girl with ptsd voice: hey, so something really bad is gonna happen, right? you guys are picking up on that too, yeah? The other shoe is about to drop, I just know it.
do any of these pairings tickle our collective fancy
sweetheart!reader x gator (thinking in the vein of more fem than your average reader without saying âgirlyâ just bc I kind of hate that descriptor)
ditzy!reader x gator or steve
cheater x cheater w steve âŠâŠâŠ. (maybe theyâre coworkers or in the same friend group or something, and itâs a purely sexual affair)
dealer!reader x gator or steve
something something x teacakeâŠâŠâŠ.brain isnât there yet but Iâm thinking something incredibly soft like coffee shop owner!reader
au: 90s hockey!steve x college student!reader
content warnings: angst/hurt comfort, hopeful ending, a bit of fluff, talks of casual hookups/sleeping together, alcohol, reader has self-esteem issues, not proofread (sorry), this is a little sadder than my usual stuff </3
word count: 1.7k
a/n: can you guys actually believe i wrote something
based on this original hockey!steve blurb! (this will definitely make more sense if you read it first)
You're not quite sure what time it is, but based on the dwindling sounds of the party going on inside the expansive hockey house, you guess it's nearing some obscene early morning hour.
Lately, you've been unsure of a lot of things. More than usual, you suppose. Why Steve Harrington is trying to sleep with you, for one, though you guess your reputation precedes you, and not in a way that feels particularly flattering.
A pang of self-hatred rattles through your chest and you swallow harshly, squeezing your eyes shut, as if the actions will physically remove the feeling from your body.
You wish it were that easy.
Currently, you're most unsure of why you're still at the hockey house. They won their game tonight. Another easy accomplishment for the university's team, unsurprisingly led by Steve, their superstar player and shoo-in for captain next year. You've heard that he's already getting scouted by NHL teams, but his golden boy repute means that he'll finish his degree before heading off to a fruitful career as a professional hockey player.
You scoff at the thought. You try not to let the jealousy build in your body, but you can't help it â Steve's gotten everything he's wanted since the beginning of time. You don't need to know him to prove your point; he just radiates that very fact.
So, again. Why are you laying on a lounge chair in the backyard of the hockey house, fully knowing the party is dead and there's nothing left for you to do but go home?
You know you could go inside, make eye contact, and flirt with any one of the remaining players who are sober enough to make a conscious decision, and find enough warmth for the night to get by.
But you don't want to do that.
For some stupid, pathetic reason, you're holding out for him, and you have no idea why.
You sigh and pull the cigarette from behind your ear, then grab the lighter from your bra. You feel like you've made an idiot of yourself over the past few weeks. Ever since Steve initially propositioned you, you've slept with three of his teammates, for no reason other than wanting him to know what it feels like to want something. But each time you fucked them, it was boring, wearisome, and you thought about Steve the entire time.
You hate it.
You think you hate Steve, too, but you know that's not true, either.
You're taking a drag and staring at your shoes when the man who's been haunting your thoughts finally makes an appearance in the dark backyard. There's still a string of lights up, a pitiful attempt at college students making their outdoor space look presentable, not to mention the litter of empty, crushed beer cans and solo cups.
Steve furrows his eyebrows when he recognizes you, immediately worrying that you're passed out with a lit cigarette in your hand, or too drunk to get home. When he approaches you, you smirk lazily at him. He swallows.
"Harrington," you greet, your throat dry from its lack of use. You don't know how long ago you came out here, but you do know that at some point, you decided you'd had enough of the loud speakers and beer pong, and the guy on the basketball team who kept pawing at your short skirt was getting seriously old.
"Are you alright?" Steve asks, gesturing to your sluggish profile. You shrug your shoulders before taking another drag from your cigarette, then wordlessly offer it to Steve. He shakes his head.
"Fine," you murmur, sitting up so your back is against the length of the chair, "You?"
"Just doing a sweep before heading to bed. Making sure there's no one lingering from the party."
"Am I a lingerer?" you ask, tossing your cigarette in the grass and crushing it with your shoe.
Steve lifts a hand to run it through his messy hair. He's exhausted. You can see it in the bags beneath his eyes.
"You don't live here, so by definition, you're lingering, yeah."
You hum. You can take a hint. You know when you're not wanted somewhere.
"I'll get out of here, then." you say, preparing to stand. Steve reaches out and clasps a hand around your wrist â gently, like you could still pull yourself away if you wanted to.
"Why are you still here?"
Your tongue pokes out to lick your lips. Steve watches, unabashedly, and feels his pants tighten at the sight of it. You want to smirk, because he's one of the easier and more enjoyable men you've played with.
"Isn't this what you wanted?" you purr, leaning towards him, batting your eyelashes. "You were begging to fuck me just a few weeks ago."
Steve laughs, all breathy and without the humor. It's an immediate shot to your ego.
"Are you drunk?" he asks, and you shake your head too quickly. You're not; the shots you had when you got here had worn off hours ago. "Then why are you... I think I'm just a little... confused."
You snort. Try not to roll your eyes. Maybe the golden boy nickname isn't so far anyway.
"You're gonna turn down fucking me when you were all but ready to pay me for it, like, a month ago?"
"I'm not that desperate," Steve mumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face, "You were so uninterested then, I don't understand what changed."
You shrug. "Does it matter?"
"Yes," Steve says stubbornly, "It does. It matters a lot, actually."
You sigh loudly, then shake your head.
"This is stupid," you mutter, standing up. He doesn't stop you this time. "Don't come to me for that shit ever again."
When you start to walk away, Steve's right behind you, and you wish you're strong enough to push him.
"C'mon, don't do this," you hear him say as you're approaching the sliding glass door. "It's late. Just stay here for the night."
You stop, then turn to look at him with a quirked brow.
He shakes his head. "We're not doing anything though. Not tonight, anyway."
"I don't understand what your problem is, Harrington."
He laughs, tilting his head back to expose his neck. You want to lean forward and mouth at his skin, pressing messy kisses to the length of it all the way down to his chest.
"I don't have a problem."
"Most guys would never shut me down," you say, crossing your arms. "I could go in there and ask any one of your teammates to pound me into their mattress andâ"
Suddenly, Steve's hand is on your mouth, a warning look in his eyes. You grin. Even if he can't see it, you know he can feel it from behind his palm.
"Lower your voice," he mumbles. "Will you please just stay? You can take my bed, I'll sleep on the floor, I'll send you off with some breakfast in the morning and everyone will think that we fucked, and it'll be fine and dandy. Yeah? That good enough for you?"
You dart your tongue out to lick his hand. He flinches and instantly retreats, making you laugh.
"God, you're such a baby. Afraid you're gonna get cooties?"
"No."
"Take me upstairs," you say, and Steve's eyes brighten. He must really have some kind of white knight complex and it makes you sigh. "But you're not sleeping on the floor, because we're not 12 years old, and just for the record, I'm not doing this for some kind of reputation maintenance thing."
Steve hums as his hand politely finds the small of your back, guiding you up the stairs and to his bedroom.
"We can sleep in the same bed as long as you promise not to make a move." he murmurs. You stop in front of a wooden door in the middle of the long hallway, waiting as Steve pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks it.
"I would never do that," you whisper. "Seriously, do you think I'm a monster?"
Steve doesn't say anything to that, and instead just leads you into his room. He locks the door behind you and you glance at him. He's already moved on to emptying his pockets onto his desk, getting rid of his wallet and keys. There's not much to Steve's bedroom, just a bed, a dresser, and a desk, but it's clean enough for a college athlete. Your eyes glaze over the small collection of pictures tacked up on the wall over his desk, then some of the hockey paraphernalia throughout the room.
"You want something to wear to bed?"
You look to Steve and nod, and he tosses you a large, worn tee-shirt. You bite your lip as you start to strip your clothes off and you hear Steve curse to himself, making you smirk.
"You could've gone to the bathroom for that, you know," he borderline whines. You grin at him in your bra. He groans and turns around.
When you've shed the rest of your clothing and slipped his shirt on, you tell him he's in the clear. He rolls his eyes and quickly puts his own sweats on, then joins you in the bed.
It's not quite awkward, but you're not exactly going straight for cuddling, not that you had anticipated Steve to be the type. He clicks the light off and lays down next to you, both of you silent as the late hour finally catches up to you.
A few minutes later, Steve breaks the silence.
"Are you ever gonna tell me why you wanted to sleep with me tonight?" he whispers.
You blink your eyes open and think for a moment.
You don't have the courage to be honest with yourself, which means you most definitely don't have the courage to be honest with Steve.
You roll onto your side to face him. He does the same, and you lick your lips.
"No," you murmur, hands resting between your cheek and the pillow. "Are you ever gonna tell me why you wanted to sleep with me the night of that party?"
Steve closes his eyes and scooches closer to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. You're a little surprised by the contact, but you tell yourself you let it happen because you're tired and it feels nice.
steve would have you holding yourself open. heâd guide your hands down behind your knees and gently press your own fingers into your legs, moving your body with you as he let you spread your own legs for him.
heâd lean in close and youâd hold your breath, because his mouth is soclose to you, but he doesnât do anything other than give a kiss to your thigh and then inhale your scent, mouth open like he wants to try and taste you too from inches away. you make a small noise in your throat and then he turns, shifts a little, sucks in his cheeks and then spits right onto your open core, the glob of saliva dripping down the seam of your lips, rolling over your slit down to your slit, where it settles, shiny, warm; you shudder.
and then heâs up on his knees, hovering above you, his hands exploring your body, caressing your tits and your sides and your stomach, settling in your waist as he leans in, the heavy weight of his cock settling on top of you, nestled against your thigh. he reaches one hand down, correcting the placementâhe lets it lay across your quivering folds, and rolls his hips. you feel the pass of his cock lightly, because heâs just laying on you, no pressure, nothing holding him against youâand then he starts in.
he takes hold of his cock and strokes himself, thumb smoothing over the head, focusing on the slit like you do, and you watch transfixed until he slides his hand to the base and holds himself, erect, flushed at the tip, over you. then, with one quick, clean movementâhe slaps the head against your clit.
youâre not worked up enoughâyetâto have much of a reaction but that doesnât deter him. he just does it again, every now and then smoothing his palm over your pussy, rubbing at your clit with the pads of his fingers, working you up to it gradually, and every time you get close he just uses his cock on you again, like itâs a toy, not part of him. like itâs only good for looking pretty and giving you something to suck on and bat away at your clit with the spongy head until you come from the play.
youâre so wet from him touching you that you can hear it when he taps the head repeatedly against you, his thumb stretched along the top so you really feel it when he pushes the head into your clit, circling it over you, and when he pulls away thereâs an obscene wet, almost sucking sound like your fluids and his precome were keeping you stuck together, like your body and his didnât want to part but for the force of him pulling away.
you sighâthe one he knows, where you like it but want more, and so he gives you one last flick of his wrist, the head popping against your clit again, before he lowers his mouth to you instead, broad shoulders against the backs of your hands as he licks at you, tonguing your clit and sucking it. and thatâs about all it takesâa couple soft pulls with his lips, some long quick strokes with his tongue, and you come apart against his mouth, releasing your knees and curling your hands into his hair instead, holding on for dear life as you ride your orgasm out on his face.
&&
gator would definitely make use of his cuffs and have you laying there with your arms up above your head, not able to move while he has one of your legs up against his front, your calf resting on his shoulder. heâd just gently kiss your ankle which would be such a stark contrast to the way that heâs holding your other leg down flat, palm splayed out against your thigh so youâre spread open. heâd probably have you like that for what feels like hours, playing with your pussy almost idly, like he doesnât care, like heâs not affected, like his cock isnât rock hard and dripping precome.
heâd use his other hand to hold onto himself and just bat the head against you, nudging your clit with the tip, curling his hips forward so the underside rubs against your swollen, desperate clit, your lips puffy with all the attention heâs been giving them. heâd swap out and use his hand on you every couple passes of his dick, and youâd watch as he pulls away, not able to touch anything but keeping your fingers tangled together. the bottom of his cock is shiny with you, and heâd slap your pussy and dig his fingers into your cunt, scissoring them apart before pulling them out once you start squirming, enjoying it too muchâand then heâd just smear your arousal over himself and take hold of his shaft again.
heâd sidle closer on his knees, looming over you and snap his wrist downward, his cock hitting against your clit and youâd twitch, because youâre so worked up and fucked out and the only part of him thatâs been inside you is two of his fingers. youâd push your hips up, try to widen your legs, his fingertips pressing divots into your thigh, and he brings his cock down against you. your whole body jumps, and even he gasps as your pussy spasms. he meets your eyes and you nod, whining, so he does it again, and again, your whimpers turning to mewls turning to simpering moans and then heâs slotting his cock between your lips and fucking through them, between them, the slide slick and easy and the pressure and hard ridge of his cock dragging over your soaking folds, his hand rough on your leg, is what pushes you over.
your cunt clamps down on itself, empty, empty, empâ
gator bullies his cock into you as you come, your orgasm drawn out, lasting forever, and your whole body kicks again, your toes curling as he fucks into you, winding you up again, stomach tensing as you feel him inside you, deep, moving in and letting you milk his come from his cock. he fills you up, his arm tight around your leg, holding it to his chest, flooding you with his release, until you both relax and he pulls out and his spunk dribbles out after him
but he doesnât relent, even as you tug at the cuffsâhe just starts again, slapping the wet head against your clit, so sensitive itâs just on this side of too much. the grin that splits his face doesnât soften his hard eyes, and you settle yourself down for another go-round.
summary: when you bring your newborn home from the hospital, gator finally hits the point of freaking out. your baby has a way of calming her dad down.
tags/warnings: husband!gator x reader, no use of y/n, established relationship - marriage, soft!gator, girl dad!gator, domestic fluff, character study, gator tillman holding a teeny little baby
---
âGator, watch her headâ watchâ hang on, let me get the door.â
You take a full breath to try and quell your own panic as you watch your husband make his way into your house with your newborn daughter. Itâs been two days since she was born, and heâs still holding her like sheâs radioactiveâ with the kind of gentle trepidation that betrays how nervous he is about somehow breaking her. Youâre not one to talk, thoughâ youâve been in a state of shock since you first heard her cry.
Thatâs how everyoneâs told you itâll be with your first. Thereâs been no end to the stories youâve heard about how you and Gator are destined to fumble along blind in this.Â
Gator rounds the corner, your daughter tucked tight into his chest in a hold that looks suspiciously similar to how youâve seen him carry a football. âBabyâ babe, where am I takinâ her?âÂ
You trail behind him, peering over his shoulder to check that your daughterâs face is still caught in that sleepy, contented expression you already adore. âJustâ just go to the living room, I guess,â you offer helplessly. âI donât know, Gator. Sheâs not asleep yet.â
âOkay. Okay,â he repeats, a renewed focus in his step as he ever-so-carefully treads toward the living room.Â
Your daughter June was born at 6:14 on a Monday morning. June like June Carter, the one country artist you and Gator can ever compromise on; June like your favorite month of the year, sticky-sweet, playful, full of tall, emerald grasses and rope swings suspended over creek beds and barbecue smoke in the air. Gator had joked that she must have had the basics of life down already, waking your asses up right before the start of the week. Tillmans were always good at being difficult.Â
When they make it to the sofa, Gator hesitates, looking back at you. âHereâ sit down, mama. Iâll bring in the bags.â With the care of someone diffusing a bomb, he hands you your daughter, ushering you back toward the couch. You accept the baby and sit down, grunting a little at the strain on your sore body. âForget the bags, Gate. Just come sit with us for a second.â
âIâll be right back,â he promises, shaking his head. You frown a little at the speed with which he abandons the two of you, like he canât stare at your daughter for too long or sheâll somehow combust. Heâs always hated to feel like a coward, but he's fleeing the room right now.
When he finally returns, all the bags stowed in your bedroom for the two of you to bother to unpack later, his expression isnât any less full of that humming, restless anxiousness. He shifts from foot to foot, wringing his hands a little, like heâs waiting for you to assign him another task. Like he needs you to.Â
âGate,â you say again, attempting to soothe him with your voice as you gently bounce your daughter in your arms, âBaby, I donât think youâve sat down since this morning. Why donât you just take a breathâ stop moving for a second.â
He shakes his head immediately, clapping his hands together. âCanât. Canât sit down.â
âWhy not?â you press him.
âToo much to do,â he explains, looking around the living room like heâll find some sort of chore there. But the house is clean, there's a casserole in the fridge to heat up if you get hungry later, and the only thing left to do is unpack the hospital bags, which shouldnât take more than ten minutes. You made sure everything was settled before you left, and he knows it.
âThereâs nothing to do,â you argue mildly. âSheâs not even due for another feeding.â
Gator starts pacing, back and forth and back and forth. Heâs not looking at you. âThink I forgot to lock the truck. I should goââ
âGator,â you interject, your voice stern. âWhy wonât you settle down?â
Gator finally turns to you, his lips set in a line. âBecause if I take a second to think, Iâm gonna start thinking about the fact I have a fuckinâ kid,â he hisses, like the low tone will stop her hearing him.
âOh, and itâs just sinking in now?â you snap, wishing you could keep your temper even. Damnit, but youâre tired and still sort of in pain and you smell like a hospital. And you wish your husband could get his shit together so you could be the one complaining right now.Â
âYeah, kind of, baby,â Gator fires back, running a hand through his hair. He drops into a crouch suddenly, blowing out a breath. âIâm freakinâ out. Iâm freakinâ out, mama.â
âBreathe, Gator,â you order him, grateful he's at least talking about it now. âYou freaking out isnât gonna make her any less⊠born.â
âI canât do this,â he heaves. âI canât be a dad. No fuckinâ way.â
âYouâll figure it out,â you reply dryly, unperturbed. âBetter get with the program, cause sheâs here.â
âIâm a fuckinâ idiot!â he protests, rising from his crouch to spread his hands and stare at you. âI canât figure shit out. Iâm probably gonna pass that to her.â
âYouâre not an idiot.â you say firmly. âYou figured out how to be a husband, didnât you?â
âBarely,â he snaps.
âGator,â you meet his eyes, turning your baby in your arms to show him her face. âLook at her.â
You watch as his eyes fall slowly to June, and his posture shifts almost imperceptiblyâ tension melting, expression softening. The panic fades little by little and then altogether.
âShit or get off the pot,â you tell him. âIf youâre gonna get on board and be a dad, nowâs the time. Do you want her?â
Gator nods, stare caught on her sleepy face.
âGood,â you finish, eyeing him. âShe wants you, too.â
He hesitates. âCan Iââ
âHold her?â you guess. âYou donât have to ask, Gate. Sheâs yours.â
With hands that you can tell are still shaking slightly, he lifts her out of your arms again, that tiny bundle of blankets and soft limbs, and tucks her into his own. His eyes are locked onto her, his jaw clenching and unclenching. âHey, girlie,â he musters, his voice low and scratchy.Â
Your lips pull upward, your brow knitting. âIs that better?â
Gator nods, biting his lip as he stares down at her. He starts rocking a little, side to side.Â
You rise from the couch, getting close enough to peer into his arms and run a finger down Juneâs soft cheek. You mumble softly to her, âYour dadâs fucking crazy, just so you know.â
âSorry,â Gator tells you, real emotion in the word.
You run a hand down his arm. âIâm gonna go to the bedroom for a bit. Just take a second with her and breathe, okay, baby?â
He nods again, looking a little lost for words. âYouâre not worried Iâm gonna break her, or something?â he asks, glancing up as you leave his side.Â
You snort, roll your eyes, and donât bother to reply. And when you glance back at him, that little action looks like it shocks Gator most of all.Â
Gator Tillman is going to be killed by his daughter June. He knows it for a fact.
Sheâs staring up at him right now with that sleepy, wrinkled, barely-awake newborn face. Sheâs got that baby smell, like warm milk. And her black eyes, the ones that are just learning how to blink, are fixed on his.Â
Gator has black eyes. Heâs always hated his eyes. Theyâre too dark, like twin pits in his head, boring into other peopleâs faces, setting everyone on edge. And he gave them to his daughter. And they donât look so bad on her, as a matter of fact.
June blinks up at him, her face blank. Sheâs scrutinizing him, judging his reactionâ he can tell. Maybe she sees the softness in his face, the way heâs completely crumpled in front of her, and knows already what a loser he is for her.Â
But thatâs just how it is nowâ unavoidable. Gator Tillman is a loser. Heâs lost. He cares too much, loves too hard, has altogether too many things to lose, and so heâs been defeated in the game heâs been fighting his entire life. The love swarming in his chest is so huge, so unshakable, that he knows instantly this is what his dad always warned him against feelingâ devotion to the point of weakness. Loving something so much it could control youâ could kill you, just like the look in his daughterâs eyes is. And right now, holding June, heâs struggling to remember why he ever bothered to fight it in the first place.
âYou donât say much, do ya?â he asks her, the words quiet enough that his wife wonât hear him from the bedroom.Â
June blinks back. Doesnât so much as babble.Â
âGonna be an easy baby?â he asks her, bouncing her a little. âNo cryinâ all the time? Give your mama a little break?â
Another blink.Â
âYouâre quiet already,â he observes, jaw ticking. âI was always screaminâ as a baby. You must not be a Tillman after all.â
Juneâs mouth opens in a little O as she yawns widelyâ like his self-depreciation is somehow boring to her. She gets that from her mom.
âBet youâre gonna be the best baby there is,â he murmurs. âProbably gonna beat all the other kids by a mile.â He shifts on his aching feet, his gut twisting a little as his own words ring an old bell in his head. âAw, who am I fuckinâ kiddinâ?â he complains, blowing out a breath. âIâd be fine with it if you were the biggest loser on Earth.â
She stares back up at him, making no move to struggle against her swaddle, the pinning of her tiny arms.
âYou donât know much âa anything, do ya?â he realizes. She might have his eyes, but sheâs nothing like himâ doesnât have the capacity to be. Nothingâs learned or set in stone. Nothingâs infecting her the way it did him, passed down by each carrier of their last name, willed into being like it was a simple fact of who they were. Thereâs no evil in herâ no cruelty. No violence. Heâd see it in her eyes if there was. âThat makes two of us,â he huffs.
Slowly, he shifts the baby slightly in his arms so she can see around her, then turns in place. âChair,â he says, gesturing to the armchair thatâs become cemented as his in the time heâs owned this house with you. âCouch,â he tells her. âYou can have that seat if you want. Mom likes the left side.â
He goes on naming furniture like a lunatic, letting Juneâs eyes sweep over it, assessing. She must be smart, he thinks to himselfâ smart enough to already know whatâs happening around her, to look into her dadâs face and read him down the blackened core of who he is. Smart enough not to have gotten her brain from him.Â
He doesnât know what to do about any of it. He doesnât know what to do nowâ letting his baby girl judge him, going completely still under his stare, giving him that same look heâs so used toâ the one that says, well, kid, you better not fuck this one up. Better be good for her. Better figure it out before he inevitably mars the first perfect thing thatâs ever been put in his hands.Â
But his panic has faded, pushed back into some crevice of his chest. Heâs breathing June in, and that scent, the compact weight of that little bundle, is calming him completely. He stays like that for a long moment, his daughter inches from his face. She lets out a breath through her nose.
âAlright, fine,â he mumbles, softer than heâs ever said anything. âIâll be your dad.â
He wouldnât know the first thing about doing it right. When youâd told him you were pregnant in the first place, heâd barely made it through the hugging you and reassuring you and smiling like it felt like good news long enough to get you out of the roomâ just in time, âcause the second you were gone, heâd run to the bathroom and puked his guts up. And heâd spent the following nine months being out-of-his-mind terrified. And two days ago, watching you grip his hand as you bore down, heâd thought that maybe that anxiety attack bullshit you were always goinâ on about might be worth looking into.Â
But heâs not thinking about any of that right now. His daughter is in his arms. She weighed 6 pounds, 4 ounces when she came outâ so tiny. A fraction of what heâs been training himself for years to lift, and yet every time he holds her, sheâs pinning him down. Sheâs a fragile, delicate little thing. Sheâs the heaviest thing heâs ever carried.Â
And his breathing is even. And his throat has lost its tightness. And heâs staring back into her black eyes and promising himself silently that there isnât a minute of an hour of a day of the rest of his life that heâll waste not being the best father on the planet for her. He doesnât care what it takesâ promotions at the station or years of therapy or unravelling the screwed-up neurons in his brain one by one. Heâd die for her, easy. Heâd do it in a second. But heâd change for her, too. And thereâs no violence left in him except for the magnitude of what he feels in his chest for her.Â
Gator leans down and presses a gentle kiss to her cheek, fighting the sting in his eyes. âLove you, girlie.â
June blinks, as if satisfied by his words. And then her eyelids lower slowly, and she goes to sleep in his arms.
Itâs later and dark outside when the three of you start getting ready for bed.Â
June has been passed out since five oâclock, and you and Gator have been trading off holding her while she sleeps since then. Youâre already getting rather good at doing things one-handed, to your own pride.
But now, youâve been sitting in your bedroom for almost fifteen minutes, and you havenât seen Gator since he left to go set June in her crib in the nursery. Slowly, you ease off the bed and make your way down the hallway toward the room. The doorâs slightly ajar, the only light coming from the glowing nightlamp in the corner. You find Gator standing over the crib, his hands braced on the wood as he stares down at a sleeping June.Â
You come up behind him and wrap your arms around his middle, pulling him close to you. His hand moves to cover yours, but he doesnât break his stare.
âCome to bed,â you whisper.
He doesnât respond. When you peer over his shoulder, trying to glimpse his face, you realize his jaw is clenched tightly, his eyes soft. Like heâs torn between fierce protection and gentle care.
âSheâs not going anywhere,â you tell him quietly.Â
âI know,â he murmurs back.Â
You stay with him like that for a second, your fingers scratching lightly against his stomach.
âSheâs so little,â he finally admits, eyes locked onto Juneâs sleeping face.
You hum in reply, a smile pulling at your face. He says it like itâs shocking to himâ like itâs worrying him. Like he thinks if he looks away, that vulnerability thatâs always felt like a curse to him will rear up and bite him again, and all the good things in this nursery will disappear.Â
âNothingâs gonna happen to her, Gator,â you assure him, the words soft.
He shakes his head. âIt might.â
âThe monitorâs on,â You remind him. âWeâd hear her cry. You sleep light, anyway.â
âSomething might happen,â he repeats, firmer. The way heâs gripping the wood tells you just how terrified he is.Â
âYou built the crib,â you go on. âYou know how sturdy it is. And you set up the alarm system, too.â
He shakes his head again, unconvinced.
Your hands keep scratching at his abdomen, trying to calm him. âYou need to sleep, baby. Youâve been up for forever. Come to bed.â
âCanât.â
You keep holding him, understanding the paralysis thatâs keeping him poised hereâ the protecting hes telling himself he needs to do. Gator had told you once that heâd never felt like he owned muchâ never had much that was his alone. And the things he did possessâ the people he cared most for, his wife and his daughterâthose were to be held onto with an iron grip. Those were to be safeguarded at any cost; one that outweighed his own trauma and hurt and self-loathing. Thatâs who Gator wasâ iron-fisted. Iron-hearted.
You see it now, in the set of his shoulders, the breathing your daughter has seemed to inexplicably steady. The determination in his stark face turned gentle, turned diligent, filled by devotion.Â
âEverythingâs gonna be okay,â you promise him. âWeâre gonna be good, Gate.â
So many promises are wrapped up in those few words. Weâre gonna be safe. Weâre gonna do this right. Youâre gonna be the dad she needs you to be. You wonder if he hears it, or if itâs another of the sweet nothings you sometimes attempt to utter into the abyss his father carved into him.
But Gatorâs hand tightens over yours, and as he squeezes you back, he only says, âOkay.â
---
author's note: if you guys would let me know if there are errors in this that would be hella chill 'cause I do not have it in me to read this again right now
I cannot get over how absolutely beautifully written this is đ itâs such an incredible character study on gator while managing to sneak in some fluff and cuteness and growth too <3 there were SO many amazing scenes in this and Iâm in such awe of what a talented writer you are, zina!!!!!!!
im still thinking about that post you reblogged with the companion neighbour wifi usernames so if you're ever bored, a steve/mechanic drabble would water crops & feed families đđ„șđ
âč àŁȘ Ë pairing: steve harrington x f!reader
âč àŁȘ Ë wc: 2.0k
âč àŁȘ Ë contains: strangers to lovers trope, ...and they were neighbours, modern day!au, flirty and full of banter, snarky!r but steve's into it
âč àŁȘ Ë notes: thank you for the little drabble request! I always struggle with writing Steve but today I actually really wanted to, so this was vomited out in one sitting. here's a little treat for all you Steve girlies out there <3 Based on this post.
series masterlist.
The first thing you buy for the new apartment is earplugs.
Not a kettle. Not curtains like most sane people. Earplugs.
Because the guy in 203 has apparently decided his sole purpose on this earth is to single-handedly keep Spotifyâs 2010s Party Bangers playlist alive. The walls are annoyingly thin here. Like, paper-thin. Like, you-can-hear-the-Spotify-ad-about-premium-thin. Somewhere through the drywall, a crowd whoops as the bass drops for the third time in under twenty minutes, and you stare at the half-unpacked boxes in your living room and grind your teeth.
You moved here for the cheap rent, not the nightly club experience.
Your laptop pings as it finally connects to the buildingâs spaghetti-wiring of routers. You open the Wi-Fi list and squint at them for a moment.
xfinity-83J4
PATEL_2G
FBI-SURVEILLANCE-VAN (sure)
HARRINGTON-5G
You click HARRINGTON-5G because the signal is obnoxiously strong, then remember you donât have the password and click your own instead. The old router the landlord left gives a half-hearted wheeze and flashes its lights at you. You hover over the SSID settings, considering your options as the music thrums at an obnoxiously loud volume.
The bass thuds through the wall again, and someone yells, âCHUG, HARRINGTON, CHUG!â
Through clenched teeth, you rename your network: APT203ULoudAsFuck.
You hit save with a nasty little smile, imagining Party Boy Harrington, your new neighbour, opening his laptop tomorrow, looking for Wi-Fi, and seeing that.
Petty? Yes. Satisfying? Also yes.
. . .
You meet him the next morning in the hallway.
Youâre locking up, coveralls rolled to your calves, grease under your nails because you were up at six fixing the misfiring cylinder in your truck. He is⊠the opposite of you.
Grey sweatpants, old college hoodie hanging off broad shoulders, hair fluffed up in that artfully messy way that has to be deliberate. Heâs juggling two trash bags and an empty pizza box, and there are faint purple shadows under his eyes that say he did, in fact, CHUG, HARRINGTON, CHUG last night. He stops when he sees you. Gives you the once-overâboots, coveralls, the wrench sticking out of your back pocketâthen glances past you at your door number.
âMorning,â he calls out, voice still rough with sleep. âYou, uh⊠new?â
âWow,â you deadpan. âHowâd you guess?â
He blinks. A quick huff of a laugh escapes, like you caught him off-guard. âWell, I donât recognise you, and Iâm a very observant guy.â
âYeah,â you hum. âI noticed. I can recognise your entire playlist through the wall.â
His mouth does an awkward little twist. âThat bad, huh?â
âLetâs just say if I never hear Pitbull say âDaleâ again, itâll be too soon.â
He winces. âOkay, in my defence, I did not make the playlist. But, uh.â He shifts the trash bags to one hand and offers the other. âSteve. 203.â
Of course heâs Steve from 203.
You look at his hand, then at his face. Heâs unfairly pretty in a boy-next-door, toothpaste-commercial wayâwarm brown eyes, lashes better than yours, a jaw you could probably cut sheet metal on. The kind of guy high school you wouldâve avoided on principle. You wipe your palm on your coveralls, purely to be annoying, then shake his hand firmly. âMechanic. 204.â
His brows jump. âWait. Mechanic as inâŠ?â
You tap the name patch stitched over your chest. The garage logo is fraying at the edges. âAs in my actual job. Itâs not a kink thing.â
Colour rises in his cheeks; you donât know if itâs from embarrassment or because his brain very briefly went there. âDidnât say it was.â
âYou thought it,â you shoot back knowingly. âI could hear it rattling around in your skull.â
His mouth drops open, outrage mixing with that reluctant interest youâve seen on guysâ faces your whole life when they realise the girl theyâre talking to is both competent and deeply unimpressed by them.
âYouâre kinda rude for this early,â he notes, brows still high.
âYouâre kinda loud for this early,â you shoot back, stepping around him toward the stairs. âThin walls. Maybe keep that in mind next time you decide to host the World Cup in your living room.â
Behind you, Steve calls, âIt was just a few friends!â
âYou have bad friends,â you yell back.
You hear him laugh behind you. You hate to admit it, but itâs a rather nice sound.Â
. . .
That night, the Wi-Fi list looks different. You open your laptop, intent on drowning in emails and invoices, and see it immediately.
APT203ULoudAsFuck
Underneath it, new:
Apt???SayItToMyFace#203
You stare. Then you start to laugh, helpless and startled, dropping your forehead to the edge of the table.
âUnbelievable,â you mutter, but youâre still smiling when you connect to your own network.
He mustâve seen it. Mustâve put two and two togetherânew neighbour, mechanic, attitude problemâand changed his SSID just to spit back.
Say it to my face.
You absolutely will.
You just have to catch him when heâs not surrounded by half the city.
. . .
You donât have to wait long.
Two days later, youâre in the buildingâs sad excuse for a laundry room, wedged between humming machines that look older than both of you combined. Youâve got a socket wrench in one hand and the guts of your washing machine in the other; the landlord said, âItâs been making a weird noiseâ, like you haven't spend your entire life coaxing broken machinery back from the dead.
The door creaks behind you. You glance up absently, still half focused on your task.
Steve freezes in the doorway, laundry basket crooked on his hip. âWow,â he says. âYou really canât turn it off, huh?â
You raise an eyebrow. âWhat, basic problem-solving skills?â
He steps in, letting the door swing shut behind him. Boxes of detergent and fabric softener shake on their shelf as the machines thud through a spin cycle. The air smells like synthetic lavender and damp concrete, humidity clinging to the walls whenever you inhale.
âAnd the attitude,â he mutters. âDonât forget the attitude.â
You go back to checking the belt tension. âTrust me, if you were less annoying, Iâd be a delight.â
He laughs softly, sets the basket down on the nearest machine. Heâs in jeans and a worn white t-shirt this time, hair damp like he just showered. Thereâs a fading bruise at his collarbone, the kind that looks suspiciously like teeth.
You ignore it.
Mostly.
âSo,â he hedges, a terrible attempt at sounding casual. âYou, uh, see any good Wi-Fi names lately?â
You donât look up. âCanât imagine what you mean.â
âOh, câmon.â You can hear the grin. âAPT203ULoudAsFuck? I respect the commitment.â
âThat wasnât about you,â you drawl, still not looking up. âMaybe thereâs another 203 in the building, did you think of that?â
Steveâs hand appears in your peripheral vision, offering a small, silver screw you hadnât realised youâd dropped. âYeah? âCause my router sure thought it was about me.â
You take it, fingers brushing his. His skin is warm, calloused at the pads in a way that surprises you; he doesnât look like the type to use his hands for anything other than using a comb. Thereâs a faint grease smudge on the side of his thumb; youâre ninety percent sure itâs yours.
âMaybe my network just has strong opinions,â you tell him. âYou canât censor her. Sheâs a free spirit.â
He leans against the machine opposite you, arms folding over his chest, watching you work. âShe?â
âMy routerâs called Judith,â you explain, tightening the last bolt. âSheâs temperamental and occasionally bursts into flames.â
âIâm starting to understand your friendship circle,â he jokes.
You sit back on your heels, flick the machineâs side panel closed, and hit the start button. The washer whirs, then roars back to life, no more grinding. Satisfied, you wipe your hands on a rag and finally look at him. Heâs already looking at you. Not the polite oh cool you fixed it look you get from customers, either. Itâs more assessing. Intrigued. Like heâs trying to figure out which box to put you in and realising none of the usual ones fit.
âYouâre good at that,â he states, but doesnât sound patronising or surprised about it, just mildly thoughtful. âThe⊠fixing things.â
âYeah, well,â you say. âSomeone has to keep this place standing when the landlordâs solution is slapping duct tape on structural problems.â
His mouth quirks. âYou talk about everything like itâs a busted machine.â
âMaybe because most things are,â you shoot back. âPeople, too.â
âWow.â Steve whistles. âThatâs bleak.â
You shrug.Â
He tilts his head. âSo what am I? Cracked spark plug? Blown head gasket?â
âOverheated engine,â you say without missing a beat. âAll noise, very little actual power. Needs constant cooling so it doesnât explode.â
He blinks, then laughs, bright and disbelieving, a raspy sound you hate to admit is very pleasant. âYouâve known me, like, three days.â
âThatâs all it takes,â you inform him gravely, matching the slight smile he wears on his face. âYouâre loud. You throw parties on a Tuesday. Your Wi-Fi name is a cry for help.â
âHey.â He presses a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. âApt???SayItToMyFace#203 is an iconic clapback.â
âItâs a crime,â you inform him bluntly. âThere are too many question marks. Itâs all desperation.â
He grins, and thereâs something a little sharper at the edges now, something that says heâs enjoying this more than heâd admit. âMaybe I wanted to make sure you saw it.â
âCongratulations,â you say dryly. âConsider me deeply, profoundly, spiritually seen.â
Steveâs eyes skip briefly to your mouth, then away, like he didnât mean to let them. âYou ever do anything without a joke attached?â
âYou ever do anything without an audience?â you fire back. âEvery time I walk past your door, thereâs at least three people in there.â
âMaybe I like people.â
âMaybe you don't like being alone.â
You see the tiny tightening at the corners of his eyes, the way his fingers drum once against the washing machine, then stop. Those words, clearly, have hit a nerve. The room hums around you, all noise and rattling metal. The washer shakes beneath you, the boring, steady rhythm of it filling the silence.
âYou really donât pull punches, do you?â he says finally.
âYou asked,â you point out. âYou want compliments, talk to your groupies. Iâm busy.â
âBusy fixing Judith,â he quips helpfully.
A tiny grin twitches your mouth. âExactly.â
He watches you for a long moment, something new in his gaze. Less lazy amusement, more⊠focus. You can feel the weight of it along your skin, a slow slide like heâs cataloguing every sharp edge and deciding not to look away.
âYou know,â he says, softer, âyouâre kind of annoying.â
The funny part is, it doesnât sound like an insult. Not really.
You smirk. âGood. Now you know how it feels.â
Steve shakes his head, that small, disbelieving laugh again. âIf I turn the music down,â he poses curiously, âam I allowed to keep the Wi-Fi name?â
âYou can keep it,â you reply. âBut just so you know, Judithâs already working on her response.â
âOh yeah?â He leans in, entirely too close for someone you met over trash bags and passive-aggressive SSIDs. âWhatâs she thinking?â
You consider himâthe stupidly pretty face, the earnest eyes, the way he keeps stepping closer even as you keep giving him verbal paper cuts.
âDonât worry about it,â you say, hopping off the machine and grabbing your tool bag. âYouâll see it next time you open your laptop.â
You brush past him, shoulder catching the warm line of his arm. Itâs deliberate. So is the way you donât look back.
Behind you, you hear him exhale, low and a little exasperated. âYouâre gonna drive me crazy, you know that?â
âGet in line, Harrington,â you shout back, pushing the door open with your hip.
By the time youâre back in your apartment, Judithâs network is already renamed.
TurnItDownPrettyBoy_203
You grin at the screen, imagine him seeing it, imagine his hand flexing in his hair in that frustrated way.
On the other side of the wall, the bass clicks on, then drops to a much more reasonable volume.
