summary: you and steve promised a long time ago to never go to sleep angry. imagine your suprise when he breaks that promise.
warnings: angst, arguing, steve is stubborn and a little mean, reader is also stubborn as hell, cursing, he doesn’t in fact break the promise, hurt/comfort, crying, kiss and makeup, happy ending! he still manages to be sweet
word count: 3.2k
Dating with Steve Harrington was bliss, it truly was. He was a kind man, always a loyal gentleman. He was protective and was always there for you – physically and emotionally. He was funny and so incredibly charming.
By definition, he was the perfect man.
But with all of his perfections, he had one singular flaw. His stubbornness.
Steve Harrington was as hard headed as a brick wall.
And you? Well, you could almost give him a run for his money.
Any normal day for you two was loving. Except for today.
Today, Steve seemed to have woken up on the wrong side of the bed. He claimed you hogged the blankets all night, even though it was his monster feet who kicked them to the floor.
At first it felt like tired bickering. Once the sleep washed away from him and he got a little bit of food in his tummy, all would be well.
Wrong.
At breakfast, you argued about who’s turn it was to do the dishes. You told him everything in the sink was left by him the night before – he argued that your name was next on the chore list.
You argued about how he forgot to make the coffee for the morning. He argued that you could’ve done it too – even though he’s always done it.
You argued over his misplaced keys. Over what time Nancy said to meet at the station. Over who gets to drive – this one was entirely your fault considering you don’t even like to drive, but he was really pissing you off.
The car ride there was spent with your arms crossed tight and your legs tucked into the passenger door – away from his touch – and his fingers gripping the wheel so tight, his knuckles whitened. By the time you two made it into the station, you both angrily agreed not to talk to each other.
It’s pettiness and stress masked as arguments about nothing. The tension between you two was palpable and the group picks up on it quickly.
You’re all standing around the common room, ready to disperse into your own jobs. You and Steve always go with Dustin to monitor Hopper – leaving everyone else back at the station to take care of things.
You’re dreading the idea of sitting in the pre-existing tension between Steve and Dustin, and it doesn’t help the fact that you’re now arguing with him too.
You move to grab your jacket when he speaks up.
“Not you.” Steve says, his voice firm but cold. You blink up at him. “Byers is taking your spot tonight,”
You laugh incredulously. “Wha – Jonathan?”
He nods down at you, zipping up his own jacket. “He knows how to handle the navigation,”
Your face pinches at his answer. “So do I,”
Steve avoids your eyes as he gathers the rest of his things. It’s not because of shame or fear, but from annoyance. “Do you?”
Your eyes narrow and you can feel the fury bubbling in your chest. “Do I?” You repeat. “You know what Steve, you really have to get over whatever bug crawled up your ass today, alright? You’re acting like –.”
Steve cuts you off before you can finish.
“No, do you know what?” He slams his walkie down on the cushion of the couch. When his eyes meet yours, they’re dark and clouded. There’s not a trace of patience or love in them and for a moment, that scares you. “This isn’t about you. Who knows how many more chances we’re gonna get if this goes wrong and the last thing I need is you fucking up the navigation. So for once, I need you to listen to what I’m saying and quit nagging me, alright?”
Everything around you seems to still.
All that you can focus on is the irritation covering your boyfriends face and for the first time, maybe ever, it’s all aimed at you. For whatever reason, he seems to think you’re the root cause of his sour mood today.
So what if you don’t have the best track record with reading the map? Steve’s lived in his town his entire damn life, he should know the streets by now.
It’s not just frustration you feel anymore. Now it’s shame and insecurity and embarrassment. Shame because apparently, you nag him enough for him to remember. Insecure because you couldn’t even guess how long he’s been holding this in. And embarrassed because everyone around you has also stilled – now staring at the two of you like you’re a pair of animals in a cage.
That thought angers you even more.
Your jaw clenches so hard you can almost hear your teeth grinding against each other and you can feel the way your nails dig into the skin of your palms as a way to calm yourself down.
Steve stares back down at you and after a beat of silence, he seems to register exactly what he said. His eyes flutter shut and he sighs, raising his hand to gently grasp your hand.
Your face is steel as you take a step back before he can reach you. You won’t cause a scene and you also won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he hurt you just now.
“You should go then.” You tell him. He grimaces at your cold tone and makes no move to leave.
He says your name gently. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just – just come with and we can –.”
You cut him off this time. “No thanks, I wouldn’t want to fuck up the navigation again.”
Steve’s shoulders deflate when you echo his earlier words.
It looks like he’s ready to say something else but before he can, you’re spinning on your heels and downstairs to the basement to meet with Joyce at the intercom. You can feel his eyes following you as you disappear but not once do you turn or falter.
It didn’t matter what was causing his sudden attitude change. You were done trying to be empathetic and understanding. He wasn’t about to use you as an emotional punching bag – if he didn’t want to be around you then you would give him that.
It’s hours later when Steve finally arrives back at the station. In that time, his voice cracked over the intercom a few times with updates about movements and any military activity. Each time you ignored the pang in your chest and let Robin respond.
The crawl ended up being just another tally mark under the dead end section and you all began to filter home, completely defeated.
Steve didn’t offer any words as you climbed into the car together, but neither did you. It was still tense but not as tense as when he left. His foul mood is still obvious but it’s no longer white hot anger. It gives you a little bit of hope.
When you finally make it home, it’s after 10. He still hasn’t spoken to you but he lets you shower first, and you take the opportunity to try and get rid of your own anger.
You weren’t sure if he really cared it wasn’t your voice he was hearing. It didn’t seem like he cared about your absence in the van, but then again it wasn’t the focus of the night. His earlier words rang in your head.
It’s not about you.
Yet here you were, making it about you.
You’re smart enough to realize his blow up had little to do with you. It was a culmination of stress of the crawls, stress from his newly strained relationship with Dustin, stress from everything. You were just the only constant in his life and it seemed like you were the best thing to take it out on.
It doesn’t make it right, but at least you understand.
Still, you’re annoyed at the very least.
But you two have made a promise years ago – to never fall asleep mad and with the way exhaustion is clawing at you, you’re ready to climb into bed and apologize for arguing all day. It’s nothing a few sweet words and a few more sweeter kisses can’t fix and the more you think about it, the more you crave it.
Fighting with Steve was one of your least favorite things in the world.
You quickly clean your mess in the bathroom and change for bed but when you step out of the bathroom and into your shared room, you freeze.
It’s not the darkness or the quietness that stops you. It’s the fact that Steve is already on his side of the bed, his back turned towards your side and asleep.
That asshole actually fell asleep.
You stand there, five feet away from him, in complete disbelief. It was his stupid idea to promise that and he’s the one who broke it first.
Your newly dissolved anger reignites and this time, it’s scorching. You have to fight the urge to abuse him with your pillow as you look at his sleeping frame. You’ve spent the last few hours trying to think of ways to make up with him and he’s just sleeping.
Your body is tense as you finally climb into bed. You make it a point to leave as much distance between your bodies you can without falling off the bed.
Steve is unmoving as you settle on your side and it angers you even more.
Now it’s not just the arguments from today. It’s everything.
It’s the arguing, it’s his careless words from earlier, it’s the coldness you’ve been getting from him all day, it’s the short temper he’s met you with.
You feel small and almost like you mean nothing to him. It’s a stretch considering all he actually did was fall asleep but damnnit, it’s the principle of it all.
Before you know it, tears are slipping from your eyes and soaking the pillow beneath your cheek. You bite your lip to keep the sounds as muffled as possible because the last thing you want is for him to see you cry.
For the first night in your entire relationship, you don’t want to be anywhere near him.
You’re not sure how much time passes when you finally stop crying.
You feel pathetic for it but it’s not out of sadness – because he didn’t hurt your feelings (he did) – it’s because you’re just frustrated about the whole thing.
He’s laid beside you, peaceful and still as he lets his body loosen and forget all its troubles. All the while, you’ve been lying here crying.
There hasn’t been a second where your frustration has even slightly dwindled. Instead, it keeps building and your exhaustion isn’t helping matters.
The sound of Steve’s slow and even breathing behind you is enough to make you break. You don’t take a second to rethink things before you’re shoving the blankets off of you and snatching your pillow in one hand.
You trudge into the darkness downstairs and throw your pillow against the couch. You pull the blanket that rests over the back cushion and settle into the couch.
It’s achingly lonely down here but somehow it feels better than trying to stay beside Steve. You know you’ll wake up in an even worse mood because of how uncomfortable the couch is. The cushions are lumpy, it’s almost too short for your body, it’s colder down here without the warmth of Steve comforting you.
Still, you force yourself comfortable and take another chance at sleep.
Upstairs, Steve’s subconscious has him flipping over in his sleep and his arms instinctively reach out for you. His hand slides across your side of the bed, ready to grab your waist and pull you into his chest but he feels nothing.
His eyes flutter open at the feeling of emptiness beneath his palm. It takes him a few seconds to adjust to the darkness of the room but when he finally does, he sees your side of the bed is empty and cold.
He leans up on his elbow then, taking a quick glance at the bathroom but the light is off and the door is shut. He scans the rest of the room but is met with nothing. It doesn’t really register for him until he realizes your pillow is also gone.
He feels his stomach twist with nerves before he pulls himself out of bed.
His feet pad against the hardwood floor of your shared home as he makes his way out of the bedroom. The rest of the house is quiet and dark – he almost worries you left entirely.
He makes his way down the steps, into the living room and that’s when he finally sees you.
Steve feels guilt hit him like a truck when he sees your small frame squished uncomfortably on the couch. You’re lying on your side, knees curled into your chest and a small throw blanket covering your body.
He hates seeing you like this and even more, he hates being the cause of it. He knows without a doubt it’s his fault. He knew what he said earlier was cruel and completely uncalled for – and he didn’t blame you for a second when you chose not to talk to him over the radio.
When he got back and saw how angry you still were, he felt like the best thing to do was give you space. He’d been blowing up over the tiniest things all day, the least he could do was give you time to yourself.
So when he climbed into bed, it wasn’t to break his promise – it actually wasn’t even on his mind. He just didn’t want to overwhelm or upset you even more.
Obviously that was the wrong choice.
His feet pull him towards you and he bends down so he can lift you up. He carefully pulls the blanket from you and slides one arm beneath your neck. He’s ready to slide the other under your knees when you begin to stir.
Your head turns, lashes fluttering against the skin of your cheeks as you try to focus on what woke you up. There’s a softness in your eyes, one personally reserved for your boyfriend and he feels his heart ache at the sight.
But just as fast as it appeared, it’s gone when you blink.
You pull away from his hold and Steve lets his arms fall to his sides.
“What?” Sleepiness laces your voice but he picks up on the anger beneath it.
He swallows and kneels beside the couch so he’s eye level with you. “Come back to bed,” He whispers.
“I’m comfortable here,” You lie easily. Your hands grab the blanket at your feet and pull it back up to cover yourself, just before you shift to turn away from him.
Steve stares at the back of your head for a moment, immediately missing the sight of your beautiful face.
“Baby..” He sighs. He’s ready to argue more but you cut him off.
“I don’t want to sleep next to you, Steve.” Your voice is detached and cold.
His heart cracks at your response.
His ego tells him to walk away. To leave you to deal with your temper tantrum and to enjoy the bed to himself.
He’s never ignored a thought so quickly.
“Then let me sleep on the couch. You go to bed, babe,” He offers softly.
Your anger aimed at him and your exhaustion has you groaning into the air. You twist your head just enough to face him.
“Just forget it, Steve. I want to sleep.”
Steve feels his own stubbornness filter back. “I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.” He says your name firmly – like a parent scolding a child.
You glare at him, your eyes so dark, there may as well be daggers shooing out of them.
“Why not? You were sleeping so peacefully a few minutes ago. Go back and do it again,” You huff before turning your head to face the cushion again.
Steve’s jaw clenches, not from anger but from more guilt. He never wanted to make you feel like this – like you didn’t matter.
Carefully, he moves to sit on the couch with you. You grumble something like go away but he ignores it. He brings his hand up to cup your cheek, and you try to pull away but his hold is firm.
“I’m sorry, baby,” He whispers, his thumb stroking over the apple of your cheeks. It’s a little damp and sticky from your earlier tears you didn’t even bother to wipe away. He watches the way you avoid his gaze and the way your jaw ticks. “I shouldn’t have spent all day arguing with you, and I definitely shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I was pissed off about these crawls and the way Henderson’s been acting lately and I took it out on you,” His voice is so soft and gentle – it’s a dangerous contrast to how he spoke earlier. “You didn’t deserve that, baby and I’m sorry.”
Your eyes gloss over again at his apology and you can slowly feel your resolve break. You’re so tired and all you want is to wrap yourself in his arms again.
But you’re still pissed.
“I’m not your punching bag, Steve.” You say firmly. There’s a hint of a waver in your tone but he doesn’t catch it. He nods, his eyes sad and regretful.
“I know you’re not,”
“And you don’t get to take it out on me every time you’re pissed off.”
He nods again. “I won’t, I promise.”
Your eyes narrow, but it’s not as angry this time. “And you’re not allowed to go to bed without me again.”
Steve breaks a smile at your words but quickly tries to cover it, worried you’re not ready to joke with him again. It technically was meant to be lighthearted but the sentiment was serious.
“I’ll stay awake forever if you asked me too, baby,” He responds, his hand gently stroking your skin.
You roll your eyes at his theatrics, but he doesn’t miss the ghost of a smile on your lips.
He leans down, pressing his lips to yours in a tender kiss. He doesn’t try to deepen it – just lets you both feel the other close and intimate. When he pulls away, he leans his forehead against yours. “I really am sorry, baby.” He whispers.
You nod gently. “I know,” You bring your own palm up to his cheek this time and he plants a kiss to your palm before letting himself lean onto your hold.
It’s quiet for a few seconds as you hold each other before you speak up.
“Can you carry me to bed now?” You breathe out, a smile plastered across your face. Steve grins down at you and within seconds, you’re in his arms bridal style. You gasp in surprise from his swiftness and he’s easily carrying you up the stairs.
He plants kisses across the skin of your face the entire way back to bed and once you’re finally settled in, he doesn’t let you go for a second.
pairing: gator tillman/f!reader
wc: 5300
tags: meetcute, fluff, soft!gator, lots of banter, one singular smooch, slow burn. note: there is a cliffhanger ending.
a/n: from @xoxocelestial's prompt - here. fill #10 for my 1000 follower special🩵
yes, this is part 1 of a new series.
yes, i am unable to control myself.
yes, more to come soon.
&&
The orderly stopped your hospital-issue wheelchair right outside of a room with the door mostly closed. You huffed a sigh.
“I don’t mind staying in the hallway,” you told him, but he just gave you a sympathetic look.
“We’re overcrowded as it is,” he said to you. “We’re doubling up where we can—and since you just have to have your shoulder looked at, you should be out pretty quickly once the doctor gets to you.”
You rolled your eyes. “It’s been three hours already.”
“Holiday weekend,” he said, sympathetically. “This is why we recommend urgent care.”
“I dislocated my shoulder at 10’o’clock,” you said, grimacing at little at the thought of how it happened, the guy you were trying to hook up with after your best friend’s 4th of July barbecue, and the way he’d just dropped you off at the ER and then dipped. “Nowhere else was open.”
The orderly only nodded to you and then stepped around you, knocking on the door to the patient room where you sat. You understood the policy, but you were still a little miffed at having to be driven around the hospital rather than move on your own.
“Mr. Tillman?” the orderly said, and your eyes widened, snapping up to read the hand-written name on the outside of the door. Fuck, it did say Tillman, G. You knew Gator—well, in the most general sense of knowing who his father was and the broadest details of the family. And you did not really want to be put into a hospital room with him, scourge of Stark County, especially not when he was admitted for something or other. He was ornery on a good day—potentially sick or in pain in the ER meant he’d be ten times worse at least.
“It’s Deputy,” Gator said, and you sighed.
“Sure,” the orderly said easily. “Deputy, I know you were supposed to have a private room down here, but unfortunately our hallways are overcrowded and it’s not safe to have so little room to maneuver, particularly with how busy we are tonight.”
“Ok?” Gator asked, already annoyed. You could hear it in his voice.
“We have another patient who will be in your room for a short time—she won’t take up much space. No bed, just a chair.”
There was a pause, during which you found yourself surprised that Gator was actually entertaining it, but then—
“Absolutely fuckin’ not. Hell you think this is?” Gator asked.
“It’s a hospital, sir. She needs to be out of the hallway, and she’ll be in and out.”
“I’ll show ‘er in and out,” Gator quipped, but before either he or you could protest, the orderly exited the room, took hold of the handles of your wheelchair, and pushed you into Gator’s room. The overhead lights were dark, but the light directly above Gator’s bed was on, and you saw him glaring over at you as you entered. “Mind hittin’ that light, Butch?” Gator asked the orderly, and as he left the room he flicked the light switch, bathing you both in cold fluorescent light from above as the door swung shut behind him. “Eh,” Gator intoned.
“Eh?” you repeated, frowning and crossing your arm (well, arm, since the other was basically immobile), squinting a little at the glare of the lights even as your eyes slowly adjusted.
“Ain’t nothin’ too special t’look at,” he said, eyeing you, sling and all. “Coulda left the lights off.”
“Jesus,” you muttered, standing up from the wheelchair and crossing over to turn the lights off again with your good arm. “There, you look a hell of a lot better in the dark too.”
But Gator only chuckled. “Fuckin’ bitch,” he muttered, and then went back to what he’d been doing when the orderly had interrupted him: A book of word search puzzles.
You stared long enough, standing in the middle of the room, that it was noticeable, and Gator looked up at you again, scratching the side of his nose with the pencil he was holding.
“What?”
Caught, you stumbled over your words. “Nothing, I just—I wouldn’t expect to see you doing word puzzles.”
Gator blinked at you, eyes narrowed. “We know each other’r somethin’?”
“Wh—No,” you said. “I just—I know of you.”
His face relaxed into a smirk. “You know of me? Fuck’s that mean?” He sounded amused.
“I mean—The sheriff… Sheriff Tillman. ‘A hard man for hard times.’” You forgot to keep the mocking edge from your voice, so you just spurred on. “You’re his son. Everyone in the county knows you.”
Gator kept his eyes on you, then hummed, noncommittal. “A’right.” He went back to his book.
You sat back down, mostly because you felt awkward standing in the middle of the room, and pushed yourself back and forth a little, rolling the wheelchair to and fro. It went on for a minute or so, probably, until Gator sighed heavily and looked over at you.
“So what happened t’yer arm?” he asked. “Some guy rough y’up?”
You snickered. “Not in the way you think.”
“Hell’s’at mean?”
“We were having a good time, until we weren’t.”
There was a beat of silence, and then he snickered. “So it’s a sex thing?” He laughed. “Damn, how’d you fuck up fuckin’ that bad that ya needed the hospital?”
“I dislocated my shoulder,” you said.
“You did?” Gator asked. “Or he did?”
“Ok, Deputy, relax.” You adjusted your arm a little in the sling. “Everyone was a consenting adult, I just—got the shit end of the stick.”
“So where’s yer guy?” Gator asked. “Bet he’d love knowin’ y’were in here w’me. Since everyone in the county knows me ‘nd all.”
“He—” you said, but cut yourself off. Where was he? Last you’d seen him he was in the drivers’ seat of his pickup, telling you you’d be fine but he had work in the AM so he couldn’t stick around, and if you needed anything, to just let him know. He’d driven away before you realized that he’d never given you his number, so. Where was he indeed. By now, he was probably home, beer drunk and cock jerked, sleeping like a baby before his shift in the morning. “Don’t know, don’t care.”
Gator laughed. “Cold.”
“Well, he left me here and blew me off, so.”
“A’right, that’s worse. ‘Nd after you blew him’n everything too. Damn.”
“Who said I blew him?” you asked, not quite believing you were entertaining this line of conversation.
“Ya look like the type,” Gator said, shrugging.
“Excuse me?” you asked, scowling at him, offended.
“What?” he asked, trying to hide his amusement, but you absolutely heard him snickering. “It’s a compliment.”
“How is that a compliment?”
“Means ya look… givin’. ‘Nd carin’, y’know. Generous and shit.”
“Pig,” you said, turning your wheelchair away from him and facing the door.
“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that. I meant it. Ya seem like a real nice broad.” You turned to glare at him over your shoulder.
“I don’t want to be in here with you just as much as you don’t want to be in here with me,” you said.
“So we’re even,” he said, then gestured at your arm. “That shit hurt?”
“Uh, yeah?” you said. “We can try to recreate what I was doing if you want to see for yourself.”
“Yeah, fuck that,” Gator said, but he was chuckling to himself. He smiled over at you. “Fun as I’m sure it was.”
“So what happened to you?” you asked.
“Waitin’ on some stitches,” he said, then fell silent.
You waited for him to keep talking, but he didn’t. “What happened?”
“This,” Gator said, and curled his hand into the sheets on top of him, pulling them to the side to reveal his leg, thigh draped in the hospital gown. He tugged up the hem of the gown and you saw a thick pad of gauze, not quite bled through but a red sliver was making itself known.
“Um,” you said, because that didn’t quite answer your question in its entirety.
“Some fucker’ got me with a boxcutter,” he said.
“And it was big enough to need stitches?”
Gator fixed you with a look. “Wanna see it?”
“No, I’m good,” you said, but he started peeling the gauze away. “I said I’m good. Gator! I’m good!”
He’d barely uncovered an inch of it, but you could see that the gash was larger, a decent slice dug into his thigh. “So yeah, need some stitches. Wasn’t too deep, it ain’t still bleedin’ too much or nothin’, but it’s long enough it needed, ah… medical attention.” He turned to look at you, and before you could react he continued. “Got something else long enough y’d need medical attention. ‘Nd as luck should have it we’re both already in the goddamn hospital.”
“You’re disgusting,” you said. “And just to knock you down another peg, you’re not nearly as attractive in a hospital gown as you think you are.”
“Not even with these on?” Gator asked, reaching to the tray table set off to the side. He grabbed something you couldn’t see, then slid his sunglasses onto his face. It was so unexpected and lighthearted that you laughed—genuinely.
“Sorry, no,” you said, shaking your head a little. Sure, you were both trapped in the same room off of the emergency department at the hospital, but Gator Tillman was fucking flirting with you. Badly, but still. Even if he was just doing it to pass the time, he was still coming on to you.
“So—y’know my name,” Gator said. “You gonna tell me yers or do I gotta bust out the badge and ask fer ID?”
“The badge is worse than the shades,” you said, and he lifted them off his eyes and furrowed his brow at you, like he was trying to gauge if you were serious or not. But before he could question you, you’d given him your name.
Gator marked his page in the puzzle book with the pencil, then held out his right hand toward you to shake, reaching out over his own body. You didn’t make a move to stand or wheel closer to him.
“Dammit woman, don’t leave me hangin’,” he said. “Tryna be, uh, upstandin’ here.”
“My arm’s in a sling,” you said, pointing to your right arm with your working left one. “Sorry.”
“Fuckin’ excuses,” he grumbled.
But he wasn’t such terrible company, really, not for the few short minutes you’d spent with him. At least he was entertaining, and he’d rolled with the punches you’d thrown back at him in response to his sexist BS. You stood up, took the two steps to his bedside, and placed your left hand in his, not quite shaking it but trying to, at least. His hand was cold in yours, the skin rough like you’d expected, but still softer than you’d thought it would be. Just as the thought crossed your mind, you pulled your hand away, because you didn’t want to linger and give him any ideas.
“You got any more puzzle books?” you asked, gesturing at the word search book.
“You can take this one,” Gator said. “Was in here already when they dumped my ass on this bed.” He proffered it to you. You took it.
“How long have you been in here?” you asked, sitting back down and opening the book to where he’d marked it. The word searches on the open pages were complete (left) and half-done (right).
“Got here after you,” Gator said. “Y’said, what—you been here fer three hours?”
You nodded, looking down at the word search he’d left unfinished. The theme was “Picnic.” You noticed that he did them the same way you did: alphabetically by the word list. That… surprised you. He’d left off at lemonade so you started searching for it, the pencil clutched in your left hand, the book balanced on your lap.
“Yeah, I got here ‘bout… midnight.”
“Surprised you’re still waiting,” you commented, trying to be flippant, but it definitely came out more bitter than you’d intended.
“Why’s’at?” Gator asked.
You circled lemonade in the word search, a little wobbly since you were balancing it on your legs and handling it with just one hand. Now you were looking for napkins. “The name Tillman carries weight around here. Didn’t you know?”
“‘Parently not enough,” Gator said. “Got my ass sittin’ in here with some chick who thinks she can just say whatever’s on her mind like I ain’t gonna take it personal.”
“That’s a fragile ego, Deputy,” you said. Napkins jumped out at you on the page, but when you went to circle it, you dropped the pencil, and when you leaned over to pick it up, the book fell off your lap. You sighed heavily and picked them up.
“Well, from where I’m sitting,” you said, hoisting yourself back into the wheelchair, book and pencil in hand, the puzzle page you were working on lost, “seems like there is.”
“Why? ‘Cause’a my leg? Fucker got the jump on me, ain’t nothin’ more to it.”
“No. Because you care what a chick you just met and probably never will again thinks about you.”
“Whoa. Now just wait a fuckin’ second, who said that?”
“You did,” you said, absently flipping through the pages of the puzzle book, looking for “Picnic” again.
“When the fuck did I say that?”
“Just now,” you said, looking up at him, tucking the pencil behind your ear so you had one less thing to balance while you were looking through the book. “If you’re taking what I’m saying personally, you’re giving it weight. And if me not being a badge bunny and knowing you throw your last name around like it’s an extra six inches is getting to you, then that ego of yours is made of fine china.”
He watched you, eyes narrowed just a little, as you found the page you’d left off on, then reached to untuck the pencil from your ear. As soon as you’d lifted your hand, the book fell to the floor again and you groaned, tossing your head back, and the pencil clattered to the floor behind you.
“God fucking—damn it,” you groaned, and Gator only chuckled.
“Gimme that fuckin’ book,” Gator said, ignoring—or, at the very least not acknowledging—what you’d said.
“You said I could have it,” you said, mostly to be petulant.
“And they said you’d be ‘in’n’out’,” Gator said, mimicking the orderly’s voice. “‘Nd yet yer still fuckin’ here. Gimme that book, pick up the pencil, ‘nd get yer ass over here.”
As you watched, he reached his left hand out to lower the railing on the side of the bed, then shimmied a little to the side, like he was making room for you to sit beside him.
You shook your head, but stood up to grab the pencil from where it had fallen anyway, then looked at him again, confusion still etched on your face.
“I said git,” Gator said, palm slapping the mattress beside him.
“For what?”
“Only got three workin’ arms ’tween us,” he said. “You wanna do yer fuckin’ word search, you look for ‘em ‘nd I’ll cross ‘em off.”
It felt like a trap, almost. You weren’t the biggest busybody in Dickinson, but you heard everything that women said about the police in this town, especially the Tillmans. And yet, you were with Gator, getting firsthand, empirical evidence that he could, actually, behave himself. You were still more than an arm’s length away, though, so who knew how long that would last?
You picked up the fallen book, then handed it and the pencil to Gator. He took it, opened it, found “Picnic,” then looked at you expectantly, before angling his head toward the bed beside him, looking at it pointedly. You stepped over and climbed onto it beside him, careful not to jostle his injured leg.
“Napkin,” Gator said, and you pointed with your good arm, because you still remembered where you’d seen it. “Fuckin’ crack shot, huh?”
You laughed, despite yourself. “Something like that.”
And after you’d found park and plates in quick succession, Gator shifted the book a little bit away from you.
“Yer too good at this,” he said. “I ain’t even gettin’ a chance t’look myself.”
You paused. “Is this a race?”
He paused too. “Yeah. Think it is.”
“Well you have to let me see it, then,” you said, unable to lean too close to him, your right arm already stiff and sore from being in the sling.
“You seen it enough,” Gator said. “Plus, yer too good, I should get a lil’ advantage.”
“You mean you should get to cheat,” you replied.
Gator turned to you, grinning all smug, and nodded. “Real glad we see eye t’eye on that. ‘Preciate it.” You watched as he circled the next word, which you could barely read due to the angle at which he was holding the book.
“You’re such a dick,” you said, and you just saw his cheek round up even more, his smile widening as he crossed the word off the bottom of the list.
“My dick is one’a the most notable things about me,” Gator said, and you were so used to his crass comments by now that you just sighed in exasperation and rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see you.
“Just let me see the puzzle,” you said, shifting so that you were kneeling beside him on the bed, since you couldn’t lean into him with your arm as tender as it was. You leaned over him, taking extreme care not to actually let any part of your body touch his, and reached over with your left hand to try and grab the book. “We can do it together, just let me hold the book. You can keep the pencil.”
Gator switched the book to his right hand, holding it out of your reach before you even got close. “You wanna do it wi’me? Damn, ‘n I thought you were different. But I like ‘em a little mean sometimes.”
“You are such a—” you started to say, but stopped yourself, trying to think of a name to call him that he wouldn’t be able to turn into something sexual or make suggestive. And as you cycled through your choices, his smirk only grew, until he had bent his good leg at the knee, resting his elbow on it and balancing his chin on his hand, watching you with a bemused expression while your mind whirled through the various insults you knew. “Manchild.”
Gator guffawed at that, and you really had to work to suppress your own smile, moving back to sit beside him normally, no longer wanting to play his stupid games.
“First time I heard that one,” Gator said, moving to hold the puzzle book between the two of you, half on your lap, half on his.
“Color me shocked,” you snapped back, but there was no venom in it. “I would’ve guessed that was, like, your middle name.”
“So then what’s yers?” Gator asked. “Smartass?”
“Surprisingly, yes,” you said, and this time, when he laughed, you did too. You hadn’t ever wanted to cross paths with this guy, but being stuck in this room with him—willingly sharing space with him, so close your injured arm and his injured leg were almost brushing against each other—it wasn’t turning out to be the worst part of your night. That, amazingly, was still your shoulder. It wasn’t like you’d let him know he was making things bearable and the time pass quickly. You could keep your gratitude unspoken. And you would.
“You lookin’ or what?” Gator asked, shaking the book a little, and you looked over at him to find him staring at the side of your face, tapping the book with the pencil’s eraser. “I already fuckin found sandwich but I don’t wanna circle it if yer gonna chew me the fuck out about it.”
“Sandwich,” you said, letting your eyes rove over the puzzle. “There.” You pointed and he drew an elongated oval around the letters.
“Very good,” he said, condescendingly.
But instead of rising to it, you just decided to show him up. There were four words left: spring, tablecloth, wasps, and watermelon. You’d already found them—but sandwich had needed to be circled first—so you simply tapped the page in four spots, in order.
“There you go,” you said, repeating the taps so he knew you weren’t bullshitting and had found the remaining four words. “So, what do I win?”
“Win,” Gator repeated, circling each of the four words, then crossing them off the list. He stuck the pencil in the book and closed it. “Fuck makes you think you won somethin’?”
“You said it was a race,” you said. “I found the words faster than you. That means I get a prize.”
“Fuck kinda prize you think this place got? Hold on, lemme page the nurse ‘nd see if I can score ya some ice chips.”
You laughed, a true, hearty laugh, eyes closed and giggles bubbling bright out of your chest, and when you opened your eyes again and let your gaze fall on Gator, you didn’t miss the way he was looking at you, expression soft for the briefest moment, until he remembered himself, remembered who and what he was supposed to be under observation—a Tillman—and let the scowl creep back onto his features. A little too late; you wondered if he ever showed this part of himself to anyone else. Not that you were special—you knew you weren’t, not to Gator Tillman—but here he wasn’t supposed to be anyone, wasn’t beholden to his father or the department. He was just a guy waiting for stitches, messing around with a puzzle book and the woman they’d dumped on him by chance.
“So,” Gator said, clearing his throat a little as though he’d just realized now how close you were to him. “Ya wanna try ta explain how the hell ya dislocated yer arm mid-fuck?”
You sighed. “We weren’t actually… doing anything yet,” you said. “He was kinda—so he was behind me, and he had my arms behind my back.” You gestured, but Gator watched you, a half-smirk playing at his lips, one eyebrow quirked up. “He was holding them behind me, you know.”
“Yeah, I’m followin’,” Gator said, suppressing a grin.
“And I guess he just—I kinda… Twisted the wrong way from how he was moving, and next thing I knew I couldn’t really move my arm. It didn’t hurt that much when it popped out, but moving it back in front of me was really bad. And then add the emotional damage of him having to put my clothes back on...” You grimaced at Gator. “Maybe I lucked out that he just left me here.”
“Prob’ly,” Gator said, lifting his hand to bite at one of his cuticles, though he lowered his hand when you scrunched up your nose at him. “Nah, I’m just sayin’—guy like that ain’t gonna see shit through after he hurts ya? Scumbag.”
You blinked, shaking your head a little in disbelief. “What?” you asked, probably somewhat dumbly, because you hadn’t thought Gator could feel sympathy for the fairer sex.
“Guy fuckin’ dislocates yer damn arm and can’t even stick witcha at least through triage? That’s some lame ass shit.” He glanced over at you and realized you were looking at him like he had six heads. “What, you think I wouldn’t?”
“I mean—everything I’ve ever heard about you points to no, you wouldn’t.”
Gator cocked his head to the side. “‘Nd why’s that?”
You shrugged your good shoulder, but the movement still made you flinch a little. As though it were his fault, Gator moved away from you, like he’d nudged your arm and that was what made you shudder in pain.
“You’re not a… long haul kind of guy,” you said. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“Mm,” Gator hummed, then sucked his teeth. “Gotta say, this whole ‘you knowin’ of me’ thing fuckin’ sucks.”
“Sorry,” you said.
“No you ain’t,” Gator said, but he chuckled a little, darkly, unamused. “You came in here thinkin’ you knew all there was t’know about me and yer still just sayin’ it. Well, if your opinion holds so much weight like ya think I think it does, maybe try watchin’ yer mouth.” He looks over at you. “Or I’ll give ya somethin’ better t’do with it.”
You moved yourself a bit away from him to sit on the edge of the mattress, letting your left leg drape off of it, toes to the floor. “Ok, fair point. I don’t even know you, I shouldn’t judge you.” You looked over at him out of the corner of your eyes, assessing. You decided to be honest and press your luck. “You just don’t exactly give off the most… comforting aura.”
Gator turned to look blankly at you, his expression slowly morphing into disgust. “Don’t say shit like that t’me,” he said, then laughed. “I ain’t tryna be no one’s friend out here. I can’t be seen as… comforting. I’m the law.”
“Oh my god, you really say that? You really say that. I didn’t think—”
“I really say what?” he interrupted you.
You dropped your voice to match his. “‘I’m the law.’ You’re a real piece of work, you know that? ‘I’m the law,’ get the hell out of here.” You laughed and reached across your body with your left hand to shove at his left arm, playful and teasing.
“I don’t know why you think yer so cool, Miss Can’t-Even-Fuck-Right,” Gator said. “Promise ya if y’were with me, you wouldn’t’a dislocated nothin’. ‘Cept maybe yer—”
“Let me guess, my jaw?” you asked. “Because your dick’s so big? I get it, you’re packing. Can we move on?” But you were smiling. Despite yourself, despite his demeanor, you were starting to find the moments in between when he dropped the act actually… charming. Something else you’d keep to yourself, because if he found out you were actually enjoying his company, he’d be even more insufferable.
“Nah,” Gator said, stretching out his injured leg, wincing a little as he did. Surreptitiously, he lifted the hospital gown again, checking the gauze taped to his thigh. The little red sliver you’d seen before was just a touch wider, the wound still oozing. He covered it again quickly, but you’d still seen. “Got m’self.”
You almost didn’t register that he’d spoken, because it didn’t sound like he’d actually said words. “What?”
“With the boxcutter.” He cleared his throat. “I got m’self.”
“You—” you started to say, but stopped yourself. “Oh, my god.”
“Was a fuckin’ accident, a’right?” he said, huffy. “Breakin’ down some shit at the station, lost m’grip on the box, next thing ya know I’m bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”
“That’s so embarrassing for you,” you said, and Gator lifted his left hand, flipping you off. You laughed, but were pleased to see he was smirking too.
“Ain’t no more embarrassing than twistin’ yer arm out of its socket when yer just tryna get it in.”
You nodded your head to the side, conceding the point. “Fair enough.” You paused. “Why… did you tell me that?” you asked.
Gator shrugged. “You told me ‘bout yours. Figure we’re even now.”
“We needed to be even?” you asked.
“Yeah, why not,” Gator said. “Yer cool.”
If it had been five minutes earlier, you’d have ribbed him for that, given him shit for it. But it had happened at exactly the right moment—you felt decent enough even though your shoulder still hurt, and he seemed to have loosened up enough that he could be real, or at least as real as a Tillman could be in these parts.
“You might be cool too,” you said, pulling your leg back up onto the bed, pushing yourself up closer beside him, your knees pressing into his hip as you tried to face him—and then promptly fell sideways into the upright part of the bed because your right arm was in a sling and you had no way to prop yourself up.
“I take it back,” Gator said, absolutely losing his shit at your awkward faceplant, your dislocated arm held in place by the sling. “Nothin’ fuckin’ cool aboutcha, my god, woman.” He reached back to help you up, wrapping his arm around you and holding you securely to his side. “Y’ok?”
When he asked it, his voice was quieter, lighter, brushing against your cheek like the touch of a lover, of someone who cared about you, even though he couldn’t and he didn’t.
“I’m fine,” you said, your cheek burning not only from the impact on the hospital mattress but also embarrassment. You glanced over at him, and noticed: He was a lot closer than you realized, even as he retracted his arm, which was dumb as hell, because you were practically sitting on his lap, and just might be if not for his cut leg and your immobile arm.
“That’s one word fer it,” Gator said, his hand moving over your knee, up your thigh, just enough for you to feel affected by it.
And you shouldn’t. This was Gator Tillman, fundamentally one of the worst people you could get involved with, and yet aside from some locker room talk and all of the rumors and conjecture you’d gathered from living in his vicinity, he hadn’t done anything to truly turn you off. It was the push and pull of flirting with a guy, the little barbs and pokes that made something new into something fun, something brimming with potential. So when his hand skimmed a little further up your thigh, you leaned in and just barely let your lips brush over his.
He kissed you back. Of course he did. You figured he was going to, because you were there and you were making it easy, but what you didn’t count on was how he would do it. With his fingers pressing just enough into your thigh that you could feel it, with his nose bumping against yours as he tilted his head the slightest bit to the side, with his lips closing around your cupid’s bow, keeping it simple and sweet before he pulled back. It was the perfect kind of kiss for the moment, and you never would have expected Gator to read the mood like that. You were starting to think you’d been wrong about him, or maybe everyone else had.
Just as you opened your mouth to speak, the door to the room opened and the orderly marched back in, stopping short when he saw you perched on Gator’s bed. You felt his hand move off of your thigh and instead to your lower back, holding you steady as you hurriedly stood up from the bed.
“Careful,” he muttered, as you slid your legs down over the lowered railing.
“Mr. Tillman,” the orderly said.
“Deputy,” Gator corrected him, and you smirked as you took your seat again.
“Deputy,” the orderly continued. “The doctor is about ready to see you, and since you have a… roommate, we’ll be bringing you to one of the exam rooms for the stitches.” You were wheeled over to the side, while the orderly unlocked the wheels of Gator’s bed and pushed him out of the room.
“See ya,” you said, lifting your good arm to wave.
Gator nodded his chin toward you as he passed by. “Ya just might.”
Except when he was brought back to the room to wait for his discharge paperwork, you were gone.
actually im doing really well except for the fact that everything makes me sad and the things that dont make me sad make me angry. but other than that im fine
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: old money!steve, waitress!reader, slow burn, enemies-ish to lovers, idiots in love, mutual pining
♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡
The card room is full of men old enough to be your father.
Some are old enough to be your grandfather.
They all call each other by their last names and gamble away more money in a single hand than you make in six months, all while finding the time to tell you you'd look prettier if you smiled.
The tips are obscene, though.
So you smile.
You refill glasses before anyone has to ask and laugh politely at jokes that haven't been funny in thirty years.
You pocket your tips. You move on.
Until one Thursday, someone new walks in.
He couldn't be more than a year or two older than you.
Maybe not older at all.
He's got the kind of face rich boys seem to keep well into their thirties: hazel eyes that catch warmth in the low chandelier light, a strong nose and soft, full lips. Thick brown hair that refuses to stay in place, falling forward in a way that looks accidental even though you know it probably took a 300-dollar haircut to make it look that effortless.
He's dressed simply—pale blue Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and dark slacks—but everything about him is stupidly expensive if you know what you're looking for.
The watch, the loafers. The clean, understated cologne and the heavy gold signet ring on his left hand.
Old money.
Of course.
Another trust-fund prince getting dragged in by his daddy to “learn the family business.”
You grab the bourbon ordered for seat four—two fingers of Woodford Reserve over fresh ice—and carry it across the room.
He glances up as you set the glass beside him.
Unfortunately...
He's somehow even better-looking up close.
His eyes are stupidly big, lashes stupidly long. There's a scattering of tiny moles across his left cheek, little imperfections that stop him from looking carved out of marble.
Rich boy's got a nice face.
Shame about everything else.
His eyes catch yours for a moment before he gives you a polite nod.
“Thanks, honey.”
Then his attention drops right back to his cards.
You blink.
Honey?
Who the fuck is this guy?
He's your age.
Maybe younger.
You've got seventy-year-old regulars who've been calling waitresses “sweetheart” and “doll” since before you were born, but somehow hearing it from someone who probably still remembers freshman orientation is infinitely more irritating.
You turn on your heel before he catches the expression crossing your face.
Trust-fund asshole.
Probably couldn't tell you what a gallon of milk costs if you put a gun to his head.
Fuck that guy.
· · ·
Well.
Turns out, trust-fund asshole is good at poker.
Disgustingly good.
He’s not loud about it either; that’s what the older men hate most.
For almost an hour, he folds hand after hand, absently spinning that signet ring around his finger while everyone else slowly convinces themselves that he's way out of his depth.
So it's almost funny, when this twenty-something-year-old cleans out someone who's been playing cards since before he was born.
You have to bite back a laugh when one of the regulars slams his cards down hard enough to rattle everyone's glasses.
Serves him right.
By the time you make another round, half the table is bleeding chips.
Everyone's in a foul mood.
Everyone except for seat four.
You set another Woodford beside him.
“Thanks, honey.”
He smiles, this time.
The corners of his hazel eyes pinch with it, little creases fanning outward. It gives him an almost boyish look, rounding out his cheeks, smoothing away the sharp lines of his face until there’s something disarmingly gentle about him.
Huh.
Then he goes right back to looking at his cards.
Asshole.
· · ·
The game finally breaks sometime after midnight.
You're clearing glasses when you notice a thick wad of cash tucked under silver-spoon dickhead's—seat four's—empty tumbler.
You assume it's meant for the cashier... until you pick it up.
It's all hundreds.
A lot of hundreds.
You count it once. Then again. Then a third time because surely, surely, there’s no way.
Your head snaps up toward the entrance and find him standing by the coat room, shrugging into a camel-colored cashmere overcoat that could probably cover your student loans three times over.
You hurry after him before common sense can stop you.
“Hey! Um, excuse me!”
He turns.
“I think, uh...” You hold up the money. “I think you made a mistake.”
His eyes drift over your face, then flick down to the wad of cash pinched between your fingers—fifty crisp hundred-dollar bills.
He blinks at you, those ridiculous lashes fanning against his cheeks, his brows drawing together like he honestly can't figure out why you’ve chased him down.
A tiny little crease appears between his brows, which would almost be cute if he wasn't so disgustingly wealthy.
“Did I?”
“...Yeah.”
He studies the cash for another second before understanding dawns on his face.
“Oh.” He gives a small shrug. “No.”
“No?”
“That wasn’t a mistake. It was for you.”
You laugh, because that's insane.
To someone who just walked away with well over a hundred thousand dollars, five grand probably feels like buying coffee.
To you, it's rent. It's gas, tuition, groceries, bills. An entire semester where you wouldn't have to hold you breath every time you swiped your debit card.
“I... I can't take this.”
His brows pull together again. “Why not?”
You stare at him.
“Because it's... five thousand dollars? That's—” You huff another disbelieving laugh. “I mean, that's just... way too much for a tip.”
He glances back toward the card room, then back at you.
Smiles, just a little.
“Didn't seem like too much from where I was sitting.”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
And before you can think of another reason to refuse a tip worth more than your savings account, he's already shrugging the rest of his coat on, straightening the lapel with an absent swipe of his thumb.
He turns toward the door, making it only three steps before he pauses.
One hand settled on the brass handle, he glances back over his shoulder.
“You're here Thursdays, right?”
It takes you a second to answer.
“...Yeah?”
His smile comes back.
“Great.”
He tucks his hands into his coat pockets, gives you a little nod, and heads for the door.
“I'll see you next week, honey.”
And then he's gone.
· · ·
He comes back the next Thursday.
And the Thursday after that.
By week five, you've learned his name.
By week six, you've stopped rolling your eyes every time he calls you honey.
By week seven, he starts lingering after the games instead of disappearing the second the last hand is dealt.
One night, you're hauling a crate of empty glasses toward the bar when, without warning, the weight disappears.
You glance up to see a pair of hazel eyes blinking down at you—a warm, boyish smile on those plush lips, almost sheepish, like he's not sure if you're going to let him help or tell him to get lost.
You raise a brow. “Uh, I'm pretty sure that's not your job.”
“No, it’s not,” he agrees easily.
“Then why are you doing it?”
He shrugs like the answer couldn't possibly be complicated.
“Gets me an extra five minutes.”
“Five minutes?”
“With you.”
He says it so casually that it takes a second for the words to actually land.
And when your face flares with heat, you’re grateful he’s too busy balancing the crate to notice.
· · ·
After that, Thursdays become a little easier.
The job is still the job—the endless dance of dodging wandering hands, stepping away from men who mistake a smile for an invitation and politely slipping your wrist free from people old enough to know better.
But Steve Harrington becomes your bright spot.
He never touches you unless you’re handing him a glass.
He’s the only man in the room who doesn’t let his eyes linger on your ass or snap his fingers to get your attention.
He always arrives ten minutes early.
Always orders the same Woodford Reserve. Always says thank you.
Always calls you honey.
You learn little things about him.
That he tips everyone far more than necessary.
That he folds cocktail napkins into perfect little squares whenever he’s lost in thought.
That his thumb always finds the gold signet ring on his finger when he’s making a decision.
That he taps it twice against the felt whenever he’s nervous about a bluff.
(You never tell him you figured that one out.)
You learn that Steve doesn’t talk much about his work or his family.
Instead, he asks about you.
Your classes, your major. The exam you mentioned weeks ago that he somehow remembers without you ever bringing it up again.
You tell yourself he’s probably just like that with everyone.
That Steve Harrington is simply the kind of person who makes people feel noticed.
Special.
You never quite believe it.
· · ·
One Thursday, the game wraps up just before midnight after two of the regulars call it early.
The older men filter out puffing expensive cigars, grumbling about bad beats and rematches.
You're halfway through counting your tips when Steve appears beside the bar.
Hands tucked into the pockets of a navy wool coat, rocking back on his heels.
He waits until you look up.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
And Steve Harrington—poker prodigy, heir to whatever impossible amount of money his family had sitting around—suddenly looks unsure of himself.
Which is new.
And, admittedly, a little adorable.
You set your money down.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” He answers too quickly, then clears his throat. “Yeah. I just—can I ask you something?”
You eye him suspiciously.
“With you? Depends.”
A small smile pulls at his mouth.
“Fair.”
He pulls his hand from his coat pocket, resting it on the bar between you. His thumb brushes over the gold signet ring on his finger, twisting it slowly.
“Well, I was just wondering, if you're done for the night...”
Tap. Tap.
Two soft taps against the bar top.
You bite back a smile.
“Would you let me take you to dinner?”
You blink.
“...Right now?”
“Yeah.”
“It's midnight.”
“Late dinner, then?”
His expression is so serious that you have to bite back another laugh.
Steve watches you, a faint smile tugging at his own mouth.
“What?”
You shake your head, reaching for your jacket.
“Nothing.”
“No, what?”
You look back at him, pursing your lips.
“You’re just... so different from what I thought you’d be.”
He tilts his head slightly, a flicker of amusement creasing his expression. He’s not offended in the slightest—if anything, he looks intrigued.
Steve Harrington has never been someone who seemed bothered by other people’s opinions of him.
“In a good way or a bad way?”
You consider him for a moment, taking in the guy you were so sure you had figured out from the second he walked through the door.
This boy you’d dismissed as just another entitled douchebag, who turned out to be so downright strange—awkward where you expected arrogance, thoughtful where you expected indifference.
when gator tillman was on the pitch, he tended to play dirty. gator would slam shoulders with the other team, he’d say things just to rile players up and he’d do just about anything to get the ball from someone.
and yet—gator tillman had perfected the art of avoiding a red card. yellow cards he was well accustomed to but he was yet to receive a red.
that was until another player had said something about you.
“the fuck you say?” gator snarls, the match a second thought as he squares up the player who had made a comment about you who had been waving to him from the stands. “what you say about her?”
the guy shrugs it off and under the watchful eye of the ref, gator seems to let it go.
but the red card he received barely five minutes later proved that he very much hadn’t let it go.
but when it came to you—gator tillman didn’t mess around. and yeah maybe he shouldn’t have called the guy a ‘fucking cunt’ but it had too felt good not to say.
“what happened?” you ask as soon as you rush down to the bench to gator after he had been sent off. “gator what did you say—”
“—the truth,” gator mutters simply, jaw clenched as he reaches for you, tugging you down onto his lap.
“but—”
“—shh mama,” gator murmurs, his hands squeezing your hips gently. “just sit pretty and watch the rest of the match with me, yeah?”
summary — carter knows he gets on your nerves constantly, but he also thinks you might like him. kind of a dangerous leap to make about someone who is not only his coworker but also his roommate.
word count — 2.4k words
note — this took me 1 trillion years but i rlly like how it worked out!! based on this ask <333
Carter lasts approximately seven minutes after you get out of the car. You’d slammed the door when you left, and hadn’t even waited for him before storming off to the elevator. You don’t usually get angry at him. Annoyed, sure, snappy, sometimes. But most of the time whenever he does something to annoy you, you usually just leave him alone until you feel better.
He rushes after you, almost tripping over himself to catch up to you in the darkness of the parking lot. Carter doesn’t like the idea of you walking all the way through the parking lot by yourself, especially not at six in the morning when the sun’s not even up.
He doesn’t make it in the elevator with you but seeing that you got there with no issue calms him a bit.
He’s pretty sure he can feel you glowering at him through the doors of the elevator as they slide shut in front of him. He’s worried about you.
You? Oh you could kill him.
You’re going to kill him until he dies and then you’re going to bring him back so well it becomes some sort of medical marvel that they name after you, and then you’re going to kill him.
You step out into the ground floor, immediately making a beeline for the locker room where you can shove your bag and calm down enough to start your shift. Thankfully you and Carter aren’t usually paired on cases much while you’re both interns - he goes with Benton and you go with Lewis. Carter’s a surgical resident, you’re an EM resident; your paths cross but you don’t usually work together.
You’re not even meant to be hanging around her so much now that you’re an intern - especially since Susan’s leaving in a few weeks, but it’s nice to have someone around. You had thought maybe that person could be Carter, but you’re so angry with him right now that you would call in sick if he wouldn’t have to be the one to drive you home.
Carter watches you leave right as he gets to his locker, sighing to himself.
Carol materialises at his elbow. “What’d you do to the poor girl?”
Carter flinches, both at the words and their suddenness. The two of you have only been roommates for about three months but that hasn’t stopped word from spreading to seemingly the entire department. Carter doesn’t mind it but he knows you loathe the attention.
“I don’t even know,” he says, already exhausted. He’s only working a twelve hour shift and he’s already ready to throw in the towel. Maybe they’ll let him crash in an on-call room and you can take his car home, he can leave you to stew until you’re ready to tell him what he did wrong. “She just seems so angry with me lately.”
“Have you asked?” Carol prods as they reach the nurse’s station. He rolls his eyes at her stark tone. Carter likes Carol, and he knows she likes him as well. He also knows that for you she’d drop him in the amount of time it takes to blink.
He snarks, grabbing his case assignments from the desk. “No,” his cheeks pink as he admits it. “But she’s not exactly speaking to me right now.”
Carol raises her eyebrows. “Silent treatment? You’re done for. You guys never shut up.”
She’s not wrong. The two of you, despite being professionally separated by nature of your jobs, always seem to find each other in the halls. Whether it’s arguing about what takeout to order once you get home or arguing over a differing diagnosis, there’s rarely a quiet moment between you.
As annoyed as you get with Carter, you really and genuinely like being around him. He hadn’t been your first choice for a roommate when you’d put up a flyer on the bulletin board behind central, hadn’t even been your fifth choice (he’d been somewhat offended when you’d admitted that, and then you’d had to point out that you had only worked at the hospital for a few months and he was a man you barely knew (that had made him feel a little bad about ripping down the flier right after he’d seen you put it up, he couldn’t lie)). You’d been hoping for one of the nurses, most of them closer to your age. You’d even heard one of them confiding in another about how her lease was up at the end of the week and she still hadn’t found a new place. Carter had been the only one to ask you about the room.
On the bad days, you forget you’re friends. On the good days, you think you might love him.
Over the next ten hours, Carter somehow sees you too much and also desperately not enough. He catches enough of a glimpse of you; kneeling to speak to a young boy, snickering from behind a file with Lydia and Wendy, even wrist deep in a woman’s throat mid-crike. He sees you enough to kill him, but not enough to bring him back to life.
Then he gets brought in to do an emergency surgery with Morgenstern and suddenly he’s an hour late to drive you home.
He insisted on car-pooling, it saves you both gas, and it’s nice to have someone there after the really bad shifts. It also means that you have to sit on the hood of his stupid Jeep waiting for him.
He’s out of breath by the time he reaches you, like he’d run straight from surgery. He had but he wasn’t going to tell you that.
“What are you still doing here?” He pants, digging for his keys in his bag. His spare hand comes to take yours without even asking. Carter shrugs it onto his shoulder and keeps an arm up so you can hold onto something while you slide off the car. All done without looking at you, all like he didn’t even realise.
“You’re my ride,” you say obviously, resisting the urge to tack an idiot on the end.
He unlocks the car and starts for your side. You step in front of him so he can’t open the door for you, already feeling like he’s done enough for you without even grovelling. You can’t really stay cross with him for very long. Your longest record was 16 hours.
“You’re mad at me,” he says once you’re both in the car, the radio off even though his fingers itch to turn it on, desperate to fill the silence. You hate the crackling.
You slump in your chair. “What gave it away? The part where you forgot me or the part where you ate my sandwich.”
Carter blinks, resisting the urge to let his head snap towards you while doing sixty. You regularly make him sandwiches. You meal prep in bulk and will make a couple extra for him in exchange for him waking you up with a coffee most mornings. He’d do it even without the sandwich, but he knows you’d also do it without the coffee.
“What sandwich?”
“The one you took yesterday!” You frown at him, and if you didn’t live so close he’d honestly pull over. He wants to see your face, first and foremost. He wants to see the way you’re speaking. “It was mine! I was looking forward to it. It had the good cheese.”
It’s stupid, you’re aware, to be so cranky with him over a sandwich. But it did have the good cheese. You had a twenty-four hour shift on Saturday, and you’d made the sandwich in preparation for that. Then, yesterday, you’d stumbled to the fridge at nine, one of the rare days you were off all by yourself, and noticed it missing.
“The sandwich,” he mutters, more talking to himself than you. Doesn’t change the fact that you can hear it though. “She’s mad about the sandwich.”
“Yes she is!” You insist.
“I thought it was mine!” He says, voice peaking as he turns onto your street. You’re dreading having to walk up all the stairs and wonder, selfishly, if Carter will still carry your bag even though you’ve snapped at him. “It’s got all the usual stuff you put on them.”
You wait for him to pull into his designated space beside your car before you speak, unclipping your seatbelt angrily and shuffling to face him. “Yes, but I always mark the ones that are for you,” you point out. “The rest are mine. You don’t just get to take your pick of my shit because I sometimes do something nice for you.”
Carter feels his face flush even more. He remembers the sandwich now, it had been slightly nicer than the ones he’d usually take. “I thought…”
You watch him flounder for a bit before rolling your eyes and turning to get out of the car. This time he doesn’t let you get far, coming to stop in front of you before you can even make it five steps. “You thought what? You can just take stuff that doesn’t belong to you?”
“I thought you did mark it,” he admits. He brings a hand up to scratch the back of his neck, and he curses his early morning self for being so goddamn foolish. Of course that’s what it was. “You… You drew…” he coughs, too stunned and humiliated to get the words out. You know what he’s planning on saying though.
You’d drawn a heart over it to mark it as the nice one. He’d thought it had been for him.
It wouldn’t have been out of the norm. Carter, honey, can you grab me that jar? Oh you brought me my coat? You’re a sweetheart. Here, baby, eat something, you’ll feel better.
You’re loving, you’re affectionate, you’re kind, and he’d thought - stupidly - that meant you liked him the way he’d liked you for almost half a year.
You can’t do anything but stare at him. Because, rather suddenly, you’re not angry - you’re mortified. Something warm and sick and tender curls in your throat all at once. “The heart,” you sound softer than you’d want.
Carter flinches. “I- I mean, yeah. You do that sometimes. Cute stuff,” he gestures vaguely at nothing. “For me.”
You hate that the blush crawling up his neck makes him look even more endearing, your anger well and truly dissipated. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes so hard you start seeing things. “Oh, my god.”
“I wasn’t trying to take something that wasn’t mine- or just, like, assume you were doing something nice for me for no reason. I just,” the words fall out of his mouth without him meaning to. He can’t see your eyes and that worries him. As embarrassing as it is to admit to you, Carter knows he’d rather you think him lovesick and presumptuous than malicious. “I don’t know what I thought, but I guess I just- I hoped maybe-” he falters.
He can’t even look at you, which is a shame. He loves looking at you.
You seem to understand anyway, dropping your hands to let your eyes meet his. His gaze is locked somewhere above your head, but you keep yours trained right on his eyes until they join.
“Carter…”
“No,” his voice sounds strange even in his own ears. “I’m sorry. I never meant to-”
He thinks maybe you’re not angry with him anymore. “It’s just a sandwich.”
Carter’s face crumples and his heart follows suit, constricting around nothing but hurt and the earth you’ve just brought him back down to. The blue of him and the green of you. Surgery and Emergency. “I know.”
You take a step towards him, rocking awkwardly on your shoes. “No, I mean- It’s just a sandwich. It’s okay.”
He doesn’t quite believe you’ve forgiven him. The sandwich, sure, whatever. Him thinking you liked him? He’s going to have to move out.
“Can you just tell me if you want me to start sleeping on the couch?” He breathes out. He has no idea where he’s supposed to live now. He’s never really been apartment hunting.
You crack a smile and he feels deep in his chest that it might be the last time he ever sees you like this so close. “I’d never do that to you, our couch sucks.”
You push off where you’re leaning against the door of the car. His bag is in your hand. You hadn’t even realised you weren’t holding it. You make it all the way up two flights and into the kitchen before you’re speaking again. The walk had given you plenty of time to think, and yet. “ You’d thought he hadn’t cared, that he’d thought your efforts so insignificant he could just do things to upset you. The idea that maybe he’d internalised all of the softness you showed him and finally felt like he’d deserved it made your stomach churn. In a good way, like when you go on a rollercoaster.
“I’ll make you another sandwich,” he offers.
You’re shaking your head, folding yourself up on the kitchen counter. He comes to stand directly in front of you despite all the room. He pulls your shoelaces out of their knots without even looking from your face. “We’re out of the good cheese.”
“There’s a 24-Stop like a block away, I can-”
“Carter,” you’re looking right at him. Falling into an argument as easy as breathing. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
He rolls his eyes. “Well, excuse me for trying to do something nice for you.” He’s smiling wider and closer than you’ve ever seen him.
You like him so much you think it’s made you a little stupid.
“Good,” it comes out in a whisper. “You should stop.”
He can feel your pinky finger ghosting the backs of his palms as he pulls your shoes off so you can sit cross-legged on the kitchen bench. You’re so lovely, and he thinks you might be flirting with him, and he knows you both have tomorrow off, and he knows he’s not going to be able to take the closeness without everything else after this.
“Does that mean I can’t kiss you?”
You yank him forward by the hem of his scrub top. He laughs into your mouth, soft as anything against his own. Carter goes to pull away, undoubtedly to say something witty about you clearly not liking him that much if a kiss from him isn’t considered a nice thing. You barely let him catch his breath before you’re kissing him again.
He’s going to go out tonight after you fall asleep and buy a whole fridge worth of that stupid expensive cheese you like, and then he’s going to make you the best damn sandwich you’ve ever eaten.
Right now, though, he’s going to let you kiss him.
pairing: gator tillman/f!reader
wc: 3k
tags/tw/cw: a little bit of roughness against reader, and gator being a little bit of a dumbass in more ways than one
MASTERPOST//all chapter links
&&
Chapter 11: Egress
They weren't giving you a choice anymore.
You'd thought, maybe, you could just obey and bide your time and figure out a way to get the hell out of this place once the weather was a bit warmer. But it was still February and too cold to even think about trying to run away, and yet.
There was nothing else for it: You were leaving this fucking hellhole or you'd die trying.
Well. Hopefully not, but you’d always had a flair for the dramatic.
Gator led you back to the carriage house in silence, glancing behind him every few steps to make sure you were still there. He might actually have been your best bet at escaping, you figured—part of you honestly thought he might let you go just to rid himself of the headache of having you around.
“Ya just,” he said, as you both approached your front door. “Ya just...”
“I don't wanna hear it,” you interrupted him, even though he didn't even seem sure about what he wanted to say. “Listen ta him,” you mocked him, putting on his drawl. “Do what all he says ta do, darlin', it'll all be sunshine 'n rainbows 'n cotton candy farts if ya just listen. Yeah, I get it. Let him grind me down until I become a little obedient pet he can keep locked away.” You felt him staring at you. “That what you do?” you asked, looking over at him. “Just... whatever he says without question, you do it?”
Gator opened his mouth to reply, but closed it and unlocked the door for you.
“Thought so,” you said, pushing past him roughly and walking into the carriage house, pulling the door closed behind you, slamming it loudly and making your way to the bed upstairs where you'd left Aidy. You held her close to you, rubbing your face on her soft fur as you crossed to the side window, watching as Gator ambled back to the main house, the thick cloud from his vape following him as he took draw after draw on it.
You waited until he was back inside, which took a while—he either stopped to make or take a phone call, because he stood out on the porch for several minutes, pacing back and forth a couple of steps, holding the device to his ear. Aidy poked her nose against the underside of your jaw, and you rubbed two fingers over her head, before watching as Gator pocketed his phone, then took one last pull on his vape, exhaling for several solid seconds before stowing that too and heading inside. You didn't make a move until you saw the deep blue light in his upstairs window turn on. The only lights inside the house were in Gator’s room and in the room beside it—that was Roy and Karen's. The porch light was on, but the rest of the grounds were dark except for some lights around the outside of the barn and the stalls where the horses were kept.
You couldn't leave tonight, you decided. You didn't want to risk taking Aidy out in the cold and you didn't want to leave her in the carriage house, where she might not be found until it was too late. You weren't sure if the barn cat would take her back into its care now that she'd been with you for a few days, but putting her in the barn, which was frequented by other people, would at least get her found by someone who could take care of her. The ranch hands would probably be fighting over who got to take her back to their family.
If you could make your way to the barn, you could check for signs that the barn cat was still around. She had to be—this place was in the middle of nowhere, it wasn't like there was another house nearby that could feed her or leave a dish out. She was probably there, just... hiding away.
You sat on the edge of the twin bed, cuddling Aidy in what you told yourself was an attempt to gather your strength and your resolve, but was actually just you putting off the inevitable, risking getting caught for a kitten so you wouldn't feel guilty about her when you ran away for real, and then you put her down, stood up, and looked for the darkest clothes that you had to change in to.
There were a random assortment of clothes you'd hung in the closet—you had more in the main house, but those obviously weren't an option—and so you chose a pair of grey jeans that were worn and featured stubborn stains that did not wash out, and a black sweatshirt. You layered it over a thermal undershirt, hoping it might keep you warm, and could also help you see how many more layers you'd need to traverse the North Dakota wilderness in the middle of the night in the dead of winter.
Putting on your boots next to the front door downstairs, you took a deep breath. You were going to have to try to pick the lock, or else bust a window and hope that no one heard. On a whim, you reached for the doorknob and twisted it, expecting to shake it futilely and feel the disappointment sink into your gut like a rock.
It turned.
The knob fully turned. Open. Unlocked.
Gator hadn't locked the door before he'd walked away.
You pulled the door open an inch, peeked outside, and then pushed it shut. It wouldn't do to let anyone see a crack of light in the door that wasn't supposed to be open. You made sure the latch caught, just in case the door might swing open somehow, and then shut off the light switch, bathing the living room in darkness. Your heart was pounding, speeding in your chest because either he'd done it on purpose or he'd fucked up, and you were more wont to believe it was the second one. But holy shit.
Holy shit.
The door to your cage was not locked.
Ok, you had to prepare. You couldn't just... run out there with no plan. You needed to kill some time—it was still early evening and potentially Gator could come outside again to vape or take a call or even head into town for something. Anyone could still walk out of the main house. Karen or Bowman or Roy. It wasn't safe until late night. Maybe even very early morning.
You fed Aidy. You had nothing much left to clean, but you did straighten things up downstairs in the mudroom. You organized it and moved some furniture around, telling yourself that you weren’t setting up the house’s layout the way you wanted it, you were just helping to pass time. You paced the space in the spare room beside the smaller bedroom you'd claimed, refusing to acknowledge that you were thinking about what you’d fill it with if this house was actually yours and you weren’t on a ranch in North Dakota that you couldn’t leave, and you even went into the kitchen and straightened out the cutlery drawer, sorting the forks, spoons, and knives all together rather than leave the jumble they were in.
The microwave clock was moving entirely too slowly—even with your attempt to keep yourself busy, it still read only 09:56 and that was still too early. The light in Roy and Karen's room was off, but the lights in Gator's room were still on. You'd never paid attention to them before, weren't sure if he slept with them on or turned them off once he decided to turn in. As you tried to find ways to pass the time, and as the clock blinked minute by minute, you couldn't sit still any longer. If you were going to check out the barn to see if you could find a safe place to leave Aidy before you made a real attempt to leave, you just had to bite the bullet and do it.
The living room floor creaked a little as you slowly made your way over it. The whole house was bathed in dark, the upstairs lights off, and the kitchen light off now as well, the only thing visible in there the blue of the microwave clock, the same blue as the glow in Gator’s window. Gently, you twisted the knob of the front door and stepped outside into the cold air, easing it shut behind you. The chill bit at your face, exposed skin already unhappy and you'd been outside for barely a few seconds.
There were clouds in the sky, but still enough moonlight to see by. You crossed the bare dirt ground toward the barn, hoping that it also was unlocked—you hadn't even thought of that until you were outside, and now you were seriously thinking that it might fuck you over. Did people lock the outer doors of their barns? The horses were all closed up in stalls, so it wasn't like there was really a chance they could escape out of the structure even if the door blew open somehow.
Beneath your boots, the ground crunched as you stepped, lightly but quickly over to the barn, which thankfully was closer to the carriage house than really anything else on the land save for a few sheds, a rundown shack, and what you’d heard the hands refer to as an abattoir. The doors were closed, as you'd expected, but when you tried to pull them open, they gave and swung out toward you.
Hurrying to steady them, you made sure one stayed fully shut as you slipped into the other, pulling it closed behind you. It was dark inside the barn as well, only a light beside the door turning on as you walked past it, the motion sensor clicking as it detected your movement.
The horses chittered a little, Crazy Eights even going so far as to whinny, but you didn't pay him any mind and instead moved toward one of the calmer horses, Petunia, because she was sweet and docile and wouldn't object to you being near her unexpectedly, even late at night.
She moved closer to the door of her stall, dipping her head down to nudge your cheek with her nose, and you smiled a little, petting the side of her face as you sighed. Behind you, the motion light blinked off.
“You wouldn't mind a roommate for a little bit, would you girl?” you asked.
She exhaled forcefully through her nostrils, which you took to mean no, she would not.
With another pat, you stepped away from her, moving through the barn. It was so dark you couldn't really see much, honestly—but part of you was hoping that your very presence would startle the barn cat out of a hiding place, mostly so that you would know it was there and might care for its kitten if you put it back into its birthplace.
You were nearing the far back of the barn now, and just as you reached the last horse stall on the right side of the barn, just by the cabinet that had held the kitten milk supplement you'd liberated for yourself to feed Aidy, the motion sensor blinked on again, and several things happened at once.
Desperately, you ducked down beside the cabinet, hopefully deep enough in the depths of the barn that whoever had entered maybe hadn't seen you—the light was not bright, but it did illuminate the far end of the barn where you were at least a little hidden, or so you hoped.
As you did, trying to hide yourself, you heard a hiss and then a clatter; looking to your right, you saw the flash of two feline eyes in the darkness as the barn cat shot past you, crashing into the rear of the cabinet so loudly that you flinched, and then she streaked through the darkness and jumped up to one of the windows at the side of the barn, disappearing outside into the night.
Finally, as you were trying to make yourself as small and invisible as possible, you heard heavy footsteps thudding across the hay-strewn barn floor.
“Who's there?” came a voice, one you recognized as Bowman's. He sounded half curious and half annoyed, and you weren't sure if it was good or bad that it was him and not one of the Tillmans.
You stayed where you were, crouched, curled up, as the motion light blinked off and you prayed silently that Bowman thought it was only the cat that had maybe set off the motion light earlier, and nothing—no one—else.
Crazy Eights stomped his front hoof as Bowman moved further into the barn, and you curled your hands into the collar of your sweater, balancing on just your feet as you balled yourself up into the smallest possible space you could take up.
“I know you're in here,” Bowman said, and it was a callback to every horror movie you'd ever seen, the taste of bile in your mouth and the tightness of your throat, your heart rushing in your ears and your legs itching to run, except this time you weren't just watching it happen to someone else and feeling it anyway, this time you were trapped in the nightmare and experiencing it all firsthand.
You were younger, smaller, but you had no idea if you could outrun Bowman even if you could slip past him. And you had no way of knowing if he'd brought backup with him, waiting for you outside the barn, whether Gator or Roy or even just any of the ranch hands or other deputies that hung around the property during the earlier hours of the day and evening were out there hoping for an excuse.
“Don't make this harder than it has to be,” Bowman said, and from the proximity of his voice, you could tell he was close, too close for you to even think you weren't going to be seen and caught. He was probably seconds away from rounding the standing cabinet, and you weren't sure if it would be worse for him to discover you cowering, or for you to stand up and present yourself and accept the punishment you knew was coming.
The choice was made for you. Just as you'd started to stand, your legs stretching a little, Bowman rounded the cabinet and then a bright light shined into your face, a flashlight he'd turned on specifically to blind you.
You closed your eyes against the light, lifting a hand from your collar to shield your face, and as you did, you heard Bowman sigh heavily.
“I was really hoping you'd learned your lesson,” he said, reaching down to grab your wrist roughly, pulling you up by your arm, the bright trail of the flashlight beam still overlaying your vision, obscuring what you could see.
“Wait, that hur--ah,” you whimpered as Bowman bent your wrist, pulling you along behind him.
He dragged you out of the barn, the light near the door blinking on as you passed it, and he pulled you behind him despite how much you were struggling to get out of his hold. He held you easily as he closed the barn doors behind you, one hand clamped around your wrist. He wasn't gentle and he didn't stop when you stumbled; he just forced you to follow as he crossed the short distance to the carriage house. With his free hand, he opened the door, and with the other, still holding your wrist, he forcibly navigated you into the house, making you trip on the step up into the house and having you sprawling out on the floor just inside the door.
With his hold on your wrist, you hadn't managed to catch yourself before you hit the hardwood in the living room. You were laid out for a moment, your head spinning, and as you tried to right yourself—not even trying to stand but to turn around, to look at the door at least—Bowman slammed it behind you and this time, you heard the clicking of the key in the lock, making sure you couldn't leave again. You stayed down for a few minutes, rubbing your sore wrist, trying to assess whether you'd been injured in any way from being thrown unceremoniously onto the floor, but it didn't seem that you had, other than the hit to your ego and psyche.
As you pushed yourself up to your knees, slowly moving to stand upright, you realized that not only had he locked the door, he also hadn't walked away. You hadn't heard retreating footsteps, and in fact, as you stepped closer to press your ear to the door, trying to hear anything besides the wind or the metallic scraping from somewhere overhead that you'd gotten used to, you heard Bowman clear his throat and shot back from the door, terrified that he'd know you'd listened for him.
He was just standing out there, even though he'd locked you in. You'd gone ahead and shot yourself in the foot, all for a kitten; you'd squandered probably the only chance you'd ever get, only gotten thanks to Gator's carelessness, and were now not only back to being locked in, but had an armed guard posted right outside your door.
All you could do was stand there, shrouded in the darkness of the living room, trying to keep yourself composed enough to move again, and by the time you did, you did so mechanically, your body going through the motions of walking up the stairs, changing into your pajamas, lifting Aidy up from her towel and holding her against the front of your shoulder, feeling her purr against you more than hearing her, as you bounced her, just a little, the way one would a newborn baby, and you padded over in your sock feet to the window.
The Tillman house across the way was dark, except for the porch light, still glaringly bright in the otherwise serene, blue moonlight that bathed the ranch, and Gator's blue lights, still on, still unnaturally neon, glowing through the window to his bedroom. You stared at his window for longer than you wanted to admit, then turned and put yourself to bed.
♡ Steve touches you as if he can press the truth directly into your skin.
Warnings : 18+ / MDNI! • Enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst (blood/injuries, fear of losing someone), smoking (cigarette), smut (unprotected sex, fingering, semi-public ie outside), emotional vulnerability, protective Steve Harrington, praise kink(?) with themes of trauma, self-worth, and comfort throughout
Pairing : Steve Harrington x impossible girl!Henderson!reader
Word count: 7.3k
Summary: After yet another failed crawl leaves you trapped beneath collapsing concrete, Steve Harrington finally snaps. Forcing you to confront what you really mean to him.
Chef’s Note: yes, the glasses stay on. Send any tips to this customer @roseswebcorner (Order in comments) ♡
The 1,000 followers menu
Rain spits against the windows of the station, turning the parking lot outside into a smear of neon reflections and black asphalt. The ‘WSQK’ sign buzzes red against the storm, flickering ominously over puddles and the van which Steve had abandoned at an angle near the curb, one wheel half up on the pavement.
Wind rattles the broken gutter overhead, and through the rain-streaked glass you can just about make him out, standing beneath the awning. Barely sheltered.
Head tipped back against the brick. White t-shirt damp beneath his cord jacket where the rain had soaked through. Hair curling at the edges, pushed back off his forehead evidently from running his hands through it. His wire-framed glasses catch the red every few seconds, briefly obscuring the exhausted look underneath them before the light flickers away.
Steve.
Steve with blood drying across his knuckles.
Steve with a cigarette between his fingers despite the fact he told the others he’d quit months ago.
You push open the station door and step out into the damp night air, the storm immediately swallowing you whole. Instinctively wrapping your jacket tighter around yourself.
He spares you the briefest of glances when you step out, closing the door behind you. His eyes catch yours; sharp for half a second before he drops his gaze back to the cigarette between his fingers, jaw tight behind the slow curl of smoke.
You cross the narrow space between you and lean against the wall opposite him, back against damp brick. Rainwater drips steadily from the edge of the awning between you, hitting the pavement in uneven taps.
Neither of you speak. Steve just takes another drag; choosing to focus on that and not the fact that you followed him out here.
“You know those things kill you, right?” you say eventually, voice so uneven you're not sure you sound like yourself.
He lets out a humorless huff through his nose. “Think I’m aware.”
The stick glows orange between his fingers. You just watch his hand.
Swollen knuckles.
Split skin.
A faint smear of blood slowly drying near his wrist.
Without really thinking about it, only really to distract yourself from the way your stomach twists, you reach forward and pluck the cigarette from between his fingers.
Steve’s eyes flick to you, but he doesn’t move to stop you.
You take a drag before you can think it through, the smoke burning harsh down your throat. For a while no words pass between you. Just the cigarette.
Until eventually you realise you haven’t stopped staring at his hand.
The way his fingers keep clenching and unclenching at his side. The almost imperceptible wince every now and then that he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.
“You should probably clean that up.”
His jaw flexes.
“Yeah?” he says flatly. “You think?” The way he looks at you when he says it—tired, angry, something rawer underneath —makes you swallow harshly.
Steve takes the cigarette back from you, shoulders tenser than you’ve ever seen them. Then, quieter but just as sharp, he adds, “Maybe you should stop giving me reasons to punch things.”
“There it is.” You knew that was coming. The blame. Is it warranted? Probably. Do you want to hear it? No.
You tilt your head back against the brick, forcing your voice to be lighter than you feel, forcing yourself to say your next words. “That wasn’t my fault.”
His head lifts slowly, eyes finding yours before skirting over you just as slowly. Rain-dark hair plastered messily around your face. Mud streaked across the knees of your jeans from where you hit the ground. The tiny cut near your cheekbone you hadn’t bothered cleaning.
Something sharp flashes across his face so quickly it looks physical.
He grits his next words out. “You ran in there alone.”
Your jaw tightens instantly. “I had it handled.”
Steve actually laughs out that. Cutting. Slightly mocking. “You did, did you?”
A flashlight beam disappearing around the corner before he could grab your hand. Your voice crackling through the radio—I’ll be fine, just cover the other side—
Then static.
You flinch. You don’t need reminding.
The floor giving out beneath your feet. Rust and concrete collapsing inward. Your shoulder slamming hard enough into the wall to make your vision spark white.
You force yourself to shrug anyway. “But I got out.”
“Because of me.” Steve steps forward as he says it, the words sharper and louder than everything else he’s said tonight before he visibly catches himself.
His voice lowers again, words scrapped raw. “You got out because I got to you in time.”
His eyes lock onto yours and don’t move. Don’t even blink.
And for a second neither do you. Like you're in a trance.
Rain continues to hammer down around you. Neon red flickers across the sharp line of his jaw, catches against the lenses of his glasses, turns his soaked white t-shirt pink for half a heartbeat before fading again.
You look away first.
Your jaw aches from how hard you’re clenching it. Steve’s breathing hard now, not from exertion but from whatever ugly thing he’s been trying to hold down since you all came back up.
“You know what I heard?” he asks.
You don’t answer. He doesn’t give you time to.
“You telling me to shut up, a loud crash—” His voice catches suddenly, wavering around the next part like he physically hates saying it out loud. “You scream.”
His eyes lock back onto yours, he swallows, hard, before continuing. “And then nothing.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Because, yes, you remember it too.
The static swallowing your voice mid-sentence. The sick drop in your stomach when the tunnel floor gave out beneath you. The impact. Dust choking the air so thick you could barely breathe around it.
And then silence.
Deafening. All-consuming. Terrifying.
Steve drags a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through every little move he makes. “Do you have any idea what that was like?”
You hate this.
Hate the way he’s looking at you. Hate remembering the panic clawing up your throat beneath all that concrete. Hate remembering how helpless you felt down there. Hate the fact he saw you like that.
So you default to the only thing you know how to do in a moment like this: deflection.
“I’m standing here, aren’t I?”
Steve’s expression hardens instantly. “That’s not the fucking point, Henderson.”
You cross your arms tighter over your chest like a shield; voice raising to match his. “Then what is?”
For a second he just stares at you like he can’t actually believe you’re asking. As if he genuinely cannot comprehend how you don’t get this. And in your rational brain, maybe you do. A little. But understanding something and letting yourself feel it are two very different things.
He just laughs, again. This time it’s softer. Not quite so mocking anymore.
In fact it sounds a little wrecked.
Actually, it sounds completely and utterly wrecked.
“I found you trapped under concrete,” he says, rough and low, every word a struggle for him to say. “And you were still trying to joke with me.”
Your stomach twists, you feel your hands grow clammy and shake by your side because suddenly you’re back there.
Steve dropping to his knees beside you so hard the impact echoed through the building. Blood already running over his knuckles from the door he’d punched and kicked through to reach you. His hands shaking while he shoved broken debris away from your leg.
And you, dizzy and hurting and terrified in a way you didn’t want to name, still forcing out:
“Took you long enough, Harrington.”
Steve had looked at you like the joke physically hurt him.
And now, eyes glassy behind rain-speckled lenses, cheeks flushed, his jaw flexes the exact same way.
“You looked at me like-like it was no big deal—“
You swallow harshly, cutting him off. “It wasn’t—”
“How can you say that?” His voice cracks this time. Barely, but you hear it.
“Jesus Christ, do you think I wanted to not be able to fucking answer Dustin when he’s screaming down the radio that you’re not answering? Cause I didn’t know why you weren’t. Cause you had decided to go off alone. Again.”
Rain rattles violently against the metal awning overhead. Steve looks away suddenly, dragging a hand over his mouth before shaking his head once.
“Do you think I wanted to be the one to tell him that you—” His voice catches hard enough that he has to stop. “That you…”
He can’t say it.
You realise with a horrible twisting ache that he physically cannot force the words out. Like saying them aloud might make them real. Might drag you right back beneath the rubble where he found you.
The storm presses in around you both, so loud now that it almost feels intrusive. Like the night itself is listening.
Steve stares out into the rain, chest rising hard beneath the damp white t-shirt, cigarette long forgotten.
You don’t know what to do with this version of him.
Steve annoyed? Easy.
Steve sarcastic? Easy. Typical.
Steve looking at you like losing you would’ve broken him? That hurts.
In a way you don't understand. In a way that makes your chest actually ache.
“He would’ve been okay,” you say quietly, and you almost believe yourself.
But Steve’s head snaps toward you so fast you instantly regret it. “What?”
You shrug even though the motion feels stiff. Defensive. False. “Dustin. He would’ve been okay.” You nod as you say it; like that will make it true.
For a second Steve just stares at you.
Then something furious flashes across his face.
“No,” he says immediately. “No, he wouldn’t have.”
You open your mouth to say-to say—you don’t know. You don’t know what to say, what to do, where to look.
“No.” Steve shakes his head once, sharp and disbelieving. “No.”
You look away on instinct—the look in his eyes, the rawness of his voice suddenly all too much. You try to make yourself smaller somehow. Fold inward. Retreat back behind the walls that usually keep people out before he can force his way through them.
But he won't let you. Not anymore. Not after today.
He’s moving before you can.
One second there’s space between you. And then the next there isn’t.
Rain clings to his lashes. His glasses sit crooked from where he shoved a hand through his hair moments earlier. His chest rises hard beneath his soaked t-shirt as he steps into your space like he physically cannot stand this distance anymore..
And then before you can even blink his hand is grasping your jaw. Firm. Unwavering. His fingers curl against your skin and drag your face back up until your eyes are on him. Only on him.
No chance to run. No chance to hide from this. From him.
“Harringto—”
Your voice doesn’t sound like your own. Too thin. Too breathless. Like you’re begging for something you can’t even name. For him to stop. For him not to stop. For him not to make you stand here and let him see you like this.
“No. You’re not listening to me.” His thumb presses sharply against your jaw as frustration bleeds through every word. “You keep saying this shit like people would just get over it. Like losing you wouldn't-wouldn't mean anything.”
Your pulse stumbles hard against your ribs.
“You think Dustin would’ve been okay?” he says incredulously.
“You think your brother wouldn’t spend the rest of his life wondering if he could’ve stopped you from running in there alone? That if he had done even the slightest thing differently that you would still be here. Going over and over and over it in his head wondering where he fucked up?”
“You keep acting like you’re expendable,” he says, voice cracking around the last word. “As if it wouldn’t matter if you didn’t come back.”
You try to pull away instinctively, discomfort clawing up your throat too fast, but Steve’s grip tightens slightly before immediately softening again when he realises it.
Not letting you go. Not letting you disappear.
“And me?” It’s not only his voice that has broken but his expression, as he struggles to speak. “You think I would’ve been fucking okay?”
He’s staring at you like he needs you to understand this. Like it matters more than his pride. More than winning any argument. More than whatever this thing between you has become.
It's almost like he’s trying to show you something in his words, in his face, in the desperation in his voice. Something he’s been trying to show you for a long time now and you just keep refusing to see.
If he can just make you see it—really see it—maybe he can stop you from slipping through his fingers next time.
Your breath catches painfully in your throat. Because the worst part is—
Some part of you thinks you do see it.
That maybe you always have.
And that is infinitely more terrifying than pretending you don’t.
“Why?” you croak out before coughing lightly and trying again. “Why?”
The question seems to knock the air out of him for a second. His brows pull together hard as he almost spits out “What?”
“Why would you care?” You mean for it to sound sharp. Defensive. Detached.
Instead it comes out small. Confused.
Steve, for all his frustration and anger, just stares at you.
It’s still raining heavily, wind now pushing cold mist beneath the awning, but all you can feel is the warmth of his body standing so close to yours.
Then he laughs once under his breath. But it's devoid of any humour.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, swiping the hand not cupping your jaw down his face and through his hair, shaking his head. “You really don’t know.”
Immediately your defenses slam back into place. “Know what?” you say quickly, trying for sarcasm mixed with anger and missing completely. “All I do is annoy you.”
“We fight constantly,” you cut in, words tumbling out faster now because if you stop talking you might actually have to hear what he’s trying to say—what he’s been trying to say for years now. “I drag you into insane bullshit, I nearly got myself killed tonight, I got you injured, I make your life harder basically every time I—”
Suddenly you’re cut off.
Not by more words.
But by a forceful pressure.
Specifically, Steve's mouth on yours.
He crashes into you. Moving like he's been holding this in for years—like if he doesn’t do it now, he’ll drown in the weight of it. Like he cannot stand hearing one more terrible thing leave your mouth.
It's not soft. Not careful.
It’s desperate and angry and messy, his lips pressing hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into your jaw to keep you there.
You gasp against him, and he takes full advantage, slanting his mouth over yours again, teeth scraping, breaths mingling sharp with the almost addictive combination of nicotine and rain.
You stumble back a step, shoulders hitting the wall, but he doesn’t let you retreat. He uses his body instead of his words to cage you in, one hand still gripping your jaw, the other braced against the wall beside your head. His glasses dig into your cheekbone, the frames cold where they press against your skin, but you don’t pull away. You are not sure you could.
You finally snap out of the shock of it, and in that moment all you want is him closer than humanly possible. Your hands fist in the damp cotton of his shirt, dragging him closer with a desperation that surprises even you. .
Steve lets out a ragged moan against your mouth, the sound muffled by the sharp press of teeth and lips—half frustration, half surrender—before he mutters a broken, "Fuck," against your skin.
It’s all hands and teeth and the dizzying press of bodies.
His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to the scrape of his stubble.
You gasp at the feeling, and he fully takes the opportunity given to him to deepen the kiss, tongue hot and insistent, like he’s trying to rewrite every argument, every sharp word, every moment you’ve spent at each other’s throats.
All in this one kiss.
“You think I don’t care?” he murmurs against your mouth before kissing you again immediately. “Jesus Christ.”
Another kiss.
Another sharp inhale.
His lips drag against yours slower this time, but no less desperate.
“I punched through a fucking door for you,” he says hoarsely, words breaking apart between kisses. “When I heard you scream—” His voice catches roughly. “When I saw you trapped down there alone I-I couldn't breathe.”
Your chest aches so hard it feels unbearable.
“Not till I knew you were okay.” His hands are still shaking even as they hold onto you.
Steve kisses you again before you can speak, like he already knows you’ll try to argue your way out of this too.
He’s not wrong.
“No,” he mutters against your lips, thumb trembling where it rests beneath your jaw. “No, you don’t get to do that anymore.”
Steve touches you like he can press the truth directly into your skin; then you might finally believe him. “You matter to me,” he breathes against your mouth.
And then, quieter. Rougher. “So fucking much.”
Another kiss, slower now, but somehow just as devastating.
“More than you’ll ever know,” he says hoarsely against your lips. “More than you ever could.”
Your throat tightens dangerously. And for the first time all night, maybe ever, you don’t call him Harrington.
.“Steve…”
The name leaves you like something fragile, like it physically hurts you to let him hear it.
Hearing his name said by you, like that—soft, fractured, stripped bare—destroys whatever last shred of restraint he’d been clinging to.
Steve’s breath stutters against your lips, his grip tightening in your hair reflexively. The sound of his name in your voice—not Harrington, not king Steve, not something thrown at him in anger or challenge–does something violent to his chest.
He doesn’t just kiss you this time—he devours you.
He drags you impossibly closer, his teeth catching your lower lip hard, his tongue sweeping in long before you can recover. There’s absolutely nothing gentle about it—this is Steve memorising your mouth like it's proof you’re real.
That he didn't lose you before he ever got the chance to have you.
“Been trying not to do this for so long,” he admits roughly against your mouth
Surprisingly, that brings a smile to your face—a real one, small and disbelieving but there—and you feel the tension in your chest loosen just enough to breathe. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still humming in your veins, or the way Steve’s hands are trembling where they’re tangled in your hair, but suddenly you can’t help it.
You tilt your head back to break the kiss, lips brushing his as you murmur, “You’re telling me Steve Harrington, King Steve, has been pining after Henderson’s big sister? All this time?”
Steve freezes.
For a second, he just stares at you, rain dripping from his lashes, mouth slightly parted like he can’t decide whether to strangle you or kiss you again. Then his grip tightens in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp.
“You’re fucking impossible,” he grits out, but there’s no anger left in it—just exasperation, fondness, something raw and aching beneath the words.
The grin tugging at your mouth only widens. “You need to work on your moves.”
Steve blinks at you, mouth not even an inch away from yours.. “Excuse you?”
“You heard me,” you murmur, lips still brushing his. “That’s a little bit embarrassing, don’t ya think? And not for days, or weeks—years.”
Steve lets out a disbelieving laugh.
“You made me your enemy when really you just wanted to have me.”
Steve goes absolutely, completely, still.
For one glorious second Steve Harrington actually looks completely and utterly, beautifully speechless.
The wind changes direction causing the rain to hit the both of you. Rainwater slides down the side of his face as he stares at you, jaw flexing hard—actively trying not to react to that sentence the way he wants to.
You can practically feel the moment his patience snaps—his fingers twitch, his jaw sets, and his gaze narrows. “You,” he grits out, thumb tapping your chin, voice rough, “are pushing your luck.”
You grin up at him, tilting your head to make his grip shift. “Am I?”
His thumb presses into the hinge of your jaw, tilting your face up further. “Yeah. You are.”
There’s a beat of silence—then you hum, deliberately slow, eyes flicking down to his mouth and back up. “I don’t think I am.”
Steve exhales sharply against your lips, the heat of his breath mingling with the chill of the rain still dripping down his face. His fingers twitch where they’re tangled in your hair, grip tightening just enough to make it hurt. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters, voice rough—half protest, half plea.
You meet his gaze, eyes innocent—unaffected—rainwater catching on your lashes. “Then stop.”
His jaw flexes. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
His thumb drags slowly along your jawline, pressing just shy of painful when it catches on the curve of your chin. Then it traces your jawline, slow and deliberate, before his fingers drop lower. Curling into the damp fabric of your shirt, then dragging downward until they catch on the waistband of your jeans.
His gaze locks onto yours, challenge burning behind rain-speckled lenses. "You wouldn't care?" he murmurs, voice rougher than the storm overhead.
You tilt your head, feigning indifference even as your pulse kicks violently against your ribs. "Mm?"
He flicks the button open, fingers hovering over the zip. "So if I just—"
His gaze is locked onto yours, daring you to stop this. Daring you to stop him.
The zipper rasps open under his touch, cold air biting at exposed skin as his hand slides in. His fingers trace the dip of your hipbone, rough and warm against the bite of the wind.
"You wouldn’t care if I went back inside?" he murmurs, voice scraping low.
Your breath hitches. You should push him away. Should say something sharp, something defensive but all you can manage is a shaky exhale as his fingers dip lower, skimming the edge of your underwear.
Steve watches you with a focus that borders on predatory. His fingers pause, testing, waiting for you to bolt or shove him back. When you don’t, his lips twitch—not quite a smirk, but something darker. Something hungrier.
"Guess that answers that," he mutters, and then his hand is sliding fully into your pants, palm hot against your stomach.
Steve’s fingers slide beneath your underwear with a precision that shouldn’t be possible given how badly his hands were shaking moments ago. His fingers dip lower, finding you already wet—impossibly so—despite the cold, despite the argument, despite everything.
His breath hitches against your throat. “Fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you.
You gasp, sharp and involuntary, your hands scrambling for purchase against his rain-damp jacket as your legs threaten to give out entirely.
Steve doesn’t give you the chance to collapse.
His free hand slides around your hip, fingers digging into the curve of your ass, hauling you up against him like you weigh nothing. Your thigh instinctively hooks around his waist as he pins you against the brick wall.
All the while he doesn’t stop, his fingers working you with a rhythm that borders on punishing, his palm grinding against your clit with every upward stroke.
You bite down on a moan, forehead dropping against his shoulder, nails raking down the front of his jacket, his neck—really anywhere you can reach. .
The angle is awkward: the wall digging into you, his glasses still digging into your cheekbone, but none of it matters. Not when his thumb circles once—hard—and your vision whites out for a second, hips jerking against his hand.
“Fuck—Steve—” The name tears out of you, ragged and broken, as his fingers curl just right, pressing deep.
Your gaze catches briefly on the split skin across his knuckles where his hand grips your hip. “Careful,” you breathe instinctively. “Your hand—”
Steve lets out a rough, disbelieving laugh against your throat, forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder like the concern physically hurts him. “Don’t care,” he mutters.
Before sinking his teeth into the curve of your neck hard; claiming the space between your pulse and your collarbone. Then his tongue follows, slow and hot, soothing the sting in a way that makes your knees threaten to buckle again.
All the while, his fingers don’t stop moving inside you; dragging a choked, alien noise from your lips.
“Still think I don’t care?” he mutters against your skin. His thumb circles your clit again, deliberate, relentless, and you choke on absolutely nothing.
You don’t get a chance to answer—not that you could even form words right now—because Steve’s mouth is back on yours. Fingers working you faster, rougher, until your breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps against his mouth.
He continues, this time his breath fans your ear, “Still think I hate you?” he repeats.
You whine–it’s high, desperate and pathetic—in the back of your throat. His palm grinds against your clit; everything is too much and not enough all at once.
“Honey—” Steve’s voice cracks around the word, rough with something that isn’t just frustration anymore. “I could never hate you.” His fingers curl inside you, pressing deep enough to punch out another pathetic whine.
“You annoy the absolute shit out of me,” he admits hoarsely. “You drive me insane. You never listen to me, you throw yourself into danger without a single thought about yourself, and every time you do I just wanna grab you and shake some sense into you.”
His thumb strokes your cheek almost unconsciously as he says it. The softest he has ever touched you–by far.
“But hate you?” Steve lets out a breathless laugh, the idea utterly ridiculous to him. “Jesus Christ.” He cuts himself off with a ragged exhale, forehead dropping against yours as his thumb circles your clit in slow, deliberate strokes.
“You walk into a room and suddenly I can’t think properly.”
Your stomach flips violently.
“You argue with me about everything.”
“I do not—”
“You’re literally about to,” he says immediately, kissing the corner of your mouth when you glare at him.
It pulls the smallest unwilling laugh from you but you still can’t help but roll your eyes.
Steve’s expression softens at the sound instantly. And then more seriously, even more sincerely:
“I know what kind of mood you’re in by how hard you slam a door. I know when you’re lying by the scrunch of your nose.” His jaw tightens slightly.
“I knew you were in trouble tonight before anyone else even realised something was wrong.”
Your chest aches.
Steve swallows hard, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to make you understand something impossible. “You’re not forgettable,” he says quietly.
The words hit harder than they should.
His thumb brushes your cheek almost absently, tenderness bleeding through every movement now.
“You walk into a room and people look for you when you leave it.” His voice roughens slightly. “You’re loud and difficult and stubborn as hell and somehow you still make everything feel…” He breaks off with a frustrated breathless laugh, shaking his head once. “Fuck.”
Your pulse stumbles beneath his hand.
Steve presses his forehead against yours again before finishing quietly:
“You’re everything.”
Your breath catches to the point where you think you might stop breathing.
He closes his eyes briefly as if he didn’t mean to say that part out loud. But when he looks at you again, he doesn’t take it back. He doubles down.
“And I need- I need you to believe that.”
“I tried not to—” He cuts himself off with another rough laugh. “I really fucking tried not to do this.”
“But then you smile at me,” he says softly, almost accusingly. “Or you say my name and suddenly I’m done for.”
You stare at him speechless.
Steve brushes his nose against yours gently before kissing you again, nowhere near as frantic this time but somehow all the more intimate for it.
“So no,” he murmurs against your lips. “I don’t hate you.”
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“I think-” he pauses, taking a deep breath, his fingers slowing, “I think-I’ve been in love with you for a really, really long time.”
You whine—high-pitched and completely broken—as Steve’s fingers thrust just right, pressing deep, and suddenly the world fractures.
Your back arches off the wall, thighs clamping tight around him, nails biting into the damp fabric of his jacket as pleasure crashes over you in waves so sharp you actually can’t breathe.
And Steve? Steve doesn’t let you ride it out in peace. His mouth finds yours again, kissing you through the aftershocks. His tongue licks into your mouth just as his thumb circles your oversensitive clit, dragging a sob from you that he swallows greedily.
"That's it," Steve murmurs against your temple, lips brushing damp skin as your hands scramble clumsily over his shoulders. "Good girl."
The praise sends yet another shudder through you, legs still trembling from the aftershocks. You're barely lucid, fingers twisting in his soaked shirt as you press impossibly closer with a whine—high and needy, the sound muffled against his collarbone where your mouth rests.
"Steve—" Your voice cracks around his name, raw from earlier shouts now reduced to breathless pleading. "Please—"
"What, baby?" His fingers stroke gently through slick heat, coaxing another weak jerk of your hips. Rainwater drips from his hair onto your flushed cheeks when he leans down. "What do you need?"
You can't answer—not coherently at least—just rut against his hand with a broken noise, oversensitive but desperate for more after he just gave you the best orgasm of your life.
His chuckle is dark, warm against your ear as his free hand slides up to your jaw, cradling it. “Gonna need you to say it baby.”
The words shouldn’t wreck you the way they do. They absolutely shouldn’t send heat coiling low in your stomach all over again—but they do.
They absolutely do, and Steve absolutely knows it. You can see it in the way his eyes darken behind his glasses, in the way his thumb presses just under your chin, tilting your face up slowly.
“Say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me what you want.”
You swallow hard, your throat working around nothing, because god, this is torture.
The way his fingers are still inside you, curled just enough to tease but not enough to give you what you need. The way his breath fans over your lips, warm and uneven, like he’s barely holding himself together. The way his glasses are fogged beyond repair, rainwater clinging to his lashes, his hair a mess from where you’ve dragged your hands through it god knows how many times.
You hate the way you sound—whining, desperate, voice cracking around his name like some lovesick idiot—but god, you don’t care. Not now. Maybe later.
"Steve," you murmur again, hands fisting desperately in the soaked fabric of his shirt, vying to drag him closer even though there’s not an ounce of space left between you.
He hums, considering, like he’s weighing whether to give in—and for one stupid, hopeful second, you think he will. But then he pulls his fingers out of you with a slow, deliberate drag that makes your hips jerk forward instinctively— chasing the loss, the sudden emptiness—only for his free hand to press flat against your stomach, holding you firmly against the wall.
He lifts his fingers to his mouth, tongue curling around them in a slow, obscene lick that elicits a moan from your throat before you can stop it.
You could kill him. You will kill him. Later. After.
His gaze locks onto yours, dark and unreadable behind rain-speckled lenses, as he cleans every last trace of you off his fingers with agonising precision.
Your face burns, your thighs twitch, and somewhere in the back of your mind you know you should be embarrassed—should really shove him away or snap something sarcastic—but all you manage is a weak, "Fuck."
Annoyingly causing Steve’s mouth to lift into a smug little smile.
“Want you,” you whisper helplessly, forehead knocking lightly against his shoulder. “Idiot.”
"That’s not very nice, now is it, baby?" Steve murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
You huff, fucking hell–what more does he want for you?
His thumb presses into the delicate skin beneath your jaw, tilting your head back until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. ”Calling me an idiot," he continues, voice dropping lower, "after I just let you come?"
His other hand slides up your side, slow and deliberate, until his palm rests over your hammering heartbeat. "You’re such a brat," he mutters against your lips, breath uneven. "Always have been."
Steve exhales sharply before he relents. His hands dropping to his belt in rough, jerky movements. The buckle clinks too loud, his fingers fumbling slightly with the button of his jeans before he finally shoves them down just far enough to free himself.
He doesn’t give you what you want, though, not quite yet. Instead, he presses the hot, heavy length of himself against your thigh, rocking forward just enough to make you gasp at the contact, the friction maddeningly light.
"Say it," he murmurs, lips brushing yours as his fingers tighten on your hip—not guiding, not forcing, just there, holding you in place while his cock twitches against your skin. "Say you believe me."
You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, hips jerking involuntarily against nothing, desperate for more. For him.
Steve doesn’t let you. His forehead knocks clumsily against yours, his breath coming in ragged bursts between kisses that are more teeth than anything else..
"Say you’ll think twice next time," he growls, dragging his mouth down your jaw to nip at your pulse point. His hips roll forward again, the head of his cock catching against your clit for one devastating second before he pulls back, leaving you gasping. "Say it."
You whine, nails scraping down the skin of his neck as you try to pull him closer, but Steve resists, his grip ironclad.
His laugh is dark, uneven, his lips curling against your throat while you buck against him fruitlessly. "Nuh-uh, sweetheart. Not until you—fuck—"
His words cut off abruptly when your teeth sink into his shoulder, his hips stuttering forward instinctively before he wrenches himself back with a muttered curse.
His grip tightens in your hair, tilting your head back until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. "You think this is a joke?" he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen lower lip.
"You think I don’t fucking mean it when I say I can’t lose you?"
You arch toward him instinctively, but Steve doesn’t budge. Just watches you with that same unreadable expression.
"Tell me you believe me," he whispers, voice rough with something that isn’t just want anymore. "Tell me you know how much I—" He cuts himself off abruptly, fingers flexing against your hip like he’s physically restraining himself from finishing that sentence.
But it’s the look in his eyes that finally undoes you.
Not the way his hands shake where they grip your hips, not the ragged edge of his voice when he says your name—no, it’s the raw, unfiltered fear behind those rain-speckled glasses. .
Steve Harrington, who’s spent years pretending he doesn’t care about anything, looks at you like you’re the only thing left in the world that matters.
And something inside you finally breaks.
Your hands move before you can stop them.
You grab his face hard enough to push his crooked glasses further up his nose, fingers cold and shaking against rain-damp skin as you drag him down toward you.
“Hey,” you whisper, voice cracking badly enough that Steve immediately stills. “Hey.”
Your forehead presses against his.
And for the first time tonight, you stop trying to pull away from what he’s giving you.
You let yourself feel it.
The fear.
The relief.
Him.
Your eyes burn suddenly, embarrassingly, and you let out one sharp, frustrated breath that sounds dangerously close to a laugh.
“I’m here,” you whisper brokenly, trying to convince the both of you.
Steve makes a wrecked sound at that. His hands tighten on your hips almost painfully. “Yeah,” he breathes instantly, nodding quickly. “Yeah, you’re here.”
Your throat tightens so hard it hurts.
And suddenly, the words are there before you can stop them.
“I do.”
The confession slips out in a whisper, barely audible over the storm, but Steve goes utterly still.
His breath catches audibly, fingers twitching against your skin like he’s been shocked. For one terrifying second, you think he might pull away—might bolt like a spooked animal—but then his forehead drops against yours with a shuddering exhale.
“Say it again,” he rasps, voice cracking. His thumb traces your lower lip, smearing rainwater. “Please.”
“I do,” you whisper again, voice cracking. His breath stutters against your temple, his fingers trembling where they grip your thighs—like he’s afraid you’ll take it back.
Then he moves.
There’s no finesse to it, just raw emotion.
Just Steve’s hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise as he presses into you with a ragged groan that gets lost in the rain. The stretch burns briefly before giving way to a fullness that steals your breath.
The sound punched from your throat is half-sob, half-laugh, the words spilling again without thought: “I do.”
Steve’s hips jerk uncontrollably at that, his breath hitching like the confession is a physical blow, and then he’s moving in earnest. No rhythm, no ounce of control, just raw, shuddering need.
Every snap of his hips drives the words from you again, fractured and breathless: “I do—Steve—I do—” His name cracks on a moan as he angles deeper, one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat. His teeth finding your pulse point, biting down just shy of pain as his pace turns punishing, the wet slap of skin lost beneath the storm’s roar.
You’re babbling now, nonsensical; repeating it like a mantra between gasps, each thrust wringing the words out like he’s starving for them.
Steve’s grip tightens, his other hand splaying over your ribs like he’s counting each ragged inhale, each stuttered “I do” that spills from your lips.
The world fractures as pleasure crashes over you in waves so violent they steal your breath.
Your back arches off the wall, thighs clamping around Steve’s hips, nails biting into his shoulders as you shatter with a sob he swallows greedily.
Steve follows with a groan so broken it barely sounds human, his forehead dropping against yours as his hips jerk erratically, his fingers tightening in your hair.
For one suspended moment, there’s nothing but the ragged sound of your breathing, the rain still hammering against the awning above you, Steve’s pulse thundering beneath your lips where they rest against his throat.
Then reality rushes back in all too quickly—the cold brick against your back, the damp fabric of your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin, Steve’s glasses digging into your cheekbone where they’ve been knocked askew.
He doesn’t pull away.
Neither do you.
Instead, his hands slide up your back, slow and unsteady, smoothing over the rumpled fabric of your jacket. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. Whispered so quiet you know he doesn't mean for you to hear it.
One hand rises to card through your tangled hair, fingers gentle where they work through the knots. “You’re okay.”
The words are less a statement than a plea, repeated like a prayer as his breathing gradually slows.
When you tilt your head back to look at him, his glasses are fogged beyond recognition, rainwater and sweat streaking down his flushed cheeks. He looks wrecked. Beautiful.
Your fingers rise to push his glasses up his nose, clumsy with exhaustion, and Steve catches your wrist before you can.
His thumb brushes over your racing pulse, his gaze dropping to your swollen lips, then lower—to the mark blooming on your collarbone, the rumpled state of your clothes. Something dark flickers in his eyes before he exhales sharply, forehead dropping to rest against yours again.
“‘M okay,” you murmur softly, fingers brushing back his rain-damp hair where it’s plastered to his forehead.
Steve exhales sharply—half laugh, half sob—his breath warm against your lips as his hands slide up to cradle your face. His thumbs trace the hollows beneath your eyes with a reverence that makes your chest ache.
“You’re not,” he counters, voice cracking, glasses still crooked, but you can still see the raw fear lingering in his gaze.
His fingers tighten fractionally, like he’s physically willing you to understand. “You were under a building, you idiot.” The words crack on the last syllable, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as his breathing stutters.
You can feel him shaking—fine tremors running through his arms where they cage you against the wall, the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips when you touch his throat. It’s unnerving. Steve Harrington doesn’t tremble. Steve Harrington doesn’t falter.
But he is now.
Under your fingertips.
His glasses slip further down his nose when he tilts his head to press a kiss to your temple—clumsy, unpracticed, achingly tender. “Christ,” he mutters against your skin, voice thick. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Your chest aches at the honesty of it.
Steve Harrington—loud, stubborn, impossible Steve Harrington—standing here shaking in your arms because of you.
Your sworn enemy.
The bane of your existence.
The boy who could rile you up with nothing more than the arch of an eyebrow and one stupid smug look.
And yet here he is, holding you like losing you would’ve destroyed him.
Slowly, carefully, you reach up and straighten his glasses for him. It’s the smallest thing. Basic decency, really.
But it hits him anyway.
You see it happen in real time—the way his breath catches softly, the way his eyes lose some of that frantic edge as they search your face. As if he can’t quite believe you’re touching him so gently.
Steve’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again, softer now than you think you’ve ever seen it.
“C’mere,” he murmurs quietly.
This time when he kisses you, it isn’t desperate.
No teeth.
No frantic grasping.
No fear.
Just warmth.
His hands cradle your face carefully, thumbs brushing your cheeks while your fingers curl into the damp collar of his jacket. The kiss is slow enough that you can actually feel it this time—every soft press of his lips, every shaky exhale against your mouth, every lingering second of him choosing you.
Like coming home after being lost for a very long time.
And for once—
you don’t fight it.
You let yourself be held.
P.S. I do not recommend engaging in this type of behaviour after having a building collapse on you. Please seek medical attention first. Lots of love, the chef ♡
andulkaphoto
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
yousharknotpass
tangentwithtanner
theartofmadeline
