“Hey, Dana? Got a sec?” Robby asked in a low voice, leaning over the counter.
“Why?” She took off her glasses and looked at him.
“I got a patient in Trauma 2 and she’s… jittery. I need an ortho consult for her arm and hip but she doesn’t want to. She keeps asking to be transferred to Westboro or any other hospital.” He explained, “And she’s got bruises that aren’t from the accident.”
Dana looked over at Trauma 2, where you were sitting, leaning back, staring at the ceiling. You were cradling your arm to yourself, the team had wrapped it but it still needed to be looked at once the X-rays came down.
You smiled and nodded as someone administered medication and it was obvious that you wanted to leave even though you were being as polite as possible.
“I’ll check it out.” Dana patted Robby’s shoulder and moved towards the room you were in.
Meanwhile, you were sitting and hoping that someone would come with the good news that you were getting transferred.
“Hey- I’m Dana.” She entered, closing the door behind her and drawing the curtain. “You got a minute to talk?”
You smiled and sat up a little, then winced in pain. “Sorry- Just really sore. Am I getting the transfer?”
“Uh- Not yet.” She looked over her shoulder then pulled a stool to sit next to the bedside. “Is there a reason you don’t wanna be here? At this hospital?”
“Yeah, I usually go to Westboro or Sacred Heart. I was just near here so they brought me here and I wasn’t very lucid to advocate for myself.” You gave a nervous laugh.
“And there’s no other reason?” She asked, eyeing you carefully.
“No, ma’am.” You swallowed but she noticed you stiffening up a little.
“Okay… okay. Is there someone we can call or-” She started but you shook your head.
“No! I mean- I- No. I’m fine. I just wanna get out of your hair-” You said immediately.
“Okay.” She nodded, watching you fidget with your wedding ring. “You married?” She asked softly.
“I- Yeah-” You smiled, looking at your hand. “Three years now.”
“He’s a good guy?” She asked.
“He looks mean but he’s-” You pause then sigh deeply. “Are you here to ask if I’m being abused?”
“Dr Robby saw bruises that weren’t related to the crash. We have to do our duediligence.” She explained with a gentle smile.
“I’m not- It’s not abuse-” You flushed deeply. “We’re just very passionate and he’s stronger and gets very-” You cleared your throat as you shied away from explaining that your husband was an animal in bed.
“Robby called for an ortho consu-” Park entered and stared at you, saw Dana, then turned and walked away.
“That was new.” Dana mumbled then looked at you. You laughed nervously, trying to not show anything. “So, I’m gonna ask again, can I call someone for you?”
“I- My husband is my emergency contact but I don’t wanna bother him.” You said quietly.
“Honey, you might have a broken arm and a fractured hip. You’re gonna need to call someone.” She said softly, reaching to hold your hand and give it a squeeze. “Maybe a sibling? Or a parent?”
You shook your head again. “No. They’d all call him immediately so-” You sighed. “I’m fine… Really.” You gave a small smile.
A few minutes later, Garcia walked in, confused. “Shark refused the consult.” She whispered to Dana and gave you a smile to start your consultation as Robby came back again.
Broken radius, and fractured ilium with a lot of bruising on your ribcage.
You nodded through the diagnosis and then the explanation of how you may need surgery for the arm but everything else can be wrapped and heal on its own. And then once again, someone emphasised that you needed to call someone.
The room was full of interns, student doctors and Robby, explaining your condition when Park walked back in. He was no longer in scrubs but the same jeans and shirt he’d been wearing when he’d left home in the morning.
Robby raised a brow as he entered. No one had ever seen him on the floor in casuals.
“We good?” He asked slowly.
“Good. Continue.” Park nodded and pulled a stool to sit next to your bedside, taking your hand in his.
It took Robby a good thirty seconds to finally realise why you wanted to be transferred to another hospital. You were saving them from the Shark, not trying to run away.
“Brendon- I was just-” You looked at Robby worriedly.
“I know.” He nodded, eyes still locked on Robby.
The room that had been buzzing was now very, very silent. One intern was now focused on the IV pump, another found the curtains very fascinating. The student doctors were transfixed on the floor.
“Okay.” Robby clapped his hands, “Learning moment’s over. How about everyone go so I can have a moment with our patient and… spouse?” He added carefully and Park nodded once. “Right…”
Once the room was empty and only the three of you remained, Robby turned to you both again.
“How bad?” Park asked. His voice was unwavering but he was obviously worried with how hard he was holding your hand.
Robby silently pulled up the Xrays to show him. Park sighed deeply then looked at you.
“You should’ve called me.” He spoke gently which made Robby’s brows meet his hairline.
“I didn’t wanna pull you from your shift.” You whispered back.
“My shift?” Park hissed and Robby cleared his throat. “We’ll talk about this later.” He pouted and turned to Robby, shoulders dropping a little. “Garcia will do the surgery since I can’t.”
Robby nodded in agreement, looking over his shoulder, a small crowd was just walking past, constantly sneaking peeks of Shark and you, and whispering.
“As soon as we’ve got an OR, we’ll move you up.” Robby explained. “And uh-” He paused. “Dana might wanna talk to you-”
“Dana? Why?” Park’s brows furrowed.
“The bruises-” You whispered to him and he glares at Robby.
“I am not explaining how I love my wife.” He was appalled at even the notion.
“Right! Of course! But you know! Hospital policy.” Robby backed away with a smile and exited the room quickly.
You turned to Park with a smile. “You really have a reputation, huh?” You laughed softly. “They have no idea how gooey you are at home.”
“Stop… I’m a tough guy.” He smiled a little.
“The doctor before- The woman. She called you Shark. I never thought they seriously called you that.” You giggled some more and he rolled his eyes, leaning to kiss your forehead.
“I told you I’m a scary guy at work.” He said softly.
“Sure thing, fish boy.” You mused.
Outside the room, Robby was explaining the situation to Dana, whilst Whitker and Santos were eavesdropping.
“What… is happening right now?” Mel asked Dennis as she too stared at the scene unfolding in Trauma 2.
“Shark might actually be human.” Dennis whispered back.
“Who would’ve thought.” Trinity nodded in surprise.
WHEN DAMIAN WAYNE has his 'oh. oh.' moment after your strange, melancholic behaviour has him desperate to bring back your smile.. and realises he may not detest you as much as he thought.
context: they're both vigilantes and forced to work together. grumpy x sunshine but sunshine! reader is acting unusual — damian notices and tries miserably to cheer you up, fluff, dick plays wingman, naturally.
You've been frustrating him all day. Damian suspects it must be to annoy him, to deter him from completing the mission that he didn't need company for. You barely listened to his instructions over the comms, which nearly resulted with you both returning with injuries tonight. When he reprimanded you, instead of coming up with your usual excuses, you simply nodded like a sad, kicked puppy before trudging off.
It's a long way back to the cave, and in a case of desperation (one he learns to never make again), he pinged for help. Grayson was his first choice, being the only contact he can think of that has the most successful experiences with women, and therefore, he concludes should understand them better than he does.
"Did you say something to upset her?" Dick suggests.
He frowns. "Why did you assume I was the perpetrator?"
"Because you're always targeting her."
His brow furrows. Sure, he has made comments about your slacking off during previous patrols, your strange fighting style that combines impulse and unneeded energy bursts, your infuriating smile when you make untimely jokes. Still, he doesn't get why he's the automatic assumption when there's plenty other reasons you could be upset. He hasn't said a single word to you since the catastrophe earlier, and now that he thinks about it, neither have you. That is an oddity, for you to be silent.
"I may have called her out on her mistakes, but it was for her own good." He answers, though now his mind is frustratingly preoccupied over the what's and why's over your sudden mood change. He has more important things to be concerned about, like the suspected drug smugglers near Crime Alley, the new upgrades for the utility belt he's been meaning to configure, anything but your sudden lack of prodding.
"Maybe you should apologise, if it bothers you." Dick offers.
He scoffs. "Apologise? For saving her life?"
He hears a barely repressed sigh from the other line. "Was she upset before or after your nagging?"
"Before." He answers quickly, too fast for his liking. It is only because your behaviour is affecting his, he reminds himself. Also, he does not nag.
"Then, maybe.." Dick pauses. "You can try to cheer her up."
Damian goes silent at the suggestion. He can already sense the incoming headache at the mere possibility of trying, for he has mastered many skills, but improving another human's mood? He racks his brain, but nothing comes to mind.
"How do I do that?" He winces after his question, hating to sound incapable of anything.
"That.. is something for you to figure out."
He's ready to snap at the utterly unhelpful advice when he hears the notable click, signaling the end of their transmission. Grumbling to himself, he can imagine Grayson being awfully pleased to have left him even more clueless than before.
You're also lingering behind the alley, opting to walk at a glacial pace, an observation that ticks at the back of his mind like an annoying pest. What is more annoying, is noticing that his own pace has slowed, his distance to you decreasing with every passing second. He shouldn't. It isn't his responsibility to handle whatever is plaguing your mind. Yet, his body seems to disobey his calculations by turning back to you.
You don't react or even notice his movement towards you, which is stupid and reckless and completely unlike you, because even though you're infuriatingly smug and chirpy all the time, he doesn't deny that you have the skills of a decent fighter. He grabs your arm, snapping you out of your stupor, giving him brief satisfaction which he crushes once your eyes finally meet his.
"Damian?" Your brows raise at his sudden contact, eyes falling onto your connected limbs.
He ignores you and your questioning gaze, instead dragging you away from the route back to the cave, and down another alleyway.
"Hey! I know I screwed up earlier and you're mad at me, but killing me to satisfy your blood cravings isn't the right way to get your revenge."
Your voice rings loud in his ears, and he's both relieved and annoyed to hear you sound more like yourself. His mood shifts more towards annoyance when it registers that you're still not giving up on your blood-thirsty demon accusations. As if your blood would be appetizing. It'll probably taste like those overly sweet Thai teas you always consume.
"I'm not mad at you." He answers shortly, not deigning you with anymore clues to what he was doing.
The destination in his mind isn't too far, a fact he's grateful for, as the longer you both trudged on awkwardly through the alleyways and up a fire escape, the more he starts to regret the whole detour. Finally, you both make it onto a rooftop, seemingly identical to the other nearby buildings. He can sense your patience waning as he stands there, thinking of ways to explain himself without sounding too concerned.
"Okay, you have got to tell me what's going on.”
He doesn't feel like explaining himself because he can barely understand what possessed him to do this either, so he only sits on the edge of the rooftop and tugs at your sleeve, forcing you to sit beside him.
You land awkwardly, and he instinctively stabilizes you with his hands wrapping around your waist. Shocked gazes meet one another, and he quickly retracts his arms, feeling something hot burn behind his ears. "Just sit down."
You oblige, even if confusion is apparent on your face. Up close, he takes note of your frazzled hair, the large eyebags under your reddened eyes, and the slouched posture of your back. You look exhausted, and the pounding questions in his head blurt out before he can stop them. "Spit it out."
Your head turns to him, your face contorting into a visible question mark. "Huh?"
Huh, indeed. He hides his own regret over his impulsive choice of words, and tries again. "You were sloppy today, well, sloppier than usual. You have this depressing look on your face, and it's-" Distracting. "Unacceptable."
Where was he going with this? His mind chases frantically for advice given to him from people less cutthroat than he was. "I heard that when a person feels sad, talking it out can make them feel better." At least, that's what Alfred tried to tell him. "So, talk."
You can't help but snort back a laugh. You may be feeling like shit, but his expression that grows more pained with each word he spouts, clearly putting himself in a position he's never been in before, distracts you momentarily from the heaviness in your heart.
"So, that's what all that dragging me around was about? Finding a suitable spot for your therapy session?"
"I am not so utterly incapable of noticing other people's emotions to not know when someone is upset." He mutters, his signature frown deepening as he speaks.
"So.. you are aware of when someone is upset, but you still chose to insult my performance and appearance?" Amusement is vividly painted on your tired expression, but you're avoiding the topic — trying to spin the focus onto him instead.
“Is that the reason?” He cuts in. He was here for answers, at the very least, it will hopefully make the exchange worth his time. “Did I say something to offend you?”
“Not today.” Your response triggers further questions on what he could have possibly said in the past to have hurt you, even if he doesn’t fully understand why it matters — but he clamps his mouth shut at the sight of your dampened expression. “It’s just stuff going on at home.”
His mouth parts, and he understands. He’s heard of this from Barbara, who warns him that despite your everlasting smile in the face of danger, you weren’t as invisible as you seemed. Another tick he can’t be rid of is the concerning clarity of any information that involves you. It’s like his brain has stored a file of unnecessary notes pertaining all your negligence, faults, character — and just you.
“See?” You shrug, putting on a false smile as if pleading for him to wave it off. “Nothing special. Just off my game today because I can’t separate my personal and professional life. You know, it’s actually hilarious to call it a profession when we’re technically illegal vigilantes.”
You’re spouting nonsense, a tactic you use to try and distract others in a conversation from topics you didn’t want to indulge in. He shakes his head, causing you to pause.
“Tell me.” He presses further. Watching your expression shift, a multifaceted glimpse into your shock, confusion, discomfort — he realises his approach may be too direct. “If you want.” He adds on, and even he knows how unnatural it sounds.
He hears your deep inhale, spots the press of your palm against the concrete, and waits. He doesn’t do this for many people, but he thinks you need this. An open channel to vent.
“Well, my parents don’t know that I’m a vigilante.” You start off, your expression blanking like you’re distancing yourself from your story. “So, whenever I disappear, they think I’m fooling around, wasting away my future instead of trying to fit into the expectations of my family.”
There’s a silence after, and he knows it’s the part that’s been hurting you most. “I had a really bad fight with them today.” You confess. “I was sneaking out the window, and my mom caught me. She thought I was running away, and she said that if I stepped out that window, I will never be welcomed back.”
You turn to look at him, and he doesn’t like the look you give him. No, he hates it, seeing you look so hopeless and defeated. “As you can see, I’m clearly here with you, out my window.” You laugh humourlessly. “So, technically, I’m temporarily homeless.”
You look away, maybe expecting him to be frustrated. To expect a better reason for your subpar performance today. Yet, no hits land. In fact, nothing comes other than the lingering silence as you stare at the cityscape, trying to swallow past your wallow and that lonely ache in your chest.
A moment passes before Damian clears his throat. “There is an extra guest room in the Manor.”
Your gaze snaps to him, barely comprehending the words he’s saying. You would never expect pity from Damian, much less an extended helping hand to you of all people. He made it clear that he found you a nuisance, a burden.
His own gaze is focused on the streets below him, the reflection of the city lights casting faint shadows in his side profile, highlighting the bridge of his nose, the freckles dotting his skin.
“Why?” You can’t help but ask. Generosity, taking on your weight even if it’s a liability.. it’s completely uncharacteristic of him.
“You are my mission partner.” He huffs. “I will not have you distracted on the field because you lack accommodation. So, I’m offering a solution.”
You can’t help but smile, something fuzzy and warm soothing the numbness in your chest. Even through his generosity, he still acts like a soldier. It’s tempting, especially knowing him, he’s probably bound to retract his offer within 20 seconds.. but something churns in you at the thought of truly running away. Even if you hid in the Manor, pummeling yourself with missions to hide from the stones life throws at you.. it’ll only linger unresolved until you faced it head on.
“I appreciate the offer but..”
He turns to you then, almost offended that you’re rejecting his offer, but he stops at your expression, the acceptance in your gaze and knows that you’ve made a decision.
“I have to face this.” Staring at him, you hope you could stand a little taller like him, carry yourself the way he does. You always did admire him, even if he didn't return it. “I can’t keep running forever.”
“So what do you plan to do?” There is no argument in his tone, only mere curiosity.
“I’ll tell them the truth.” Even in your decision, you feel the stutter in your heart as you say it aloud. It may not change a thing, you may face more rejection and repercussions for your actions.. but you’ll wear it on your skin because that is who you are. Who you have become.
“And if they reject you?” His question is a direct, swift cut open to your hidden fears.
“It won’t stop me.” You answer, your resolve hardening. “The city needs my help.. and if they can’t understand my decision, it’s still my life to decide what my purpose is.”
He’s silent, but you watch his challenging gaze flicker to something softer, a hint of respect that he’s never shown before.
Something glimmers in the distance, and you turn then to the light reflecting off the window panes of the surrounding skyscrapers, all coated in a gradient of orange hues rising to outshine the indigo. In the gaps of the concrete jungle, sparks of sunlight has risen to reveal.. morning light.
”Wow, that’s.. pretty.” You breathe out, eyes glimmering in genuine awe. “Actually, more than pretty — I didn’t even know Gotham could have sunrises like that.”
There’s pride that swells in his chest, seeing your reaction, to know he’s made that shine glow in your eyes again. “I found this place a few months ago.” He states, still staring at you. The sunrise, he has seen. It’s this view of you — encased in golden light, that he feels is rarer.
“Did you take me here on purpose?” Your question is teasing, but there’s a curiosity in your gaze when you finally cast your eyes back on him, only to find that he has been looking at you the entire time. How could he not, when he’s just realised that he preferred you like this — or that he’s taken it for granted to see you smile that way?
“Yes.” It’s a simple admission that slips out so easily, and he can only blame it on the way your mouth lifts into the brightest grin, looking much like the one he’s used to seeing.
He feels as if he's been blinded this entire time, tainting his perception of you in muddled grey to stop himself from seeing you in your true colours. The irritation he initially felt towards you, his frustration over your rose-coloured view of the world — seems rather nonsensical now that he's truly tried to understand you.
You may be stubborn and hard-headed, but you needed to be. He was almost grateful for your character, your ability to see through anything with your smile still intact and unbroken. Much like the sun that promises to rise in spite of everything.
“Damian, who knew you had a heart?” Your teasing reminds him that just because his image of you has changed, doesn't mean you've become less bothersome. He clears his throat, forcing himself to look away.
“That was your own fault for assuming I didn’t.” He huffs. There’s something uncomfortable in his chest, banging around when it should stay still. He decides he should keep such intimate interactions to a minimum. He doesn’t know how Grayson does it, parading around with his words of encouragement to his peers, or even to him — it’s more excruciating than a healing wound.
“You just had a heart to heart with me and took me to see a sunrise.” You gasp, as if the realisation had just fully set in, and he wishes it hadn’t. “Damian Wayne just did that.”
“Don’t go announcing it to the world.” He winces, but his words don’t have its usual biting effect, not in the face of your ever-growing glee. “This isn’t going to be a common occurrence, understood? I expect you to be careful on our next mission.”
Your smile is impossible to erase — so unfathomably bright, it puts the sunbeams pouring in through the streets to shame. “Since you asked so nicely.”
He truly does wonder, how is it possible that you make him want to strangle you and at the same, ensure you’ll never look at him with that dampened frown ever again. Still, he can't find it in himself to let go of this moment, of your awe and smile, so he ignores the ache in his bones from a long mission, and sits beside you.. watching the sun rise over a new day.
Extra:
Unbeknownst to them, Dick was listening in on the entire charade, spying through the communication channel, being the nosy older brother he was. “He’s all grown up.” Dick mumbles, weeping a tear as his chest overfills with pride at the interaction.
puppys thoughts: latest obsession. love this guy. #would // not proofread! just pure, flowing puppy thoughts
tw: cursing, mentions of surgery & stretch marks, bad marine animal references, and soft park :3
The Shark. Possibly the most important guy in the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, and an ego to match. The guy was practically a surgery deity, people parted ways when they walked, everyone listened, and whispers practically flew whenever he had to leave the OR.
To be fair, he’s always been this way. Ever since med school, he’s always gotten to hide behind the persona of “The Shark.” Park could smell the blood before anyone even got in the elevator, before anyone even clicked the button for the 5th floor. The medical world was a bitch, and he just so happened to learn that being a bitch back is how you win..and with such knowledge, comes a massive responsibility, blessing any and all interns with it.
It wasn’t a secret Park hated interns…or most people. Every single time it was Intern and MS Day, there were at least 4 people from the OR practically lining up to hand Gloria their badges. Yet still, nobody said a word. You could fall victim to the Shark, but once you were in the jaws, the only option was being chewed up. Only a few have managed to land in the jaws, and make it out alive. Emery Walsh, his second in hand, and who went down to the ED more often, and his wife.
For those who have met her, she was completely opposite. While he was grumping around, snapping at his “guppies” and busy rebuilding bones, she was whimsical. A giggling mess, soft and understanding, literally the exact opposite of Park. Despite being married for nearly 10 years, nobody truly knew what went on behind the facade labeled “The Shark”, and he didn’t mind it. Brendon wasn’t a public person. His wedding and engagement band laid on a chain, hidden behind his scrub top, was all anyone knew about him. He was married, and he didn’t like sharing. On the rare occasions she was in to bring him something, he got extremely possessive. She had to be at his side, couldn’t talk above a whisper, and no interacting with the interns. Of course, she would do her. Giggling, wandering off to talk to Emery, or even sitting on the Charge Nurses desk in the ED was her job. She kept him active, that was for sure. When he came over to retrieve her with arms in a shrug and a faint smile tugging on scarred lips, was the one time people got to see Brendon.
Brendon Park, the man behind the ego. The man who lets his wife gel and comb back unruly curls, straightening them until perfect. When he wasn't breaking and rebuilding bones, he was gently rubbing his wife's stretch marks, securing backs of dresses and putting her own hair in buns or braids. God, the double-life was great.
brendon park x emma nolan. 18+ MDNI. predator/prey dynamics. possessive behaviors. power imbalance. god complex. love at first sight if the person in "love" was a predator
The pen is blue.
That's the first thing that Park notices. Not her- not yet- just the pen, extended towards him in a small hand that's visibly shaking, a cheap ballpoint with a chewed cap and the logo of some medical supply company stamped along the barrel in white sans-serif font.
It appears in his peripheral the way most things below his sight line appear: as an interruption. (Everything is an interruption, considering his size, bigger than most, the kind of man that makes other men feel small in comparison, that makes rooms rearrange themselves around the fact of him the way villages rearranged themselves around the thing in the mountain that takes their livestock and their daughters and has never once been satisfied-)
It's a minor obstacle in the space between where he's standing at the nurses' station computer, pulling up imaging for a pre-op check that's already twelve minutes behind because radiology can't seem to run on the same clock as the rest of the damn hospital.
"I-I saw you looking for one. You looked like you needed it."
The voice is... small. Not quiet, exactly. Quiet implies intention, implies someone modulating their volume to match their environment. This is just... small, takes up no space at all, exists in the narrow column of air in front of him and doesn't attempt to travel any further.
Park looks down.
She's short. That's the second thing. Short enough that the angle between his eyeline and hers is steep enough to change the shape of her face- foreshortening the bridge of her nose, widening the size of her eyes, turning her her upwards gaze into something that looks less like eye contact and more like looking up. (The way a child looks up. The way something small looks up at something large and doesn't think to be afraid yet because it hasn't learned yet what large things do to small things that don't run when they should.)
Her scrub top is too big. A size, maybe a size and a half, the neckline sitting too wide on her frame, exposing the ridge of a clavicle that reminds him of a bird's bones. Hollow. Breakable. He thinks about how easily things that are built like her come apart, and the thought comes sudden, unbidden, a flicker of currents jumping between axons and dendrites, the briefest neural spark that should fizzle and die the way all intrusive thoughts should fizzle and die, should dissipate into the white noise of a busy shift and a surgery at two and twelve minutes of lost time he can't get back.
But it doesn't fizzle. Something dark in the back of his mind reaches out and snatches the dying flicker before it goes cold, closes a fist around it, drags it forward through the folds of gray matter and settles it into his conscious thought like coal in a nest of kindling. Something ancient and starved and holy in the worst way, living in the unlit nave behind his sternum, breathing slow, fed on small things for years. The thought grows teeth. Opens its eyes. Looks out through his and sees her standing there with her too-big scrub top and her bird bone clavicle and likes what it sees.
He thinks- more strongly now- about how easily things that are built like her come apart. How little force it would take. How she probably doesn't even know that about herself, probably never tested the boundaries of her own construct, never had anyone grip her hard enough to find out where the give is. She's walking around inside of a body she's never been shown the limits of, and something about that untested quality makes the back of his mouth water.
(He thinks about how those hollow bones would look spread out and trembling under his weight, stretching that tiny frame until her belly showed the ridge of him dragging back and forth inside her, until the give in her body became the only thing keeping her intact.)
(He thinks about the deer.
He was sixteen, hunting alongside his father in the Alleghenies, early November, the air cold enough to see his breath and the light coming through trees in long amber shafts that made the frost on the ground look like something out of a painting. The deer walked out of the tree line, a doe, young, standing in the clearing maybe fifteen yards from where he crouched in the brush and looked at him with huge, dark, liquid eyes that contained absolutely no understanding of the danger it was in. No fear. No wariness. No flicker of ancestral recognition that the shape in the shadows was a shape to run from. It just looked at him with the dumb, trusting curiosity of a thing that had never been hunted and therefore didn't know it could be.
His father whispered take the shot.
He didn't take the shot.
He went back the next morning. And the next. And the next. He brought grain, left it at the edge of the clearing, sat in the brush and watched the doe find it and eat it and lift its hard and look towards the place where he was hidden with an expression that was almost... grateful. Devotion of it indistinguishable from worship if you didn't know which one of them was the god and which was the sacrifice.
By the seventh day it walked right up to the grain and stood there, chewing, close enough that he could see the individual lashes framing those huge dark eyes, close enough that if he'd extended his arm fully he could have touched the velvet flat of its nose.
He didn't touch. Not that day.
His father asked him what he was doing. He said he was practicing patience. His father looked at him for a long time and didn't ask again.)
Her badge is clipped to the breast pocket: EMMA NOLAN, RN. EMERGENCY MEDICINE
The badge is clean and the photo looks like it was taken this week, the eager, unweathered headshot of someone who ironed her scrubs for picture day.
Her pockets are full. That's the third thing that does something to the inside of his chest that he recognizes immediately and doesn't bother to suppress. Both front pockets of the scrub top are distended, stuffed to capacity with supplies- pen lights, hemostats, a folded reference card, alcohol swabs, a roll of tape- and she offered him a pen. The absolute, guileless, unironic earnestness lands in the space behind his ribs that most people assume is empty and isn't. (There's something housed there. Something with stone walls and no windows and an altar that has never once been clean.)
She's brand new. He can smell it. Bright eyed, overprepared, hopelessly convinced that the distance between the classroom and the floor is a gap she can bridge with enthusiasm and color coded notes with textbook knowledge that has never once been pressure tested- walking into a building full of people who've had the softness ground out of them and expecting healthcare to be like the brochures. Expecting the job to be what their professors told them it would be. Expecting the people to be kind.
He looks at Emma Nolan and her clean badge and her bird bone clavicles and his teeth ache; a real, physical throb in his jaw, deep in the hinge where the masseter anchors to the mandible, the dull pressure of a bite that hasn't happened yet but wants to- involuntary and grandular.
(He wants, vicerally, to sink her between his jaws, feel the whole of her caught in the cage of his bite, the fine bones and the thin skin and the rapid, hummingbird pulse, to close down slowly enough that she'd feel every degree of increased pressure and understand, in the shrinking space between his teeth, that the only thing keeping her intact his his decision to not bite down all the way. That the structural integrity of Emma Nolan is not a fact. It's a favor. One he can revoke.)
He swallows and the ache doesn't leave. It just settles, migrates from his jaw into the back of his throat, takes up residence somewhere behind his soft palate.
Not here, not now. The thought doesn't come with urgency. It comes with the patience of something that has a den and a long winter and is in absolutely no rush because the thing it's watching doesn't know it's being watched and there's a specific pleasure in that- in the looking, in the having looked, in the accumulation of details that the source of the details doesn't know are being collected. Has been collected for the past thirty seconds and already has more details in it than she'd be comfortable knowing about.
He takes the pen.
Their fingers don't touch. She's holding it by the very end, maximizing the distance between her hand and his. Polite. A deeply ingrained, reflexive politeness, someone who was raised to be considerate of other people's personal spaces. Who says excuse me when passing by one person in an otherwise empty hallway. Who holds open doors for people thirty feet behind her. Who has probably never once in her life taken something from someone without saying thank you.
(He wonders what her thank you would sound like with his hand around her throat and his cock buried deep in her cunt. Resting on the column of her neck with his thumb against her pulse while she says it, so he could feel the words in her larynx before they left her mouth. Feel the vibration of her gratitude hum against his palm while he fucks her open, dragging every inch of his heavy shaft along her walls until he's grinding right up against her cervix, carving himself so deep inside of her, she'll feel him for days.
He bets she'd still say it. He bets she'd look up at him with those too big eyes, glassy and lust drunk now, lips parted and trembling, and moan a soft breathy "thank you" while he's fingers tighten on the carotids just enough to make her head spin and her pussy clench around him like a fist. The kind of girl who'd find something to be grateful for in the grip that's killing her.)
She's smiling at him.
It's a terrible smile. Not because it's unattractive- her face is good, open and symmetric, a mouth slightly too wide for the rest of her features in a way that makes every expression she produces disproportionately loud- but because it's real. Completely, recklessly, almost offensively real. No calculation. No armor. No awareness that the man she's smiling at has been described by three separate residents, in three separate interviews, as the reason I changed specialties.
She doesn't know who he is. Or she does know, in the abstract way that new graduates know things- a name on a directory, a face in an orientation packet- but the knowledge hasn't translated into the wariness it should produce. The knowledge hasn't reached her body yet. Her shoulders are open. Her weight is forward, on the balls of her feet, leaning towards him slightly, the posture of a person who moves towards other people instead of away from them because the world hasn't yet taught her that some people you move towards are the reason the lesson exists.
He wants to teach her.
The want is there, fully formed, sitting in his chest since the moment she extended a shaking hand with a cheap pen and looked up at him like he was a person and not what he actually is. Because she is smiling at him the way she would smile at anyone else. She has one smile and it costs her nothing and she has no idea- no framework, no instinct- that giving it to him is different than giving it to anyone else. That most people in this building are furniture and she is the first thing he's looked at in months.
He wonders how long it would take to make her stop smiling.
Not by being cruel. That would be too easy. He could do that in a sentence, in a comment. He could wipe that smile off her face in four seconds and she'd probably apologize for having it.
No. He wonders how long it would take to make her stop smiling at other people. To make the smile something only she does for him. To hollow out the indiscriminate generosity of it and reshape it into something specific, something that only activates when he walks into a room, that only exists on her face the way a reflex exists, involuntary and entirely dependent on the right stimulus.
He wants to be the stimulus. He wants to be the only one. Not by earning devotion but by salting the earth around every other altar until there was nowhere left to worship but at his feet.
The thought doesn't alarm him. He settles alongside the others- the bird bone clavicle, the overstuffed pockets, the voice that doesnt take up space- and it fits. Like the space was always there. Like he's been carrying the space of this particular want for a long time and she just walked into the hallway and filled it.
"I'm Emma," she says. "I just started today. Not just here. I mean this is my first- I'm a new grad, so everything is kind of my first-"
She's rambling. He watches her realize she's rambling. Watches the precise second she hears herself, the little spark of realization in her eyes, the flush that darkens the warm brown of her cheeks, deepening the skin below her ears and across the bridge of her nose into something richer, bilateral bloom, embarrassment heat he can see against her cheekbones until even the press of her lips looks swollen with embarassment.
She swallows and he watches the delicate tendons in her throat shift, flex beneath smooth skin, a subtle bob that makes his cock twitch and fuck, his mind goes straight to imagining putting his teeth on that tendon, the points of his canines resting in the shallow valley between the sternocleidomastoid and the strap muscles and holding. Holding until she stops talking. Holding until the rambling dies and her breathing hitches and stops and the only sound is the pulse he can feel hammering against his mouth.
He wonders if she would go still, frozen, every voluntary muscle locked, the ancient mammalian hardware taking over and telling her body that thing with its teeth on her throat might lose interest if she doesn't move.
(He imagines sliding two thick fingers between her lips right then, pressing down on her tongue until she gags, teaching her the only safe place for her words is wrapped around his knuckles while he finger-fucks her throat open, to make her drool and to make her apologize for the drool. The thought makes his cock throb so hard he has to shift, to keep it from pressing visibly against his scrubs.)
"Sorry," she says. "You probably don't care about any of that."
She apologized. She apologized for talking to him. For taking up space in his day. For the crime of existing in his vicinity with her shaking hands and her big eyes and her pockets full of supplies. She apologized like its second nature, like she moves through the world with sorry always on the tip of her tongue, making herself smaller, tucking herself into corners, the perpetual apology of a person who was taught that her presence is an imposition and never questioned the lesson.
He thinks: who taught you that.
He thinks: I want to meet them. I want to shake their hand. They did all the groundwork and they don't even know what they built.
Because that's what she is. Groundwork. A foundation already poured. Someone- a parent, a teacher, some formative cruelty she probably doesn't even remember- already taught Emma Nolan that the correct response to authority is deference. That the correct response to taking up space is apology. That the correct posture in the presence of someone who matters more than her is small. All that training, all those years of learned submission, and nobody bothered to teach her what it looks like from the other side. Nobody told her that making yourself small in front of certain predators isn't safety. It's an invitation.
He should respond. The social contract of this interaction requires it- a name, a thank you, a dismissal. This is a five second exchange. He's has millions of them.
He stands there with her pen in his hand and he looks at her and the thing in the dark of his brain, the thing living behind his sternum isn't opening one eye anymore. It's on its feet. It's pacing.
She's still looking up at him. The embarrassment hasn't faded. Her eyes are brown and in this kind of lighting they look almost black. Wet. Not crying-wet. Just the general shine of eyes that still react to things. Eyes that haven't been dulled by decades of fluorescent lights and administrative indifference. Eyes that feel things still and show the feelings and don't know that showing is giving and giving is losing and she's been losing since she walked over here.
He can see everything in those eyes. He can see the nervousness and the eagerness and the desperate, aching hope that she's making a good impression, and beneath it all, buried so deep she probably can't even name it, he finds the think he's actually looking for: the need. The need to matter to someone who matters, to be singled out, to be chosen, to have someone look at her the way he's looking at her right now and make her feel like she's the only person in the building.
She has no idea that need is a door. And she just showed him exactly where the handle is. That she is looking up at him with the same eyes as the deer. The same absence of understanding. The same willing to stand in the open and be looked at by something she should be running from.
"Thank you," he says. He clicks the pen. "Emma."
He says her name and watches what it does to her face the way he watched the doe's ears rotate towards the sound of his footsteps- a full body orientation towards a stimulus she should be flinching from and instead leans into. Her mouth opens slightly, a millimeter of space between her lips that she's not aware of producing. Her pupils dilate.
She doesn't know what any of that means. She doesn't know that her body just handed him a blueprint, that every involuntary response she's produced in the last ninety seconds is a map he's drawn of her. A map that shows him every unlocked door and unlocked window in the architecture of Emma Nolan, and she assembled it for him herself. Handed it over with a pen and a smile. Free of charge.
"Thank you for the pen, Emma," he says again, and he lets her name sit in his mouth a beat longer than necessary. Lets the second syllable land softer. Watches the softness hit her nervous system like the grain in the clearing.
She lights up. The smile comes back, wider now, and she ducks her head- a small, deferential, instinctive motion that exposes the back of her neck.
The back of her neck.
He looks at it. The fine hairs at her nape. The knobs of her cervical spine pressing against skin so thin he can see the vulnerable hollow at the base of her skull. She's showing it to him. She doesn't know she's showing it to him. She ducked her head because she's pleased and this is what pleased looks like on a body that hasn't learned to guard itself, and the back of her neck is right there, six inches from his hand, close enough that if he reached out and set his palm against the nape and squeezed-
She'd make a sound. A small one, startled, and he wants to hear that sound. He wants to file it along side every other response her body has produced in the last ninety seconds and then spend however long it takes learning which ones he can produce on command.
(He imagines setting his palm flat, fingers splayed wide, on the back of her skull until her cheek is smushed into his mattress, ass up high, her knees forced apart by the width of his thighs as he pushed his cock into the silk of her cunt. Hand locked on her nape the whole time, pinning her there, using the leverage to pull her back on his cock again, again, little muffled cries vibrating against his palm as her pussy flutters and clenches around the stretch of him-)
He doesn't reach out.
He gives her a nod- brief, professional, a nod that anyone watching would read as a senior physician acknowledging a new staff member and nothing more.
"Welcome to PTMC," he says.
She beams, full wattage, the kind of smile that uses every muscle in her face and crinkles the corners of her eyes and makes her look even younger than she is, which is already too young, which is already so young that thing in the back of his brain hums in delight. Delight in the guarantee, that this will be easy, that she will come willing, a lock he's already been handed the key to, that the gap between who she thinks he is and who he actually is will shorten until she she walks into the door he holds open for her and the door closes behind her and she realizes there's no handle on the inside.
She turns and walks towards the Pitt, her pigtails bouncing. Her too-big scrub top shifts on her shoulders with every step, exposing the nape of her neck and then covering and then exposing it again. He watches the rhythm of it. Bare skin. Cotton. Bare skin. Cotton.
She pulls something from her pocket. Another pen. Of course. Of course she has more pens. Of course she came prepared for every possible scenario except the one she doesn't know she's in.
He clicks the pen twice. It makes a tinny, unsatisfying sound that he's going to hear for the rest of the day every time he reaches for his breast pocket and feels the outline of a ballpoint he didn't buy.
He thinks of mythology- every religion, every dead civilization that scratched it's fears into cave walls and temple stones- of the offering. The first fruits. The unblemished lamb. The thing you bring to the feet of something vast and indifferent and lay down with trembling hands because you don't understand what it is, you just know it's bigger than you and the only way to survive in its proximity is to give it something. To feed it. To prove that you know your place in the hierarchy of the living and the thing at the top of the hierarchy is not you.
The offering is never for the god's benefit. Gods don't need pens. Gods don't need lambs, or the grain, of the wine poured into dirt. The offering is a transaction- worshippers buying the illusion of safety, and the god accepts because the acceptance is what keeps them coming back. Keep accepting and they keep giving. Keep taking the small things and eventually they'll give you the big things. Their harvest. Their firstborn.
Their throat.
Emma Nolan walked across a room full of people who knew better and she held out a ballpoint pen to something she mistook for a man, and she smiled her full, reckless smile, and she said you looked like you needed it.
An offering. Brought to the altar on trembling hands by a girl with bird bones and Bambi eyes who doesn't know the predator she walked up to. Who thinks the warmth she felt when he said her name was kindness. Who has no framework, no mythology, no ancestral memory whispering to her that thing smiling back at her from behind the altar has never once in its existence been kind. That it has only ever been patient. And that patience, in a god, is not a virtue.
It's a hunting strategy.
He thinks about the deer again. The clearing. The mist. The huge dark eyes and the absolute absence of fear. He didn't shoot it that morning. He sat in the brush and he watched it graze and he let it walk back into the tree line on its own legs and he came back the next day and the day after that until the deer stopped flinching at the sound of him and started walking towards the brush instead of away from it.
You looked like you needed it.
Yeah.
He did.
(Park puts the pen in his breast pocket. Accepts the offering.)
pairing: mechanic!jason todd x bimbo!reader
category: mechanic au, grumpy x sunshine, dc comics, romance, slice of life, slow burn, action, banter, soft tension, competent reader, strong female lead, slight violence, quick scene of SH (nothing graphic!), foul language
word count: 6K
dividers: enchanthings
a/n: im starting a new series because i have a serious problem :3 im gonna be honest, im not the biggest fan of pink and the ultrafemme aesthetic just because my personal taste is def more androgynous goth, but after seeing these coquette images on pinterest (sponsor me pls) I just had a mental vomit for this fic series with my love Jason todd. i hope yall like it, enjoy reading <3
˚.𖦹°Masterlist✶⋆.˚/Next Chapter
The shop smells like oil and metal and something that might’ve died in the vents weeks ago. The neon RED LINE AUTO sign outside flickers like it’s having a nervous breakdown. Roy Harper sits on an upside-down bucket, waving a pink-glitter résumé in the air like he just found a treasure map.
“Jason, I’m tellin’ you—she’s perfect.”
Jason Todd doesn’t even look up from the busted transmission he’s elbows-deep in. “You say that every time someone with tits walks through the door.”
Roy grins, unoffended. “Yeah, but this one wrote in a glitter pen. That’s commitment.”
Jason snatches the paper from him. The thing sparkles under the fluorescent lights like it’s mocking him.
-Interests: fashion, manipulation, being the center of attention, and pink.
What’s a carburetor?: I don’t know, I don’t care, and I don’t give a fuck.
Jason drags a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, Harper.”
“She’s honest! Refreshing, even.”
“You wanna hire someone who thinks a carburetor is a mood.”
Roy shrugs. “We need someone who won’t scare off customers. Half the people who walk in here think you’re gonna eat their souls.”
Jason glares. “Maybe because you keep telling them I used to kill people.”
Roy grins, unapologetic. “Technically true.”
Before Jason can respond, the sharp click of heels echoes through the garage. Both men look up.
You’re framed in the open bay door, sunlight behind you like some divine joke. Pink miniskirt, cherry lip gloss, tiny heart-shaped purse swinging from your wrist. You smell like vanilla, chaos, and trouble.
“Hi!” you chirp, voice bright enough to make the lightbulbs hum. “I’m here about the job.”
Roy’s smirk widens. “Told ya.”
Jason mutters something that sounds suspiciously like fuck me under his breath.
You stop in the middle of the shop, taking in the grime, the oil-stained rags, and Roy’s “tasteful” pin-up calendar. “Well,” you say with a grin, “it’s definitely… rustic.”
“Welcome to Red Line Auto,” Jason deadpans. “You any good with paperwork?”
You flash him a smile that could melt asphalt. “I’m great at making things look good. Paperwork’s things, right?”
You tilt your head, sweet and unbothered. “Look, I’m not gonna pretend I know how to change a tire or whatever it is you people do here. But I can keep your appointments straight, make cranky old men spend more, and smile through just about anything. You’ll thank me later.”
Roy whispers, “She’s already doing better PR than we ever have.”
Jason shoots him a look that could kill. “We don’t even have a desk.”
“That’s fine,” you say, pulling a pink pen out of your bag. “I can improvise. Or you can build me one. You look like you have strong arms.”
Roy nearly chokes on his laughter. Jason just mutters, “You’re buying the damn desk, Harper.”
A few hours later, there’s a “desk”—if you can call a tool cart with a clipboard and half a phone a desk. You’re perched on a stool that wobbles if you breathe too hard, sipping cherry Coke from a straw, pretending you don’t notice Jason glancing your way every few minutes.
When the bell over the door jingles, you’re up before he can move. The guy looks like every impatient customer Jason hates dealing with—suit, Bluetooth earpiece, zero patience.
You beam, leaning on the counter with that smile that could sell air to a drowning man. “Afternoon! What’re we ruining your day with today—oil change, tire rotation, or a general lack of manners?”
The man blinks, then laughs. Roy whistles low. Jason hides a smile behind his hand.
As the customer fills out a form, Roy leans against Jason’s shoulder. “Told you, man. She’s customer-service magic.”
Jason doesn’t answer. He’s too busy pretending not to notice the way your pink pen glitters every time you write a number down, the faint scent of perfume hanging in the air, or the fact that—for the first time in months—the shop feels alive.
He mutters under his breath, “She’s gonna give me an aneurysm.”
Roy grins. “Yeah, but you’ll die happy.”
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The morning sunlight cuts through the cracked windows of the shop, slicing the dust like lazy, golden knives. The air smells like hot oil, stale coffee, and the ghost of cigarettes from tenants past.
Jason Todd’s under a Dodge, half awake, muttering at a bolt that refuses to turn. He’s been up since seven. His patience died around seven-thirty.
The door chime jingles.
He slides out from under the car, wiping his hands on a rag. “One week on the job and you’re already—”
You sashay through the doorway in platform boots, caramel latte in one hand and a pink bakery box in the other. The smell of sugar and caffeine follows you like a halo.
“—late,” he finishes flatly.
“Not late,” you correct, setting the donuts on the nearest workbench. “Fashionably delayed. There’s a difference.”
Roy’s already peeling the lid open. “Bless you, angel of mercy.” He stuffs half a cruller into his mouth before Jason can even form a complaint.
Jason wipes the grease off his fingers, glaring. “It’s your first week, and you’re—”
“Improving morale,” you cut in with a smile that could blind a saint. “Step one: donuts. Step two: makeover.”
He groans. “No.”
“Yes,” you sing, sipping your latte.
Roy looks up, powdered sugar on his cheek. “Makeover sounds good to me.”
Jason mutters something about quitting his own damn shop.
You start before he can stop you. The first casualty is the pin-up calendar hanging crooked over Roy’s toolbox. You pluck it off the nail, flip it closed with two fingers, and hand it back to him with the bored grace of a queen returning a peasant’s trinket.
He straightens immediately. “Uh… yeah. Sure. Been meanin’ to take that down anyway.”
“In this century, we celebrate professionalism,” you say, pulling a dry-erase board from your oversized tote. You hang it with pink thumbtacks you absolutely did not ask permission to use.
In neat cursive, you start filling columns—
Appointments — Parts ETA — Call Backs—
all in rose-colored ink.
Roy whistles. “You actually… remembered all that?”
“Of course.” You dot a little heart over the “i” in Friday. “Organization is sexy.”
Jason passes behind you, pretending not to look, but his eyes keep drifting back to the board. It makes the chaos look almost manageable—like a real business instead of two guys white-knuckling a dream.
Next comes your desk—the battered tool cart Jason swore was junk. You roll it to the front window and lay down a strip of pink-gingham cloth. A fake succulent. A cup of glitter pens. A tidy stack of trash magazines: Vogue, People, and Mechanic Monthly, purely for irony. Beside it, your nail kit gleams under the fluorescent lights.
Roy peers over your shoulder. “You bringin’ a spa to the shop?”
“Maybe I’m bringing taste to the shop,” you shoot back, smoothing the cloth.
Then you pull the next miracle out of your bag: a mint-green thrift-store turntable.
Jason blinks like you’ve just announced a séance. “A what now?”
“For ambience,” you say.
“It’s a garage.”
“It’s a pièce de résistance, darling.” You set the record player beside your desk, drop the needle, and let the faint crackle of Fleetwood Mac hum under the clank of tools. “We’re manifesting prosperity.”
Roy nods sagely. “Manifest the hell outta it.”
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
By midday you’re leaning against the counter, scrolling on your phone. “Okay, morale improvement, step three: hydration.”
Roy perks up. “Beer?”
“Mini fridge.” You turn the screen toward them—your cart already loaded with a bubble-gum-pink model. “Look at her. She’s perfect. Chic. Inspiring.”
Jason groans. “This isn’t a spa, it’s a real business.”
“It can be both if you have taste,” you shoot back. “We deserve nice things.”
Roy’s already on your side. “She’s got a point, man. My Red Bull’s been warm for weeks.”
Jason pinches the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely not.”
Cut to ten minutes later: you supervising like a tyrant while both men wrestle the box through the door.
“I can’t believe you convinced me to buy this,” Jason mutters, trying not to drop it.
“Consider it a business expense,” you say, batting your lashes. “I’ll invoice you.”
“You have never successfully used our invoicing software,” he fires back.
“That’s because it’s ugly.”
Roy’s laughing too hard to help. They finally set it down beside your desk with a heavy thud. You plug it in, the little hum blending with the music, and ceremoniously stock it with cherry Cokes, bottled water, and one mysterious yogurt cup.
After making sure the refrigerator he “absolutely didn’t want” was in place, Jason rolls his shoulders and bends back into the guts of a Honda. It’s hot. The air smells like metal and summer. You let yourself look for half a second too long before you get a grip and turn back to your desk.
An hour later he’s still there, jaw tight, fighting a rusted bolt like it insulted his mother. Sweat runs down his temple, catching the light. You pop open the new fridge and grab a cold bottle.
You don’t say anything when you walk over. You just press it to the inside of his wrist.
He startles; then his shoulders drop like someone cut a wire. He takes it. “Thanks,” he says, quiet.
“Hydration’s hot,” you murmur. “Try it sometime.”
He almost smiles. Almost.
Fleetwood Mac keeps playing. The fridge hums. Outside, the neon sign flickers; for once, the shop doesn’t feel like a tomb—it feels alive.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The summer heat hits different in week three. The shop’s fans hum like lazy hornets, and every surface is sticky with either grease or humidity—or both. You’re perched behind your makeshift desk, painting a fresh coat of bubblegum pink over one thumbnail, the record player murmuring something low and dreamy in the background.
Jason’s under a car again, radio static buzzing from somewhere near his feet. Roy’s elbow-deep in an oil change, singing off-key to whatever’s playing. The rhythm is comfortable now, familiar.
Then the peace dies in a screech of tires.
A silver sports car slides into the parking lot like it’s trying to make an entrance. You can hear the ego before you see it.
Jason mutters something under his breath. “This’ll be fun.”
The guy who steps out looks like every overpaid Gotham executive rolled into one: fitted polo, mirrored shades, loafers that have never touched asphalt. He storms in like the shop owes him rent money.
“My engine light’s on,” he snaps, tossing his keys on your counter. “Fix it. Now.”
You glance down at the schedule you spent half the morning color-coding. “The main mechanics are tied up with pre-booked work, darling,” you say, polite and professional. “You’ll just need to hang tight until our other tech clocks in—shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”
He laughs once—sharp, condescending. “Listen, sweetheart, you seem like a pretty decent little eye candy for this place, but I need someone who actually knows cars. Now.”
The sound that comes out of Jason is low, dark, and way too close to a growl. From across the shop, he straightens, eyes locked on the man like a scope finding its mark.
Roy mutters, “Here we go.”
You don’t flinch. You’ve seen this before—guys who think loud voices and big wallets can buy respect. You keep your tone sweet, sugar-laced with venom.
“I’m so sorry, sugar, but I don’t take orders. I barely take suggestions.”
You tilt your head toward the mason jar at the corner of your cart—
SUGGESTIONS / TIPS (cash only)—the label glittering under the fluorescent light. The jar is stuffed with bills.
“Feel free to drop your feedback right in there,” you say, flashing him your most dazzling smile.
The man’s mouth works soundlessly, as if his brain is buffering.
Jason’s already halfway across the floor before Roy catches his arm. “Let her handle it,” Roy hisses, but Jason’s jaw stays clenched.
Finally, the customer clears his throat. “Fine. I’ll wait,” he grumbles, voice thick with resentment, and snatches his keys back.
“Perfect!” you chirp. “There’s coffee over by the fan, and reading material right here.”
You hand him a magazine from your stash—glossy, pink, and absolutely titled 10 Signs You’re the Problem.
Roy snorts so hard he nearly drops a wrench. Jason actually—almost—smiles.
The man slumps into the waiting bench, defeated by your sugar-coated precision. You turn back to your nails, humming under your breath, unbothered.
Jason watches from the bay, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He tells himself he’s just impressed by your people skills. He doesn’t admit the real thought: that he’s proud of you, and that scares the hell out of him.
Roy leans over his shoulder and whispers, “She’s customer-service Batman.”
Jason shakes his head, smirking just a little. “Nah,” he mutters, turning back to his tools. “She’s scarier.”
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
By the fifth week, the shop hums like a living thing.
The new record player crackles quietly through the haze of exhaust—Madonna one day, The Runaways the next. Your whiteboard gleams in pink cursive, every appointment stacked and organized, every call logged with a heart over the “i.”
Jason won’t admit it out loud, but things actually run better now. He still grumbles every morning when he walks in and sees the fake plant and the pink fridge glowing like a neon sign of chaos, but the jobs get done. The bills are paid. Customers actually come back.
And then the jocks show up.
The glass door jingles and in they stroll—five of them, all varsity smiles and matching letterman jackets, smelling like cologne and entitlement. You recognize the type immediately: daddy’s cars, mama’s money, and an attention span shorter than a TikTok.
You smooth your skirt, tilt your head, and smile the kind of smile that makes men do stupid things. “Welcome to Red Line Auto, boys! What can I do for you?”
One of them—tall, all jawline—whistles low. “Damn, sweetheart, you actually work here?”
You beam. “Of course I do. Someone’s gotta keep these grease monkeys in line.”
They laugh—exactly the response you wanted.
You lean a little on the counter, elbows just so. “Now, I’m sure handsome young men like you must have lucky girlfriends already. Why not buy them a few extra things to put in your car? A glitter-dice air freshener, maybe one of those heart keychains—make ’em happy.”
Within minutes, they’re arguing over colors. You keep your tone soft, teasing, all honey and manipulation. By the time they pay, the counter’s half empty and they’re out almost four hundred bucks in unnecessary accessories.
As the door jingles closed, one of them slides a slip of paper toward you. “My number. In case you, uh, wanna ride in a real car.”
You pick it up with two fingers, still smiling. “Aww. That’s precious.”
They swagger out, laughing.
The moment the glass door clicks shut, you drop the number straight into the trash can.
Jason’s there before you even look up. You didn’t hear him walk over, but you feel his presence—warm, heavy, grounding.
“Question,” he says gruffly, wiping his hands on a rag.
You glance up, pen still twirling between your fingers. “Shoot.”
He nods toward the door the jocks just left through. “Why d’you act like you’re suckling dumb pills around guys like that? You’re not.”
“Please,” you say, capping your pink pen with a click. “Of course I’m not. But do you want to sell more to rich jerks or have me lecture them about internalized misogyny?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. His brow furrows like he’s trying to argue but can’t find the angle.
You grin. “Didn’t think so. They tip better when they think I can’t spell receipt. I can. Shockingly.”
Jason stares for a beat, and the corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s damn close. “You’re scary good at this.”
You wink. “I enjoy paying rent. The rest is theater.” You twirl the pen once and gesture at the impulse rack stacked with glitter-dice and lip-balm toolboxes. “Besides, I got them to pay five times as much thanks to this rack—” you tap the display “—and this rack.” You point to your chest.
Roy, passing behind with a tire slung over his shoulder, stops mid-stride and lets out a dreamy sigh. “God, I love capitalism.”
Jason drags a hand down his face, muttering, “I hate both of you.”
You just laugh—bright and easy—and turn back to rearranging your display. He watches a moment longer than he means to before heading back to the bay, jaw set, pulse just a little faster.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
By mid-afternoon, the air tastes like metal and heat. The record player hums something low and crackly, and you’re filing receipts while Jason and Roy bicker over who misplaced the torque wrench this time.
Then Roy freezes mid-argument, eyes wide. “Shit. I forgot to pick up the valve regulator.”
Jason groans. “You promised that job’d be done by five.”
Roy wipes his hands on his coveralls, already backing toward the door like a man walking into his own funeral. “Across the street’s got it,” he says quickly. “I can run—”
“I’ll go,” you chirp, already grabbing the purchase order and your bag. “I need steps. My watch yelled at me.”
Jason straightens immediately. “I’ll go.”
You turn to him with both hands on your hips, eyes narrowed like you’re about to scold a child. “Jason, you’re knee-deep in an alternator and Roy’s too busy pretending to be useful. This is exactly what I’m here for. Just because I don’t know what a fucking turbine looks like doesn’t mean I can’t handle picking up a part. I’ve survived rush hour at a Forever 21 on Black Friday. I’ll live.”
Roy whistles low. “She’s got a point, man.”
Jason steps forward to argue again—right into one of the glass hanging planters you installed last week. The thunk echoes across the shop.
You wince. “Oof. Sorry. That one’s glass. Don’t bleed on anything cute.”
He freezes, hand over his temple, grimacing. You take a step closer, guilt flickering under the sass. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he mutters, rubbing the spot.
“You sure? ’Cause I don’t think OSHA covers decorative injuries.”
That earns you a half-growl, half-grumble that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, and you take it as your cue to head out before he can protest again.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The rival shop—Iron Claw Auto—sits across the street like a bad omen: sign half-flickering, windows tinted too dark, the kind of place that smells like stolen hubcaps and cheap cologne. You can feel Jason’s eyes burning into your back from the doorway even before you cross.
Inside, the air is heavy with exhaust and bad flirting. A mechanic with slicked-back hair—Trent, according to the grease-stained name patch—leans on the counter the moment you walk in.
“Hey there, doll face,” he drawls, eyes dragging down your outfit like it’s for sale. “Don’t usually see a face like yours around here. You sure you’re in the right shop?”
You smile, light and professional, the kind that hides knives behind pearls. “Positive. I’m here for an order pick-up from Red Line.” You slide the purchase slip toward him with manicured fingers.
He doesn’t take it right away. “I could think of better ways to spend my afternoon than handing over car parts.”
“Lucky for both of us, I can’t,” you say brightly. “Now, about that part?”
Trent chuckles, finally turning to fetch it, his movements deliberately slow. You catch yourself glancing toward the open bay door, half expecting Jason to appear in full body armor and throw the man through a wall.
Across the street, he’s planted in the garage doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. Jason can’t hear words, only cadence—the bright lilt of your voice, the polite laughter you use when someone’s pressing your boundaries. The longer he watches, the tenser his shoulders get.
Trent leans closer when he hands over the bag, voice low and smug. Whatever he says makes you laugh once—sharp and empty. Then you sign the receipt, pivot, and walk out with the poise of a queen leaving court.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
Back at Red Line, Roy’s on his knees searching under a workbench for a socket when you stride in. You toss him the bag. “Got it! He tried to flirt. I tried not to yawn.”
Roy peeks inside, smirking. “Did you get his number?”
“Yeah,” you say dryly, grabbing your cherry Coke from the mini fridge. “It’s 1-800-blocked.”
Jason doesn’t move aside fast enough when you pass him, so you shoulder through, perfume cutting through gasoline and ozone. His brain goes static for half a second before the noise settles.
You’re already back at your board, scribbling the part number in pink bubble letters, Coke sweating in the light from your mini fridge. Jason stands frozen, watching from the doorway, memorizing the faces across the street.
Roy sidles up beside him, wiping his hands. “You look constipated, man.”
“I’m fine,” Jason says automatically.
“Sure,” Roy says. “And I’m celibate.”
Jason doesn’t look away. “They’re dirty.”
Roy’s grin fades a fraction. “Yeah. I know.” He glances sideways. “Patrol duty on them next time?”
Jason’s eyes flicker darker. “Yeah. Maybe.”
For a long moment, they both just watch the rival shop in silence, the low hum of your record player filling the air behind them.
Jason finally looks back inside. The planter that nailed him earlier still sways gently from its string, a tiny leaf brushing the glass every time it turns. You, at your desk, are humming under your breath, completely oblivious to how much space you’ve taken up in his head.
“You okay, boss?” you call without looking up.
He blinks once. “Yeah.”
“Great,” you say. “’Cause you’re changing that lightbulb I told you about. I’m not risking breaking a nail on a ladder.”
He snorts despite himself. “I’ll get the ladder.”
You grin, slow and wicked. “Good boy.”
Roy immediately drops a wrench on purpose, just to make Jason flinch.
The record player crackles, the pink fridge hums, and sunlight bleeds gold across the floor. For the first time since the sign above the door started flickering, Red Line Auto feels like more than a business. It feels like the start of something dangerous and almost—almost—warm.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The day feels longer than it should.
It’s end-of-month chaos—three cars behind schedule, one customer who screamed about oil stains on his floor mats, and Roy swearing he can “feel the caffeine vibrating in his blood.”
When the last car rolls out and the bay doors rattle shut, the shop finally exhales.
Roy slaps his paycheck against the counter, grinning wide. “We survived a month with Miss Sunshine here. We’re celebratin’.”
Jason doesn’t even look up from the invoice he’s signing. “We have work tomorrow.”
You glance over from your desk, one brow arched. “No booked appointments. We can schedule maybe two guys for a half day just in case we get walk-ins and take the weekend off.” You stand, stretching your arms over your head with a dramatic sigh. “Besides, it’s my one-month anniversary of dealing with you idiots. I deserve a toast.”
Roy whoops. “She’s got a point, boss!”
Jason mutters, “She’s got too many of those,” but his mouth twitches.
When Roy starts shutting off the lights, you groan dramatically, looking down at your carefully picked-out work clothes. “Wait, we’re going now? I can’t go to a bar looking like this. I look like a goddamn grease-goblin.”
Jason glances over his shoulder. “You don’t even have a stain on you.”
“That’s not the point!” you protest, waving a hand. “I can’t flirt with anyone in mechanic drag.”
Roy’s laughing. “We ain’t goin’ to flirt; we’re goin’ to drink.”
You narrow your eyes. “Then you can both drink without me looking like a swamp rat.”
Jason folds his arms, leaning against the workbench. “We’re not drivin’ across town just so you can change.”
You huff, dramatic as ever. “Fine. Watch and learn, boys.”
You grab your tote bag and march toward the bathroom, muttering something about “aesthetic integrity” under your breath.
The second the door shuts, Roy smirks at Jason. “You’re so whipped.”
Jason shoots him a glare. “I’m not whipped.”
Roy tosses his keys from hand to hand. “You act like you don’t care, but you’ve been watchin’ her since she walked in day one.”
“She’s trouble,” Jason mutters.
“She’s fun,” Roy corrects. “Besides, Red Line’s been boring as shit since before she showed up. Now we’ve got customers who actually smile at us.”
Jason doesn’t answer, just glances at the light flickering in the back corner. As if trying to steer the conversation somewhere that isn’t his fucked-up love life, he growls, “I still think Iron Claw’s dirty.”
Roy nods, expression sobering. “Patrol tonight after we drop her off?”
“Yeah,” Jason says quietly. “Just in case.”
They lapse into silence, the hum of the record player filling the background—a David Bowie classic, the needle popping softly in the groove.
The bathroom door creaks open.
You emerge ten minutes later, a completely different creature—bare shoulders catching the dying sunlight, glossy lips, a skirt that should be illegal in three states. The pink neon from the window paints you in light like a stage spotlight.
Roy’s mid-sentence and just stops. “Holy hell.”
Jason’s holding a wrench; he forgets what for.
You smile sweetly, twirling your keys. “What? This old thing? It’s just my emergency outfit I keep in my bag.”
Roy’s already shrugging on his jacket, grinning ear to ear. “Truck’s out front! Let’s go before she changes her mind.”
Jason just exhales through his nose, muttering under his breath, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
You catch it, of course. You always do. “Good. At least you’ll die looking at something cute.”
You saunter out first, Roy following, still laughing. Jason lingers a beat longer—because the record’s still playing, and he’s realizing for the first time that when you left, you took all the noise with you.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The bar’s the kind of place that smells like whiskey, sweat, and lost paychecks. A jukebox groans something old in the corner.
You and Roy lead the charge, Jason trailing behind like a reluctant babysitter. He scans the room automatically—exits, corners, faces he doesn’t trust. He spots them instantly: the rival shop crowd, Trent included, laughing too loud in the back booth.
You head for a different one, only to find it already occupied. The solution? A smile, two sentences, and a tilt of your head. Within moments, the group vacates like you’re royalty.
Roy whistles. “She’s terrifying.”
Jason grunts. “Stay close. Don’t leave her alone.”
Roy snorts. “Relax, man. She’s fine.”
He’s not convinced.
You slide into the booth first, smoothing your skirt, ordering a round before the boys even sit down. Roy starts recounting some chaotic story about accidentally overfilling a radiator; you laugh so hard you nearly choke on your drink.
Jason watches the way your hand flicks against your glass, the way your laughter fills a space that used to feel too big. Roy’s clearly your favorite, and it needles him more than he’d ever admit.
When Roy excuses himself—“gonna hit the head”—Jason’s left with nothing but the noise of the bar and you across the table.
He clears his throat. “So… Venturi or some bullshit like that.”
You blink, confused. “Venturi?”
“The magazine,” he says, nodding toward the glossy cover peeking out of your bag. “You were reading it earlier.”
A slow grin spreads across your face. “It’s Versace, you dense little man. And it’s just another article about the brand’s new summer runway show.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Right. Well… you’d probably make it look better than they do anyway.”
You go still, that grin faltering just a little—because that wasn’t flirtation, not really. It sounded like honesty, quiet and clumsy.
“Don’t laugh,” you warn, fiddling with your straw, something close to nerves slipping through, “but I actually wanted to study fashion. Didn’t work out, though. Money was tight, and the whole industry’s a rich-kids-only club anyway, so fuck that bullshit.”
You shrug it off like it’s nothing, but Jason sees it—the mask of your bedazzled, dive-bar bravado cracking for a moment, revealing a girl whose dream got taken too fast by an elitist machine.
“But how do you still dress in fancy stuff all the time? Do you make your own?” Jason leans back, watching you, gently nudging you open.
You nod. “Most of it. Thrift stores, fabric bins, a sewing kit from hell. You’d be surprised what you can pull off when rent’s due and all you’ve got is a broken machine and a dream.”
Something in his expression softens. “Yeah. I get that.”
You tilt your head. “You?”
“Believe it or not, I didn’t exactly grow up in luxury either,” he admits. “Before Bruce, it was just me and the streets. Parents didn’t give a crap. Ate if I could steal food, slept if I could find warmth.”
You study him—really study him—for the first time. The tired eyes, the old scars peeking from his sleeve, the weight he carries like it’s welded to his spine.
“You know, you’ve got that look,” you say quietly. “The one people get when they’ve lived through too much and still decided to keep going. It’s weirdly sexy.”
He blinks, utterly thrown. “That’s… one way to put it.”
You giggle, leaning in. “It’s a compliment, Jason. Take it before I revoke it.”
He looks away, ears burning red. “You’re impossible.”
“Thank you.” You grin, knowing.
Before he can recover, Roy reappears, sheepish and empty-handed. “She had a boyfriend. Tragic.”
You pat his shoulder, laughing. “You’ll survive, Casanova.”
Jason shakes his head, but he’s smiling—barely. For the first time, it’s not an almost. It’s small and crooked and real.
He stands. “I’ll get us another round.”
You watch him walk away, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest. You tell it to shut the fuck up, but your pulse disagrees.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
He peels away from the booth and threads through the crowd to the bar, shoulders loosening as he goes. He leans against the scarred wood and orders with that low rasp of a voice that could probably wring a confession out of a saint. The bartender slides him three bottles. Jason nods, eyes distant, the weight of the night settling.
Roy might be right, he thinks, watching bubbles climb through amber. She’s trouble.
But she’s also warmth. Color. Noise. Things he hasn’t let himself want in a long time.
He hates how easy it’s getting to like you—how you don’t take his shit, how you always find the light in the cracks. Maybe he’ll let you through. Maybe.
He’s halfway back to the booth when his stomach drops.
You’re not alone.
Trent from Iron Claw Auto is tucked beside you, grinning like a snake. Roy is nowhere. Trent’s arm drapes the back of the booth, his body too close, his voice too loud.
Jason’s whole body goes tight. His fingers flex around the neck of a bottle, half-ready to smash it.
He doesn’t move—yet. He watches. Measures the distance.
Trent laughs at something you didn’t say, his hand creeping toward your thigh.
And then you move first.
You don’t even flinch when his fingers brush you. You just smile, the kind that makes men nervous. “You’ve got something in your eye,” you say sweetly.
He blinks. “What?”
Pssst.
The pepper spray hisses before he can blink again.
Trent howls, stumbling back, hands flying to his face. The booth screeches as he kicks it, someone’s drink toppling in a splash. “You—bitch—”
He’s half-blind, reaching for you.
Jason’s there before the word finishes leaving Trent’s mouth.
He fists Trent’s collar and slams him into a pillar hard enough to rattle it. “Say that again,” Jason growls, voice low enough to shake something loose in Trent’s skull.
“Jay,” Roy’s voice cuts through the chaos, sudden and sharp. He’s back, catching Jason’s arm before things spiral. “Let the bouncer handle it, man.”
The bar erupts—shouts from every direction, someone yelling to call the cops, the bartender vaulting the counter. In seconds, Trent and his Iron Claw buddies are herded toward the door, still cursing and pawing at their eyes. The bouncer shoves them over the threshold and slams it, muttering about banning those assholes for life.
Silence lands heavy. Glass crunches under Jason’s boots as he turns, jaw locked, anger buzzing off him like static.
You’re already straightening your top, checking your reflection in your phone screen. “Well,” you say brightly, flipping your hair back into place, “that was a fucking waste of mascara.”
Roy’s still catching his breath, looking between you and Jason like he’s watching a bomb tick down.
Jason rounds on him first. “Where the hell were you?”
Roy throws his hands up. “I was talking to a girl! You told me to stay close, not glue myself to her hip, man!”
Before Jason can light him up, you cut in. “Hey—I told him to go. The blonde at the bar was eyeing him all night, and I wasn’t about to cockblock the poor guy. Plus, I can breathe without a fucking six-foot man beside me at all times, you know?”
The words hang there, sharp and unapologetic. Jason exhales through his nose, chest still tight.
A long, awkward beat. Then you hitch your purse higher on your shoulder. “Anyway. Night’s ruined. Let’s go.”
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
Outside, the air’s cool and sticky with summer. The parking lot glows orange under the flickering streetlights. You spot Roy leaning against his truck, grinning sheepishly while the blonde from earlier twirls her hair beside him.
You smirk. “I’m glad he’s gonna get laid. That girl’s hot. But I kinda lost my ride home. Still—no way I’m cockblocking that poor, desperate little man.”
Jason shakes his head, a quiet laugh escaping before he can stop it. “Come on. I’ll take you.”
You arch a brow. “On the bike?”
“On the bike.”
You grin. “Yeah, fuck it. Why not?”
He helps you onto the back seat, steadying your hand as you swing your leg over. When your arms wrap around his waist, he goes absolutely still. The soft press of your chest against his back short-circuits every rational thought in his brain.
The engine roars to life, cutting through the silence of the night. Wind rushes your hair as the bike glides down nearly empty streets, city lights streaking past in gold and red. You laugh—an unrestrained, wild sound that makes something in Jason’s chest unclench.
He’s in trouble. He knows it
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
When he finally stops outside your apartment building, you slide off the bike, tugging off the helmet and shaking your hair loose. The night’s quiet again—just the hum of streetlights and the faint buzz of traffic a few blocks away.
You hand him the helmet. “You know,” you say softly, “I did mean it when I said I can take care of myself. I’m used to that kind of bullshit anyway.”
Jason looks at you for a long time, eyes dark and unreadable. “You shouldn’t have to, though.”
That lands heavier than either of you expect. For a second, neither of you moves. Then you break the tension the only way you know how—by making him laugh.
“Well,” you say with a crooked grin, “if this turns into a regular thing, I’m gonna need a custom helmet. Hot pink. Big bow on the back for flair.”
He exhales a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”
You pause, blinking at the word. Then your grin sharpens. “Sweetheart, huh? Normally I’d drop-kick a guy in the balls for that.”
He’s already opening his mouth to apologize when you continue.
“But you…” You tilt your head, eyes glinting. “You can keep it. I like it when it comes from you. Good night, Jay.”
You turn toward the stairs, heels clicking on the pavement, leaving him standing there with the helmet still in his hands and his heart doing somersaults.
Jason watches you disappear through the doorway, the echo of your laughter still caught in his chest.
He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he mutters, kicking the bike into gear and roaring off into the dark—faster than he needs to, like he’s trying to outrun the way you make him feel.
✶ “I really don't get what you see in them.” “You don't have to. I do.”
✶ “Don't take it personally. They hate everyone.” “Everyone except you, it seems.”
✶ “How do you not get sick of [sunshine]? They're so loud and–” “Talk about my partner like that again and you'll get to swallow your teeth.”
✶ “Stop talking about [my partner] like that! They're not like that with me.” “Come on, [your partner] is an ass, and–” “Shut the fuck up. It's my decision, and I love them.”
✶ “Whoa, don't turn around, but there is some person glowering at us from across the street…” “Hm? Oh, that's my partner. And that's their happy face.”
✶ “It's literally none of your business who I am with.” “I'm just worried. They don't seem like the most gentle person and you're so…” “A grown adult, thanks.”
✶ “You could do so much better than this airhead.” “Being a happy person does not make them a fucking airhead.”
✶ “I just don't get it. You're so.... And they are so....” “And that's what we love in each other. And it's really not for you to understand.”
✶ “Are you sure this is what you want to sign up for? A lifetime of... this?” “In a heartbeat.”
[Prompt Calender: February 16th, National Do a Grouch a Favor Day]
summary: Steve falls in love with the girl at the rock show, but he's doesn’t quite know if she feels the same. What he does know, however—is how to make you feel real, real good.
pairing: Steve Harrington x f!rockstar!reader
warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, porn with plot, light angst with a happy ending, dirty talk (like probably too much), fingering, praise and degradation, oral sex (f! and m!receiving) finger sucking, facefucking, face riding, begging, unprotected piv, big dick!steve, idiots in love, mild violence and mention of blood (steve fights some asshole in a bar), d/s dynamics, kinda grumpy x sunshine vibes except reader is the grumpy one, proofread only once cause i've been working on this forever and i'm impatient so there are probably (definitely) some mistakes sorryyyy!!
wc: 10.6k shes longgg!!
note: for my beloved 🪼 anon who sent in this request!
[masterlist] [AO3]
You don't have to love me yet, let's get high awhile. But try to understand that I'm a magic man.
Robin drags Steve to some rock show on a random Saturday night and the trajectory of his entire life changes in an instant.
And how could it not?
He takes one look at the pretty girl in fishnets holding a ruby red guitar in her hands and just knows.
Knows that you’re exactly what he’s been searching for. Knows he would be so, so good to you. Knows, too, that he would do just about anything for your attention.
And he tries. Hard.
He stands front row at every single one of your shows with his hair done to perfection and his most expensive cologne sprayed onto his collarbones. Always in his best pair of jeans and his new brown leather jacket that he swears he didn’t buy with the intent to impress you, explaining to Robin, “I just liked the way it fit! You have any idea how hard it is, finding a good jacket with shoulders like these?”
Steve learns every word to all of your bands songs. He even has your setlist memorized and could recite the comedic bits your lead singer uses between one verse and the next.
He’s a total groupie for you.
And when you finally notice him? God. Steve has never felt a rush of adrenaline quite like the first time you saddle up to his side at the bar, order a vodka cranberry and tell the man behind the counter your name is Harrington with a knowing smirk on your face.
Because it means that you’ve been watching him, too.
It doesn’t take long after that, truth be told. A couple more shows where you spend time at the bar talking about music or life or the state of the world. You give him a handful of backstage tours and even eventually hand him one of those all access lanyards that say crew on the badge.
Within a matter of weeks, Steve has you in a dirty bar bathroom with one hand on your throat and the other sneaking up the short hem of your skirt.
He tilts your head up and swipes over your lips with a teasing tongue. He licks into your mouth and gently bites into the cherry flavored gloss on your bottom lip, thinking about how he’s officially, certifiably, addicted to the fruity flavor.
Your breath comes fast and labored. Your face is flushed and your pupils are dilated. He’s got you propped up on the porcelain sink, but your hips incessantly roll towards his hand that only skates over the seam of your thigh.
Because one thing about Steve Harrington? He loves to make you beg.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispers. The music outside of the women’s restroom bleeds through the locked door, muffling the little whimpers you make at the back of your throat. “An’ you smell—God. You smell so fucking good, baby.”
Like cherries and red wine and vanilla perfume. Like the rest of his goddamn life.
“Touch me,” is your only response, the words all breathy and sweet. “Steve, please just touch me.”
He clicks his tongue tauntingly. “Hm. I don't know if I should. You know? Actually—I was just thinkin’ that maybe I should keep my hands to myself. Take you out on a real date. Treat you real nice.”
You wrap your legs around his waist and the heel of your tall leather boot digs into the back of his thigh when you try to pull him closer. “I don't care about dates. I just want—”
Steve finally moves his hand beneath your skirt and slides it under the lace band of your panties. A decadent, needy sound leaves your mouth when he slides his middle finger through your folds. Already wet and messy for him, just like he’d anticipated. “Just want me to make you feel good,” Steve finishes for you. “I know, I know. It's alright. You know I will. Always do, don't I?”
He finds your swollen clit with practiced ease. Circles it with a pointed finger and smiles against your lips when he feels it pulse beneath his touch.
Steve strums his fingers between your thighs until your spine arches. Until arousal drips down your cunt and onto the porcelain below. His name sounds so pretty in your mouth, shrouded in desire. Even better than those heavy riffs you pull from that guitar of yours.
He’s got you almost there—so close he can taste your release, and then he slides his hand just a little lower and presses two fingers inside of you.
Your walls clamp down around them like a vise. “Oh, fuck. Jesus, Steve—”
“Yeah, I know,” he says, voice low. And good fucking God does he know. His cock aches painfully behind the tight denim of his jeans, wanting nothing more than to take you right here. Bend you over and press your cheek to the cool glass mirror with not a trace of respect to be found in the touch of his hands.
But the problem is Steve wants more than that from you. And he thinks if he’s patient, that maybe…just maybe, you’ll start to want more, too.
So he perseveres. Stays strong despite the raging desire that buzzes beneath his skin. Gets you off with his fingers inside you and his thumb on your clit and swallows up your moans like a man starved for it.
He doesn’t fuck you. Not here. Not like this.
Your bass player teaches Steve how to load your equipment into the trailer and he becomes a real part of the crew after that. Sort of adopts your band members, truthfully.
Makes sure they have water close by during every set. brings them fast food when he knows they’ll drink too much and eat too little. He even tries to keep the lead singer in line when his ego gets hurt and he tries picking fights.
Steve only does all of this to get closer to you, of course. But he likes your bandmates well enough. They're a little…eccentric, he thinks. But they have to be in order to be entertainers, right?
You invite him to an out of town show for the first time on a Wednesday. You're talking to him on the phone, and Steve is leaning against the drywall in his kitchen with a stupid grin on his face that he can’t seem to fight off whenever you speak to him.
“In Indianapolis," you explain. “A long drive, I know. But we’re getting a hotel room and we could use an extra hand. If…if you wanna come with.”
Steve sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, trying not to laugh like some prepubescent school girl with a crush and failing miserably. He's glad you can’t see him right now. It would blow his cool guy facade right out the window. “Well, I might have to move some stuff around. You know, my busy schedule and all.”
“Busy schedule, huh?” He can hear the amusement in your voice, even through the phone.
“Oh—yeah. Jam packed, actually. Meetings and lunches and hangouts. Parties, too.”
“Dates?”
It catches him a little off guard, truthfully. Only because you’ve never questioned him about other women. Have never even hinted at the possibility of any exclusivity between the two of you.
But Steve swears there’s something not-so-innocent in the one word question. Swears there’s almost a little jealousy there.
He thinks about lying. Just for a moment. Thinks about telling you that he goes on dates all the time, actually. Considers telling you there’s more for him than his pretty little guitarist when really, it will only ever be you.
But Steve doesn’t lie. He doesn’t exactly tell the truth either. Just says, “Not with anyone who matters.”
He can hear your shallow breaths, but you don’t say anything for a few seconds. And then, “So, you’ll be there. right? I mean. I…I don’t know. This is a big one for us and I guess I sorta, like…want you there.”
Steve makes this surprised sound and says, “Is that a confession? You saying you want me, sweetheart?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ. Actually, you know what? I've gotta go. Never—”
“I’m kidding,” he says through his laughter.
“You are the actual worst, Steve Harrington.”
The sigh of relief you let out just makes him laugh harder. But once his amusement dies down and he’s left with nothing but you and your almost-confession, Steve says, “Yeah. Of course I'll be there for you.”
He hopes you know just how much he really means it.
The show is a success. There are hundreds of people at the small venue, more than you’ve ever played for. The songs ebb and flow easily and the put up and tear down of the set goes without interruption.
Steve is in the front row, just like he always is.But this time he’s not the only one singing along. Those handmade tapes you’re always handing out at the grocery store and the park and outside of every concert you go to is paying off. Word is spreading fast, and all of a sudden Steve gets this weird feeling in his chest.
It's something akin to pride, but there’s a weird sort of melancholy with it, too, because he has so much faith in you. Steve knows you were never meant for a town like Hawkins. Knows you’ll make it big and go off to California and New York and London, baring your soul through that ruby red guitar for everyone who will listen.
He can see your name in headlines and begins to wonder if there will be any room for him left in your heart when it’s all said and done.
He tries not to think too hard about it. Tries to enjoy the night, to lose himself in the sound and in the way your fingers move and the way you look at him from up on that platform.
Steve always gives you space right after a show. Knows people will want to talk to you and shake your hand and ask about your inspirations. He waits by the bar, knowing you’ll come to find him when you’re ready.
And you do, but this time you’re lingering a few feet away as some guy yaps your ear off.
You’re with your drummer, who can be a little promiscuous at times. She's twirling her hair around her finger and giving the man who’s speaking those heart eyes Steve has seen in action too many times.
Steve thinks the guy is flirting with your drummer when he gives a crooked smile and leans in close to speak. He doesn’t think anything of it.
But then he reaches a hand close to your face and strokes the back of his knuckles against your cheek, not hers.
And he tries not to react. Really, he does. Tries not to let that swell of emotion in his chest grow too bold when he sees you rear back so fast it’s almost comedic.
The guys laughs it off. And Steve thinks that’s the end of it.
But then he tries again. This time running a possessive hand down your arm and curling his fingers around your palm.
You pull away, but Steve is already out of his seat at the bar and closing the space between you.
He splays his hand wide on the small of your back and the corners of his mouth tilt up when you take a step closer to him, nestling right beneath his arm. “Everything alright over here?”
The man glares at Steve, eyes narrowing into slits. “Yeah, man. We're good. So why don’t you—”
“Why don’t I what?” It comes out angrier than intended. Steve’s palms start to itch.
He comes to the stark realization that he wants this. The confrontation. He hates the idea of another man touching you, even just your cheek or your hand. It has a desire for violence singing beneath Steve's skin.
The guy tries for your hand again, and it’s the boldest thing he could’ve done. You recoil away and turn into the arms of your drummer who’s long since lost those heart eyes, the emotion now replaced with concern.
And Steve? Oh—Steve is thrilled. Because now he has a reason. An excuse.
He shoves the man backwards so far he nearly stumbles to his feet. “Why don’t you take a fucking walk. Yeah? I think we’d all be better off.”
“What the fuck is your problem, dude?”
“My problem is you,” Steve answers. “Think it’s funny, huh? Think it’s cool to grab at girls who have no interest in you? Think you can push ‘em around ‘til they do what you want?”
Steve shoves him again, but this time the man shoves back. “Jesus Christ. Now that’s some depressing shit. You really think you’re the only guy in this bar that’s had her? You want pussy that’s been ran through so bad? Fine. All yours, loverboy.”
That does him in. Makes the situation less about protecting you and more about revenge. Because Steve would never let someone talk about you like that.
But worse is the simple thought of it. The thought of you with another man, with someone who’s not him? It sends him into a frenzy.
Steve lunges forward.
The man swings, hand curled into a fist so tight his knuckles pale.
Steve dodges it and takes a strike of his own. His lands true, cracking hard against the man’s jaw.
The second time he takes a swing at him, Steve moves just a little too slow and white-hot pain ricochets through his teeth.
Blood blooms across his tongue and the coppery taste of it sends him careening off whatever ledge of self restraint that remained. Steve doesn’t care much about anything now apart from hurting the man who doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself.
He doesn’t hear the crowd around him as they gasp and shout and make room for the brawl. He doesn’t hear your drummer beside you, urging you to stop him.
Steve doesn’t register much besides swinging fists and thrown elbows until suddenly there’s more than one set of hands flying at him. There's two, and then three—and then he can hear your lead singer shouting and sees the familiar sight of his glinting rings flying in the mix of fists.
It's absolute chaos. His heartbeat thrums against the back of his sternum, blood flies from somewhere—his wound or someone else’s, he can’t be sure.
He doesn’t even recognize the severity of the situation when flashing blue and red lights cloud the corners of his vision.
All Steve can think about is your name in another man’s mouth. And try as he might, he can’t seem to break free of the hold it has on him.
Well, not until he feels the softness of your hand on his shoulder, recognizable even in all the clamor. You're saying his name but his ears are ringing.
“Come on! It’s time to go,” you say, your voice reaching him through the haze, somehow both giggly and panicky.
Steve lets you drag him backwards. Out of the bar and into the cool winter air that feels heavenly against his suddenly overheated skin.
It all fades into focus then: the police outside the bar, the shouting that still rolls out like steam from the doorframe, the ache in his lungs and his jaw and his mouth.
You’re running fast. Putting as much distance as possible between you and the flashing lights. You grab hold of Steve's hand and lace your fingers through his, weaving through the gathered crowd.
He can hear your bandmates following close behind, laughter filling up the space. But Steve watches as the passing city lights create little halos across your skin and something warm fills up his chest.
When you’re a block away, far enough that the fear of being caught subsides, your pace slows to a full stop. There's a wide grin on your face and unparalleled joy in your eyes as you turn to look at him.
Your drummer shakes Steve by the shoulders. “Good God, Harrington! That was insane! Since when did you go all rogue like that?!”
“Did you see that left hook?!”
“What even happened?”
“I have no idea! i just saw that other guy jump in and thought to myself, oh fuck no. Not our loverboy!”
Your bandmates erupt in rambunctious laughter, and Steve rolls his eyes at what he knows will likely be his alias for the rest of the foreseeable future.
But he can’t find it in him to care. Can’t find the strength to stop looking at you like you put the damn stars in the sky, either. And Steve knows this isn’t the right time, knows you’ll likely be a little embarrassed and reply with some snarky remark, but he says it anyway.
“You look so beautiful right now, baby. Do you know that?”
“Oh, get a room,” your lead singer teases, pushing past the both of you.
The rest of your bandmates follow suit, leaving the two of you with your hands still interlocked, standing in the middle of the sidewalk.
You don’t respond with a snide comment. You don’t even laugh.
Instead, you lean up and press your mouth to his in a searing kiss. Steve feels the heat of it all the way down to his toes.
He lets go of your hand only to cradle your face and deepen the kiss, delighting in the taste of your cherry lipgloss and the faintest trace of vodka on your tongue. Your lips move in tandem, fitting perfectly together, and when you pull away you leave him panting.
“Come on,” you say. “Let’s catch up.”
Steve soon finds out that you’d meant it literally when you told him you were getting a hotel room.
Singular.
Which meant that you were sharing two queen sized beds with the rest of your band.
Not exactly the city getaway he’d imagined, but Steve's happy wherever you are.
It feels like pure luck when he wins at rock-paper-scissors against everyone and claims the shower first. But Steve isn’t at all surprised when you follow him into the spacious bathroom, the fluorescent lights bright overhead.
He turns the water on and pulls a plush white towel down from the rack on the wall.
You don’t speak right away, though he can feel your heavy gaze and knows there’s something on the tip of your tongue. Instead, you fold your arms over your chest and lean back against the sink.
Steve reaches behind his head and pulls at the collar of his shirt, wincing at the sudden sharp pain in the muscle just below his shoulder blade.
The sound of discomfort has your brows furrowing, and you’re moving before he can really process much else, gentle hands taking him by the waist and turning him so he’s facing away from you. “Let me see.”
Steve allows you to maneuver him any way you wish, tossing his shirt onto the floor. His eyelids flutter closed when you trail your fingers up his spine, pressing gently into the muscles on either side.
When you reach the spot just below his right shoulder, Steve winces. “Sorry,” you murmur. “You probably pulled something. Got a mean left hook, Harrington."
He chuckles softly, and melts beneath your touch as you begin to massage the tender muscle. Steve loves the feeling of you on his skin. Can never get enough of it and thinks he probably never will.
It wasn’t like him, what he did back there. The cause for so much chaos. Violent. And though he’d certainly felt violent and volatile, Steve doesn’t want you to think of him that way. So he says, “I'm…I'm sorry. For what happened. I wish you didn’t have to see that. I shouldn't have—”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” you interrupt. “You were protecting me. That's what I saw, Steve."
There’s no room for argument in your tone, the words somehow affectionate even with all their certainty.
A few moments pass in silence, and Steve just soaks up all your attention. But then you say, “It’s not true, by the way. What he said.”
He clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. “I don’t care about any of that,” he says honestly. “Not that I—you know. Believe it, or whatever.” He laughs. “I mean, seriously. You think I'm just going to trust some nobody in a bar when he says you’ve been with a bunch of people? Do you even like that many people?”
You giggle, massaging the tender muscle in his back.
“I mean, you barely like me. There's no way.”
He means it as a joke, but your laughter dies in your mouth and your hands freeze on his skin the moment the words leave him.
When Steve turns to face you, mind racing, thinking maybe he did or said something to upset you—but when he finds your eyes, they’re not angry in the slightest.
If anything, you look sort of…sad. Your brows are furrowed with a slight crease between them and your once smiling mouth is now downturned. “Is that really what you think? That I don't like you?”
He shrugs. “I know you…like me. I just think maybe…” He swallows, casting his eyes away. Finding sudden interest in the pattern on the white linoleum floor. “I just think, you know. That I like you…differently than you like me. More, maybe.”
“This is about the date.”
It's not a question.
Steve doesn’t deny it because he can’t.
If he wasn’t terrified of spilling his guts with your bandmates right on the other side of the door, likely eavesdropping, he would explain that yeah. It is about the date.
Because Steve wants you and he knows you want him, too. Can feel it in the way you kiss him with hungry lips and a desperate tongue. Feels it in the way your hips always roll to press his long fingers further into you. In the way you cry out his name and beg for just a little bit more every single time.
Steve knows you want to fuck him.
And he wants to fuck you just as badly.
But he also wants to come home to you every night and make you dinner. He wants to find out what your favorite flower is and go to ten different stores trying to find it.
He wants to act all silly when you try out a new hairstyle, dramatically falling to his knees. And he wants to learn to restring your guitar and wants you on his arm at the end of every one of your shows, your biggest and most loyal fan.
He wants to take you out on dates.
He wants to fall in love with you.
And for whatever reason—you’re keeping him at arms length. Close enough to touch, far enough away that he can’t reach you.
Your voice is gentle when you ask, “You understand why, don’t you?”
His brows shoot up, and he tries his damndest to keep the frustration from his voice. “Uh—to be honest? No. No, I don't.”
“We’re not compatible, Steve,” you say, the words sharp enough to make a blow right between his ribs. “I mean, seriously. What do you think will happen? If we do this, if we go all the way—there are only two roads here. The first is the one where you come on the road with me next year. You come to every show, you follow me around the world, always off to the side. Never the center of my life, because my life is the center of yours. And ten years from now, you’ll realize you have nothing but me. No friends but my friends, no home to your name, nothing that doesn’t exist without me. And one day you’ll wake up and resent me for it.”
His stomach turns. “And road two?”
You inhale a slow breath. “Road two is that I quit music to stay here with you in Hawkins. I leave behind everything I've ever loved. I leave the family I’ve created here in my band, they have to find a new guitarist—”
“—They could never replace you—”
“And we build a life together. A house with a white picket fence and six kids, Steve. Because that’s what you want. And ten years from now, when I remember the things I've lost, I'll grow to resent you.”
He sees a little clearer now. Recalls the late night conversation you’d had on the phone where he’d confessed that all he wanted from life was a family and a full house.
The picture you paint is bleak. A lose-lose situation.
His eyes begin to burn.
You take his hands in yours, holding tight. “I like you, Steve Harrington. More than you think. But I like you enough that I want you to be happy, and I'm sorry but I just…I don’t know how I could give that to you.”
He wants to make an argument. Wants to tell you that this is all hypothetical, that there’s still the option of long distance. Wants to tell you you’re wrong. This isn’t doomed. It's not.
It’s not.
But he doesn’t get a chance to before your drummer is pounding on the bathroom door. “Alright, lovebirds! Can you fuck a little faster? I would like a shower too!”
You don’t talk about it again.
Not in Indianapolis, not on the drive home, not on the phone the following day.
Because when you call, Steve doesn’t pick up.
He lays in bed in his parent’s big empty house and listens to the phone ring and ring and ring.
You stop calling after the third day of radio silence.
Steve doesn’t know why it feels like a breakup. Worse, even, because you didn’t reject him. Didn’t dump him, didn’t say your feelings have changed or that you don’t want him.
If anything, you’d shown the opposite. Casting longing glances at him the whole way back to Hawkins from the passenger seat, like there was something on the tip of your tongue you wanted to say but you just didn’t have the courage.
He thinks it would be easier if you had rejected him. If you’d just said, ‘yeah, actually, I’m not interested. Sorry!’
When he’s tired of moping in his own bed, Steve goes to Robin’s.
Gives her a word for word recount of the entire weekend, laid back on her mattress instead of his own. Tells her about the bar fight and running from the cops and how you’d looked like a fucking angel sent to him from God himself with those streetlights reflecting in your eyes. Tells her about the conversation in the bathroom and how it all stemmed from a stupid thing he said over a month ago.
Steve wants Robin to say he’s being crazy. Wants her to encourage him to go to you, to smooth things over. Because that’s what he wants to do.
Instead, when he’s finished, she lets out a long breath and says, “Well, that really sucks. But you can’t exactly change her mind, you know?”
His brows furrow. Steve props himself up with his elbows and asks, “So, you think I should just…let it go? Cut my losses?”
“No, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that to me, it kinda sounds like she’s made her mind up. She only sees those two options, and I swear I don’t mean this in a bad way or anything but…she’s never really struck me as someone who could be swayed, you know?”
Steve rolls her words over in his mind for a few seconds, seeing the truth in them. You’re headstrong. Determined. Sure about what you want in a way Steve has never been until that first time he’d seen you.
Robin’s eyes are filled with this look of pity that would make him uncomfortable, if she were anyone but his very best friend.
“Do you think she’s right? Those are the only two options for us?”
She shakes her head. “Not at all,” she says, certain. It provides him with a shred of relief. “I think you guys could work things out between traveling and distance and whatever else life throws at you. But I think it would only work if you both were trying to meet each other halfway. And…” her voice softens. “You deserve that, Steve. Someone who tries. I know you like her. I do, too. But don’t lose sight of that.”
He hates that she’s right.
Still, Steve gives her a sad smile and says, “Thanks, Rob.”
They spend the day watching shitty action movies and eating nothing but microwave popcorn and milk duds. Robin conveniently puts on all the movies Steve has mentioned are his favorites, but he’s not presumptuous enough to mention it.
It works at getting his mind off you. For a little while, anyway.
He falls asleep at some point in the middle of Top Gun and wakes up to the title screen’s music replaying and Robin snoring beside him.
As quietly as he can, he cleans up the mess of snacks and turns the VHS player off before slipping soundlessly outside, making sure to lock the front door behind him.
The sun has set and the chill of the night seeps into his bones on the drive home, even through his black hoodie.
Steve realizes, in a moment of sudden, quiet clarity, that he’s already in love with you.
It didn’t take a date for his feelings for you to evolve into something more. It’s already happened, without his knowledge. Right under his goddamn nose.
But Robin’s right. He can’t force you to change your mind. Can’t talk his way into evolving your feelings, too.
Steve will cut his losses, but he won’t cut you from his life. He doesn’t have the strength to. Not anymore.
He’ll still go to every one of your shows and sing along and he’ll still help with setup and tear down. He’ll still take care of your bandmates and defend your name when it’s said beside an insult in another man’s mouth.
He decides, tomorrow, he’ll return your calls.
But when he pulls into the driveway to his parent’s still-empty house, Steve sees he won’t have to.
Because you’re sitting there on the steps of his front porch, elbows resting on your knees.
The anxiety-inducing thought strikes him that he looks a complete fucking mess.
Wearing sweatpants and a hoodie and a backwards trucker hat because he hasn’t done his hair in days. Unkempt and disheveled. And God, even knowing he shouldn’t, Steve wants to look his best for you.
He pushes the thought aside and puts his car in park, turning off the engine. He climbs out and rounds the front and is a little comforted by the fact that you’re not wearing fishnets or a tight skirt or a low cup top like usual. Just in a pair of jeans and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and a leather jacket.
Steve freezes when he’s close enough to see the mascara smudges down your cheeks. “What’s wrong?”
You shake your head. “Nothing’s wrong, I just came here to see if…I don’t know. To see if maybe we could talk?”
“Yeah, sweetheart. Of course we can.” He nods and moves closer, taking your hand in his, surprised by the frigidness in your fingers. “Christ,” he hisses, bringing them to his mouth to warm them with his breath. “How long have you been sitting out here?”
You laugh like it’s nothing, but he can see the slight shake in your shoulders. “Not long,” you say.
Steve tugs you to the front door and looks over his shoulder at you as he unlocks it. “How long is not long?”
“Uhm…I don’t know,” you shrug, interlocking your fingers between his. Holding tight. “Just a few hou一”
“Hours?” You don’t even get the word out before he’s clicking his tongue. “Jesus. I’m sorry. I was at Robin’s. C’mere.”
You let him pull you up the stairs and into his room. A bit messy, but lived in. Just about the only room in the house that is.
“Sit,” he instructs, nodding to his unmade bed.
You do, and Steve makes quick work of fluffing his comforter and wrapping it tight around your shoulders.
He sits beside you and takes your hands in his once more, rubbing them between his own, trying to generate heat through friction. His voice is soft but careful as he asks, “So, what was so important that you froze outside my house for several hours? Are you okay? Did something happen?”
His stomach turns with the possibilities, his mind automatically finding the worst of them. Another bar fight or a police encounter you couldn’t outrun or worse.
“No, I’m alright. Kind of. I, uhm…” You tear your eyes away from his, letting out a heavy, frustrated sigh. Your knee bounces anxiously, and Steve realizes he’s never once seen you so unsure of yourself.
He places his big hand on your thigh. “Hey,” he says, concern etched in his brow. “It’s just me. You can tell me anything.”
You take your hands from his hold and press the heel of your palms against your eyes, smearing your makeup further. Fighting whatever it is on your mind.
Steve wraps his fingers gently around your wrists and pulls your hands away. “Don’t do that,” he murmurs. “Don’t hide from me. Just…just talk, okay? And I promise I’ll listen.”
You search his face for a few moments, assessing, likely trying to find an ounce of disquiet.
But you come up empty.
And then, finally, the words come pouring out of you all at once.
“Steve…God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Last week in Indianapolis I was being selfish. I didn’t give you a chance to even speak. I just had it all made up in my mind that this could never work out and all I could focus on was the bad things that could happen. I didn’t even think about all the ways it could work or—or even try to find a way. And I wanted to apologize as soon as I said it but thought maybe I’d just wait, you know? Until we could talk, just the two of us. But then you wouldn’t answer my calls and I started to think that you’d changed your mind and now you don’t want anything to do with me and—!”
“Okay. Breathe, baby.”
You do, taking in a shaky breath and exhaling slowly. Once, and then twice.
“First of all, I would never not want you in my life. Do you understand? I mean you…I—I love being around you. I mean it.”
A soft smile graces your pretty face, and it grants Steve more ease than he cares to admit.
“And secondly…you were right. Both of those roads you talked about, yeah. It sucks, and I mean, like—so fucking bad. But the truth is, those are both possibilities that could happen. But they’re not the only ones.”
You nod, eyes going all watery the longer he speaks. Your voice cracks on the word as you say, “Yeah, I know. I was just scared, Steve. What I feel for you…I don’t know. It terrifies me. I don’t know how to do any of this.”
“So we figure it out,” he suggests. “We take it one day at a time. Make decisions as they come and not because of things that may or may not happen ten years from now.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want? You do know that, like, every statistic is stacked against us?”
“Fuck statistics,” Steve says, an edge in his voice. “God, I failed that class anyway. Who cares?”
You laugh, your smile reaching your eyes now. You look so beautiful that Steve’s heart pinches tight in his chest. He silently wonders if that feeling will ever go away, and secretly hopes it doesn’t.
But as your laughter fades, that sad seriousness returns.
“What if this is all just a waste of time?”
Steve shakes his head. Reaches up to cradle your cheek in his palm and feels himself relax the moment you melt into his touch. “No second I spend with you is a waste,” he says, and means it.
You shift closer, your mouth a breath away from his as you admit, “I don’t know how it’ll work. But I’d like to一to try. With you.”
You deserve that, Steve. Someone who tries.
God.
It feels like his world tilts on its axis, the same way it had that first time he saw you up on that stage. His needs, his wants. They all become perfectly, crystal fucking clear.
Steve’s hand on your cheek moves to the back of your neck. He pulls you in and kisses you hard, kisses you like he’s starved for your affection because he is. His tongue finds yours, eager and hungry, drinking in the taste of you.
You moan softly against his lips when he bands an arm around your middle and pulls you onto his lap. Your hands find the nape of his neck, scratching lightly, fingertips pushing into the curling tendrils of his thick hair. His name leaves your lips in a breathy exhale, perfect and sultry and all his.
He pulls you closer, closing every last inch of space, your breasts pressed up against his chest.
And then you speak again, firmer this time. “Steve,” you murmur. “Steve, wait. Hang on.”
Reluctantly, he pulls his head back, admiring the misty look in your eye. The way your pupils dilate and your breath comes fast and uneven. But he can tell, even before you speak, that there’s one last thing standing in the way of you and peace. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”
Your voice is timid in a way he’s never heard before when you ask, “Do you…do you love me?”
Steve doesn’t lie. Doesn’t see the point in it. Not anymore. “Yes. I do.”
“Okay.” A shaky, long-held breath leaves your lungs, and he feels the tension bleed from your muscles. “Okay, good. Because I think I might love you, too.”
“Holy shit.”
He doesn’t mean for it to slip out. Truly. But it does anyway, and you immediately chastise, “Steve.”
“Sorry,” he says. But the wide grin that stretches across his face sort of ruins the sincerity of his apology. “Sorry, but…holy shit. You love me?”
You scoff and say, “Actually, I changed my mind. I take it back.” But he knows you don’t mean it, because you’re wearing a mirrored smile and giggling all the while.
“You love me,” he says. Not a question. “Oh my God. This is一I mean this is just. This is fucking great.” He takes his hands off your hips and falls back into the sheets, elation making his head feel all fuzzy.
With your hands pressed to his chest, you lean forward and say, “Don’t let it inflate that ego of yours, Harrington.”
He laughs. “Oh, it is far too late for that. Everyone’s been calling me loverboy but the whole time一the whole time it was you, too! I mean, how often does a groupie get a love confession?”
“Jesus Christ,” you grumble, rolling your eyes dramatically.
Steve is so baffled, and maybe a little starstruck, that he doesn’t even notice when you slide off his bed, and kneel on the floor between his legs. His mind is running a hundred miles an hour, trying to process, trying to regulate his excitement.
But it’s no use, because you love him.
“My girlfriend’s a fucking rockstar,” he muses, a little bit disbeliving. “And after those shows she’s gonna come find me at the bar. Me. And I’ll already have a vodka cranberry waiting for her, of course. ‘Cause, you know, I’m just chivalrous like that. And it’ll be icy cold. Just how she likes it.” Steve leans forwards suddenly, taking your jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “And you know what else?”
He watches your eyes darken and tries, very hard, not to pay attention to the way your greedy hands tug at the waistband of his sweatpants. “What else, loverboy?”
Steve smiles a wolfish sort of grin. Confidence both restored and revitalized with your confession. “When I fuck her on the sink in a bar bathroom, I’m gonna make her tell me she loves me with my dick so deep inside her she’s choking on it.”
Your lips part in surprise, and Steve takes the opportunity to slide his thumb into your mouth.
He chuckles low at the way you immediately take him, lips wrapping tight around the digit. He presses down against your tongue and you moan like it’s all you’ve ever wanted.
Steve thinks you look so pretty like this, giving up all that control you like to keep an iron grip on. His headstrong, rebel girl out there. But here, with only him?
Oh, you’re just a pretty thing. A dirty little girl who needs to be taken care of. Sweet as sweet can be.
All it takes to flip the switch in you is a couple of nasty words and the touch of his magic hands.
Steve would be happy staying just like this. And he thinks you would be, too, considering the way you moan around his thumb, sucking hard, drool beginning to collect at the corner of your mouth.
But the throbbing ache of his cock won’t allow it.
With his free hand, he pushes his sweatpants and boxers down in one fluid movement, kicking them away. His cock bobs back against his abdomen, hard as stone, a bead of precum leaking from the tip. Your eyes snag on the movement as he takes his cock in his hand and begins to stroke it slowly.
You press your thighs together and whimper as you watch him touch himself.
Steve laughs. “Oh, baby. It’s okay. I know. Here.” He keeps his thumb in your mouth, hooking it around the bottom of your jaw, gently leading you closer, guiding your mouth to him. “Stick out your tongue.”
You do as instructed, your breath warm as it hits his hand.
Steve taps the head of his cock on the tip of your tongue, transfixed at both the seductive sight and the wet sounds that reverberate through his room.
When you try to suck him into your mouth, Steve pulls back with a click of his tongue.
“Can’t get right to it, greedy girl. Where are your manners? You gotta kiss it first.”
You don’t hesitate. Pressing your lips to the underside of his cock, lips wet with drool, leaving spit behind as you work your way down his length with purpose. His blood sings in his veins, the feel of your mouth electrifying.
When you press one final kiss to the base of him, you flatten your tongue and drag it all the way back up to the tip, sending shivers down his spine.
“Christ,” he hisses. “Good job, baby. Now you can have what you want.”
You anchor yourself with your hands on the middle of his thighs and take him into your mouth, slow at first.
Steve sighs at the sensation. Your tongue is warm and wet, swirling around the tip. He lets you lead, stroking your hair back away from your face. You swallow him down, hollowing out your cheeks and sucking hard.
The inside of your mouth is velvety smooth, surrounding his cock, granting him reprieve, ratcheting his pleasure higher and higher with each slow bob of your head. When you sigh contentedly around his length, Steve feels the subtle sound at the base of his spine.
“Look so fuckin’ cute right now,” he tells you between gasping breaths. “If I knew you wanted my dick in your mouth this bad I would’ve fed it to you weeks ago, baby.”
His tone is sweet, but there’s an underlying condescension there, too. A perfect balance of caring and cruel, a concoction made all for you.
You’re sucking him in earnest now, trying hard to fit just one more inch behind your kiss-swollen lips. But Steve’s big—cock thick and heavy, and your eyes begin to water as you look up at him.
“You want some help, pretty girl?”
You nod in response, humming in approval.
Steve threads his fingers through your hair, big hand splayed wide on the back of your head. He takes hold of the strands and carefully pushes your head down and rolls his hips up simultaneously, thrusting deeper into your mouth.
It’s blinding. You feel so fucking good that darkness begins to cloud his vision. Steve does it again, groaning low, fucking into your mouth without shame.
Drool coats his cock and leaks down your chin, allowing him to press deeper until your breath gets caught and you’re all teary eyed and gasping. But you don’t complain for even a second. You only look up at him with so much reverence and allow him to use you as he pleases.
His perfect, filthy girl.
Steve knows he won’t last long. Not like this. You feel too good—mouth too warm, tongue too wet, lips too soft. But he can’t bring himself to stop, not until he feels release pressing at the edges of his psyche, creeping closer and closer with each thrust.
He’s one flick of your tongue away from shooting his load down your throat when he pulls your mouth away, spit stringing and making a mess in the space between you.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “Look at you.” Steve pulls you forward and presses his lips hungrily to yours, tasting himself on the tip of your tongue.
You moan into his mouth and he can’t hold back his smile.
“Stand up,” he orders. And you obey, wordlessly, awaiting further direction. Steve thinks there’s no one in the world who could turn him on like you do. You’re so obedient. Hanging on to his every breath, seeing and feeling nothing but what he allows.
It makes him feel like the most important thing in your life. And good fucking God, he thinks he’d be a fool if he didn’t take advantage of it—of you—while you freely hand every ounce of control over to him.
“Take off your clothes,” he says, leaning back with his elbows pressed into the mattress.
Steve watches you with rapt attention as you follow his instruction, starting with your jacket first. You peel it from your shoulders and lay it on top of the dresser pressed up against the wall, kicking off your leather boots next.
You cross your hands over your torso, grabbing hold of the hem of your t-shirt, and pull it over your head. Beneath, you’re wearing a leopard print bra that rests perfectly against the swell of your chest, making you look every bit the seductress you are.
His cock throbs, desperate for attention, and Steve doesn’t deny himself of it. His eyes stay glued to you as he takes it in his hand, his length still slippery and slick with your spit, and strokes slowly, careful not to squeeze too hard, keeping a tight leash on his pleasure.
You push your leggings down your thighs, revealing pretty red lace, and Steve groans at the sight of you. “You’re so pretty,” he says, delighting in the easy flush that crawls up your cheeks. “Keep going.”
When you reach behind your back to unclasp your bra, your breasts fall free from their confines and Steve swallows hard. Your nipples are peaked, goosebumps rising over the soft skin, the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.
Or at least it was. Until you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your panties, slowly tug them down, and Steve watches as the wetness of your arousal clings to the lace, spiderwebbing until the stickiness snaps.
He feels it low in his gut. A visceral reaction to the fact that you want him, and just as badly as he wants you.
“Oh, sweetheart. It’s okay, I’m gonna take good care of you. I promise. C’mere.” Steve extends his arms out and you walk right into them like it’s second nature. He presses a tender kiss to your belly, just above your navel, and tilts his head back to look up at you through his lashes. “My perfect girl,” he whispers, hands wandering over the soft expanse of your hips, pawing at your skin.
You push his hat off and smooth your fingers through his messy curls. “Please touch me,” you plead, voice all breathy and desperate. “I want—God, Steve. I want you so fucking bad.”
“Yeah?”
You nod in response, and whine when he sticks out his tongue and licks a line between your breasts, spine arching into him, thighs squeezed tight. “Yes.”
He wishes he could draw it out longer. Wishes he had the strength to.
Instead, Steve gropes at the pillowy flesh of your ass and slides off the edge of the mattress, elbowing your thighs apart to make room for the broadness of his shoulders.
Without warning, he presses a wet, open mouthed kiss right to the center of your cunt, trying to practice what he’s only just finished preaching, despite the overwhelming urge to jump right to fucking you with his tongue. Steve kisses you again, right over your clit, and this time you spread your legs of your own volition.
“God, Steve.”
He kisses you there once more, adding the smallest amount of pressure. He pulls away only long enough to lick your arousal off his lips, groaning low at the sweet and sultry taste. “You’re so wet,” he says, breath fanning across your warmed skin. “Say please, sweetheart.”
“Please.” The word is so quick and desperate in your mouth that it makes his cock twitch.
Without a moment more of restraint, Steve surges forward with his tongue out and slides it between your syrupy folds. He finds your clit with ease and stays put, rolling his tongue over it. Back and forth, back and forth, a steady rhythm that has your hands in his hair pulling tight.
“Oh, God. That’s so good, fuck.” You lean forward, using one hand on the mattress to balance yourself as you set your knee on his shoulder.
A groan rumbles in Steve’s chest as he watches you squirm, hips rolling, trying to chase the friction. He sinks his fingers into the softness of your hips and sucks your clit into his mouth, feeling it pulse beneath the tip of his tongue.
He curls his bicep around your thigh, reaching between your legs from behind with his middle and ring finger. He flattens them and slides them through your cunt, teasing at your entrance but not pushing in.
Steve pulls away, your clit slipping from between his lips with a lewd, wet sound. He does so only to suck in a few greedy breaths and say, “Want you to come for me, baby. Just like this, okay? Want you to use me. Can you do that?”
You whine, squeezing your eyes shut. “But what if I hurt you? I don’t want—”
“Hey.” His hand on your hip softens, thumb stroking gentle circles instead. “That’s not gonna happen.”
“How do you know—?”
“I trust you,” he says with no room for discussion left in his tone. He means it. He does trust you. With this, and with his heart. Is fully aware that you might break it one day, but Steve will only feel privileged because either way it’ll be touched by you. He says again, a little softer. “I trust you.”
You look down at him, still poised between your legs, head back against the edge of the bed, eyes searching. And then you sigh and say, “Jesus Christ, Harrington. You’re going to fucking kill me one day, you know that? And I think I’d let you.”
Steve knows it's a submission of a whole new kind. More than obeying his filthy orders, more than confessing your feelings.
It's an acceptance that yeah—he might break your heart, too.
But you would let him.
Steve feels high on the realization that in all his obsession, in all his yearning, you’ve been secretly right beside him all along.
He kisses the inside of your thigh, hoping you can feel the love in his mouth.
And then he pushes those two fingers inside of you and licks a long, deep stroke through your cunt. You curse lowly and he takes it as direction, sucking your clit back into his mouth, tongue laving over it.
His fingers press against the softest spot inside of you with the kind of precision only someone finely tuned to your pleasure could.
Your hips roll, finding a shaky rhythm, pretty sounding moans cutting through the air.
Steve flattens his tongue, giving you as much surface area to work with as he physically can, and fucks you with his fingers while you chase release.
He knows you’re close when the soft walls of your pussy squeeze tighter with each perfectly timed thrust of his hand. You curse and whimper his name and it’s so fucking beautiful that Steve hums low in his chest, the sound vibrating through your core.
Your pace picks up, growing sloppy as you grind your clit against his soft, wet tongue. “Steve,” you choke out. “Steve, I’m gonna—”
He doesn’t give you the chance to finish your warning before he’s pressing his face harder against you and sucking your clit into his mouth once more, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass.
It hits you hard—vision blurring, skin tingling, ears ringing. Your brain doesn’t process much else between euphoria and him.
He doesn’t stop. Keeps the steady rhythm of his fingers as he pumps them in and out of you, tongue wetly circling your swollen, needy bud. Steve takes your pleasure more seriously than even his own, heightening the sensation with lasered focus until your thighs begin to tremble around his head.
You fall forward, bracing yourself against the mattress, shoulders shaking with each shallow breath.
It makes Steve laugh. He slides out from beneath you and turns, laying his cheek on the small of your back and inhaling deeply, taking in the sweet scent of your skin deep into his lungs. “I know, baby,” he soothes, hands running up your sides. “It’s okay. M’right here. Just breathe with me for a second.”
He leans back, delighting in the sight of you; hair splayed around your head, eyes closed and a sleepy, fucked-out look on your face. His perfect, angel girl.
Steve commits the shape of you to memory, knowing he’ll never see something even half as breathtaking. It would be so easy to get lost in the moment, lost in you, but Steve makes sure to keep himself grounded because he never wants to forget this moment. Wants to savor it.
He strokes the back of your thighs and grabs at your ass with both hands, spreading you open for one last taste, sliding his tongue through your slick and chuckling low when your muscles tense up at the sensitivity.
“Shh, m’sorry. You just taste so fucking good.” He crawls up on the bed and over top of you, hovering just long enough so you can turn over to face him fully.
The moment your eyes meet his, a bashful smile creeps up your face and your cheeks twinge a darker shade. “Hi,” you whisper.
Steve laughs, your joy mirrored on his own face. “Hi, pretty girl.” He cradles your face between his big hands, thumbs ghosting across your cheekbones. He kisses the tip of your nose once, just basking in you for a moment. Letting himself have you the way he’s always wanted.
You’re the one who moves first, tugging at the hem of his hoodie.
He leans back and tugs it over his head, discarding the fabric at the end of his bed. When he comes back to you, arms braced on either side of your head, Steve positions himself so his cock slips between your legs, sliding over your clit.
As if on instinct, you wiggle your hips to find an angle where he could just slip in. But Steve holds firm in his restraint, though the feeling of your softness against where he aches the most makes him shudder.
He kisses your forehead sweetly. “That what you want? Hm?”
“Yes,” you answer, certainty laced between each letter. You still move your hips, eyes focused on the place you’re so nearly connected, trying so hard to take him inside. “I want—you. I want you.”
The words are like music to his ears. He drops his head against your shoulder, perseverance withering. But he wants more—wants all of you. “Say it again,” Steve urges, voice softer and more desperate sounding than he’d intended. And when he speaks again, it comes out like a plea. “Tell me you love me.”
You thread your fingers through his hair, pulling lightly, forcing him to look into your eyes. And then you say with more conviction that he’s ever heard, “I love you, Steve Harrington.”
With one careful roll of his hips, Steve presses his cock inside of you. Fills you up until you’re gasping, memorizing the look in your eye as your body adjusts to make room for him in it.
You’re so tight around him. Hot and soft and perfect. Steve lost his virginity long ago, but you make him feel as if it’s his first time. He groans lowly, giving you time to settle, for the crease between your brows to smooth out. Gives you time to feel every thick, pulsing ridge of his cock.
Steve nudges your jaw with his nose, kissing the hollow of your smooth throat. “I know it hurts, baby. M’sorry. Are you okay?”
You answer with a timid nod. “Yeah, I just…I feel so full, Steve. Fuck. I didn’t know if it was gonna fit.”
“Of course it fits, sweetheart. This pussy was made for me.” He grabs the back of your thighs and hikes them up over his waist before reaching a hand between you. Steve is extra careful this time when his fingers find your swollen and sensitive clit, rubbing in smooth, gentle circles, encouraging you to open up a little more. “My perfect girl. Mine. Say it.”
Steve pulls out almost all the way, and slowly pushes back inside. Deep. Touching parts of you only he ever has. “Yours,” you cry out. “God, I’m—I’m yours.”
“Yeah you are,” he taunts, voice a stark contrast to the way he touches you. Soft and sweet, laying kisses against your jaw, your mouth, your collar bones. He circles your clit and rocks his hips against yours, leaning down only long enough to swirl his tongue around one of those pretty, peaked nipples.
You’re a moaning mess of a girl beneath the heavy weight of him. Soaking up all that pleasure, all those greedy, possessive strokes. Your DNA feels like it’s changing, unspooling at his touch. Your mind goes blank and there’s nothing before or after Steve fucking Harrington.
He picks up his pace when he feels the muscles of your thighs relax at his sides. Fucks his cock into you a little faster, groaning all the while, trying to control his breathing and failing miserably.
“I’m your girl,” you say, tone all shrouded in bliss.
It’s going to be his undoing, those three words.
“Come for me, baby,” Steve urges. “Wanna feel it. Give it to me.”
Your clit throbs beneath his fingers, and he feels the walls of your cunt pulse around him. Steve knows you're right there. Knows, too, that the moment you fall off the edge he’ll follow you. He can feel it now—sparks of electricity skittering down his spine, bliss replacing all rational thought in his brain.
You scratch lightly at the back of his neck, spine arching off the mattress.
Steve presses his mouth to yours, kissing you all slow and sloppy, murmuring between each breath. “My girl,” he says. “So pretty. So fucking sweet. I love you so much, baby.”
He thrusts into you once more, and then he feels it—the shuddering of your thighs, the shake in your shoulders, the tightness as you squeeze around his cock.
“There you go,” he praises. “That’s it. Yeah, just like that.”
Steve fucks you through it. Holds you close and swallows up your moans like oxygen. The wetness of your arousal creates pornographic sounds with each heavy trust. His rhythm quickly grows sloppy, uncontrolled.
He pulls out of you with just enough time so slide his cock through your slick heat and spill his release onto your belly. The pressure of his body laid against yours is enough to make him ache. Sticky, white ropes of come splatter across your skin as he grinds against you.
Once he’s finished, Steve lets out a long breath and collapses over you, his energy spent.
Soft giggles fall from your lips, fingers moving to trail lazily up and down his spine. Neither of you speak for several moments, basking in the afterglow, simply feeling the intimacy of bared skin and bared souls.
Steve thinks he’d fall asleep squishing you if he’s not careful, leaving you uncomfortable beneath him. That thought is the only thing that moves him. He pecks your lips and says, “Don’t move a muscle.”
No sooner than he can stand, you’re propping yourself up on an elbow and asking, “Where are you going?”
He disappears out of the room and into the hallway, finding a cloth from the linen closet and wetting it a little under the bathroom faucet.
“Anyone ever tell you it’s rude to ignore someone, Harrington?” Your voice carries down the hall, and Steve can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips.
“I’m coming,” he calls back, hoping this is as far from you as he’ll ever have to be again. No longer at arms length, but instead nestled right between your ribs, only a room away.
Your voice is full of playful mirth as you ask, “Again? Jesus. Who knew you had stamina like that?”
Steve laughs and shakes his head. When he returns to his room, he sits besides you and begins to clean the mess from your skin.
“Here I am, doing exactly as you ask just so you can go jerk one out in the bathroom,” you tease, clicking your tongue. “I mean, seriously. Who the hell even am I anymore?”
“You’re my girl,” he says. “And—you know, the tongue is a muscle too. So you’re definitely not doing what I ask. You’re moving it an awful lot, actually.”
“Didn’t hear any complaints earlier.”
Steve rolls his eyes and tosses the towel into the hamper in the corner of the room. He extends a hand to you, pulling you forward just enough to tug the comforter back.
He climbs into the bed and you nestle up to his side like it’s right where you belong. Your fingers are cold as you wrap them around his bicep, and when you speak your voice is a lot different. Less playful and more apprehensive. “So, what now?”
“Now, we just…we figure it out together. Day by day if we have to. If that’s what it takes,” he says. And then more lightheartedly, “And I’m definitely taking you out on that date.”
You laugh, but this time there’s no argument to be had.
Several moments pass in comfortable silence. It stretches for so long that Steve thinks you might’ve fallen asleep.
But then you say, “We go on tour in March and we won’t be back until summer. Do you think you would want to…I don’t know. Maybe…come with us?”
It’s a long time. A lot to consider.
Steve’s mind is clear enough that he knows he should take some time to mull it over. To really weigh out the pros and cons.
But he knew what his answer would be the moment the words left your mouth.
He presses a kiss into your hair and promises, “I’ll follow you anywhere.”
