Steve Harrington x fem!reader who has suffered a head injury [1.9k words]
summary: Of course Steve leaves you under Robin’s supervision for maybe twenty-seven-and-a-half minutes only for you to wake up after suffering a head injury unable to recall that you’re dating the biggest dingus from high school in your severely concussed state.
CW: hospital fic, brief mention of a fall and injury, Robin's POV so it's a little spirally, mostly fluff
Robin honest to God feels really, really bad and wishes she could take back her internal moaning and groaning about how she wished you would just wake up already and save her from this boredom because this is much, much worse.
Really, she should have just relaxed and been grateful that you’re still kicking it at all; head injuries are no joke. Still, unconscious people make terrible company.
But now she wishes she was merely bored again.
You see, a good friend – an average friend, even – might’ve responded to you waking up for the first time in over fifteen hours after suffering a head injury by saying things like oh, thank god you’re awake! Or, are you okay? How are you feeling? Do you want some water? Let me go get a nurse.
But maybe Robin isn’t a good friend because her immediate response to the sound of you shifting in your bed before blinking blearily up at her is “oh my god, thank god you’re awake. I’m so bored. Also, Max said something really funny to Mike earlier and I’ve been dying to tell you.”
You blink at her – not unlike a frog, if she’s being completely honest, one eye closing before the other – with furrowed brows before your eyes flit towards the stark whiteness of your surroundings.
“Hospital.” She explains at your confused expression. “You fell. Big time. We thought you were dead at first. Steve was hysterical and wouldn’t let anyone touch you until Nancy called an ambulance. He’s going to be so pissed that you woke up while he was gone.” Robin recounts with a nervous chuckle. You really did scare the shit out of her; out of all of them.
“Steve?”
Robin misinterprets the confusion in your tone as she shifts her chair closer to you. “Yeah, he’s been here the whole time; the nurses were not impressed, but he wouldn’t leave. Dustin finally managed to convince him to leave long enough to shower and change at least. We had to tell him he was starting to smell bad. He didn’t, mind you, but don’t tell him that.”
You blink at her again, this one less amphibian in nature. “Steve?”
“Yes…Steve,” she parrots, wondering how long the two of you might sit here volleying the man's name back and forth.
“As in Harrington?”
“No, as in Steve Guttenburg from Police Academy,” she deadpans. “Yes, Steve Harrington.”
“Why on Earth would Steve Harrington care if I was in the hospital?” And Robin can’t even take the time to be proud of you for getting all of those words out together in a row when reality crashes down on her.
Now, Robin will admit that it’s a little shameful how long it takes her to realize something isn’t quite right. She probably could have – should have – assumed, seeing as you are currently laying in a hospital bed; nothing is quite right about a person hooked up to a heart monitor.
Of course, of course Steve leaves you under Robin’s supervision for maybe twenty-seven-and-a-half minutes only for you to wake up in your severely concussed state unable to recall that you’re dating the biggest dingus from high school, and have been for a while.
Why did Robin insist Steve leave? Why would she tell him she could handle this? Why does anyone ever trust her with anything ever?
Fortunately, she’s saved from needing to find answers to those burning questions at Dustin and Steve’s return. Unfortunately, she has no time to answer your burning question (or warn a certain Steve of the current predicament) either.
“The coconut ruins it,” Robin hears Steve argue with his mouth full as the two boys materialize in the doorway, both too wrapped up in whatever argument they’re having to see the two occupants staring at them in bemusement and horror.
“The coconut rui- the coconut ruins it!? Steve, the bar is coconut. Coconut is the fundamental component of it,” Dustin sputters.
“I just think it’d be better if it was, like, peanut butter or something.”
Dustin scoffs incredulously. “Then you buy Reese’s or a Bopper! Why would you buy an Almond Joy if you don’t like coconut?”
“I didn’t say I don’t like coconut,” Steve argues, looking at the teen as though he was an idiot. “I just meant it would be better if it wasn’t coconut.”
“You’re insane.”
Robin’s inclined to agree.
She clears her throat. “Hey, so-”
“Whoa! Look who’s up!” Dustin interrupts with a smile, Steve’s head whipping to the side to see you staring at them with wide eyes.
“Whoa, hey! Hey, hey hey hey, wow. Holy shit, hi baby. How long have you been up?”
“Uh, not long,” Robin interjects, voice steadily rising in both volume and pitch. “Listen, we-”
“How are you feeling?” Steve continues as he abandons his coconut monstrosity on a rolling table and makes for your bedside, ignoring Robin and the pointed looks she’s shooting at him. “Are you hurting? Are you thirsty?”
You go to respond but Robin beats you to it. “Steve, I-”
“Have you had any water yet? Robin, where’s her water?” Steve continues, fussing with the blankets that have been untucked from your legs as his eyes flit around the room for the bottle of water he’d set aside for when you needed it. “Why haven’t you given her water yet?”
“We haven’t exactly had time, Steve. Listen-”
“Have you called the nurse?” Steve asks, shaking his head before even waiting for a response. “Dustin, go get a nurse.”
Dustin doesn’t hesitate before he’s jogging out of the room in search of a nurse.
“What’s Robin doin’ to ya, huh?” Steve coos at you as he perches on the edge of your bed and presses a careful kiss to your temple, flagrantly ignoring the way Robin is frantically waving at him and mentally screaming Earth to dingus!! “She’s got terrible bedside manners, can’t even take care of my girl properly.”
You turn your horrified gaze to Robin as though you dating Steve the Hair Harrington is somehow her fault (it is a little bit; she’s the one who re-introduced you two, insisting he was a changed man since high school).
“Steve!” Robin finally shrieks, missing the way you wince at the volume as Steve turns to look at her like she’s grown three heads.
“Well, it’s true! You didn’t even get her water, never flagged a nurse-”
“We didn’t exactly have a lot of time before you two showed up,” Robin counters as Dustin returns.
“The nurses are just doing a shift change, said someone will be with her shortly.” Dustin reports as he hands Steve a new, cold bottle of water for you.
“Okay, alright. That’s alright, yeah?” Steve confirms with you as he cracks it open. “Are you in pain? If you’re in pain, I can go tell them you need help now.”
Robin watches as you take stock of yourself before side-eyeing her. “I…don’t think so.”
“You don’t think you’re in any pain?” Steve asks gently, bending over slightly in an attempt to regain your attention. Robin finds her heart squeezing at how soft he’s being with you.
Your heart seems to do the same, eyes flooding with tears as all three occupants in the room tense at the sight.
“Hey, hey hey hey, what’s the matter, huh? What’s with the tears?”
Robin stands. “Steve, I really-”
“Are you in pain? What hurts?”
“Steve-”
“What, Robin?” Steve finally snaps, turning towards her like she’s a fly that finally landed on a lampshade after spending the entire afternoon bothering the shit out of him.
“She woke up a little…” Robin pauses, looking towards your teary form as she considers how to explain this gently, “confused.”
“Confused?” Steve parrots before turning back to you. “Confused how?”
“Confused as in she didn’t understand why Steve Harrington has been haunting her hospital room.”
Steve’s brows furrow as he considers you before realization dawns on his face.
The sound that escapes you in response borders a sob. Robin feels a little bit like doing the same.
“Don’t cry, honey,” Steve all but begs as he scooches closer towards you on the bed, one hand grasping yours and leaning his weight on the other as he rests it against the bed by your opposite hip. “Hey, did Robin tell you about the wicked burn Max delivered to Mike earlier?”
Dustin perks up. “Oh man, he got so red; worse when El started repeating it afterwards.”
“Mike accused Max of purposefully turning El against him.” Steve agrees.
“Again. Hey, when they get here, make sure to call Mike a-”
“I don’t want anyone else in here,” you interrupt Dustin quickly, wiping roughly at your face with the hand not currently occupied by Steve’s. “I don’t- it’s…they’re too loud.”
Robin laughs. “Yeah, they are too loud. You comin’ around?”
You suck in a deep, shuddering breath and let out a noncommittal hum in response.
“Okay, no one else will come in here,” Steve agrees, gaze locked onto your face as he rubs his thumb along the back of your knuckles, cautious of the IV taped to the back of your hand. “Do you want any of us to leave?”
The question is innocent enough, though Robin knows he’s mostly asking you if you’d like him to leave.
You shake your head no, though, and give his hand a gentle squeeze.
“Okay,” he whispers, leaning forward to press another kiss to your head and humming at you in question when you lift your chin, obviously asking for a real one.
Steve hesitates, clearly concerned he’s not reading your queues right and wondering if you’re feeling at all more cognizant. Apparently, though, rushing your unconscious girlfriend to the hospital and being without kisses for nearly sixteen hours makes a man a little desperate, finding him ultimately pressing a cautious kiss to your lips anyways.
“You’re okay, hm?” Steve murmurs into the corner of your mouth, dotting a few more kisses to your face before sitting up. “Scared the shit out of me.”
“M’sorry,” your whisper back.
“Yeah, you should be. He’s been insufferable,” Dustin comments, earning him a glare from Steve and a half-smile from you.
“Yeah, yeah. Okay, that’s enough out of you, wise guy. What the hell are you two still doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you guys go alert the others that she’s awake?”
“Alright, dingus. Say less,” Robin sighs as she stands, Dustin playfully muttering about how he knows when he’s not wanted.
You pay them no mind, looking up at Steve shyly; it reminds Robin of when the two of you first started hanging out. Awkward, tentative, careful. Steve looks like he’s shielding you from the entire world with the way he’s leaning over your form, you’re looking at him like he might disappear if you blink for too long.
The two of you are disgusting; she loves you both so much.
Robin pauses at the door to take one last look at two of her favourite people, you bite your lip as you ask Steve a question that Robin can’t hear, he chuckles before replying, a little louder, “’course, sweetheart. You can have as many kisses as you want.”
ex!Steve Harrington x fem!reader who asks for him in the hospital [1.9k words]
part 1 -> part 2
summary: Steve has been operating on autopilot since the wake of your relationship ending, pretending that the ghost of what could've been doesn't haunt his every step. But when Robin calls saying you're in the hospital and asking for him, he doesn't even pretend to hesitate. Being wanted — however briefly — hurts worse than he thought it would.
CW: hospital fic, exes, disgusting amount of yearning and pet names, hurt, hurt/comfort
“Again, I’m really sorry, Steve,” Robin hisses, barely managing to keep up with Steve even though she’s the one technically leading him through the hospital corridors.
“Yeah, you said,” he mutters, not unhappy with her, not unhappy with you even, just…unhappy.
“She really is just kind of inconsolable and nothing we did would help and the doctors said it could last days and we-”
“Robin.”
“Yeah?”
Steve sighs and tries to put on his most composed voice. “Can you just show me to her room, please?”
Robin’s expression pinches as though she’s the one with a painful migraine brewing. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Sorry, she’s in three-oh-seven, just up ahead.”
“Thank you,” he imparts with a whisper before hurrying towards your hospital room.
It was one of those quiet evenings where no one needed anything (rare), and Steve had nowhere to go (quite common), which meant it was going to be spent vertically. Or, sort of crumpled up like a tin can and staying in whatever position he landed on the couch in.
He cursed his father once again for the need to flash his proverbial dick in the form of a cordless home phone (and then himself for leaving the cordless phone within reach) when his apathetic marathon of The A-Team was interrupted by it.
Steve barely rose from his position to swipe it off the coffee table, if only just to stop the horribly grating ringing. “Harrington residence.”
“Oh, thank God,” Robin breathed on the other end of the line, “Steve, can you come to the hospital?”
Steve sat up from his crumpled up position on the couch. “What?”
“The hospital,” Robin simply repeated. “Can you come?”
“Why?” Steve asked, though he was already standing and heading to grab his car keys.
“It’s Y/N.”
Steve swore as he caught the receiver before it hit the ground, returning it to his ear and leaning against the stair railing for support.
“Y/N?”
“She needed emergency surgery-”
“Surgery?”
“Yeah, her appendix. She called me ‘cause she didn’t feel well yesterday-”
Steve ignored the way that not knowing you were sick yesterday caused an organ somewhere near his own appendix to spasm painfully. “Is she okay?”
“She’s…yeah, yes. Well, I mean, sort of? She-”
“Robin.”
“She’s like, mostly okay. Pretty much okay. It’s just, well, she’s very upset and even more confused and she’s…she’s asking for you.”
Robin let that sit in the air, Steve allowed it to settle around him like dust.
“She’s asking for me?”
The sound of her sigh felt like it could blow him over in that moment. “She’s a little hysterical. Doctors say that memory loss is common when coming off of anesthesia, so I don’t think she really remembers that the two of you, you know…broke up? But the doctors also said it could last anywhere from a few hours to a few days. We’ve tried everything we can think of to calm her down and she won’t. She’s making herself sick looking for you and-”
“I’m on my way,” Steve told her simply as he grabbed his jacket. “Tell her I’m on my way.”
“Thank you, Steve,” she breathed, equal parts relieved and contrite. “I’m really sorry, by the way.”
“Yeah,” Steve sighed. “Don’t be.”
And so Steve shows up, like he always does. Upset that he didn’t know you had fallen unwell, mad that he wasn’t there to drive you to the hospital, angry that he wasn’t here when you woke up.
Devastated because he has no right to know, no right to drive you anywhere, no right to be here. He has no right to feel any which way about it, but he does.
“Robin said he’s on his way. He’s gonna be here soon.” Steve hears Vicky’s soothing tones before he sees her.
He rounds the corner to find the candy striper hovering over your bedside, holding your wrists down on either side of you in a way that could be either restricting or placating. Steve will soon find out that it is both.
“Hey,” he calls out awkwardly, clearing his throat when his voice catches. Both of you turn to look at him with wide eyes; Vicky’s in relief, yours in desperation.
“Hey, look who I found,” Robin announces from behind him, shooting Vicky a commiserating look of discomfort over his shoulder.
“Steve?”
You sound so small, so vulnerable, that Steve has to breathe around the ache in his chest as he takes cautious steps towards your bedside.
“Hi, baby,” he murmurs, the pet name slipping out like muscle memory and further splintering Steve’s already spiderwebbed heart. He can’t bring himself to regret it though when a relieved, breathy sob leaves you. “What happened, huh? What’s going on?”
You sob again, leaning towards him even while restrained. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Steve takes each of your hands from Vicky and perches himself on the edge of your bed. “Did you have surgery?”
Your head relaxes onto the pillow and you look at the ceiling as you suck in a shuddering breath. “I think so.”
Steve hums in agreement. “Robin told me you weren’t feeling very well.”
Your eyes squeeze shut and twin streams of tears cascade down your cheeks. Steve relinquishes your hands in order to cup your cheeks and catch them before they reach your jaw; an impossible feat. “You didn’t feel very well, hm?”
You hum in the negative.
“Do you feel better now?”
“Not so much,” you tell him, pathetically miserable as Steve makes it his full-time job of brushing his thumbs across your cheeks like miniature windshield wipers for tears.
“Does anything hurt, Y/N?” Vicky interjects then, and Steve stamps down any frustration at his fragile, stolen moment with you being impeded on, no matter how well-intentioned.
“I don’t want this,” you all but spit, suddenly sort of ferocious despite your despair and elbowing Steve in the ribs.
He thinks you mean him.
Vicky knows quite well that you don’t, immediately hissing your name and making her way back over. “No, no. You- hey, we talked about this. You cannot pull that out; you have to leave it.”
Steve watches as Vicky pins the hand of yours that was attempting to rip out your IV to the bed, only for your opposite hand to reach up to the oxygen tubes lining your face.
“Hey, you have to leave those too.”
“Steve,” Robin whines from the edge of the room. He snaps into action.
“Hey hey hey, enough of that, yeah? What’d Vicky say?”
You’re unhappy about it but you let Steve pull your hand away from your face regardless.
“You have to breathe, honey. Relax,”
“I can’t,” you wail.
“Okay, well that’s what the tubes are for, alright?” he explains, taking your other hand away from Vicky and trying not to glare at her for ever having it to begin with. “They’re gonna help you breathe and relax, but you gotta let ‘em.”
“I can’t,” you whisper woefully, eyes magnified on account of the tears pooling along your waterline and lips pursed into a pitiful pout. You look so sad and still so lovely, Steve’s heart splinters again.
“You can, baby. I know you can. I’ll help, okay?”
You close your eyes in defeat, tears falling again but Steve doesn’t let go of your hands now that he knows where they’re bound to go if he does.
“You okay?” Robin murmurs from the other end of the room; you don’t bother responding as if you know just as well as he does that you’re not the one she’s asking.
Steve looks over his shoulder. “Can you get us some water? Maybe juice?”
Robin quickly vanishes, but Vicky lingers in the doorway. “I’ll be just outside if you need anything, Steve.”
Steve nods at her, thankful for her support and eager for her absence as she steps out of the room.
The two of you are left with the sound of the oxygen, the gentle drip of whatever pain medication they have you on, and the general humming of the hospital.
“You okay?” Steve asks eventually, no more than a whisper.
“Steve?”
Okay, well, we’ll just ignore Steve’s question then. “Yeah?”
“Do you hate me?”
Another splinter in Steve’s sternum. “No, sweetheart.”
Your eyes crack open. “Are you mad at me?”
Steve shakes his head no. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“Because you weren’t here.” The end of your sentence peters out into another sob.
Steve’s been carrying a heavy grief around since the two of you broke up, but you not remembering that the two of you broke up is a special sort of torture Steve’s not sure he can withstand. “I’m sorry, baby. I…I didn’t know you’d want me here.”
You let out a heavy sigh. “I‘lways want you here.”
Steve’s not sure he heard you right; is quite sure he didn’t hear you right. Isn’t sure he can stand to hear you repeat it. But he asks anyway.
“What’s that?”
“I always want you here.”
It’s a good thing Steve’s in a hospital, because the remaining shards of his heart have finally fallen from their ribcage prison and punctured every vital organ in his torso. Time stills as his bones turn to lead and his muscles to stone and you simply blink at him.
“I’m here, honey.”
You relax minutely, though wary when you ask, “Will you stay?”
Steve will probably have a fight a nurse or two, or maybe convince Vicky to find him one of those pinstriped dresses, but if you want him here then he won't leave this hospital room until you do.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asks, transferring both of your hands into one of his so he can wipe away a wayward tear from your chin. You nod at him immediately. “Okay.”
The two of you simply watch each other, and Steve wonders what you’re thinking about as he tries to figure out where he went wrong, how he could have lost you, how he can bear to walk out of this hospital once you remember the two of you haven’t spoken in weeks.
He’s not sure how much time has passed before your blinks start to grow heavy.
“Go to sleep, babe,” he murmurs around a lump in his throat, preemptively grieving the fact that you won’t remember why he’s here – or rather, you’ll remember all of the reasons why he shouldn’t be – when you wake up next. “You’ll feel better once you wake up.”
Your eyes widen as though you didn’t realize you were drifting, fighting the inevitable as though you know the risk that comes with sleep too. But your head is heavy on the pillow and your hands melt into Steve’s grip. “Will you still be here when I wake up?”
It’s probably the cruelest thing you’ve ever said to Steve, and he finds himself wanting to thank you for it.
“Yeah, honey," he promises. “I’ll still be here.”
He presses an indulgent kiss to your forehead and hopes beyond measure that you’ll still mean it when you wake up; that you’ll still want him here once the anesthesia wears off.
Steve Harrington x drunk!reader who asks her boyfriend to be her boyfriend [1.1k words]
CW: fem!reader, drinking and slight drunkeness, mentions underaged drinking [the teens] but with adult supervision, fluff
It’s that point of the night where the drunken shenanigans have tapered off into something more dulcet, almost intimate.
Most of the kids’ Hellfire buddies have left, leaving only The Party in their wake.
Steve doesn’t drink anymore, at least not enough to get drunk. He’ll have a beer when the moment calls for it, but too many blows to the head and his proclivity for migraines leaves him avoiding losing control of his faculties. Plus, he likes being able to look after the bunch of you when you all take a well deserved moment to let loose.
Maybe he’s a bad babysitter for letting the teenagers drink, but what Steve Harrington is not is a hypocrite, and God only knows that he’s not innocent of underage drinking. Besides, he prefers they drink here, in front of him, in a controlled environment where he can watch after them and make sure they don’t overindulge.
As it is, they’re good kids. None of them are drunk enough to act a fool or embarrass themselves. Protecting their frontal lobes, as Dustin so eloquently put it (Steve wishes he’d been smart enough to do the same at their age), merely tipsy and effervescent in their own ways.
El has passed out with her head in Robin’s lap, the older girl gently stroking El’s hair not unlike one might pet a cat while she’s engaged in some lively debate with Dustin about…well, Steve’s not entirely sure; he hasn’t been paying much attention. Lucas snuck off with Max a little while ago after receiving a very stern glare from Steve that promised pain if the shit-head didn’t keep everything above board, leaving Will and Mike to sit together with their heads bowed as they discuss their current campaign.
And then there’s you.
Steve spent most of the early evening keeping the strictest of eyes on you and Robin; he may not have protected his frontal lobe while it was developing, but he knows better than to leave the two of you unsupervised for an extended period of time, even more so when there’s alcohol involved.
But as the night drags on, you’ve gone soft and pliant in your seat beside him, leaning heavily into his side as you play with his hand that you’ve trapped within your grip. You’re so still, so calm, that the only reason he knows you’re still awake is by the way your fingers trace the creases of his one hand while he nurses a warm, nearly flat beer with his other.
He’s about to ask you how you’re feeling, if you need anything, if you’re almost ready to leave, when you – his sweet, lovely girlfriend – ask him a question.
“Steve?”
Your head never strays from his shoulder, as though lifting your head is an impossible feat, to peek up at him through your lashes only to find him already looking down at you.
“Yeah?”
“I was wondering if you’d please be my boyfriend,” you continue, very polite in your request.
A funny smile takes over Steve’s face as he tries not to laugh at you lest the night devolve into wounded tears. He’s been your boyfriend for almost two years now.
“You’d like me to be your boyfriend?” He clarifies, earning him a hum of agreement from you.
He squints and purses his lips, pretending to consider it. “Well, I don’t know…what would I get out of it?”
And, God love you, you actually take a minute to consider that. What could Steve Harrington possibly get out of being the sweetest, prettiest, funniest, loveliest girl’s boyfriend?
Beats me, he thinks sarcastically, happier than he’s ever been with you hanging off his arm.
You’ve turned your attention back to his hand, manipulating his fingers and wrist this way and that way though your grip never grows mean. In fact, you’re impossibly gentle with him, so tender that he feels it like a solid weight in his chest. Whatever response you manage to come up with, you mutter it at his hand.
“Hm? What’s that?” Steve encourages, nudging you with his elbow which sees you craning your neck to lay your head back against the couch; he thinks it might almost be time to get you home to bed.
“I d’know what you’d get,” you admit with a sigh, blinks heavy as though your lashes hold a new weight. “Just thought it’d be nice to do this more.”
“Do what?” Steve asks, thoroughly delighted. “Do this?”
You hum in agreement when he squeezes your hand. “It’s nice to cuddle, isn’t it?”
“The nicest,” he agrees. “Do I not cuddle you enough, sweetheart? Is that what all this is about?”
Your answering hum is noncommittal at best, wary at worst. Steve hates the thought that he’s somehow left you wanting, though he already fields insults from Robin who calls him a velcro-boyfriend. He’s not sure how much cuddlier he can get, but he can try.
“S’just that I think you’d be a very good boyfriend.”
Well, isn’t that just the best compliment a boyfriend could get. “Yeah? Thank you, baby. I’d love to be your boyfriend.”
Your grin is a sticky, gooey thing; drawn out and intentional as you peek up at him again. Between the speed (or lack thereof) of your blinks and your smile, Steve isn’t expecting the surge of movement that finds you clumsily clamoring into his lap.
He quickly abandons his room-temp beer, freeing his hand to provide you the leverage needed to maneuver yourself while the other settles over his lap, protecting his crotch from any errant elbows or knees.
“Jesus, easy, easy; watch the goods,” he hisses as you settle heavily on top of him, eliciting a breathless oof from the both of you. “Better?”
“Th’best,” you hum in appreciation, nuzzling your cheek into his shoulder and reclaiming the same hand of his you’d been fiddling with before, tracing the creases in his palm.
Steve grins, looking up to find Robin smirking at him from across the room with a knowing look on her face.
He shrugs his shoulders and gestures towards you, making a face as though saying can you believe this girl?
Robin mouths something that looks an awful lot like velcro. Steve flips her off with the hand behind your back; you remain none the wiser to anything that isn’t Steve’s love line.
how do we feel about the idea of Az being super touch averse (esp after being kept alone in the dark his whole childhood and his hands burned by his so called family/half brothers) UNTIL he meets his mate? I feel like she would absolutely respect his boundaries but he’s so touch starved and he loves her sm that he talks to her about starting with small touches and working their way up and then they eventually get to the point that she can touch him wherever and however she wants and she’s always so affectionate and loving and just pours all her adoration for him into every touch and he just smiles like a dork every time. But the first time the IC see her all over him they tense and wait for him to tell her off but he just leans into it and kisses her
loved this idea! i so agree re: him not loving touch/knowing how to accept it or initiate it. i wasn't gonna post this because by the time it was done it felt like it fell flat, but decided to post it anyway; apologies if it didn't hit the way you wanted it to!
Azriel x mate!reader who brings out a different side of him [1.5k words]
CW: fem!reader, dirty jokes, references to sex but SFW, fluff
Feyre hasn’t known Azriel for as long as most of the Inner Circle, and most of what she knows about the notoriously private male comes from the stories shared with her from his family.
But there is one thing Feyre has come to know about the Shadowsinger that no one needed to inform her about.
Azriel has a clear aversion to touch.
For someone whose job can be so physical, he keeps physical contact to an absolute minimum.
Greeting new people usually comes with his gloved hands folded behind his back and a gentle nod, his wings are always tucked tight and elbows kept close to his sides so as not to brush elbows with anyone. Even his brothers—centuries spent in close proximity to one another—seem to know precisely when they can push it, and when they ought to steer clear.
The closest thing she’s ever gotten to a hug from the male was the gentle brush of his shoulder against hers in thanks during a gift exchange last Solstice; she had known him for years at that point.
Nesta—the nosey busybody—once asked Cassian how that (being Azriel’s aversion to touch) works when he used to come home smelling like a female in the mornings following a night at Rita’s.
Rhysand and Cassian shared a knowing look before Cassian mumbled something about Az “running a tight ship” and then offered absolutely no follow up information (not for a lack of trying on Nesta’s part).
So, it’s safe to say that none of them knew what to expect—how to react—when Azriel came home smelling like a bond and announcing—more like reluctantly admitting—that he met his mate.
While Feyre and Nesta can hardly be considered having experienced a normal mating bond (whatever a normal mating bond may be), they’ve heard stories about perfect strangers meeting by chance in a market and embracing each other like…well…like two halves of a lost soul finally reuniting.
But Feyre’s only seen Azriel hug his own brothers a handful of times over the years she’s been here, so she definitely couldn’t imagine Azriel wildly embracing his new mate on a whim in public.
Needless to say, they were all on the edge of their seats, awarding Azriel with the privacy he needed, wanted, and deserved as he navigated his new mating bond while simultaneously itching to see how it might look.
Tonight was finally their chance.
“Does my hair look okay?” Cassian asks the room, running fingers through his wild locks in a show of insecurity rarely ever seen from the brute.
“Why does it matter? It’s not like you’re meeting your mate for the first time,” Amren hums judgementally around the rim of her wine glass.
Cassian narrows his eyes at the ancient being. “This is important, alright? I want to make a good first impression.”
Nesta snorts. “Well I wouldn’t worry then. You’ve never once made a good first impression.”
“You guys are very mean,” Cassian huffs, giving up on the tugging of his hair. “I hope she’s nicer, maybe I’ll finally have a godsdamned friend in this house.”
“Hey,” Feyre laughs. “Come now.”
Cassian softens. “Okay, fine; another friend besides Feyre.”
“Thank you,” she concedes.
The room stills when boots sound on the terrace of the House of Wind, and it’s clearly an effort for the entire family not to stand simultaneously and rush the door to get a peak of you.
The two of you appear in the doorway; Azriel’s wing extended behind your back like a gentle guide keeping you close to him.
“This is my family,” Azriel explains softly, eyes travelling over the group of fae currently holding their breath. “Family, this is my mate.”
Somehow, Azriel’s voice softens around the syllables of your name, making it sound like a note of a song or the gentle hum of a breeze.
“Hello,” you greet quietly, nerves obvious though so is your excitement.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Rhysand welcomes first. “We’ve been wondering when Azriel might deign to share you with us.”
“I…I feel like I should bow, but Azriel told me it was very important that I keep you humble,” you admit, knees clearly itching to bend when being greeted by the notorious High Lord of the Night Court.
“Oh, thank the Mother,” Cassian sighs in theatrical relief. “I don’t think the rest of us will survive if his head gets any bigger.”
“My head is perfectly sized, thank you,” Rhysand huffs at his brother, softening his gaze when he turns back to you. “But there’s certainly no need to bow; we’re family.”
Your chest rises with relief and pride, and the corner of Azriel’s lips lift in time with it.
“It’s nice to finally meet you all,” you state as your gaze drifts over the entire group, and Feyre can understand why Azriel seems to have a hard time peeling his gaze from you; you’re magnetic, your eyes so soft and so kind that you make every person feel like the most important person in the room just by looking at them. “I’ve heard so much about you all, it feels like I’ve already known you for centuries.”
Mor breaks first.
“Oh, I am so happy to meet you,” she all but squeals, racing towards you.
Feyre isn’t entirely sure what she expected to happen, but she certainly wasn’t expecting for you to step away from Azriel and meet Morrigan in the middle of the room in a tight embrace.
“You must be Morrigan,” you hum happily into her shoulder.
“I’ll be whoever you want me to be, sweetheart,” Mor laughs, pulling away from you. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Alright, my turn,” Cassian announces, all but shoving Mor out of his way to bring you in for his own embrace, though his involves lifting you off of your feet and eliciting a surprised oof out of you. Azriel’s wings twitch in subtle agitation.
“Cassian, I assume?” you giggle.
“You’d assume correct, beautiful. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Alright, out of the way, you big bat.” Feyre swats at Cassian’s arms to release you, only for you to be transferred into her own. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
“Thank you for having me,” you murmur, quieter now, as though meeting her holds some extra weight.
She looks over at Azriel and his soft gaze confirms it: you were worried about meeting her.
“The honour is really all mine,” Feyre assures you, pulling away only to hold you by your shoulders.
She nods her head, really liking you for her brother-in-law. “As I’m sure you know, this is my husband Rhys. That there is my sister and Cassian’s mate, Nesta, and that’s Amren, Rhys’ second in command.”
Azriel finally fully enters the room, moving to step up behind you as though a quiet anchor. Your shoulders subtly loosen at his proximity.
“So, how has it been being mates with Azriel over here?” Cassian asks jovially, returning to his seat in the living room.
“He’s perfect, really,” you tell them earnestly, smiling up at the Shadowsinger who’s turning a beautiful shade of pink. “I truly couldn’t have asked for better.”
“Ah, so you’re a liar too,” Amren drawls with a roll of her eyes.
Azriel looks like he’s trying not to do the same before gesturing for you to take a seat. “Ignore her.”
“I hope she doesn’t lie to you anywhere else, brother,” Cassian continues, smiling when his quip is met with a lethal glare from said brother. “You know, like in the bedroom.”
“Yes, thank you, Cassian,” Azriel deadpans.
“Oh, don’t worry Cassian, he’s perfect there too,” you respond quickly, surprising the room into silence as Azriel joins you on the—rather cozy—loveseat. “If you’d like some tips I’m sure I can convince him to let you watch.”
Rhysand bursts into unrestrained laughter.
“Mother above, where did you find this female?” Cassian sputters.
The corner of Azriel’s lips turn up. “What? You think I warned her about Rhys and not you?”
With this Azriel lifts his arm and places it along the sofa behind your head; Feyre holds her breath as you lean your head back on it.
Except Azriel doesn’t pull away.
He doesn’t straighten, he doesn’t grit his teeth, he doesn’t make a quick excuse to get a drink.
In fact, Azriel’s gloved hand drops from the back of the couch and onto your shoulder where he lovingly caresses the exposed skin near your collarbone.
You turn at the touch, smiling up at him warmly which finds his shadows blooming with joy.
And then your hand lands on his knee.
Feyre braces for impact again.
It doesn’t come.
Well I’ll be damned, Rhysand drawls in Feyre’s mind. He’s a changed man.
But Feyre’s not so convinced; she doesn’t think the softness of his eyes or the adoration in his smile or the dedication of his attention are necessarily new attributes, just largely unseen.
I think she must just have a way of bringing it out in him, Feyre counters thoughtfully.
“Who the fuck is this male and what have you done with Azriel?” Cassian hollers then, not nearly as subtle as the rest of his family.
And who’s responsible for bringing that out of Cassian? Rhysand sighs silently.
Az awkwardly/nervously talking too much or too long with reader when he's alone with her and her being the one actively listening with an adoring look on her face 😔
Maybe mor eavesdropping and calling the others over because she can't belive it and them thinking she's joking but getting shocked listening to az ramble about blade types or composers and the difference in their work 😩😩😩😩 I love him
hahaha awe so cute! thanks for the prompt
Azriel x fem!reader who brings out Azriel's inner yapper [1k words]
CW: yapper!Azriel shocks everyone, euphemisms [talking about wingspans], pre-established relationship technically so some cute reciprocal yearning, fluff
Sometimes Cassian forgets how rude his family is.
Perhaps it’s a simple case of rose-coloured glasses that has him viewing his family in shades of pinks and reds with little hearts floating above their heads. Maybe he’s so caught up in memories of fun nights at Rita’s, wholesome dinners, time-tested traditions, and the trials they’ve made it through together that he keeps forgetting he actually lives with a bunch of assholes.
“Hey, Mor. What are-” Cassian hardly gets three and a half syllables out before the blonde is violently shushing and swatting him—hard, mind you—in the arm.
“Shut up!”
“Mother above, you are a nasty thing,” he hisses, though he lowers his voice to a whisper in an attempt to match hers. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Morrigan rolls her eyes and returns her gaze to the kitchen, silently inviting him to join her in being a creep and stalking the patrons from the threshold of the room.
Cassian peaks around the doorframe to find you and Azriel puttering around the kitchen; the two of you spent the afternoon baking, and while whatever delicious smelling treat you made bakes in the oven, you’ve taken up the task of washing the dishes and handing them to Azriel for drying while his shadows flit around and put everything away.
“Azriel!” Mor explains gleefully. “He’s so…talkative.”
Cassian lets out a disbelieving breath. “Azriel? Talkative? Nice try.”
It earns him another roll of the high fae’s eyes. “Just shut up and watch.”
“-never been.” Cassian catches the tail end of your sentence, your attention dedicated to the sudsy water you’re nearly elbow deep in.
Azriel hums in acknowledgement. “It’s very nice. I’d go with you sometime, if you like.”
“Have you been before?” you ask over your shoulder, smiling at him when you find his attention already on you.
“I have. A number of times. It’s usually my choice of destination when I need a break from the family,” Azriel explains.
Cassian nearly squawks in offence.
You laugh. “What? They won’t follow you to Summer?”
“They can’t follow me to Summer,” Azriel corrects with a smug grin. “Cassian was banned a few hundred years ago when he drunkenly destroyed a building; Mor and Rhys were still drunk enough the next morning to take a vow of solidarity to never return unless for business. Amren and I take full advantage of it.”
Cassian can hardly hear Morrigan’s quietly spat that son of a bitch over the sound of your laughter.
“So, no family vacations to the beaches of Summer, I suppose.”
Azriel shakes his head no. “Summer’s nice, but only for a little bit. There’s too much sand. And I don’t do well in the heat.”
You hum sympathetically and pass him a mixing bowl for drying. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“What are you guys-” Feyre manages to get out before Cassian and Morrigan are shushing her.
“Did you know Azriel is a yapper?” Morrigan whispers to the High Lady then, finding her furrow her brows in much the same way Cassian had.
“I- what?”
Cassian nods in agreement. “Turns out you only gotta put him in a room with her and he won’t shut up.”
Feyre leans around the doorframe at Cassian’s nod to join the two in eavesdropping.
“-as beautiful as the Winter Court is, though, I don’t think I could handle the constant snow,” Azriel continues, handing the bowl off to a cluster of shadows and accepting a clean measuring cup from you. “I mean, the Illyrian mountains are cold, and a good portion of the year sees the ground covered in snow. But, there are periods of time where the lakes aren’t frozen and children can run through the grass.”
“You need a happy medium,” you surmise, eliciting a nod of agreement from the male. “I think my favourite season might be autumn.”
“Same,” Azriel agrees. “Which is unfortunate because it’s the worst court to visit—politically speaking, that is. If the court wasn’t so full of rot and corruption, that’d probably be my second choice if I couldn’t live in Night.”
“Oh yeah?”
Azriel hums in confirmation. “What about you? What court would you live in if you couldn’t live in Night?”
You pause in your scrubbing, looking up at the tiled wall as you consider your answer. “Hmm, I guess…maybe Dawn.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I think Dawn,” you concur with more confidence.
Azriel thinks about it. “I could come to Dawn with you.”
You laugh, looking back over at him with an expression of mirth and adoration alike. “Yeah? You’re gonna follow me to Dawn?”
The slight twitch of Azriel’s wings is the only sign of his embarrassment. “Well, hypothetically. You know, if we—hypothetically—couldn’t live here.”
Your answering smirk is knowing as you turn your attention back towards the task at hand. “Hypothetically, I think that’d be best; the court is at least built to accommodate winged fae.”
“I could work with the Peregryn,” Azriel muses thoughtfully. “They’re quite the race of warriors.”
“I don’t know much about their customs,” you admit.
Azriel scoffs. “Can’t be much worse than the Illyrians.”
You hum in sympathetic acknowledgement.
“Illyrians’ wingspans are wider,” he tells you then, causing Feyre to snort a laugh at the male’s obvious peacocking. “Although that’s only because of the anatomy of the bones and ligaments within the wings.”
Cassian’s mouth drops open.
“Technically, if you measured the bones that make up a Peregryn’s wings and those of an Illyrian’s wings, they’d be roughly the same length, with Peregryn wings measuring longer than Illyrian in some cases.”
“That can’t be true,” Cassian hisses, turning his horrified gaze to the two females. “That’s not true, is it?”
The expressions they shoot at him roughly translate to how would we know?
“Don’t tell them that, though,” Azriel interjects quickly, looking at you imploringly. “It’s very important that they believe we have the larger wingspan.”
You laugh, shaking your head in a way that can only be described as fond. “Your secret’s safe with me, Shadowsinger.”
ex!Steve Harrington x fem!reader who needs help post-op [1.6k words]
part 1 <- part 2
summary: Shame burns hotter than the appendicitis induced fever you suffered from. And honestly? Your appendix leaking poison into your abdomen hurt less than waking up to find him at your bedside. You’re pathetic and shameful for asking for him, for wanting him, for needing him. But do you regret it?
CW: angst, feelings of inadequacy and shame, post-op aftercare, forced proximity, angst
The car ride to your apartment is painfully awkward and deafeningly silent.
You wanted to leave the hospital. The nurse said that they would discharge you so long as you had a ride home. Apparently, a cab wasn’t efficient, and if you insisted on going home unescorted, they were going to keep you for further monitoring.
Robin can’t drive, and while Vicky can, she doesn’t have a car. And Steve — fucking Steve — had just been sitting there with his keys in his pocket looking far too casual for the situation at hand.
He shrugged at you like it was no big deal, like it had already been decided.
He’s driving you home.
Shame burns hotter than the fever that clued you into something being very wrong a few days ago, signalling the need to seek medical attention. And honestly? Your appendix leaking poison into your abdomen hurt less than waking up to find Steve hunched over in a chair at your bedside.
You’re pathetic and shameful — drugged up and confused from the anesthesia notwithstanding — for asking for him, for wanting him, for needing him.
You’re not entirely sure what coming makes him, but this isn’t about him, it’s about you.
Pathetic and shameful girl.
Steve clears his throat as he puts his blinker on. “I’m just gonna pick up some stuff for your apartment first.”
“Oh, uh, you don’t have to. I-”
“You’re not eating tortilla chips and expired salsa for the next week,” he huffs as he puts the car in park.
You roll your eyes. “It’s not expired.”
“Yeah,” Steve scoffs. “Not the point.”
The sound of the car door shutting behind him rings louder than you were expecting it to. You didn’t even have time to pull out your wallet.
You crank down the window – wincing when the movement pulls at your incision – and breathe through the post-surgical or perhaps post-reunion-with-your-ex-boyfriend nausea.
“That’s too much,” you protest before Steve even opens his door after depositing numerous bags of groceries in the trunk.
“Well I figured you probably didn’t have time to run pre-emergency-surgery errands,” Steve says sarcastically as he turns the keys and the car roars to life. “Unless you think you have enough supplies to last you the next week of bed rest? Or the two weeks after that when you can’t lift anything more than ten pounds or carry heavy grocery bags up the stairs to your apartment? Or-”
“Okay, alright.” You lean forward to roll the window back up but whimper when he pulls out of the parking lot and hits a bump.
“See? Can’t even sit still long enough to get home.”
“I’m trying to do up my window,” you hiss.
“Why is it down?”
“‘Cause I was hot.”
He nearly swerves with the speed he turns to look at you. “Do you have a fever?”
The back of his hand hits your forehead with an audible smack.
“Jesus Christ, Steve. You’re gonna send me back to the hospital with a concussion,” you mutter, shoving his hand away.
“You don’t feel hot,” he murmurs to himself as if you didn’t say anything and he didn't just basically punch you in the face.
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
He sighs as he turns down your street. “Does your family know you were discharged?”
You busy yourself with your own reflection in the passenger door window. “No.”
He steals a glance at you before returning his attention to the road. “...Does your family even know you were in the hospital?”
Steve’s never sounded so disappointed to say your name when he’s met with your silence.
“It wasn’t that big a deal. There was no need to worry them.”
Steve makes a derisive sound and your hackles rise.
“What?”
Steve looks out his own window and shakes his head before flicking his turn signal with more force than necessary. “You just can’t let anyone take care of you, can you?”
You let out a disbelieving breath, tensing when he drives over the lip of the curb into your apartment’s parking lot. “Well you’re here, aren’t you?”
“Oh yeah, and it only took threatening you with a longer hospital stay. You were real gracious about it.”
“Okay, well, if I’m such a pain, you could’ve just left me there,” you spit, undoing your seatbelt before he’s even put the car in park.
“Hey- whoa, okay. Slow down.” He reaches for you. “I’ll help you get out, just give me-”
“I don’t need you to help me out-”
“Stop it.” His grip on your arm borders painful. “You have to stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“You need help and you need to let me help you,” he tells you plainly, loosening his grip on your arm but not letting go. “No if’s and’s or but’s. You have to stop fighting with me.”
“I’m not fighting with-”
“Yes, you are. You’ve been fighting everyone since you woke up. And as much as I’d like to sympathize and say you didn’t ask for this, you kind of did; you asked for me. So, I'm sorry that I’m here now, but I am. So stop fighting me.”
He gets out of the car before you have a chance to respond, leaving your ears ringing and cheeks burning.
Pathetic, shameful girl.
The car was bad; your apartment is worse.
Steve was horribly patient on your trek up the stairs to your third floor apartment. He didn’t make any snide comments about your bastard of a landlord who isn’t even pretending to have the elevator fixed, didn’t complain about the various bags cutting off the circulation in his arms nor the speed (or lack thereof) that you made your way up the stairs.
He helped lower you onto the sofa and got down on his knees to untie your shoes before disposing of them in their proper place.
He dragged the phone as close to your coffee table as the cord would allow, making sure you have tissues, some juice, a bottle of water, saltine crackers, magazines, and the remote within your reach.
He triple checked that you were fine before going to put away the groceries.
That was over thirty minutes ago.
“Steve?”
His reply is muffled due to how deep into your apartment he’s disappeared. “Yeah?”
“What are you doing?”
There’s a heavy pause. “Laundry.”
You groan, letting your head hit the back of the couch with a thud. “Stop it.”
You listen to the sound of his footsteps as he makes his way down the hall, appearing before you with a furrow to his brow and your cable knit sweater in hand. “This is lay flat to dry, right?”
“Yeah. Steve, stop doing laundry.”
“Well, you can’t do laundry, so.”
“But I will be able to do laundry,” you argue.
“Not for like, two weeks.”
“Oh my God, you’re taking those aftercare instructions so seriously,” you groan.
“I always did,” he chuckles, immediately sobering once he realizes what he said and suddenly unable to meet your gaze. “You can’t do laundry for the next two weeks at least.”
You respond with a groan.
“Yeah, yeah. Whine all you want.”
“Well, I’m gonna have to figure it out somehow,” you tell him, wincing as you straighten. “Otherwise it’s gonna be a long two weeks.”
He blinks at you. “You’re not serious.”
“What?”
“You’re- wow. Unbelievable. You really think you’re doing this all on your own, don’t you?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve looked around here lately, but I kind of am on my own.”
You swear a brief look of hurt flashes across his face. “Yeah? And whose fault is that?”
“Steve-”
“You won’t call your family,” he continues, even though you both know that’s not what he meant. “Vicky’s split between school and volunteering, Robin’s got that conference in Indianapolis this weekend, your landlord won’t even come to repair the fucking elevator-” There it is. “-so I doubt he’s going to be dropping in to check on your wellbeing any time soon.”
“Yeah, thanks.” You blink past the tears forming. “Why don’t you tell me more about how hopeless my current situation is, huh?”
“So, I’m going to finish the laundry when I get back,” he explains patronizingly slowly like you’re a troublesome toddler refusing to listen to reason.
“Back?”
“Yes. I’m going run home to pack some clothes and stuff-”
“Steve-”
“- to stay here.”
“You can’t stay here,” you hiss somewhat desperately.
“Well, tough.”
“Steve.”
“You need someone here, Y/N,” he says plainly, holding his hands out feebly.
“And it has to be you?”
The hurt in his expression returns, though it’s quickly replaced by frustration. “Yeah, sorry. I bet it’s a real blow being stuck with me.”
You open your mouth to argue, to correct yourself, to tell him that’s not what you meant, to tell him that seeing him here in your apartment putting groceries that he bought for you away and handling your delicates with care hurts worse than your body plotting your demise and killing you from the inside out. But nothing comes out.
Nothing comes out.
Instead, he grabs his keys from the console table and calls over his shoulder, “if this door is locked when I get back, I’m calling Hopper to do a wellness check.”
The door closes behind him with a slam and you’re left with the sound of the laundry machine whirring in the other end of your apartment, the leaky faucet in your kitchen that you’ve been bothering your landlord about for weeks, and your fragile heart breaking all over again.
Finnick Odair x hijacked!reader who asks what's real or not real [2k words]
summary: a District Thirteen reunion story heavily inspired by the brilliant @ervotica's fic 'a life of our own' & @/ilguna's 'hijacked'! Reader was tortured much like Peeta was into fearing Finnick, finding her playing the game 'real or not real'
CW: fem!reader, discussion of past torture [not described], reader tortured into believing Finnick did abhorrent and disgusting things to her [not described], medical personnel acting as villains sort of, hurt/comfort, hopeful/open ending
Finnick drummed his fingers against the paperback book that he brought with him to your hospital room every day which acted as nothing more than a glorified prop.
Routine was a word that came to dictate much of Finnick’s life recently; stability. Ritualized schedules were the norm in District Thirteen. But more importantly, routine, stability, and ritualized schedules were deemed necessary and important to your recovery.
Thus, Finnick drummed his fingers against the paperback book - the same paperback book - that he brought with him to your hospital room every day - at the exact same time - which acted as nothing more than a glorified prop.
He’d been following more or less the same routine ever since you’d been rescued from the Capitol a few weeks ago, though Finnick could admit visiting you felt slightly better now than it had in the beginning.
The beginning had been nothing short of heartbreaking for him. The beginning had been nothing short of torturous for you.
There’d been a hunch in place of hard evidence that the lot of you were being tortured in the Capitol, though to what extent no one knew. And absolutely no one was prepared for what awaited them by the time the three of you were safe in District Thirteen.
Peeta had promptly tried to off Katniss which was very off brand of him; Johanna’s head had been shaved, she was emaciated, and had a plethora of evidence of gruesome physical torture, and you…
You weren’t filled with the same loathing, hatred, and disgust that Peeta seemed to carry for Katniss. No, you were completely and utterly terrified.
Medics had to sedate you when Finnick rushed into the room upon hearing of your arrival because you’d thrown yourself against the wall so violently you’d split your head open, then nearly ripped your nails clean off your fingers in your desperation to open a locked door in an attempt to escape from him. And if that hadn’t been devastating enough, the sounds of your guttural screams and desperate cries caused by him still haunted many of Finnick’s nightmares.
Finnick had been hesitant to return to you after that; he didn’t want to ever cause you that much distress again.
Haymitch tried to reason with him; Finnick wasn’t the one causing you this much distress, it was the Capitol. The medics tried to reason with him; it was to be considered exposure therapy, they hoped that - over time - as you regained some familiarity and comfort with him and worked through your memories and trauma with the doctors that you’d start to remember.
He reluctantly agreed. So, he was horrified when, the first day he returned, you’d been strapped down to your bed in preparation for his meeting.
“This is sick!” He’d shouted at the medics as he gestured at your current state. “This isn’t exposure therapy, this is torture!”
“Mr. Odair, the hope is that once she begins to realize there’s no need to fight or run, we’ll be able to take the restraints off.” One of them explained in a bored manner.
“Fuck whatever you’re hoping for! You’re torturing her; she’s not going to feel any safer here than she did in the Capitol!”
They’d tried calling after him, but he simply looked over at you and offered a pathetic “I’m sorry, honey” that you probably hadn’t heard over your own desperate wails before he fled.
The next day he returned, you hadn’t been strapped down, but you had been heavily medicated with some kind of sedative before his arrival. He swallowed around the bile in his throat as he took a seat in one of the chairs, pretended to read his book and tried his hardest to ignore the extremely wary and haunted gaze that stayed glued to his side for the entirety of his visit.
The third visit went much the same, except about halfway through his scheduled ‘visit’, he noticed that your eyes seemed to fall extremely heavy.
“Are you tired, sweetheart?” He murmured quietly, though you would have thought he’d screamed at you with the way you bodily flinched and your eyes snapped open.
He just continued watching you as you fought to convince your heart to return to its normal tempo, slowly, cautiously nodding your head yes to his question when you seemed to realize he was earnest in his question.
“Would you like me to leave so you can get some rest?”
Your brows furrowed ever so subtly, eyes darting across his face as you searched for any hidden meaning or potential threat.
You must not have found one.
“Please.” You whispered, and - though it was still but a whisper - it was the first time he had heard your voice since the Quarter Quell that wasn’t shrieking and sobbing in fear, causing a lump to form in his throat.
“Okay, honey, I’ll go.” He whispered back, smiling at you through tears as he stood and swiftly left the room, hardly closing the door fully behind him before he let out a sob.
Over the weeks, you began finding your own routine and schedule outside of the time you spent working with doctors and medics. You were hardly ever seen without your journal on your person, and one of your doctors explained to Finnick that you were beginning to compile notes to differentiate between things you knew, things that you didn’t know, and what was real or not real. Many times, Finnick could find you working in your journal when he arrived, and though you still managed to keep a concerned eye on him at any given point and your body never fully relaxed while he was there, he was grateful you were becoming more or less accustomed to his company.
And then one day he showed up to your room to find one wall completely transformed into a giant drawing board. The board was divided into two equal sides; one side was labelled REAL and one side was labelled NOT REAL. The only thing that had been written down so far was on the NOT REAL side, which read “Finnick did not set you up and leave you there to die.”
“She’s been struggling to sleep without the aid of sedatives; she wakes up quite violently from nightmares, struggling to differentiate between what is real and what is not, even when we’re standing right there in front of her.” One of the medics told him. “We tried once to have her look through her journal, but she threw it across the room and told us to get away from her. We thought maybe having a very large visualization in front of her in her own writing would be helpful to tether her to reality upon waking.”
And that seemed all well in good, but Finnick found himself sick over some of the things the Capitol had convinced you he was guilty of more than once.
But, if this is what you needed, if this was helping you, Finnick would stomach it, no questions asked.
So, Finnick drummed his fingers against the paperback book that he brought with him to your hospital room every day which acted as nothing more than a glorified prop.
He knocked twice gently on your door before stepping inside, watching as you stepped quickly away from the board and hid the marker and eraser behind your back as if you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to, watching Finnick as though you were waiting for him to attack.
“Hi, honey.” He greeted quietly, nodding politely at you before he pulled out his chair and took his place, flipping his book open to an arbitrary page as he pretended to read.
You didn’t move; your feet seemed to be glued to the spot as you watched Finnick pretend to not be watching you. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had missed your gaze, quite selfishly, and found that while the atmosphere wasn’t exactly relaxed, he was happy enough just to have your eyes on him again.
Finnick wasn’t sure how much time had passed before you ended up breaking the silence.
“F…Finnick?” You asked, barely above a whisper; question so quiet that Finnick was sure if he hadn’t only been pretending to read, he would have missed it entirely.
You sounded as though you were trying his name out for size, just to see how it felt on your tongue. Finnick missed the days when you used to squeal his name in laughter, or groan his name in frustration, or call his name in excitement. But even though it came out cautious and stilted, he didn’t think he’d ever heard as pretty a sound as the sound of his name falling from your lips.
“Yes, sweetheart?” He asked eagerly, fighting to keep his tone, face, and body language calm as he saved his ‘place’ with a finger and leaned forward in his chair, resting his knees on his elbows.
You swallowed thickly and fiddled with the marker in your hands as you stole yourself to speak. “Can I ask you something?”
He wanted to be an ass; he wanted to say ‘you just asked me two things’, he wanted to whoop and holler at finally having an actual conversation with you after weeks of finally having you back, yet not really having you back at all.
Instead, all he said was “of course.”
You cleared your throat before gaining the courage to ask what he heard as “you love me; real, or not real?”
Finnick wasn’t sure an answer had ever come to him so fast. “Real.”
You seemed somewhat surprised by his answer even though it was clearly the answer you’d been expecting. After a few moments, you simply nodded at him before turning back to your drawing board’s REAL side.
Finnick loved me you wrote, adding bullet points underneath it...
He told me so
He acts like it
Gut feeling
...is what you cited as proof to this revelation. Finnick wanted to weep. A gut feeling; you were still in there, somewhere. There was still a version of you that knew deep down that Finnick loved you.
“It’s not quite right, honey.” He offered softly, fighting the urge to smile when you turned at his interruption, yet didn’t flinch at the sound of his voice as you often did. You simply looked at him in confusion.
“Do you mind if I make a minor adjustment?” He asked as he carefully placed his book on your empty bed and slowly stood, holding his hands out in ask.
You looked between him and the marker and eraser in your hands before holding them out for him; an invitation.
Finnick smiled at you as he slowly walked towards you, hyper focused on remaining as unthreatening as possible as he gently took the items from you, careful not to touch you unnecessarily.
He moved to the REAL side of the board, using the edge of the eraser to remove the d from the end of loved and replacing it with an s. The sentence now - properly - read Finnick loves me.
“There, now it’s perfect.” He offered you with another smile as he held the items back out to you, gently placing them in your hands when you held them open for him before he turned back towards his chair, retrieved his book, and sat back down.
Your eyes stayed glued on the correction he made to your board as the marker and eraser hovered uselessly midair; moments dragging on before your arms finally lowered to your sides.
Finnick didn’t bother pretending to read, so when you turned to look at him - face full of confusion, curiosity, concern, and what looked to be devastation - you found him already looking at you.
“Still?” You asked, voice cracking painfully as a heavy tear fell down your face.
And if Finnick thought that no answer had ever come faster to him before, he was sorely mistaken.
WOOOOHOOOO CONGRATS ON 10K 🍾🍾🍾 the 🧸build a blurb workshop sounds so fun could i pretty please request #34 and/or #90 with stevie?? maybe a hurt/comfort situation where reader’s used to silent treatment after arguments ORRR honestly whatever your lovely brain cooks up 🙂↕️🙂↕️ and no stress at all if you don’t feel like doing this prompt <3 <3
yes! thank you, lovely! hope i did it justice <33
Steve Harrington x reader after their 1st fight [1.5k words]
step right up to elle's celebratory 10k circus
CW: ³⁴⁾ “come here, idiot.” ⁹⁰⁾ “you’ve been crying.” no gender markers used for reader, their 'fight' happens off screen, discusses crawl planning, implied newer relationship, hurt/comfort
You feel horribly foolish, anxiety sitting heavy in your stomach as you twist the office chair one way and then the other as you pretend to read your book.
But said foolishness and anxiety does nothing to inspire you to leave your little hideout.
You and Steve got into a fight earlier. You’re not even sure it can be described as a fight, seeing as the two of you barely raised your voices and only volleyed maybe three arguments between the two of you before you shrunk in on yourself to accommodate the feelings in the room and Steve took a steadying breath.
“Hey, look I- I’m sorry, alright?” He offered as an olive branch. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. That wasn’t fair of me, okay?”
It had been so far from what you were expecting to come out of his mouth that all you could do was nod at him.
“We’ll talk more after, alright?”
And that had been it. That was your first fight as a couple.
There’d been little time to talk about it at the moment, seeing as the group was in the process of organizing a crawl, but you – in typical fashion – did your best to ensure there’d be no time to talk about it after. You don’t imagine he meant it anyway.
From your experience, you’re sure ‘we’ll talk about it later’ is just something he said to save face in front of the Party, to get back on the task at hand instead of arguing with you.
It’s not even a very good hiding spot if you’re being entirely honest with yourself. You’re sitting in the sound booth at the WSQK, a windowed room that sits in the centre of the building. Out in the open enough that you could feign ignorance if accused of hiding, secluded enough to find you alone.
It doesn’t last very long, though.
Two quick raps on the door sound before it inches open, exposing Steve as he leans against the doorway.
“Hey.” He shoots you a careful smile. “You hiding from me?”
Once again, it’s not at all what you were expecting him to say, nor how you expected him to say it – quiet and sweet like it was a loving caress instead of an accusation – meaning your retort flies out of your mouth without preamble.
“No,” you lie.
Steve nods, eyeing you carefully with a slightly upturned lip. “You lying to me?”
His tone has melted from what was earlier sharp and brittle to something soft and warm. The anxiety in your stomach sours as a result, curdling into something much closer to shame knowing that he’s making an attempt to appease you.
Your eyes well up again. “No.”
“Liar,” he huffs, but it’s so thick with fondness that it can’t possibly be anything but a term of endearment.
Steve lets himself into the sound booth and closes the door behind him before pulling up the second office chair and taking a seat in front of you.
“You ran off quickly after the meeting,” he comments gently, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he considers you.
“M’sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?” he nearly laughs. “That’s why I came to find you; to say sorry.”
“You already said sorry,” you remind him in case he might’ve forgotten. You’ve been replaying the conversation over and over again in your head ever since; could probably recite it verbatim.
“Okay. And you heard me, when I said I was sorry?” he clarifies, continuing when you nod your head yes. “And you believed me, when I said I was sorry?”
You try to say yeah but it comes out as a keening sound. You find yourself too embarrassed to witness the way Steve must be looking at you, holding your book up to hide your face when you begin to cry in earnest.
“Hey, hey, come on. What’s all this, huh? I didn’t say sorry enough, did I? Is that it? I should grovel more.”
“M’not mad.”
“No?” he murmurs. Damn him and his softest tone. “What’s with the tears then, hm?”
You try to collect yourself, hating yourself for picking a hiding place that’s all windows. The last thing you need tonight is for Hopper to walk past and think you’re too soft to continue helping.
“I don’t like when we’re not on the same side,” you whisper eventually, lowering the book from your face.
Steve shifts in discomfort in his chair. “We are on the same side, baby. Always. I’m always on your side.”
He lets that sit in the air for a few moments as you continue to calm down. “Thats- that’s why I got upset, yeah? Not with you but…I get scared. Okay? I know, it sounds crazy. But I do. Don’t tell Robin, she’ll never let me live it down.”
That manages to surprise a brief chuckle from you.
“It scares the shit out of me thinking about you anywhere that I can’t, that I can’t protect you. Maybe that’s gross, alpha male bullshit on my part but we’ve… we’ve been doing this for years, babe, and not all of us have come back. Okay?”
You look up to notice the way his eyes shine with unshed tears. “We’ve left people behind more times than I’d like to admit and I…I can’t do it again. Not if it’s you. I think it might actually kill me if something happened to you.
“So, yeah. I got spooked and I raised my voice and snapped at you because- well, it doesn’t matter why. It wasn’t the right thing to do, and I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. Especially not in front of everyone, regardless of the way I was feeling. Okay? I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.”
“I’m sorry too,” you tell him in turn. “For worrying you.”
“I love worrying about you,” he counters quickly, “it’s my favourite. I look forward to one day only worrying about whether you remembered to bring a jacket with you or if the store is stocked up on your favourite treats. But it’s an honour to worry about you, got it?”
You laugh, surprised at his intensity. “Yeah. Yeah, I got it.”
The two of you sit in a sniffly sort of silence for a few moments before you speak up again. “Steve, can I ask a dumb question? I…I know it’s a dumb question but I think I need to hear the answer anyway.”
Steve leans back in his chair like he’s in it for the long haul. “Lay it on me.”
“Do you still love me?” You sound so small; feel even smaller when the sound-proofed sound booth falls deadly silent.
“Jesus, babe,” Steve hisses, looking at you like you’ve grown three heads. “Do I still- you know, I wanted to be all sweet and assure you that there’s no such thing as a stupid question and be boyfriend of the fucking year, but then you come up with that and, yeah, you know what? There are dumb questions. That’s by far the dumbest thing you’ve ever said to me. You’ve been spending too much time in my company; the stupid is contagious, Dustin was right.”
“Hey,” you protest, laughing even as you wipe fresh tears from your eyes feeling slightly hysterical in your current state.
“Come here, idiot,” Steve sighs fondly. You go willingly, standing and allowing him to maneuver you into his lap.
You’re too big to be held like this – anyone older than eight years old is too big to be held like this – but Steve makes it look like easy work. He pulls your legs up to lay over the armrest and positions your hips between his thighs, tucking your head under his chin as he sinks back into the office chair.
“F’course I still love you. That’s why I got upset; I wouldn’t have gotten upset if I didn’t love you so much. It’s embarrassing, really. It’s doing awful things to my street cred.”
You swat a hand at his chest with no heat behind it; he catches your wrist and brings your knuckles up to his lips for a kiss. “You don’t have any street cred.”
“Exactly,” he agrees. “I did before we started dating. You’ve turned me into a lovesick loser; no one respects me anymore.”
You huff a laugh through your nose and look up at him, hit with a new wave of emotions as he gazes down at you, deep, dark eyes pooling with affection.
He tsks at you, bringing a thumb up to wipe at dried tear tracks on your face. “You’ve been crying.”
“I feel better now, though,” you assure him.
“Yeah, promise?” he asks, tucking you back under his chin when you nod your head yes. “Okay, good.”
