onto it, and you whimper, “I love you, Steve. That wasn’t about regretting you. I could never, would never regret them.”
Steve pulls away to cup your face in his hands, thumbs expertly wiping at the tears there, “I know that’s not what you meant, and I didn’t say that stuff to be mean, baby. You know that right?”
You nod, sniffling a bit, “You’re right though, it wasn’t a very nice thing for me to say. I’m sorry that I was careless like that.”
Steve mumbles against your hair that he loves you before acknowledging the apology. He keeps you wrapped up in his arms silently for a little while longer - doesn’t say it’s okay because it’s not really okay right now, but knows that it will be.
Once you’ve calmed down, you exhale sharply through your nose, “I’m still really pissed at you for this, Steve.”
“I’m sorry. Should’ve talked to you first,” he concedes, gut wrenching at how he’s messed up.
“And obviously this discussion isn’t over, but I need a break before I say something else I don’t mean or regret,” you tell him truthfully, and Steve leans his forehead against yours - a quiet show of truce.
The kids startle at the sound of their parents moving, starting to prepare dinner, hightailing it back upstairs to their own rooms.
It wasn’t theirs to know, but now it’s theirs to carry as they fretfully think about what the argument means for their family.
Dinner was significantly quieter than usual - forks scraping the plates, fingers awkwardly tapping against the table, half hearted attempts at jokes.
You and Steve were too emotionally exhausted to lead the conversation like you normally do, but you notice with suspicion that your children seem edgy, like they’re waiting to get in trouble for something. Even your toddler and four year old, who tend to babble on constantly act lethargic - can sense the weird shift of energy that’s taken over the house.
Steve’s eyes flick over to you, a pondering look reflecting back in your own eyes, and he decides to try to clear the air.
“Is, uh, everything all right?” He addresses the whole table.
“Totally,” your eldest girl chirps, but it’s lacking her usual vigor.
“I’m okay, Daddy,” your youngest boy shares, shoveling food into his mouth - your toddler looks at you and Steve curiously, unaware of how to respond to that type of question just yet, so she smiles a toothy grin.
“Long day,” your oldest boy mumbles, staring down at his plate.
It’s your twins that solidify the fact that something is wrong.
Your girl looks like she’s on the verge of tears and elbows her brother - making him bluntly ask, “Are you and Mom getting a divorce?”
The words hang tragically in the air, draping thickly across each of your children around the table - who are desperately hoping they’re not true.
“Why,” you frown, “why, would you think that, baby?”
Your boy seems to curl in on himself a little at the admission, “We heard you in the kitchen.”
Your eyes blow wide, not expecting that response, “All of you?”
The three main culprits turn themselves in, pointing at themselves - your four old decides to point too for fun, and his oldest sister calmly pushes his hand down - assuring the two of you that she told them all that it was wrong and distracted your youngest boy.
“Which means the three of you were eavesdropping,” Steve says sternly, looking disappointed.
“Techncially, the rule is just no listening outside of bedroom doors,” your eldest girl attempts to lighten the mood.
You and Steve send her a pointed look, and she apologizes sheepishly.
“That was a private conversation between your father and I. We thought you were all in your rooms,” you tell them firmly.
Your oldest boy hangs his head, “I’m really sorry.”
It suddenly occurs to you that the argument stemmed around his graduation, and your heart twinges at thinking he overhead how against you were at his idea to invite Neil.
Your ten your old boy ignores the displeased looks and barrels on, “Are you? Getting a divorce?”
“No, bud. We aren’t getting a divorce,” Steve clarifies.
“But,” he trails off.
“You can say it, hun,” you remind him, wanting him to be open with you.
“Mom said that she needed a break,” he whispers, ignoring eye contact with you.
Steve can almost visibly see the damage those words do to you, and reaches out to grab onto your hand - squeezing it lovingly. Steve takes a moment to gather his thoughts - wants to make sure he answers the delicate question for his children properly.
“Mom and I get overwhelmed sometimes, and that’s okay, we’re allowed to. Grown ups argue when things feel heavy,” he stares at you, reaching out to grasp your chin gently, encouraging you to look at him.
“What’s important is knowing when to stop, and Mom just meant that we needed to take a break from the conversation, not from each other,” Steve finishes, smiling sweetly at you.
“Does that make sense?” Steve asks, turning back to his boy - who nods understandingly, and you’re instantly grateful that you have a husband who seems to be an expert at handling these types of things.
“It’s what makes a relationship healthy,” Steve looks around at his babes, wanting them all to know this, “Mom and I aren’t going to agree on everything all the time, but that doesn’t mean we stop loving each other.”
There’s a collective release of breath, shoulders relaxing, apprehension uncoiling and unraveling from each of them.
“When you love someone the way Mom and I love each other, you don’t give up on them - none of you ever have to be afraid that one of us will leave just because we disagree about something,” Steve concludes, voice steady, melting the stifling air easily - allowing dinner to continue; not exactly business as usual, but enough that Steve’s promise settles more than just your soul.
“Mommy?“ a little hand wraps around yours as you try to exit your girl’s room later that night.
You stayed with her until you thought she was asleep - noticed she didn’t speak up at dinner at all, only listened as her twin brother spoke her thoughts out loud. You saw how she was hanging onto every word Steve said, and you had a feeling she might’ve bribed her brother to ask about the divorce.
“Yeah, babe?” You reply softly, sitting back down on her bed.
The room is bathed in the honey colored glow of the string lights which scatter shadows along her walls. She sits up a tiny bit, and her hazel green eyes look golden brown in the light - making her resemble her daddy more than she already does.
“You don’t,” she stutters, tripping over her words, “you don’t want to be in California, right?”
Your breath catches, desperate to make sure she knows that’s not true, “No, Sweetheart. I promise, I want to be right here with all of you.”
“Why did you say it then?” She asks nervously, and you let out a deep sigh - deciding to be honest with her.
“You know how we don’t see Grandpa very often?” You ask, smoothing some of her hair back and she nods.
“Well, it’s not because he lives too far away. It’s because when I was your age, he was really mean to me,” you reveal tentatively.
You’ve shared with your oldest two the truth behind your difficult upbringing - haven’t yet with your twins, so confusion clouds her eyes because all she knows is a loving man - doesn’t know him as anything other than that.
“He was?” She frowns, not liking the idea.
“He was. Nothing like your daddy,” you curl up next to her now, and she leans her head against your chest.
“Well, Daddy is the best,” she smiles at the thought of Steve.
“He is,” you giggle with her, not realizing that Steve’s now pressed against the doorframe after getting the boys down.
“My ears are burning,” Steve calls from the threshold, startling the two of you.
He walks over to the other side of the bed, slipping in next to your girl so she’s squished in the middle of you and him.
“What does that mean?” She laughs, tugging on his ear.
He swats her hand away playfully, “It means you were talking about me.”
“Mom was telling me how you’re different from Grandpa,” she explains, and she turns her body to snuggle up under his arm.
“Traitor,” you tease, tickling her side and she nearly shrieks at the contact.
Steve grins, silently encouraging you to continue once your girl has stopped laughing.
“When I said that, about never leaving California, it’s because there’s still things that I blame Grandpa for,” you’re saying it to your daughter, but looking at Steve - because you need him to know why you were so upset before.
You see Steve’s eyes soften, another unspoken apology lingering in his gaze.
“Like Uncle Billy dying?” Your girl inquires softly.
“Exactly, and I know that’s not his fault, but I’m struggling to let go of the idea that it is,” you can feel the sting of tears again at the truth.
Your girl catches one that slips down, wiping it away - copying the motion that she’s seen Steve do for all of you so often.
“That sounds really hard. I’m sorry, Mommy,” she says earnestly.
Steve leans over to press a delicate kiss to your forehead, “I’m sorry too, honey.”
There’s suddenly a soft rap at the open door, and standing there is your boy, “Mind if I join?”
Your girl perks up because she admires her older brother almost as much as she does Steve, and she pats the foot of the bed where there’s a smidgen of room left.
He sits crisscrossed at the end, facing the three of you, “Mom, I shouldn’t have asked Dad if he could invite Grandpa. I should’ve asked you, I’m sorry.”
You release a shaky breath, “I know why you didn’t ask me, hun.”
“You do?” He inquires.
“You thought I wouldn’t even think about, which is why you asked Dad,” you kick affectionately at Steve’s feet with your own. He rolls his eyes fondly, knocking yours back.
“Yeah, I’m s-,” your boy tries to apologize again, and you lean forward to pat his knee.
“You’ve already apologized multiple times, which I appreciate. No need to keep saying it, hun. I’m sorry that I made it feel like you couldn’t ask me about it,” you admit regretfully.
“It’s not that. I know I can come to you for anything. I just know it’s not easy for you to talk about him, and I didn’t want to make you feel like me wanting him there meant I forgot the pain that he’s caused you,” he mumbles, picking at the beds of his nails.
Steve immediately reaches over to push at his son’s hands to stop the action - knows his boy inherited the bad habit from him, and he hates seeing him do so.
“My relationship with Grandpa might always be complicated, but I know he loves you,” you reply, grabbing his hand to give it a squeeze.
Your girl makes her presence known again, when she forces both her parents' hands away from him and pulls her brother to come squash in between the three of you.
It significantly lifts the atmosphere and you lock eyes with Steve once more when your boy and girl start to conspire for what they should have for breakfast the next morning.
Steve stretches his hand out to rest on your waist, thumb caressing your hip, and your eyes shut briefly in content at the feeling.
You know there’s more to talk about, a conversation still left to have with just him and your boy - about the implications of extending an invite to Neil and what boundaries would need to be set if you follow through with it; but for now, cuddled up with with your husband and two of your babes, the weariness of the day fades, listening to the sweet laughter that bubbles up from the ones you love most.
Can u write one where steve always acts like he understands wht reader muffled something incoherently in her sleep he goes yh yh or like I know right he just finds her cute and one day reader get to know abt it
Talk Nonsense To Me
Steve Harrington x fem!reader 600 words
warnings: fluff, sleep talking,
You’re mortified at the revelation of you talking in your sleep, luckily Steve thinks it’s the most adorable thing ever
It doesn’t take Steve long to notice. The first time it happens, your head is tucked against his shoulder, resting on his couch during a movie marathon you should’ve been awake for.
“Mff…no, ice cream doesn’t go on pizza…”
Steve blinks, shifting slightly but cautiously in order not to wake you.
“…Yeah, absolutely,” he answers without missing a beat. “The saltiness doesn’t go well with the sweetness.”
You don’t even hear him, just continuing to snore softly and go back to whatever debate you were having. And somehow, it becomes a thing.
Whenever you mumble nonsense in your sleep, Steve always answers like it’s second nature now, like you are having a totally normal back and forth conversation.
“Mmm, blue strawberries…”
Steve nodded, though that food made complete zero sense. “Sounds yummy.”
At first it had just made him laugh, but now it became something he would look forward to. You mostly talked about things you liked, rambling about every topic that filled your dreams.
One night, you were fast asleep while Steve was just listening soundly to your even breaths, holding you close against his own warm body.
“Steve…” you grumble, and Steve reacts with thinking, responding with muscle memory as if you're still awake.
“Yeah, baby?”
“I miss you.” His breath catches, your words catching him off guard. Even in your conscious you still longed for him, and though your physical form remains present, he longed for you even more.
“I’m right here, honey.” Steve whispers into the night, tucking you closer as if to reassure you that he wasn’t going anywhere.
But the only problem is that you don’t remember any of it, and Steve likes to keep that to himself.
It came to an end when Robin crashed your place in the morning, eating the breakfast Steve had made for you as he chatted loudly.
“She told me yesterday that she climbed the Great Wall of China." Steve said, just as you rounded the corner.
You froze in your tracks, he surely couldn’t have been talking about you, could he? “I told you what?”
Steve turned around casually, “what, do you not remember it?” He knew you of course wouldn’t have, but there was no harm in playing around with you a bit as he watched your expression turn more confused by the minute.
After a couple of moments, a horrifying realization spread across your face. “Wait—I had a dream about it.” You said slowly.
Steve grinned wickedly. “Uh huh, and you told me all about it.”
“You’re lying.”
“And apparently you enjoy blue strawberries.”
You cover your face with your hands as Robin bellows over in laughter. “That doesn’t even exist.” You said mortified.
Steve shrugged, looking far too pleased with himself. “According to you, it does.”
“Why have you never told me this?” You sigh.
“Because it’s cute.” He says without hesitation, making you pause.
“Cute?” Robin repeats, still having not recovered from her laughing attack.
“You mumble weird stuff, I answer. It’s our thing.” Steve says like it’s obvious, your cheeks flushing with the thought of all the possible things you could’ve accidentally confessed to in your sleep.
“You guys are sickening.” Robin cuts in, but none of you turn to look at her.
“So every time I talk nonsense, you respond…and you don’t think it’s weird?” You point at him.
“At first—strange, but I’ve gotten used to it.” Steve shook his head, his words coming out fondly.
You suddenly felt a rush of affection towards him, you wouldn’t know how to react if someone started talking to you in their sleep, but Steve hadn’t even mentioned it to you about it until now.
“But I guess my favorite one was when you said you missed me.” He winked slyly.
You immediately groaned, hiding your blush from him. At least he wouldn’t know even your dreams were consumed by the thought of him.
clark trying to convince you to live in the fortress of solitude 😭😭😭
i know this was just an observation but it made me want to elaborate that moment between clark & reader 😭
FORTRESS OF UNIFICATION — Clark Kent
pairing: clark kent / f!reader. word count: 582. content: addition to this fic. established relationship. silly bickering over where to live.
clark kent masterlist
“No.”
“What—?” Clark followed you into the kitchen, hands grasping at the air in desperation, “Honey, come on!”
You turned on your heel, face soured as you went through the motions of the conversation at hand that had lasted all of ten minutes before it shifted into the shallow end of a brewing argument.
The topic being: where to live.
Clark stood with his shoulders rounded and wore an incredulous look that—in your humble opinion—was a little dramatic given what he was asking you. You both stood in his Ma and Pa’s kitchen, both parents long retired to their beds when the housing topic arose at the dinner table.
It was time to combined two homes into one. And, neither of you felt like budging.
“I’m not moving into that…that thing.” You crossed your arms across your chest.
Clark’s brows raised into his hairline. “That thing? You mean to say, my home—your husband’s home?” When you threw your hands up in the air and moved past him to get into the living room and save yourself from being cornered, Clark followed hot on your heels. He then added, “Come on, honey. It makes sense. It’s safe, far enough away from…well, everything.”
“Yeah. That’s why it is called the Fortress of Solitude. Alone. Secluded.” You piled onto the description of the place, shivering at the memory of the last time you had visited. Mainly because it was freezing amongst other factors.
(Clark soon found out you might be one of the only humans on the planet that didn’t like the Fortress of Solitude.)
As the slander left your mouth, Clark pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “We can call it the Fortress of Unification. Two hearts unified. Together.”
“You can’t just change the name of something once it’s been named, Clark. Just ask the creator of the Bean in Chicago, who desperately reminds everyone it’s actually called the Cloud Gate.” You bent at the waist to pick up a blanket from the floor and chucked it back into the basket next to the sofa you and Clark had been cuddling on. You mumbled, “So dumb. It’s clearly a bean.”
Clark dropped his head back, his eyes closed as his nostrils flared in frustration from getting nowhere with you. When you turned around, you watched him openly, molars grinding out of your own frustrations and guilt rising in your chest.
It was a silly argument. Something that could be squashed in a less juvenile state, but you really needed Clark to realise you had just wrapped your head around the Metropolis Subway, and you didn’t want to undo all your hard work by living in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of robots to keep you company on the weekends.
“Look. If it’s the cost of apartments in Metropolis, I can find another job.” You said quietly.
Clark dropped his gaze to you. A full pout on his face. “Money isn’t the issue for me. I just think, I’ve got a perfectly good place to live!”
“You sound like a mother.” You argued with a laugh. “I’m going to bed. We can sleep on this. I love you.” You stepped into Clark’s space and kissed the pout on his lips before sauntering down the hallway to the spare room.
Clark rubbed the wrinkles on his forehead and broke into a speedy walk to catch up with you.
He whispered sharply, “What about the Fortress of Partnership?”
hi honey! can i request a little something with sirius where reader passes out a lot and maybe they’ve had an established relationship for a while and we just see sirius comforting her and it being all calm since they’ve gone through this a few times before?
Thank you for requesting my love!
cw: aftermath of fainting
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 399 words
Your own breathing sounds loud in your ears. That’s all you know for a while, black fuzz crowding your vision and your sense of touch still offline, but once the static of your brain clears somewhat you’re able to make out words.
“—take it easy, gorgeous. I’ve got you, you’re at home. No reason to rush things.”
You blink a few more times, until the fuzz clears. Sirius is beside you with his arm disappearing under your head.
You make some poor attempt at speech, and his mouth kicks up.
“What’d I just say?” he teases you. “Relax. Does anything hurt?”
You try to focus. You don’t think so. You manage to piece together the right sounds to tell him this time.
Sirius nods. His fingers twitch beneath your head in a lazy scratching motion. “Sweet. I wasn’t in the room when you fainted, but it looks like you might’ve fallen back down onto the couch and then the floor, so we should be good.”
You take a few deep breaths. Your body feels like you’ve just woken from a deep, disorienting sleep, and somehow also run a marathon while doing that. “Thanks,” you say.
Your boyfriend rolls his eyes and moves your head into his lap, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “Don’t mention it, sunshine. All in a day’s work.” He grins when your lips twitch tiredly. “Just take it easy. We’ll get you some water when you’re ready, okay?”
You hum, letting yourself relax while he’s watching over you. Sirius has helped after you’ve passed out in public and once while crossing the street, so you know he’s more than capable of looking after you here in your home. Slender fingers tunnel into your hair to scratch soothingly at your scalp.
“So,” he says casually, “do you come here often?”
An amused exhale comes out your nose. You must make a funny face, because Sirius’ brows furrow.
“What?”
“I’m trying to decide if saying something about falling for you would be too cheesy.”
He laughs, a surprised, barking thing. “Hey, cheese is welcome. I thought you had hit your head for a second there.”
“Sorry…if you say your thing again, I can try to flirt better.”
Sirius laughs again. He bends forward, pressing the imprint of his smile to your cheek. “No, I think we got it in one,” he says. “That was perfect.”
I love your fics so much you are feeding us with the clark kent fics! I was wondering if we could get more kindle user reader since I noted a theme of that in your fics. maybe like clark gets his wife a new kindle since hers is ancient or something ☺️
this is so cutesy bananas as an avid kindle user who refuses to get a new one
pairing: clark kent / wife!reader. word count: 1.3k context: fluff. established relationship. kisses, gift giving and suggestive content at the end. not proofread and a terribly written ending <333 just how i like it.
clark kent masterlist
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The black ink of nighttime spread across the sky over Metropolis. From the window in your bedroom that was cracked open for —somewhat—fresh air, you could hear traffic moving at a snails pace, horns pressed for longer than necessary and enraged voices that carried all the way up the fire escape; polluting your tranquility until you eventually blocked it out.
You stood with one bare leg up on the stool at your vanity as you spread the new lotion you had purchased that carried a citrusy scent. One that had your husband hover around you like a bee to some damn honey.
(That wasn’t the intention behind the purchase. However, it was welcomed either way.)
With one dollop of the citrus goodness dropped onto your thigh, the palm of your hand made contact with the lotion for all of five seconds before your beloved husband, Clark Kent, trudged into the room with his head bowed to avoid the top of the doorway. His eyes trailed the length of the bare skin of your leg, his Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed whatever explicit compliment rested on the tip of his tongue at the sight of you.
You provided a warm smile, chin tilted as he strolled with one hand behind his back so he could plant a couple of pecks against your lips with a grumble of satisfaction in his chest.
“Missed you.” Clark mumbled against your lips, his kisses a little needier than anticipated after a days work.
You patted your un-lotioned hand against his broad chest, “You say that every day of the week without fail.”
“Now, that’s not right.” Clark waggled a finger at you, walking backwards to his side of the bed, “I don’t say it on Saturday or Sunday.”
Because he was off the clock.
Despite the witty comeback you had locked and loaded at your husband’s desire to be joint at the hip at all times, there came a distraction at the sight of Clark attempting to conceal whatever was flush against his back since he had entered the bedroom; not that it would be hard to hide anything behind a stature so large.
You eyed him carefully as he tossed the cushions on the bed for decor into a little pile on the floor, before he began to clumsily unbutton his crisp white dress shirt with his free hand. When he caught you watching, he washed his expression with innocence.
“What are you doing?”
Clark jutted his bottom lip out. “What am I doing?” He looked around him for theatrics, “Well…I’m getting undressed. In our bedroom, to hopefully go to sleep. What are you doing?”
“Observing my husband unbutton his shirt with one hand, when he usually uses two.” You said nonchalantly.
“Well. Observe away.” Clark struggled with the fourth button down to make a stubborn point, his gaze shifting to you intermittently from his peripheral. He cleared his throat as you sauntered over to your side of the bed, the suspicion never leaving your face and Clark cursed your rather perceptive nature. He spoke lowly, “Good day today?”
You pulled the sheets up to your waist and stared at your husband with exasperation. “Clark. Cut the shit.”
“Pardon me?”
“What’s behind your back?”
Clark peered over his shoulder. “Nothing.”
“Are you going to sleep like that?” You asked with an agitated tone. Not the kind of agitation that dampened the room…more so the kind that had Clark Kent’s shoulders shaking from a hearty chuckle of amusement.
With his shirt unbuttoned, the mattress dipped beneath the weight of his knee as he pressed it into the plushness of the bed to lean across and press yet another kiss to your pouting lips. Clark pulled away and shook his head; a low whistle coming from his lips.
“Well, honey, I was waiting for the right moment to give this to you, but just now will have to do.” Clark admitted before he brought the hand he had so valiantly fought to keep behind his back, forward to reveal a small box with a red bow haphazardly wrapped around it. His cheeks dimpled with the smug grin on his face, “Ta-Da.”
Your eyes dropped from Clark’s face to the box he had been keeping hidden.
A Kindle.
Not any poxy Kindle that he had closed his eyes and bought whatever one his forefinger landed on. No. It was the newest edition to the Kindle family, something he had typed up in his notes app, when you had explained to him that you had been attempting to justify splurging your savings on a purchase that wasn’t a necessity.
However, Clark begged to differ on that argument. Your beloved and—for a better word—well-used Kindle had evidently been through some type of wars with how frequently you had sat in your apartment with some free time to speed run a new book that had just landed on Kindle Unlimited. It was tattered, the right half of the screen no longer worked, and if you really wanted to, you could hook your fingernail beneath the screen and just…separate it entirely.
It had run its course. And, Clark couldn’t bear to watch you fight the electronic device at bedtime to be able to turn it to the next page any longer.
So, he did his research on Daily Planet dollar, instead of tying up the loose ends of his recent article that Perry White was frothing at the mouth to get finished for print. Clark took the role of the ‘Kindle Shopper’ seriously, which meant his total research time encroached into his lunchtime and bled into the afternoon until he had decided on the best one.
“A Paperwhite?” You pointed at the box in Clark’s hand, unable to touch it. You looked up at him, “Are you kidding me?”
“That would be a sad excuse for a joke, honey. No, I’m serious. I wanted to get it for you.” Clark stretched the box further into your space in hopes that you would take it. When you didn’t, Clark let out a laugh, “Baby, it’s not made out of lava. You can take it. It’s yours.”
With that, you eventually took the Kindle from Clark. “Clark, these things are like $160.”
“OK?” Clark shrugged off his shirt and pulled the white vest beneath it over his head. He tossed them both to the ground as he worked on his trousers, “I wanted to get it for you.”
“You shouldn’t have to spend that type of money on me.” You spoke in a mumble, hand smoothing over the front of the box in blatant surprise.
A scoff came from beside you and Clark shuffled into bed, giving you an incredulous look. “I could’ve bought you ten of those and it wouldn’t have made a dent. Your other Kindle was falling apart. You had to punch the screen to find out what happened at the end of the last book you read. Time to let her go.”
“Alright. She wasn’t that bad.” You argued before letting out a giddy squeal of excitement with your fingers clutched around the box that contained your new and improved Kindle. You beamed at your husband, “Thank you. I love you.”
Clark hummed, his head slotting into the space just below your jawline to pepper the sensitive spot with warm kisses; his tongue slowly making an appearance the longer he kissed you. He stayed there as you opened the box up, a large palm coming to rest between your legs at the meatiest part of your thighs.
It was only when the screen lit up in your hands, did he briefly pull away to ensure it was working properly. (And quicker than the godforsaken one sitting half dead in your drawer.)
Clark let out a grunt and moved himself downward on the mattress. “Alright, honey—” He threw the blanket over his head and pressed a kiss to your thigh, “—Read as much as you want. I’ll stop once you’re finished.”
this is a short(-ish), nameless little idea i couldn't get out of my head about eddie trying and failing to fulfill a cnc fantasy for you and the conversation that follows, written from his perspective. 5.5k words.
warnings: EXPLICIT; MINORS DNI, I WILL BLOCK YOU! simulated non-consent. eddie's pushy but not at all violent. still soft, still himself. it's played serious. angsty, hurt/comfort. reader is characterized as shy/reserved when it comes to sex with hinted-at low self-esteem, eddie loves you more than anything and thinks he doesn't need boundaries. happy ending. lmk if y'all think i should tag anything else. dead dove: do not eat!
tagging some people that expressed interest: @stickystrawbunny @lunaiswriting @residentoftomlinsonsass @teddysugar
Eddie was sure he could handle it.
That it'd be easy, even. All it really amounted to was roleplay, after all, and he was nothing if not a veteran of make-believe.
It had started with a request that Eddie be a little rougher. You’re sort of shy when it comes to speaking—struggling usually to talk about your activities in the bedroom much more than you ever did participating in them—so he was ecstatic to hear you ask him for anything at all.
It was while laying together in bed after a quick shower that you brought it up. Two rounds apiece had worn you both out, and maybe it was being cradled so close to his heart, the comfort of warm skin pressed together and the dreamy lull of sleep that had relaxed your anxious tongue enough for the words to escape. Eddie, ever gently, eased you back enough to see your face and smiled.
He hummed as he watched you, endeared to the moon and back by the bashful little look on your face—the way you can barely meet his eye. “...How rough are we talkin’ here?”
He’d left a bruise or two on you before by accident, and as much as he felt bad for hurting you, he also couldn’t deny the appeal of knowing he’d made a mark on you. Flesh and blood evidence of the pleasure you'd shared; the grooves of his hands embedded beneath your skin. He’d also carefully pulled at your hair once or twice, even smacked your bottom, albeit more as a joke than anything carnal.
It took you a moment, staring at his mouth and his chin while you gathered the courage. “I… Well, I like it when you’re…pushy,” you admitted.
Eddie grinned even wider. “Oh yeah? You want me to bully you a little? Toss you around?” That would be no problem at all.
His knowing intonation made you purse your lips to fight a smile. “Yeah, I like that. But also…”
“...Also?” he prompted with patience. “Don’t hold out on me, sweetheart.”
“I don’t know.” You stared down at the sheets with a strained, twitchy little smile. “I just sort of have this…weird fantasy, I guess. Can't get it out of my head.”
Now you’re talking. He took care not to look too ecstatic, lest he scare the nerve out of you. “Tell me all about it,” he encouraged, “and I might be able to help you out.”
You hesitated. The sheepish smile fell away, and your eyes seemed to turn in on themselves, unfocusing. Right on the precipice of changing your mind, waving it all away. Something was scaring you inward. Eddie’s brow furrowed and he softly lifted your chin, startling you back to the present.
“Sweetheart, I’m the last person that’s ever gonna judge you for wanting to try something kinky, or…unusual,” he assured you. Serious but without pressure, smiling warm and fond. You don’t have to tell him anything, but he needs you to know that you can. “I’m not gonna look at you differently, or love you any less. That’s a promise.”
He already felt like the luckiest guy on the planet just holding you as he was, watching you watch him with love and trust and melting reservations in your eyes. If you also happened to possess even half of the freakiness that he’d been valiantly keeping at bay from the first time you touched, he might just dissolve into a pile of lovestruck mush.
-
Eddie never thought he’d have you, so he has a tendency to do anything—anything—that he thinks might help him keep you. It’s a bad habit of his (in your mind, at least) that he’s kept hidden almost as well as his less savory appetites, his more cringeworthy fears. You’ve noticed it a couple times. The way he grits his teeth and bears things you would’ve gladly relieved him of, that you’ve never asked of him in the first place. Eddie knows it’s stupid; unhealthy, even, to treat your relationship like a rolling audition he’s always in danger of losing, but there’s some misshapen part of him that just can’t help it. You don’t need him to be anything more than he is, to give more than he has, and he knows that, he really does, but he could. If you wanted him to, he could.
Just start and don’t stop. That’s how you explained it to him, more or less.
Eddie was to do what he was going to do, and while you might squirm and struggle, tell him no and don’t and stop it, you assured him plenty that it’d just be for show. To fulfil your half of the little fantasy you’ve trusted him with—and he could see on your face how much trust it really took. Unless you use your safeword, you don’t really want him to stop; you want him to ignore it; to fight you right back; to make you.
And that’s simple. He’s the bad guy, the bully—a role he’s uniquely accustomed to—and you’re the poor maiden he’s meant to distress. He isn’t sure he’ll get as much out of it as you will, if the suppressed thrill in your eyes as you spoke about it is to be trusted, but to put it frankly, Eddie loves fucking you. He could do it for hours, for days, probably until the combined forces of exhaustion and dehydration knocked him out cold, if he lost his grip on restraint. It never really occurred to him that this could be any different.
You decide on a Friday, after dinner. Plenty of time for both play and comfort, no looming alarms to dread come morning. The day went by as usual, but when you sit down to eat, neither of you have much to say. He catches you staring. Again and again, cutting your eyes away in shyness each time. Getting impatient.
For once, you eat faster than him. When you’re done, you stand to put your plate in the sink and return to him with awkward, scattered energy, crossing your arms like it’s your first time trying to.
“...I’m gonna get ready for bed,” you tell him simply.
Eddie lets out the smirk he’s been sitting on. “Okay, baby.” It does something to you, makes you twitch. He stops you before you rush down the hall to escape. “...You’re sure you still wanna do this?”
Your feet catch awkwardly on the carpet as you turn back to face him, and your smile, unusually wide and giddy with nerves, makes his chest swell with warmth. If it was up to him, he’d jump on you right here and now, but probably not in the way you’d want him to. “I’m really sure.”
“Great,” he says. “Then… I’ll be right behind you.”
Eddie takes his time. Finishes his food, packs away the leftovers, washes the dishes in the sink—wouldn’t want them to crust over. There are a few stray food scraps on the floor, close to hidden beneath the cabinet ledge, so he decides to go ahead and sweep the entire kitchen, neglected lately.
Then, he heads for the bathroom. Turning off lights as he goes, Eddie squints through the dark and thinks that this feels correct. This is where he should be, preparing for something like this. He really wants to see you but he isn’t sure he’s ready yet, and he wants even more to get it right for you. He’s so happy, so happy that you found it in you to share it with him, knowing how awful it could be in the wrong hands. When you’d gone to sleep that night, Eddie stayed awake a while longer and teared up at the thought. No one else, you’d said. You never told anyone else but him.
Eddie brushes his teeth, washes his face. He fiddles with his hair, for some reason. As if a wayward strand might ruin the fantasy for you. He considers taking a shower, too, to cool himself off, but he knows both of you will need one afterwards anyway, and you must be getting antsy waiting for him. He pictures you squirming, sighing, grinding your needy thighs together.
And he thinks about your thighs, and the precious flower between them. How it opens up and takes him in, holds him tight and loves him just as much as you do; gushes with it. Your stomach, round and plush, his favorite plane to sink his teeth into. The swell of your chest and the pretty little jewels that dot either side, that tense and stiffen under his fingertips. Every bit as meek and sensitive as the rest of you. He figured it’s for the best if he’s already there before he gets started, and knowing he’ll get to touch you soon, to ravish you just the way you want, it doesn’t take long at all.
Eddie pushes the door in and finds you waiting with purposeful unawareness, your back to him at the far side of the bed. For a moment, he just smiles, and his nose scrunches with endearment. Your shoulder tensed up to your ear at the sound of his arrival, and it stays there as you sit in anticipation. Stepping inside, he closes the door behind him and makes his way towards his side of the bed, pulling the unneeded shirt over his head, tossing it aside.
“...Baby, you awake?” He knows you are, but he gives you the chance to pretend anyway. Your answer is a non-committal hum that scrunches his nose a second time.
He kneels onto the bed and crawls nearer, watching your partly-obscured profile. His hand lands on your upper arm and squeezes and you hum again—more distinctly reluctant this time. He figures that’s the go-ahead.
Eddie’s much more heavy-handed than usual in stealing a kiss from you; starting the game. Leaning over you, he takes you by your jaw and turns your head towards him, smashing an indulgent kiss into your lips and drinking in your cute, startled peep.
Only, then, you try to make him stop—tugging at his wrist, turning your head away from him—and on instinct he lets you go with a hot prod of anxiety. Did he fuck it up already? Is this not what you wanted?
But when you mumble your timid complaint (“I’m not in the mood, Eddie”) and turn away from him again, it clicks into place.
…Right, yeah, that’s how this works. You’re going to reject him, unambiguously, over and over and over again, and he’s supposed to ignore it every time. He knew that on paper, but seeing it in action, experiencing what it feels like to be told no by you and pretend it doesn’t matter, hits him somewhere hard to place.
But it’s what you want, so he keeps going. He grabs your shoulder far meaner than the real Eddie ever would and yanks you onto your back, lays himself over you to plant his mouth onto yours again, and when you whine into his lips he pushes even harder, forcing his tongue inside. You don’t mean to moan, probably, but when you do, Eddie’s tension deflates with a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Squirming beneath him, you push at his chest with both hands, harder and harder until he finally relents and gives you room to breathe.
“What are you doing?” you gasp, wide-eyes flitting all over his face, and it gives him pause again. He’s…doing what you asked him to—what you want him to, even if it feels like anything but.
“Need you bad, honey,” he murmurs, playing his own part a little belatedly, and his hands slide down to squeeze at your thighs. “Open up.”
“I told you, I’m not in the mood tonight.”
“It won’t take long,” he assures you. “Open up.”
Your brow furrows deep and tight, somewhere sadder than confused. “I don’t want to.”
Eddie pushes out a sharp sigh, gives you a look. He knows what to say, but it takes a moment to convince himself to let out with it. “...Sweetheart, I’m not asking.”
That clearly did it for you—nearly sent your eyes rolling back. There’s a fire in them, a pinprick of red-hot excitement even as you press your thighs even tighter together, and he realizes, once again, that you aren’t going to help him out at all.
He forces his hands into the space between your thighs and abruptly wrenches them apart, and the gasp you suck in at the feeling of it is definitely real. Eddie stifles a grimace. He hopes that wasn’t your full strength he was fighting. If it really is that easy to make you, he could’ve gone his whole life without knowing it.
You have made it easy for him in one regard. Between your nightgown—really just an oversized tshirt, already riding up above your hips—and the thin, lacy excuse for a pair of panties you’ve got on beneath it, he has as much access as he possibly could without having to try and wrestle you out of your clothes. He’ll hardly even have to move anything out of the way.
You’re also fucking soaked, thank God. More than you usually are without a little help, but maybe you’d been helping yourself while you waited for him. It’s a strange feeling. Relieving for substantiating how you truly feel about what he’s doing, a little concerning (or, at the very least, puzzling) for whatever the hell that might mean. What is it that this asshole is doing for you that Eddie himself is failing to?
He takes himself out of his pants, still pulsing at the thought of you, and sucks air through his teeth as he drags his fist from base to tip, trying to work himself up a little more. When he goes to line up, your hands fly between your legs, trying to hide yourself from him, but it isn’t too hard to snatch them up and hold them out of his way. You aren’t really fighting back, just trying to seem like you are. He tugs the thin seat of your panties aside and notches his cock at your entrance, then lays his weight over you.
“Don’t,” you beg. “Eddie, please don’t!” The drop of panic in your voice is way too convincing. His heart sinks a few inches in his chest.
“Stay still, honey,” he tries to comfort—that part at least comes naturally. He’s psyching himself up to it. You told him explicitly not to prepare you; that it’s okay if it hurts a little, that you even sort of want it to, but he didn’t realize how intimidating that request really was until now. “...It’s okay. Just stay still.”
“No, baby, you can’t—”
He jerks his hips, pushes halfway in with one sharp thrust, and hisses through his teeth as he does. He’s never felt you like this before, without having been teased open on his fingers or his tongue first, and you’re wet enough for the sound of it to squelch, but he’s surprised to discover he can feel that it isn’t quite right all on his own. It’s too tense, shocked rigid, trying to evict him. At the same time, you gasp like his penetration removed some deadly blockage from your airways, and Eddie freezes, watching your face with cold sweat dripping down his sides. Your jaw hangs open, panting, brow pinched and hips squirming with overwhelm. When you meet his eye and find him staring, waiting, gritting his teeth, you give him the slightest nod you can manage, and Eddie continues.
He slowly pulls his hips back and snaps them in another mean thrust that delves even deeper, sending you moaning in pain or delight. Mouth dipped down beside your ear, he shushes you as sweetly as he can while doing such an awful thing. Grasping for any gentleness he can find. He’d like to kiss you again, but he’s reluctant to create any obstacle if you need to tell him to stop.
“It hurts,” you whine.
It’s supposed to, he reminds himself. You might even be pretending. “...It’ll pass, sweetheart, I promise.”
One more thrust, a kiss to your neck in tandem, and he’s fully sheathed inside. You cry out, and he’s pretty sure it’s pleasure—your thighs twitch like they always do when you’re excited to be full of him. Eddie pulls out again and sinks right back in, starting up a deep, powerful rhythm that makes you mewl beneath him. It almost puts a smile on his face.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he teases, planting a kiss on your cheek.
“No,” you insist, indignant. You’re still putting up your weak impression of a fight, pushing at his chest and digging your nails in, scratching him, but every ruthless thrust he gives you punches a clipped little moan out of you, surprised by the force each time.
Eddie dips his face into your neck, starts to work his teeth into you. “Don’t lie to me, baby,” he murmurs. “Know just what you like.”
He does his best to hold you still, pin you down. He’s been too focused on you to really think about his own pleasure, but when it finally occurs to him to take stock, he startles. It’s not that you don’t feel good—you always feel good—but it’s almost like he’s slowly going numb to it. Eddie abruptly picks up the pace, trying to remedy it, and you cry your noisy pleasure beneath him, but it doesn’t change much. It’s hot and slick and tight, and it’s you, but there’s no…momentum to it, no steady build-up for him to manage, no urgency.
And that wouldn’t really matter to him, since the point of all this is getting you off, but he can feel himself waning. The aching tightness he always succumbs to when you play with each other begins on its own to slump in disinterest, and the frustration of it grits his teeth together.
There’s a cold little pit in the bottom of his gut warding off the blood that should be pumping excitedly through it, and it dawns on him that, for the first time, entirely in absence of weed or alcohol or pure, concentrated nerves, Eddie probably can’t keep it up long enough to get you off. And just then, while he’s already flirting with the dread of poor performance, your voice warbles out once more, as frail as he’s ever heard it.
“...Eddie, please.”
The hair on the back of his neck stands up. It’s a sob. You sound like you’re going to cry; like you’ve been crying, and crying, and you just can’t seem to stop. Like you’re miserable, devastated, and it’s entirely and exclusively his fault. A ripple of intense aversion whips down his spine and spreads to the end of each limb, abruptly contracting his muscles to push and tear him off of you, out of you. Sitting back on his knees, eyes squinted shut, he grunts and shakes his head to cast away the awful feeling.
“...Eddie? Are you okay?” He can feel you shifting, starting to sit up.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, baby,” he says, rubbing sweaty hands over his face. The shame hits him next, sinking him lower—knowing that he’s done it again. He should’ve hit pause as soon as something felt off or done anything other than grit his teeth and assume it’ll pass, and now you’ll think it’s your fault. “I… Shit. I don’t think I can do this.”
A little silence stretches out. Eddie drops his hands to hide his wilting dick away and finds your big eyes flitting all over him, stunned; your hand trembling in front of your mouth.
“...Okay.” You hardly manage to squeeze it out. He can already hear the lump in your throat. “...I’m sorry.”
The thought of you crying scrubs his nerves even rawer. “No, no, c’mere.” He guides you to sit up with him all the way so he can wrap his arms around you, touching you with the warmth he’s been dying to all along, and he sighs in relief. He presses firm kisses to your temple, your cheek. “S’not your fault, not at all, okay? I’m fine, we’re both fine.”
You wrap your arms around his back, holding him just as snugly, and your voice is muffled into his chest. “I don’t wanna make you do something you don’t like.”
“You aren't, honey, I promise,” he assures you, squeezing you even tighter. “I said we'd try it and we did. That's exactly how it's supposed to work.”
You say, “Okay,” and nuzzle into him harder, and Eddie rests his head against yours as you breathe together, calm each other down. But a frown starts to grow on his face. He knows why he couldn’t do it—it curdled his stomach to make you feel like that, like the months he’d spent adoring you mattered less than a few minutes of empty pleasure, make-believe or not—but he can’t for the life of him figure out what you found enjoyable in all of that. You like it when he’s a little mean, he knows that, and he likes giving you a hard time just as much. But forcing himself on you; this quiet tragedy you’ve been so eager to play out. His heart pounds with anxiety just thinking about it. He never thought it would feel so real.
“...Maybe I just don’t understand,” he says. “The…appeal of it, I guess. What you’re getting out of this.”
You freeze up in his arms. “I…”
Carefully, he eases you back until he can see you, your eyes flickering over his chest in unease, and he holds both your hands in his own. “I’m not judging you, sweetheart, I swear to God. I get being…rough, y’know, and pushy. But I… can’t really wrap my head around why you’d want someone to treat you like this.”
“...I don’t know,” you mumble, but Eddie’s eye is well attuned to you. He thinks you might know, but you’re too frightened to admit it.
He sighs. “I just… I really hope you don’t think you deserve that, or—”
“No, it's not— I don’t,” you sputter out, reassuringly horrified. “I promise I don’t. It’s just… I don’t know. It's only because it's you.”
Eddie frowns, unsettled on instinct by the sound of that, but he stays quiet. Leaves you the room to creep out of your shell on your own. You chew hard on your bottom lip before your mouth opens again, and he gives your shaky hands a squeeze.
“...Because I love you, and I trust you, and…you're safe,” you go on. “I know you'd never really do anything like that, and…I like making you feel good.”
Eddie’s heart crushes in. He presses another firm kiss to your temple. “I love you too,” he tells you, but that doesn’t quite explain anything. “...Can you tell me a little more?”
You lick your lips and wrestle yourself to continue, his sweet girl. “The thought of you…needing me that badly, that it makes you mean, that you don't even care. Like I only exist to make you feel good, and that's all that matters, and I’d still love you anyway. …Sometimes I do feel like I'd let you do anything you wanted to me, even things I know you'd never actually want to do, so… it's like, I get to…give you something you'd never even ask for. Something that's sort of…dark, and intense, that I'd never give to anyone else. I don't know what’s…wrong with me, why I like it so much. But it's only because it's you, Eddie.”
“Nothing’s wrong with you, baby,” he reminds you softly, cupping your cheek and stroking his thumb over it. You aren’t crying outright, but the extra water in your eyes is torture. “I told you, I don’t like you talking about yourself like that.” Eddie looks at you and sees the purest fucking angel he’s even known.
“I know,” you sniffle. “I’m sorry.”
He smoothes his palm over your back as he thinks it over. “I…think I get that, sort of, but...you’re making it sound like you’re doing this for me, and I don’t—”
“No, it’s— It’s for me,” you correct. “I know it’s for me, and I know it’s…a lot to ask, so we don’t have to do it again. I don’t ever wanna make you do something that upsets you, Eddie. I’m really sorry.”
When your face starts to contort and your teary eyes blink faster, Eddie sucks his teeth and pulls you back in, and the way you cling onto him brings about a little sting behind his own eyes.
“I’m not upset,” he assures you softly. “Not anymore. Just…worried about you. Makes me scared you don’t love yourself like I do.”
He sways you lightly back and forth, spreading warm pressure over your back with gentle hands. Relishing the weight and feel and scent of you, the privilege of shrouding you like this.
“I love you so much, Eddie.” The evidence of it trickles down his throat, collects in the pocket of his clavicle.
“God, I love you too, baby.” He still hasn’t found a way to tell you that feels strong enough. “Like you wouldn’t fucking believe.”
When you settle yourself and your tears have dried, you press your lips to his skin, kissing, kissing, kissing. Soft enough to make him shiver.
“It’s like…a horror movie, kind of,” you muse as it occurs to you, ticklish against his neck. “It scares you, but…in a good way, cause you aren’t really in danger, and you can stop it whenever you want.”
Eddie’s mind chews on that and swallows. It goes down much easier than any other way you’ve put it. “...You want me to scare you a little bit.”
You nod into him, and his brain sparks and flares like a firework.
“...I can't do the begging, I don't think,” he decides. “It's just—too real. You’re too good at it. Makes me feel like I'm really hurting you. But…”
He can feel his synapses firing. His eyes flit around as he pieces it together. You want him to scare you, to take from you even if you refuse, but there are a lot of ways to say “no” that don’t make him feel like he should be thrown under the jail and left to rot.
“What if we…kept it physical?” he suggests. “Like play fighting, almost. I'll still, y'know, pin you down and shove it in if you want me to, but it'll be less…”
“Real,” you finish for him. You push back on your own this time, your rosy, searching eyes finding his.
He nods and gives you a little smile. “Not so dark, y’know?”
“...Okay,” you agree. “That sounds good.”
And then, when it looks like you have more to say, Eddie doesn’t even need to prompt you.
“...Could you still say things?” Your stare jumps around, skittish, only landing back on him for a split second at a time. “I just… I like it when you talk.”
He grins and cocks his head to the side. “You mean like, evil asshole things? ‘I'm not asking’ and all that?”
You breathe a laugh out of your nose and bob your head in a timid nod.
“...Yeah, I think so,” he says, scratching his jaw as he thinks about it. “We’ll try it.”
Starry-eyed as you are, Eddie can’t fight the urge to kiss you, and you melt happily into it. Arms thrown around his neck, fingers in his hair, you kiss him like you need him to breathe, each insistent press longer than the last. Eddie’s well and truly love-drunk, humming pleasedly into your mouth, but he doesn’t miss the urgency in it, the way you press yourself into him as close as you can; almost like you’re trying to rile him up, and it isn’t not working. He aspirates a laugh as he finally escapes your affection.
“Wow,” he says, close to breathless. “Did, uh… Did you wanna try it right now?”
“Is that okay?” you breathe, suddenly rigid. Then, quickly: “We don’t have to.”
He must’ve left you very frustrated, or maybe renegotiating the approach worked you up again. He pinches his eyes at you in fondness.
Eddie thinks about himself, really thinks about it. The dread pit has dissipated, knowing that he doesn’t have to be that guy anymore, seeing you smile again. He feels off, sort of, some distant imprint of it stuck in the back of his mind, but even more than that, he loves you, he loves you, and he wants you. Wants to show you how much he loves you. He was still planning on making you feel good if you wanted him to, even if he couldn’t personally summon the interest to have it reciprocated, but now, he’s probably a fourth of the way hard again already just from the fever in your kiss. If you wanna roughhouse with him so bad, he’s having trouble locating any real desire not to.
“...Yeah, I’m down,” he says, trying not to look too smug at the sight of your relief. “You wanna start right now?”
“Um… First, I should—”
You cut yourself off to shove your hand into his pants and fish his dick back out of them—bold in your actions if not with your words—and Eddie chokes on a gasp.
“Christ,” he giggles, grunting as you squeeze and tug at him, rub your thumb beneath his slit. “You really need it, huh?”
“Shush,” you tell him.
Either impatient or just suffering a craving, you scoot back, stoop down, and ease him into your mouth. The soft, wet presses of your tongue against his skin open the floodgate, sending the blood rushing in.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, head tipping back in bliss. “...You’re too fuckin’ good to me.”
You keep it up until he’s hard again and a little longer after that, stroking him leisurely with your lips while Eddie pants and shivers above you. Then, you stop. Pull back completely and stare at him like you’re waiting for something, and Eddie’s brow furrows. Is he supposed to start it? He sort of thought you were, but all you’re doing is staring.
You blink at him a couple times, and just before he can ask what you’re doing, if you’re alright, if you still want to do this, you scramble off the side of the bed. He watches you with a frown for three leisurely steps, but when you throw a coy glance at him over your shoulder, it snaps into place.
A big, wolfish grin tears across his face. “Where do you think you're going, missy?”
Eddie starts after you with enough speed to make you gasp, easily catching around the middle, dragging you back towards the bed.
“Let go,” you complain, but his arms don’t budge.
“Not a chance.”
Eddie braces himself, squats down a little, and then lifts you clean off your feet, throwing you face-down onto the bed and grinning wider at the squeal that flies out of you. He grabs you by your hips and turns you onto your back, and you stare up at him with bewildered eyes and a disbelieving smile, like you didn’t think he’d actually be able to toss you around like this. Naturally, it goes straight to his head.
Then comes the fighting. You raise your arms and your legs trying to fend him off, shield yourself; shoving away his attempts to tug at your dress or stick his hand between your thighs, and neither of you can stop from smiling as Eddie struggles to push his way in, finally securing your wrists over your head and yanking your dress up.
“No, Eddie, stop,” you whine, still squirming. It's petulant, the same tone you use when he's acting immature, annoying the hell out of you for fun.
“Nope,” he says, remorseless. “You're all mine.” He slaps his fingers down over your slit to prove it, and you jolt in surprise.
“You're being mean!”
He scoffs at the accusation. “No, I'm not. You got me hard as a fucking rock, babe, and your actions have consequences.”
You laugh—it bubbles out before you can stifle it—and Jesus Christ, this is so much better. You’re defiant, sure, putting up a fight and playing annoyed as much as you can, but you aren’t resigned to hopeless sorrow like earlier. There’s a buzzing energy between you, a tension of excitement more than sheer intensity—you fight like hell to keep the smile off your face and Eddie lets his stretch deviously across his cheeks, feeling closer to a raunchy cartoon villain than any sort of genuine predator.
“But I don’t want to,” you whine again, frowning your sweet face up at him. Eddie grabs you by the jaw, and your eyes pop wider.
“You’re adorable, sweetheart,” he coos, squishing your cheeks and staring down his nose at you with all the love in the world. Your pupils spread wide and dark, inviting him into their fire. “...Since when have I ever gave a shit what you wanted?”
-
thanks for reading! feedback is always welcome 💞 likes, comments, + reblogs would be much appreciated!
cw: FIFTH TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF OF tgnd series. FIRST DATE AND FIRST KISS WOOOHOOOO
summary: from joe thinking you were someone's grandma to disguising as old couple with him
the girl next door (is not a grandma) masterlist
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issy talks: holy shih tzu, we're on part 5?! enjoy their first date:)
Morning arrives slowly inside Joe’s apartment. Not loudly. Not abruptly. Just softly creeping through the curtains in thin streaks of golden sunlight while the faint sound of something sizzling drifts through the apartment.
Bacon.
Coffee.
Butter hitting a hot pan.
The smell wraps around you gently, warm enough to slowly pull you from sleep. You blink awake slowly, still half tangled in sleep.
For a few seconds, you just stare at the unfamiliar ceiling above you.
Huh.
Your room looks… different. You frown slightly, still groggy, eyes trailing toward the bedside lamp, the scattered vinyl records near the shelf, the guitar leaning carefully against the wall.
Then it hits you all at once.
Oh.
Joe’s apartment.
The memories return in soft flashes. The blackout. The fire escape. The movie. Falling asleep on his shoulder while he rambled passionately about Star Wars.
Your face immediately warms. “Oh my God,” you mumble quietly into the blanket.
You sit up quickly, hair messy, heart somehow already nervous this early in the morning. For a second, you debate hiding here forever out of embarrassment but then the smell of breakfast reaches you again. to be honest, that wins.
You quietly step out of the bedroom and follow the sounds into the kitchen. The sight waiting there nearly stops you in your tracks.
Joe stands at the stove wearing a faded gray shirt and sweatpants, hair messy from sleep, humming absentmindedly to himself while flipping bacon in a pan.
Morning sunlight spills across the kitchen counters around him.
Warm.
Soft.
Domestic enough to make your chest ache a little.
Joe glances over his shoulder and immediately smiles when he sees you standing there.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
Your stomach flips traitorously. “You say that to everyone who sleeps in your apartment?” you mumble sleepily.
Joe pretends to think about it “Nope. Exclusive offer.”
That pulls a laugh from you instantly.
Joe points the spatula toward you dramatically. “Sleep better?”
You nod, still smiling a little, “Yeah.” then you glance toward the stove. “What’re you making?”
You move closer into the kitchen, still waking up fully. The apartment smells overwhelmingly comforting this morning. Coffee brewing somewhere nearby. Toast. The lingering scent of cinnamon from last night’s rolls.
It feels less like visiting now more like belonging which is somehow scarier.
Joe notices you swaying slightly from sleep and points toward the dining table.
“Sit,” he says gently. “I’m almost done.”
You obey surprisingly fast.
Joe notices.
His grin widens immediately “Oh, so now you listen to instructions.”
“Don’t ruin this for yourself,” you warn.
A few minutes later, Joe carefully places a plate in front of you.
Bacon.
Toast.
Sunny-side-up eggs.
And written messily in ketchup across the side of the plate:
Movie date with me? ;)
You blink once, then again.
Your eyes slowly lift toward Joe and suddenly the world’s most confident musician looks deeply nervous standing in his own kitchen. One hand rubbing the back of his neck trying to act casual who ended up failing horribly.
“I know it’s kind of stupid,” Joe says quickly. “I panicked halfway through writing it and committed anyway.”
You stare at him another second before bursting into laughter, Not mean laughter—fond laughter. The kind that makes Joe immediately relax hearing it.
“Oh my God,” you mumble, grinning down at the plate again. “You asked me out with ketchup.”
Joe points defensively “In my defense, I hadn’t had coffee yet.”
“That somehow makes this worse.”
“Wow. Tough crowd.”
Still smiling, you reach across the table and grab the ketchup bottle yourself. Joe watches curiously while you squeeze out one careful word onto the edge of the plate.
Yes ♡
When you finish, you turn the plate around toward him proudly. For one full second, Joe genuinely looks stunned. Then his entire face softens into the most ridiculously happy smile you’ve ever seen.
“Oh my God,” he breathes.
You laugh shyly “What?”
“You said yes.”
“Well,” you tease lightly, “it’d be pretty awkward if I said no after sleeping in your apartment.”
Joe gasps dramatically “So this isn’t because of my incredible cooking?”
“Joe, the eggs are slightly burnt.”
“They have character.”
Before you can tease him again, Joe suddenly walks around the table and pulls you into a hug. A warm, sleepy, tight enough to make your heart stumble.
You laugh softly against his chest “It was kind of cute, though,” you admit quietly.
Joe pulls back slightly “The ketchup?”
“The asking me out like a divorced suburban dad.”
Joe clutches his chest dramatically “That’s devastating.”
“You literally wrote on a plate.”
“And you,” Joe says immediately, narrowing his eyes playfully, “are the girl who introduced herself by leaving mystery cupcakes outside my apartment with handwritten notes.”
“That was charming.”
“That was suspicious.”
You smack his chest lightly while laughing. Joe only laughs harder, arms still loosely wrapped around your waist.
And standing there in his kitchen, sunlight spilling around both of you while breakfast grows cold on the table it suddenly feels less like the beginning of something. and more like finally arriving there.
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
It takes nearly an hour for you and Joe Keery to come up with a plan. Apparently, going on a normal movie date like regular people becomes significantly harder when one of you occasionally gets recognized on the street.
At first, the ideas are reasonable. Hoodies, caps, masks. Then somehow, Joe completely loses his mind.
“What if,” he says suddenly, sitting upright on the couch like he’s just solved world peace, “we disguise ourselves as old people.”
You stare at him. “…Joe.”
“I’m serious.”
“You sound insane.”
Joe points at you dramatically “No, listen. Nobody looks twice at old couples. They’re invisible to society.”
“That’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”
“But effective.”
You laugh despite yourself.
Joe immediately notices “That laugh means I’m winning.”
“It means I’m concerned.”
Ten minutes later, Joe emerges from his bedroom wearing:
a knitted brown cardigan
wire-frame glasses
a colorful with black eanie
and a scarf wrapped around his neck like somebody’s retired grandfather going birdwatching.
You blink slowly. “Oh my God.”
Joe spreads his arms proudly. “You see the vision now.”
“You look like you pay taxes early.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
When it’s your turn, you walk out wearing:
a long wool coat
a floral scarf
oversized sunglasses
and one of your grandma’s old knitted beanies pulled low over your hair.
Joe freezes immediately “…okaaaay wait,” he says, pointing at you accusingly, “why are you actually pulling it off?”
You grin “Maybe I was born for this life.”
“You look like you make incredible soup.”
“I do make incredible soup.”
Joe places a hand over his heart “God, you’re perfect.”
The words leave his mouth so naturally that neither of you fully processes them but the silence afterward feels suspiciously warm.
Eventually, the two of you end up on the subway trying very hard to look inconspicuous. Which immediately fails because Joe keeps whispering commentary under his breath like this is some kind of spy mission.
“Don’t look now,” he murmurs dramatically beside you, “but I think that guy just looked at us.”
You stare ahead. “Joe, we are dressed like somebody’s grandparents.”
“Exactly, we’re vulnerable.”
“You’re impossible.”
The subway rattles loudly beneath the city while you stand beside him gripping the overhead pole. Then suddenly, a teenage couple sitting nearby stands up.
“Oh!” the girl says quickly. “You guys can sit here.”
Both you and Joe freeze. “No no, that’s alright,” you say quickly, deepening your voice slightly to commit to the bit.
Joe has to physically look away to stop himself from laughing.
The teenage boy looks horrified “Sir,” he says to Joe, “you’re really gonna make your wife stand?”
Joe chokes immediately.
Your wife.
You bite your lip hard, trying not to laugh. Joe clears his throat, suddenly committing WAY too hard.
“Honey,” he says in the shakiest fake old-man voice imaginable, “let’s sit down before my knees give out.”
You nearly lose your composure instantly.
The teenagers look painfully relieved once you both sit and that makes everything worse. Joe keeps staring straight ahead with the expression of a man fighting for his life while your shoulders shake beside him.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” you whisper.
Without looking at you, Joe mutters, “You’re my subway wife now. Respect the commitment.”
That does it. You snort loudly enough that the teenage couple smiles at each other like they’ve just witnessed true love.
Which honestly? Makes both you and Joe embarrassingly flustered.
By the time you finally reach the theater, both of you are exhausted from pretending to be seventy. The second you step inside, you immediately pull off your sunglasses.
“Next time,” you declare, “we take a taxi.”
Joe adjusts his scarf dramatically, “I thought I was being smart.”
“You fake coughed three times.”
“That was character work.”
A few minutes later, you’re standing beside Joe near the concession counter while he somehow buys enough snacks for six people.
“You realize this is just two-hour movie, right?”
Joe balances popcorn and drinks carefully in his arms “I panic-order when I’m happy.”
Your chest warms embarrassingly at that.
Inside the theater, everything softens again dim lights, quiet chatter. The smell of buttered popcorn filling the room.
You settle into your seats while previews flash across the screen and somewhere in the middle of fixing your coat and adjusting the popcorn between you, Joe’s hand quietly finds yours.
Natural.
Easy.
Like it belongs there now neither of you comments on it. You just intertwine your fingers with his automatically and Joe smiles softly at the screen before the movie even starts.
The theater finally darkens completely. Then the title flashes across the giant screen: The Mandalorian and Grogu.
Joe whispers dramatically beside you, “This is cinema.”
You laugh quietly, “Please be normal for two hours.”
“I can’t promise that.”
Halfway through the movie, Joe keeps leaning over to whisper commentary into your ear. “This little guy would absolutely steal from me.”
“That’s because he senses weakness.”
“You wound me.”
“You bought four kinds of candy, Joe.”
“That’s survival instinct.”
At some point, your popcorn sharing turns into feeding each other absentmindedly. Not even flirtatiously anymore. Just soft, comfortable. Domestic in that dangerous way, couples become without noticing.
And somewhere between your quiet laughter, intertwined hands, and Joe’s thumb brushing absentmindedly across your knuckles during the movie—you realize this no longer feels like: two neighbors hanging out.
It feels like a date. A real one because it is. and judging by the way Joe keeps looking at you whenever the screen lights up your face—he knows it too.
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
After the movie, Joe Keery leads you through several glowing New York streets before stopping in front of a small restaurant tucked between a bookstore and an old record shop.
Warm golden light spills through the windows.
Inside, soft jazz hums beneath the low chatter of conversations and clinking wine glasses. The entire place feels suspended in another decade. Romantic in that quiet, old-fashioned way.
You glance at Joe suspiciously as he opens the door for you. “This looks expensive.”
Joe places a hand dramatically over his chest, “You wound me.”
“You brought me somewhere with candles on the tables.”
“It’s called atmosphere.”
“It’s called terrifying.”
Joe laughs softly as you step inside.
The hostess immediately brightens upon seeing him. “Reservation for ,Mr. Keery?” Your brows lift instantly.
You turn toward Joe slowly. “You made a reservation?”
Joe suddenly becomes very interested in fixing his cardigan sleeve. “Maybe.”
Your chest warms immediately because somehow this entire day keeps unfolding like he thought carefully about every part of it. The two of you are seated near the corner beside a window overlooking the city street.
Outside, New York glows softly beneath the evening rain. Inside, everything feels warm. Golden light. Wine glasses reflecting softly against candle flames. The faint sound of jazz floating through the restaurant like perfume. It feels unreal.
Dinner itself comes easy. Not because there’s a lot to say but because being around Joe has stopped feeling difficult a long time ago. You talk about everything and nothing at once. The terrible fake old-couple accents from earlier.
The movie.
Ponkan.
Joe’s sisters.
Your café.
The weird man outside the theater who tried to sell Joe a laser pointer for twenty dollars.
“You almost bought it,” you accuse.
“He made compelling arguments.”
“He said it could ‘change your life.’”
Joe points at you “And what if it could’ve?”
At some point, your steak grows cold because you’ve spent more time laughing than eating.
Joe notices first “You should probably eat before I accidentally flirt you into starvation.”
You nearly choke on your wine laughing. “That was horrible.”
“You liked it.”
Unfortunately, you did.
The longer the night stretches, the softer everything becomes. Joe’s hand resting closer to yours on the table. Your legs brushing beneath it accidentally. Then not moving away afterward. The candlelight flickering gold across his face while he smiles at something you said.
And God, you suddenly understand why people write love songs.
Then, the music changes, soft piano and gentle brass. A familiar voice floating through the restaurant air like warm velvet. Your eyes widen immediately.
“Joe,” you whisper excitedly, turning toward the small stage near the back of the restaurant. “Oh my God.”
Ella Fitzgerald.
Joe looks over casually despite the fact that he absolutely planned this.
“No way,” he says suspiciously unconvincingly.
You narrow your eyes immediately. “You look guilty.”
“I always look guilty.”
“That’s true.”
The jazz singer begins softly:
Let’s fall in love…
Why shouldn’t we fall in love?
Your entire face lights up.
And Joe, God may help him. Joe thinks he could spend the rest of his life trying to make you smile like that.
Before he fully thinks it through, Joe stands from his seat and extends a hand toward you “May I have this dance, honey?”
The nickname alone nearly melts you into the floor.
You place your hand in his instantly. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Joe leads you gently toward the small open space near the stage. Neither of you are really good dancers but that makes it better.
Softer.
Realer.
Joe’s hand settles carefully against your waist while the other holds yours. Your free hand rests against his shoulder. the second you move closer, everything else disappears.
The conversations.
The restaurant.
The city outside.
Gone.
Because suddenly all you can focus on is, the warmth of his hand against your waist, the smell of his cologne lingering softly between you, the way Joe looks at you like he still can’t believe you’re real
The music wraps around both of you slowly.
Our hearts are made of it…
Let’s take a chance…
You sway together gently beneath the warm restaurant lights, somewhere nearby, another couple joins in dancing. Then another. An elderly pair begins waltzing slowly near the edge of the room, smiling at each other like they’ve been in love for fifty years.
It should feel cheesy. Instead, it feels strangely magical. Like the entire universe softened for one evening just to let this moment exist.
Joe looks down at you, smiling softly. “You know,” he murmurs, “this is significantly better than pretending to be seventy on public transportation.”
You laugh quietly against him. “Debatable.”
“You called me your subway husband.”
“You fake-coughed at strangers.”
“It was immersive acting.”
Your laughter fades softer this time because now you’re close enough to hear his heartbeat beneath the music.
Steady.
Warm.
Real.
Without thinking, your head settles lightly against his chest. Joe immediately stills, not because he dislikes it. Quite the opposite. Because honestly? He thinks he might remember this exact moment forever.
The song continues around you while Joe’s fingers trace absentminded patterns against your waist. And quietly, so quietly only you can hear—he leans closer and whispers: “You look really beautiful tonight.”
Your breath catches instantly, not because of the compliment. But because he says it like he means it, like it surprised even him.
“Even I dress up like a grandma?” you asked.
“Especially, when you dress up like grandma,” Joe answered and kissed the top of your head.
When you look back up at him, the space between you suddenly feels dangerously small. Joe’s gaze flickers briefly toward your lips. Then back to your eyes. Your heart stumbles hard enough that you’re sure he can feel it through your chest.
For one suspended second, it almost happens but then the song ends. Applause fills the restaurant. the moment breaks softly around the edges. not ruined, just postponed.
Which somehow feels even more romantic.
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
Still dressed as an elderly married couple, you and Joe Keery step back into the cool New York night after dinner.
The city glows around you. Streetlights shimmer against damp pavement from earlier rain while traffic hums softly in the distance. Somewhere nearby, music spills from an open bar door before disappearing again as people pass.
The entire night feels dipped in gold—warm and dreamlikelike something the two of you will remember years from now in strange little flashes.
Despite how full you already are, Joe suddenly slows in front of a tiny ice cream shop squeezed between two buildings.
You look at him immediately. “No.”
Joe looks at you innocently. “What?”
“We literally just ate steak.”
“And?”
“And dessert.”
“That was restaurant dessert. This is walking dessert.”
You stare at him. “That’s not a thing.”
“It absolutely is.”
Five minutes later, you’re both holding ice cream cones while walking toward Central Park because apparently Joe is impossible to argue with when he smiles like that.
Your disguise somehow makes everything funnier. Joe still wears the oversized cardigan and glasses while your scarf remains wrapped around your hair.
At one point, a stranger opens a door for both of you and says: “Have a lovely night.”
Joe answers in his old-man voice: “You too, son.”
You nearly choke on your ice cream. “Please stop committing to the bit,” you laugh.
Joe looks offended “This is who I am now.”
“You’re eighty for one evening and suddenly you’ve accepted your fate.”
“I’ve lived a long life, sweetheart.”
“Oh my God.”
The two of you continue walking slowly beneath glowing storefront lights until Joe suddenly stops mid-step.
His eyes narrow dramatically, you follow his gaze. A claw machine inside a small arcade near the sidewalk. More specifically, a familiar pink plush sitting near the corner.
Joe points immediately “Isn’t that My Melody?”
You squint through the glass then gasp. “Oh my God, it is.”
Joe looks weirdly victorious about recognizing your favorite Sanrio character. “I knew it.”
“You remembered?”
Joe gives you a look “Of course I remembered.”
Before you can say anything else, Joe hands you his ice cream.
“Hold this.”
You blink. “…Joe.”
“I think I have change.”
“Joe.”
He’s already patting his pockets dramatically. You watch him crouch slightly in front of the machine like a man preparing for battle. Honestly? It’s kind of adorable.
“You know nobody actually wins these things, right?” you say, leaning beside him. “That’s literally how they make money.”
Joe inserts a coin without breaking eye contact with the machine “Not with that attitude.”
The claw drops, misses completely. Joe narrows his eyes.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “It’s learning my strategy.”
You laugh immediately. “That’s not how claw machines work.”
Second try, closer this time but still wrong.
Joe exhales sharply through his nose. “Interesting.”
“Joe—”
“No no, I’m understanding him now.”
“Him?”
“The machine.”
“You’re talking about it like a supervillain.”
“It started this.”
By the fifth attempt, Joe has fully entered his competitive era. His sleeves are rolled slightly now. His glasses have slipped down his nose. And he’s muttering things under his breath like: “Okay… easy… easy…”
Meanwhile you’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts. “You’re losing money.”
“I’m gaining knowledge.”
“You’ve spent fifteen dollars.”
“That Melody plush is mocking me.”
A group of teenagers walking past slows down to watch. One of them whispers: “Come on grandpa, you got this.”
You immediately burst into laughter.
Joe points at them dramatically, “THANK YOU.”
The claw finally grabs Melody for one glorious second, before dropping her again.
Joe stares in complete betrayal. “Oh, that’s evil.”
You’re practically doubled over laughing now, one hand gripping his arm for balance. “Joe,” you wheeze, “please let it go.”
“No.”
“It’s a stuffed toy.”
“She believes in me.”
“She absolutely does not.”
Joe rubs a hand over his face dramatically before turning toward the bored teenage cashier working behind the counter.
“…Can I just buy that?”
The cashier blinks once “No.”
Joe looks genuinely heartbroken. You laugh again so hard you nearly spill your ice cream.
Finally, before Joe spends his life savings fighting a claw machine, you gently catch his wrist. His attention immediately shifts toward you and for a second, everything softens again.
Streetlights glowing against his face. The city moving around both of you. His hand warm beneath yours.
“You don’t have to win me things, you know,” you say quietly, smiling.
Joe looks at you for a moment too long then softer now, “I know.”
And somehow, that answer feels like it means more than the claw machine.
More than the toy.
Maybe more than either of you are ready to say out loud.
You tug gently on his hand “C’mon, old man.”
Joe intertwines his fingers with yours instantly, “Wow,” he says, walking beside you again, “using pet names already?”
“You literally called yourself grandpa ten minutes ago.”
“And you stayed with me.”
You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away completely.
As the two of you continue toward Central Park hand-in-hand, Joe glances back once at the claw machine.
Then sighs dramatically “I could’ve won.”
“You absolutely could not.”
“You’ll never know now.”
“A pink rabbit was psychologically torturing you.”
Joe gasps softly “Her name is My Melody.”
And somehow, beneath the city lights and melting ice cream and ridiculous disguises, you think this might be the happiest you’ve been in a very long time.
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
Central Park feels quieter after the rain.
The pathways still glisten beneath the streetlights, reflecting little pools of gold against the pavement while the trees sway softly in the cold evening breeze. Somewhere in the distance, laughter echoes faintly before disappearing again beneath the hush of the city.
Everything feels softer and slower here. Like New York itself decided to exhale for one night.
You stand near the edge of the lake with your coat pulled tighter around yourself, watching the water ripple gently beneath the lights.
Behind you, the city still glows but here it feels far away.
A few minutes ago, Joe disappeared claiming he was “getting something important,” which honestly could mean absolutely anything with him.
So you wait, smiling faintly to yourself still wearing your ridiculous grandmother disguise.
Then, you feel someone step beside you.
You turn and immediately freeze.
Joe stands there slightly out of breath, scarf crooked from apparently rushing back, holding two takeaway coffees in one hand and flowers in the other.
Lilies and tulips.
Soft pinks and whites wrapped carefully in brown paper.
Beautiful.
Warm.
Thoughtful.
So painfully him.
For a second, you just stare at him because throughout this entire night, he keeps finding new ways to surprise you.
Joe suddenly looks nervous beneath your silence.
“Uh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck slightly. “These are for the sweetest girl I’ve ever known.”
Your heart genuinely stumbles. “Oh, Joe…”
You take the bouquet carefully from his hands like it’s something fragile.
Something precious.
Rainwater still clings faintly to the petals.
Without really thinking about it, you lean forward and kiss his cheek softly.
Joe goes completely still—absolutely still as if his brain short-circuited.
When you pull back, his eyes widen slightly behind his glasses. “You can’t just do that,” he says weakly.
You blink innocently. “Do what?”
“That.”
“You’ll have to be more specific, grandpa.”
Joe laughs softly under his breath, shaking his head “You’re evil.”
Eventually, the two of you settle onto a nearby bench overlooking the lake. Steam curls from the coffee cups between your hands while your flowers rest carefully in your lap.
The city lights shimmer softly across the water, for a while neither of you says anything silence with Joe has never felt uncomfortable. It feels full instead.
Joe glances toward you eventually. His expression softer now, more vulnerable than usual “You know,” he says quietly, “I really thought you were somebody’s grandma.”
You burst into laughter immediately. “Oh my God.”
“No, listen,” he says, grinning now. “The music. The baking. The sweaters. You had a floral apron, for God’s sake.”
“You were profiling me.”
“I was surviving.”
Your laughter fades gentler this time.
And Joe looks down briefly at the coffee in his hands before speaking again.
“The first time I saw you,” he admits quietly, “in the elevator… before we actually met… I remember hoping you lived on my floor.”
You look at him, really look at him, suddenly his voice sounds different.
Softer around the edges, and honest.
“I don’t know,” Joe continues, smiling faintly to himself. “There was just something about you already. Then we started leaving each other notes and pastries and suddenly…” He laughs quietly “You became part of my day before I even knew your name.”
Your chest aches softly Joe turns toward you fully now. Cold air brushes pink against his cheeks while the city lights catch in his eyes.
By heavens, you think you could spend years looking at him.
“I kept telling myself we were just neighbors,” he says softly. “Then friends.” His smile turns smaller.
fond
“But somewhere between your coffee and your music and free tasting on your apartment…” He pauses, looks at you like he’s trying to hand you something delicate “...you started feeling like home to me.”
The words settle carefully between you wrm enough to make your eyes sting a little.
Slowly, you reach up and adjust his scarf slightly where it sits crooked beneath his jaw.
Your fingers linger there, against his skin, against him.
“Joe,” you whisper softly, “when I moved here, I was terrified.”
He listens quietly.
“I thought New York is not a perfect city for me,” you admit with a small laugh. “Everything here moves so fast. Everyone always seems like they’re rushing toward something.” You glance down at the flowers in your lap briefly. “but then you happened.”
Joe’s breath catches softly.
“You made this city feel softer,” you continue. “Like maybe there was room here for someone like me after all.” Your thumb brushes gently along the sleeve of his coat “Finding you felt like coming home.”
Joe looks at you then like the entire world narrowed into one single person sitting beside him on a bench.
You
Only you
The air between you shifts quietly after that. Not awkward.Not uncertain. Just…full. both of you finally arrived at the same place after walking toward it for months.
Joe’s hand slowly lifts toward your face, careful. Like he’s asking permission without words. His fingers brush softly against your cheek. Warm despite the cold and when your eyes flutter slightly at the touch, Joe exhales shakily. Like even this feels too good to trust completely.
“You’re really here,” he murmurs quietly.
You smile softly “So are you.”
Then Joe leans in, slowly enough for you to stop him. Gently enough to make your heart ache. And when his lips finally meet yours—it feels warm.
Soft.
Certain.
Like the first sip of coffee on a rainy morning. Like candlelight glowing through apartment windows. Like jazz music drifting through thin hallway walls. Like every note and pastry and lingering glance leading exactly here.
The kiss is unhurried. Tender in the way only people deeply fond of each other can be. Joe’s hand cups your face gently while yours rests against his coat, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath it. And for one suspended moment, the entire city disappears.
When you finally pull apart, neither of you moves far. Joe rests his forehead lightly against yours, smiling softly.
“There goes the whole neighbor thing,” he whispers.
You laugh quietly, breathless “Yeah.”
Joe looks at you again, completely gone for you now “Worth it though.”
hi mae! wondering if you feel like writing anything for fireman!james? i've been thinking about him lately......maybe something where reader has a fire at her apartment, some angst and comfort if you feel like it. thanks for considering, hope you're having a great day/night!
Thanks for requesting angel! Hope you're having a great day/night as well <3
cw: animal in distress
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
firefighter!James x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words
By the time James’ team finishes the primary search, there are fourteen residents on the street in front of the block of flats. All were out by the time James got here with the second truck, so his search went quickly, locating the original source of the fire—a dishcloth thrown on a hob that hadn’t cooled when the flat’s tenant went out, which then spread to the entire building. He tears off his mask and looks around for where he might be needed.
Most of the victims are already getting treatment, sitting on the sidewalk across from the blaze under a twilight sky, having pulse oximeters clipped to their fingers and being given oxygen in a few cases. It’s mostly calm, but—there. James catches sight of Frank trying to corral a victim who’s seemingly refusing treatment, and he beelines in that direction.
James’ timing couldn’t be better. He approaches just as you break away from Frank, and you’re—god, you must have been one of the last out, you’re staggering, dizzy from smoke inhalation. You stagger right into James’ arms.
“You’re okay,” he placates you swiftly, catching you around your waist. “You’re alright.”
You make a choked sound and try to get free.
James’ can’t let you go. You’re trying to run towards the fire, which is, you know, a bad plan. He tries to convey this as Frank approaches with oxygen for you. “We’re getting things under control. Okay? The best thing you can do is—”
You shake your head, keeping Frank from putting a mask on you. Tears stream from your eyes, either from fright or irritation from the smoke. Probably both, actually. “I have to—” Your voice is a hoarse wreckage. “I need—”
“What, lovely?” asks James while Frank continues trying to place the mask on your face. James could probably hold you still, weak as you are, but he’d rather not have to.
“My cat—” Your voice breaks on a cough, your breath wheezing as you fight to get something out.
James’ own breathing falters. “Your cat? It’s inside?”
You nod, coughing.
“Which unit?”
You point, and that’s enough. James gives you over to Frank, hardly taking a second to hope that his friend has you in a secure grip before jogging back across the street. He puts his mask on as he goes, shoving his hands into his gloves.
The fire is noisy. The team is working to put it out at the source, but in this part of the building it’s still finding new kindling, roaring its eagerness as it licks at the ceilings. The flat you pointed to is thick with smoke. James moves from room to room, checking under furniture, inside of closets, around corners. He has the half-desperate urge to tsk for your cat, though that won’t likely work, and clad in gear as he is it would probably seem vaguely haunting.
He goes through the flat more than once. As he’s standing from peering underneath your bed for the third time (which seems the most likely hiding place to him) James notices a lump under the covers. He thinks he can be excused for perhaps not being the most gentle in his haste to unveil the hiding place. Your cat disagrees.
James is glad for the thick material of his suit and gloves as the thing comes out shrieking and scratching. He’s impressed by its determination to tear into him despite how exhausted the poor thing must be—proven a moment later when it manages to find the space inside James’ sleeve where his wrist is exposed. Oh well, no rose without its thorns and all that.
“Okay, okay, it’s okay,” he mumbles, bundling the creature close to his chest as he leaves the room.
In the stairwell, the smoke is less thick, a sign that they’re getting the blaze under control on at least the ground floor. James passes a few members of his unit on his way out of the building (answering more than one exclamation of “Where was that hiding?” with a shrug) and goes outside to look for you.
He doesn’t have to look for long. Frank seems to have finally managed to cajole you into sitting down and putting on an oxygen mask, but at James’ emergence you make a broken shout and tear free all over again, sprinting across the street. This time, Frank is too caught offguard to stop you.
James is glad he doesn’t. You barrel right into James, take his cargo into your arms (James has a momentary panic that you’re about to get torn to ribbons, but apparently your cat only has it out for him), and crumple, sobbing, to the pavement.
James’ heart throbs painfully as you press wet little kisses into smoky fur, a string of raspy endearments tumbling from between your lips. Your cat must be feeling similarly, because James has never seen an animal fresh out of a trauma situation submit to loving so complaisantly.
“It’s okay.” James crouches beside you. He puts a hand to your back as Frank crosses the street to you, looking a mix of exasperated and relieved, with his equipment. “It’s a good sign that it’s still conscious, but you both need oxygen after inhaling all that smoke. Let us help, okay?”
You’re much more cooperative now than you were earlier. You let James hold an oxygen mask to your face while Frank prepares a smaller one for your cat, another sob escaping you when he affixes it to the creature’s tiny snout. The cat doesn’t offer much more resistance than recoiling slightly, and you coo, petting down its fur soothingly.
“I know,” you edge away from the mask to say. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
James feels this isn’t the best use of your air, seeing as your cat is unlikely to understand you, but he sympathizes with the need to apologize for a perceived failing when someone or something was depending on you. He also knows you aren’t talking to him, but he feels the need to reassure you anyway. “It’s going to be fine.”
You whimper softly. “Where was she?” you ask. James notes that you seem better than you were; your voice is still hoarse, but you’re no longer coughing. “I was trying to find her, but I—I couldn’t.”
“She made herself a rather good little hiding spot in the bed,” he tells you.
Your eyes well all over again. “Idiot,” you murmur, petting your cat lovingly. You look at James. “Thank you so much.”
He smiles and puts the mask back to your face. “I’m just glad everyone’s alright. She made me work for it, though.” He uses his spare hand to push up his sleeve, showing off the thin scratches on his wrist.
You back away from the mask again with a quiet “Oh” that contains more compassion than James thinks is really due (but he’ll take it). “I’m sorry. She’s really sweet, she was probably just scared. I’m sure she appreciates it.”
James chuckles and suppresses a comment about how you’re two peas in a pod.
“I would have been scared too,” he agrees. “Listen, can you do me a favor? Keep the mask on for a while. I think Frank’s gonna have a stroke if you don’t.”
You look at Frank, contrition coloring your expression. “Sorry,” you tell him.
Frank huffs a laugh. “It’s fine—just, yeah. Please.”
You wipe under your eyes and sit still so that James can hold the mask to your face again. The fire quiets a decibel at a time behind him. Looking at you, with your watery, happy eyes and your cat cradled lovingly in your lap, James feels good about tonight.
He offers you a smile, and even with the oxygen mask on, even weak as you are, you return it.
would you do something with Steve where he suddenly feels distant and doesn’t enjoy physical touch as much with his scarred body and eventually shares how it affects him and reader just supports him and shows him she loves him regardless ?
yes gosh what an idea. that you for making me write smth emotional 🩵
tags: established relationship, canon conpliant, hurt/comfort, talking about feelings, body dysmorphia
&&
You and Steve had been together for 527 days when he shied away from your touch for the first time.
It had been months—over a year, actually—since you’d gotten physical for the first time, so to say you were confused was a bit of an understatement. And you hadn’t even, really, been trying for anything sexual or suggestive. You’d sat down on the couch next to him, leaned into him, rested your elbow on his shoulder like you’d done countless times before. You curled your fingers into the thick hair curled at the back of his head and turned to kiss him on the cheek, and he—pulled away.
It was so surprising, that you moved away from him entirely, worried that maybe he’d hurt himself again, at work—he was still young, but dealing with kids all day, then having to teach them to play baseball, could take a lot out of a guy. Maybe he was just tired and didn’t want you pawing at him.
“Everything ok?” you asked.
“I’m fine,” Steve said, reaching for the remote to turn on the TV.
“Ok,” you said, not pushing. “Can I—Do you want space?” You asked it gently, wanting him to understand that you weren’t upset, just needing to know what he needed from you.
Because there had been times. Times after you’d gotten together, before you knew the extent of everything that had really happened in Hawkins and how close to the center of all of it he’d been, when he would get quiet. He wouldn’t talk, would just let you fill the space, speak when prompted to, but would withdraw.
Things changed when he asked you, on the 107th day that you’d been together, “Remember when the mall burned down?”
Things became both significantly more complicated—in general—and simple—between the two of you. Because it explained exactly where the faint scar ringing his neck came from, why there were patches of rough scar tissue on his back and sides that had not healed well. Mostly it explained why sometimes you’d wake up to him pacing around your room, or his, in the dark, and the only explanation he gave you was “Couldn’t sleep.”
But him not wanting you to touch him was new.
“If that’s ok,” he said, answering your question about needing some room.
“Of course,” you replied, settling down on the couch with a few inches between you, glancing at him to see if this was enough. It seemed to be; he was flipping the channels absently. Then he reached for your hand, and you let him take it.
&&
It continued for a week. You’d meet for lunch or dinner and then, after a quick kiss—just on the lips, hands off—you’d part ways and that was the end of it. And he wasn’t pulling away emotionally—to the contrary. He was asking you about work, your friends, how the project you’d been dealing with was going. He asked about your niece, who had whooping cough and for whom things had been a little dicey for a bit. And he told you about his day too. About how Ricky finally managed to hit a pitch, and about how he’d gotten through an entire sex ed lesson without any of the kids laughing.
And he looked so happy in those moments, smiling wide as he recounted anecdotes and details; so happy that it hurt you to think that something was going on inside of him that he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—share with you.
On the 533rd day that you and Steve had been together, when he drove you back to your apartment and walked you to the door, when he leaned in to kiss you, you leaned away.
“Oh,” Steve said, surprised, but not chasing you. “Everything ok?”
“Yeah,” you said, lifting a hand to try and place it on his chest, hovering your palm above him in case he still wants space. You saw his eyes flick to your hand, so you lowered it. “Will you come in?”
“I got school in the morning…” he said, and you didn’t want to push, but you almost feel like you had to, a little.
“Just for coffee,” you said. “Really. I want to talk to you.”
Steve hesitated, then sighed and nodded, stepping into your apartment after you unlocked the door. He held the door for you, letting you step in first, and then closed it behind you both. You led him to the little kitchenette and plugged in the coffee pot, measuring out enough water for a few cups each while Steve went into the cabinet above the fridge and pulled down the can of grounds for you.
“Thanks,” you said, going about preparing the coffee, and as it started to percolate, you turned to face him. He was standing in the corner of the counter, beside the refrigerator, arms crossed over his chest. In the overhead light of your kitchen, you could see the scar ringed around his neck even more clearly than the dimmer lights in your living room or his bedroom.
And he knew that was where you were looking, too.
“Steve,” you said, stepping closer, but not close enough to touch him. “I just—”
“It’s not you,” he said, clearly anticipating what you were going to ask him. “I swear. It’s not you, at all. You’re—great. Perfect, actually. I promise, this is just a…me thing.”
You held his gaze, then nodded after a moment. “Ok, well. To be honest that… wasn’t even on my mind,” you said, and he gave you a sheepish smile. “I just… I wanted to ask if you’re… all right.”
“I’m fine,” he said, automatically, just the same as he’d said it when you asked a week ago, when he brushed you off of him.
“Ok,” you said, conceding. “Because you… don’t seem fine.” Might as well just say it, get it out there.
“I am,” he said. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the room, the sound of the machine behind you bubbling and popping as the hot brew filled the carafe.
“Ok,” you said again, wishing you could think of something else to say besides two stupid letters. “Because just… it kind of feels like something’s the matter. And… since you seemed to know what I was going to ask, I think maybe there actually is.”
Steve swallowed, hugging his arms a little tighter to his chest, looking down and away from you. “It’s not… something you need to worry about.”
“But I want to worry about it,” you said. “Steve, I love you—this is something I can help you with.” He met your eyes, and in them you saw the same look reflected as the time he’d brought up Starcourt Mall, as the time he’d recounted everything with Hopper and El and Eddie and Dustin. The look that said this wasn’t something that concerned you but he wanted to let you in anyway. Except this time it seemed like the latter part was not winning the fight.
“It’s easy to say that,” he said, pushing off of the counter, lowering his arms. “But you—you saw me. This.” He gestured to his neck, the scar faded over time but still very much visible. “All of this. I love you too much to make you deal with that.”
“I don’t care what you look like,” you said, ready to prove it to him however you could, but he was shaking his head.
“I don’t mean just the… physical stuff. The sc-scars and, and wounds. Injuries, or whatever you want to call them. I mean,” he said, pressing two fingers to his temple, “the stuff in here too.”
You opened your mouth to speak, but closed it—you would let him finish.
“I can’t sleep through the night. You know that. I can’t—it’s not even the nightmares, but those, too. But it’s just like… this feeling of… just overwhelming dread that takes over me. I can’t shake it, and when I’m lying next to you I’m afraid it’ll get you too. That’s why I—”
“Get up,” you whispered, and he nodded.
“I don’t want that anywhere near you. I want you safe.”
“I am safe,” you said. “You—you said it’s over.”
“Yeah, it was,” he said. “Who knows how long it’ll last?”
You tipped your head to the side, heaving a short sigh, because there was no talking him out of that—you had no way to prove things were ok.
“And then—you know, there’s a lot of shit wrong with me too. I can barely hear out of one ear. My shoulder gets stiff when it rains. Both knees. I ache all—all fucking over, all the time. And you can say you don’t care what I look like, but I know.”
Frowning, you stepped closer to him. “Steve, I swear, that’s—”
“I know you don’t care. But I can’t…stand it. I can’t even look at myself some days. In the mirror. Or even when I get dressed in the morning. And if I do—then I just think about it all day. How other people…what they must think.”
“Steve,” you said, closing the distance and putting your hands on his chest. His hands came up to circle your wrists, and you could tell he was at war with himself between pulling your hands away and reveling in the touch of someone who cared about him. You hadn’t touched him in a week, and he wanted it that badly. Whatever he had been fighting against seemed to lose out—he pulled you closer, holding your hands firmly against him.
“Listen: You look like this because you lived through it all, right? You made it. You don’t have to love them—I can do that for you. And I do. Because I love you, and they’re part of you.”
You tugged one of your arms free and lifted your hand to trace over the horizontal line around his neck He flinched like it still hurt, but he let you.
“I love every part of you. Every part.”
You felt his throat bob against your fingers as he swallowed, then nodded.
“If someone has to, I’m glad it’s you,” he said. Slowly, with your hand still cradling the side of his neck, your thumb smoothing the ring of reddened, scarred skin, he leaned down to kiss you, soft but sure.
“And you know,” he added, almost conversationally light, like the weight of everything you’d just said was dissipating, “I love you too.”
Another Summer!Steve thot... hosting a cookout and Steve's the grillmaster. He's got your kid piggybacked onto him, looking over his shoulder and invested in the whole process.
summer (sun)!coach!steve x single mom!reader
a blurb continuation of in the summer sun, set roughly a year after
wc: 732 || divider by @/saradika-graphics
The thing about Mia is that when she loves, she loves with her entire heart.
You’ve known this about her since she was two years old and came to you in tears because a stuffed animal had a small rip in its arm, refusing to be consoled until you dug up an old sewing kit and stitched it back together under her watchful eye. And since then, her love for the wider world around her has only grown, shaped by fleeting interests and a keen eye and an endless curiosity to know.
So when you finally allowed her to meet Steve as Mom’s Boyfriend and not Coach Steve—
(Well. You shouldn’t have been so worried about her reaction, especially now that she follows him around like a little duckling.)
And ever since that fateful day, you’re having a harder and harder time imagining what your life looks like without Steve. Not just him, but his gaggle of friends, too, who you’re sure must have been weary when Steve announced that he was dating a single mother, but have instead been nothing but kind and accepting of you and your daughter.
Robin, who’s taken a personal interest in making sure Mia doesn’t grow up with Steve’s taste in music (“Seriously, saying The J. Geils Band is your favorite band is criminal, Steve!”). Dustin, who found out about Mia’s lasting orangutan obsession and has a new fact to share with her whenever they cross paths. And then there’s Max, the one who grilled you upon your first meeting, who has decided that it’s her life’s mission to teach Mia how to skateboard, pretending like she doesn’t hear your concerns on the matter whenever the subject is brought up.
(Steve assures you that Max looked into proper protective gear and stole his checkbook to order child sized kneepads.)
(You worry anyway.)
All of which leads you to now, sitting in Steve’s backyard during Memorial Day weekend, a cold beer in hand as you watch the chaos unfold around you.
It starts out simple. Steve’s friends crash land into the pool, you help set up snacks and drinks on the folding tables brought out just for the cookout, and everyone keeps an eye on Mia as she wanders from person to person, soaking in all the attention and praise that they tend to shower her with. Steve presides over the grill, wearing a rather silly Kiss The Chef! apron that Robin gave him for Christmas, and he waves you away to take a break just as he starts up the grill.
An hour slips by without notice, softening you between the buzz of alcohol and good company, when out of nowhere — and you’re not quite sure what even happened — Mia steps on a bug or a rock or something and no amount of fawning or assurances convinces her that she will, in fact, survive such a tragedy.
Not until Steve offers to carry her around on his back, anyway. Her tears dry up faster than you’ve ever seen and she immediately clings to his back in a manner easily reminiscent of the orangutans that she so loves.
(You’re beginning to suspect that, quite possibly, all of this might have been an elaborate ploy to get a piggy back ride, which you find hilarious considering if she’d simply asked he would’ve done it with no questions asked.)
So you sit at the edge of the pool, legs submerged, and you watch as Mia imperiously teaches Steve how to flip the food that he’s grilling, one small arm wrapped around his neck while the other is pointed at something that you can’t see. Steve nods, as if he isn’t nearly twenty-seven years old and has known how to grill food far longer than your daughter has been alive, following her instructions with an air of seriousness in spite of grin splitting across his face.
There’s a splash of water, and Robin swims up to where you’re sitting, resting her forearms on the concrete next to you.
“She has him wrapped around her fingers,” Robin comments, her gaze flickering between you and Steve.
“Yeah,” you agree. “Not sure if I should be concerned or not.”
She laughs, a tinkling little sound, and says, “He’s exactly where he wants to be. Trust me.”
Your chest warms with an emotion you can’t quite identify. “Yeah,” you say again. “He really is, isn’t he?”
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