Ray/Sky || She/her or They/Them || 20 || Hello! This is just another blog for any x reader things that people wanna ask for. Feel free to send in some requests for imagines or headcanons n stuff! || No NSFW things / requests though
Because I am content deprived and decided that I will instead create content myself-
I will be opening up requests for imagines and / or headcanons for the following fandoms ;
[Bolded ones are the fandoms I'm looking for requests from primarily but you can request from any]
Star Wars Rebels
Ahsoka
Stranger Things
Arcane
Ironheart
Twisters (2024)
For Star Wars Rebels I will write for the following characters ;
Ezra Bridger
Sabine Wren
Ahsoka Tano
For Ahsoka I will write for the following characters ;
Ahsoka Tano
Sabine Wren
Ezra Bridger
For Stranger Things I will write for the following characters ;
Steve Harrington
Robin Buckley
For Arcane I will write for the following characters ;
Ekko
Vi
Mel
For Ironheart I will write for the following characters ;
Riri Williams
Parker Robbins
For Twisters (2024) I will write for the following characters ;
Javier Rivera
Kate Carter
Rules ;
No NSFW. I’m ace and uncomfortable with writing that. The farthest I’d write is characters making out.
No requests including a large focus on alcohol specifically, or requests including pregnancies in general either - both of those topics are uncomfortable for me to write for. I will write maybe a small mention of alcohol here and there depending on the setting, but that’s as far as I will go.
Please be respectful about requests and be patient if a request takes a while!
I have the right to decline a request if I do not feel comfortable with writing it.
If you want any specific pronouns for the reader please tell me! I’ll do my best to write with them!
Requests can be romantic or platonic [unless if stated above in the list of characters as only platonic].
Something to note ; I haven’t written for these fandoms much yet so I apologize if some stuff is a bit out of character- [not really a rule, just putting that out there as a warning / precaution]
Please specify if what you want is headcanons or just a fic instead!
And I think that’s about it on the rules-
Just to reiterate again - please be respectful and patient when requesting!
Thank you!
• Ray / Sky
Can’t think of anything to request?? Look at these prompts here, just tell me the list and which prompt you want me to write for- :000
↝ author's note: Hiiiii. First ever fic so i hope you all enjoy it! I'll be creating a masterlist soon for you all so you know who i write about and what i write ꨄ︎
The first thing they ever learned about Javi was that he carried calm like it was second nature, like it belonged to him in a way storms never could.
Everyone else around him seemed to move with urgency whenever the sky darkened, voices overlapping inside cramped trucks, hands fumbling with equipment, nerves fraying sharper the closer tornado season crawled toward its peak but Javi never lost the steadiness in his voice, even when the horizon twisted into something violent and unrecognisable. While the others shouted coordinates over the radio and argued over routes through rain-slick backroads, he remained composed behind the wheel, one hand curled loosely around the steering wheel while the other adjusted the frequency on the radio with practiced precision, his expression focused but never panicked.
And maybe that should have made him easier to understand.
Instead, it only made them watch him more.
Because calm like that did not come naturally to people unless they had spent years teaching themselves how to survive chaos.
They noticed it during their very first chase with him, somewhere on an empty stretch of Oklahoma highway while thunder rolled endlessly overhead and the clouds above them spun into ugly shades of green. The truck had rattled violently beneath heavy winds while rain lashed against the windshield hard enough to blur the road entirely, and yet Javi still sounded steady when he spoke.
They remembered glancing toward him from the passenger seat that day, watching the way lightning illuminated the sharp line of his jaw for only a second before darkness swallowed him again, and thinking very suddenly, very irrationally, that Javi was dangerous in a way tornadoes were dangerous.
Not because he would hurt someone.
Because people would willingly destroy themselves trying to stay close to him.
Months later, standing beneath the flickering neon lights of a run-down motel parking lot while another storm rolled somewhere far across the plains, they still had not figured out how to stop feeling that way.
The night air smelled heavily of rain and wet asphalt, thick humidity clinging to their skin while distant thunder echoed low enough to shake the ground beneath their shoes. Most of the team had gone inside hours earlier after a long day of chasing storms through northern Oklahoma, exhausted enough to collapse the second their heads hit motel pillows, but Javi remained outside alone beside the truck, laptop balanced against his knee while radar maps glowed blue across his tired face.
He looked exhausted.
Not in dramatic ways.
In quiet ones.
The sleeves of his hoodie were shoved carelessly up his forearms, revealing tired hands marked faintly with scrapes from earlier that afternoon, and there were dark shadows settled beneath his eyes that no amount of caffeine seemed capable of fixing anymore. His curls were still damp from rain, falling messily across his forehead while he stared at the shifting storm patterns on his screen with the same concentration he gave everything.
They hated how fond they had become of watching him.
“You know,” they said softly while leaning against the passenger side door, “normal people sleep occasionally.”
Javi looked up immediately at the sound of their voice, surprise flickering briefly across his face before softening into something warmer.
Something reserved only for them.
“That so?” he asked quietly.
“I’ve heard rumors.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, tired but genuine enough to make something ache painfully inside their chest.
“And here I thought caffeine counted as rest.”
“That explains a lot, actually.”
His laugh slipped out low and rough from exhaustion, and the sound settled warmly against them despite the cold wind beginning to pick up around the parking lot.
God.
That was the problem.
It was never one specific thing about Javi.
Not his smile.
Not his voice.
Not even the devastating softness hidden beneath all his exhaustion.
It was everything.
The way he listened carefully whenever they spoke, even when conversations wandered into meaningless territory. The way he always noticed when they were cold before they did themselves. The way he carried too much responsibility on his shoulders while pretending the weight didn’t affect him at all.
Loving Javi felt less like falling and more like slowly realizing they had already drowned somewhere along the way.
“You should go inside,” they told him gently after a moment, nodding toward the motel rooms behind them.
“So should you.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“Pretty sure it is.”
They rolled their eyes, but their smile betrayed them instantly.
Javi noticed.
He always noticed.
The wind shifted harder through the parking lot then, stirring damp curls across his forehead while loose strands fell into his eyes again, and before they could stop themselves, they stepped closer and brushed the hair back carefully with their fingers.
The reaction was immediate.
Javi froze beneath their touch so completely that it almost hurt to witness.
His breath caught softly.
His eyes fluttered shut.
And suddenly every coherent thought inside their mind disappeared alongside his.
It happened every single time they touched him now.
Like their body had started recognizing him before their brain could keep up.
One brush of fingertips against warm skin and their thoughts dissolved into useless static, leaving behind nothing except awareness — the warmth of his body beneath their hands, the faint hitch in his breathing, the way his shoulders slowly relaxed as though touch itself felt unfamiliar to him.
“When you do that,” Javi murmured quietly without opening his eyes, “I forget what I’m supposed to be thinking about.”
Their heartbeat stumbled painfully.
“That makes two of us.”
His eyes opened slowly after that, dark and exhausted and devastatingly soft beneath the motel lights, and suddenly standing this close to him felt unbearable.
Because Javi looked at people too carefully.
Like he was memorizing them instead of simply seeing them.
And when all of that attention focused entirely on them, it became impossible to think straight.
They stepped closer without realizing they were moving.
Javi remained sitting on the hood of the truck, forcing him to tilt his head back slightly just to keep looking at them, and the position alone sent warmth rushing embarrassingly fast through their chest. Rain began falling lightly again around them, cool droplets striking pavement softly while thunder rolled somewhere in the distance.
Neither of them moved away.
Neither of them seemed capable of it anymore.
“You ever think about stopping?” they asked quietly after a long silence.
Javi frowned slightly. “Storm chasing?”
They nodded.
For a moment he didn’t answer.
Instead, he glanced past them toward the dark horizon where flashes of distant lightning illuminated the clouds every few seconds, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
“Sometimes,” he admitted eventually. “Usually after bad days.”
“And then?”
A small, tired smile crossed his face.
“And then another storm forms.”
There it was again.
That look.
The one that appeared whenever he talked about tornadoes.
Not excitement exactly.
Understanding.
Like storms were terrible things he couldn’t help loving anyway.
The realization hit them suddenly and hard enough to steal their breath.
Because that was exactly how they felt about him.
Javi noticed their silence immediately.
“What?”
They shook their head softly, though their chest already felt painfully full.
“You don’t know how to let go of things,” they whispered instead.
His expression changed at once.
Something vulnerable flickered briefly behind his eyes before disappearing just as quickly.
“No,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t think I do.”
The honesty in his voice unraveled something inside them completely.
Because Javi rarely let people see the parts of himself buried beneath responsibility and exhaustion. Most days he hid behind quick jokes and calm instructions and endless concern for everyone else around him, carrying fear silently so nobody noticed how heavy it had become.
But right now, beneath flickering neon lights and approaching thunder, he looked tired enough to stop pretending.
And somehow that made them love him even more.
They moved closer until they stood directly between his knees.
Javi inhaled sharply.
His hands found their waist automatically, hesitant at first, like he still wasn’t entirely convinced he was allowed to touch them this way, and the carefulness of it nearly shattered them.
Because even now, even like this, Javi held people gently.
Like he was afraid of breaking them.
Their fingers slipped lightly into his damp curls again, and his eyes shut immediately beneath the touch, shoulders sagging beneath exhaustion he no longer seemed capable of hiding.
“When you touch me,” he confessed softly, voice rough enough to send warmth spiraling through their entire body, “my mind just… disappears.”
Their pulse thundered painfully against their ribs.
Javi’s hands tightened slightly against their waist, grounding himself in them like he needed the contact just as desperately.
“The only words I know anymore,” he continued quietly while looking up at them again, “feel lost somewhere inside you.”
Everything inside them stopped.
The rain.
The thunder.
The motel lights buzzing overhead.
None of it mattered anymore.
Because Javi was looking at them like they were something precious enough to ruin him.
And maybe they would have survived it if he had sounded less honest.
But Javi never lied well when he was tired.
Emotion softened every edge of his voice until the vulnerability beneath it became impossible to ignore.
Their hands slid down to cup his face carefully, thumbs brushing against rainwater gathered along his skin while he leaned instinctively into the touch with a softness that nearly broke their heart apart entirely.
“You don’t always have to carry everything alone,” they whispered.
A weak laugh escaped him.
“That’d probably be easier if people stopped expecting me to.”
“I don’t.”
His gaze snapped back toward theirs instantly.
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because eventually,” he said quietly, “I’ll disappoint you.”
The certainty in his voice hurt more than they expected.
Like somewhere along the way, Javi had convinced himself that love was temporary. Conditional. Destined to leave eventually no matter how carefully he held onto it.
They hated that anyone had ever made him feel that way.
“You haven’t yet,” they whispered firmly.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is to me.”
For a long moment Javi simply stared at them.
Rain poured harder around them now, soaking through clothes and dripping from curls and sleeves alike, but neither of them cared enough to move. The storm overhead grew louder with every passing second, thunder cracking closer while wind swept through the parking lot in sharp bursts.
Still, Javi looked at them like they were the only quiet thing left in the world.
And then something inside him finally gave way.
Not dramatically.
Not all at once.
Just enough.
His forehead rested carefully against theirs while his hands pulled them impossibly closer, and suddenly every thought inside their mind disappeared completely beneath the overwhelming warmth of him.
Because this was Javi.
Tired.
Gentle.
Lonely in ways he tried desperately to hide.
And trusting them enough to let those broken pieces show.
“You make everything quiet,” he admitted softly against the storm.
Their chest tightened painfully.
“What does that even mean?”
His smile was small but real this time.
“It means when everything gets loud,” he whispered, “you’re the only thing that still feels calm.”
No one had ever looked at them the way Javi did.
Not like they were safety.
Not like they were home.
And standing there beneath endless thunder while rain soaked through every layer between them, they realized something terrifying.
They would let Javi unravel every careful part of them if he asked.
Not because he demanded it.
Because he held every fragile thing so gently that loving him stopped feeling frightening after a while.
It started feeling inevitable.
Javi brushed his thumb softly across their cheek, eyes lingering on them with that same unbearable tenderness that always left them breathless, and somewhere in the distance another tornado siren began wailing faintly across town.
Neither of them moved.
For once, Javi wasn’t watching the storm.
He was only looking at them.
And somehow, impossibly, that felt far more dangerous.
a feel like the new generation of fanfic readers NEED to understand that clicking on a fic (interaction) does nothing. ao3 has no algorithm. your private discord discussions of fic do not reach the authors. if you do not actively engage with writers they will stop posting. this isn’t social media this is community.
Where he is a prince and reader is a personal guard for him and there’s anonymous letters involved [from guard reader but they meant for those to be stashed away and someone keeps SENDING THEM TO HIM and how they need to find out who’s doing that before Steve’s parents find out and strip them of their title / job even if they’re always traveling and never there in the small kingdom itself]-
about: max hates the way billy treats girls, steve is nothing like billy
c.w: mentions of sex but nothing explicit, billy being awful to women but again nothing explicit, soft fluff because steve is a girl dad, some canon divergence with how the fight with billy went in the s2 finale, angsty with a tooth-rottingly fluffy ending, no pronouns for reader but mentions of reader wearing makeup
a/n: max is my daughter i love her so much, i wish they elaborated more on her and steve’s relationship in the show because i just know she wishes he was her older brother instead of billy, divider by @cursed-carmine
Billy is weird with girls. Sometimes they call the house asking for him and Max hears Billy say crude words on the phone, words that would have her mouth washed out with soap if her mom heard her say any of them. More often than not there’s a girl in his passenger seat when Billy drives her home, very obviously displeased by Max’s very existence.
And sometimes her mom and his dad— not her dad because he’s back in California— go out late and Billy will bring a girl over, never the same one. He never tells her to get out or leave because he doesn’t care, but Max quickly realizes she should with the disgusting noises they make. She usually goes outside, skating up and down their street until the girl leaves.
He never drives them home and they leave the house with makeup ruined and walking funny. He never lets them stay the night either. Some of them look upset when they leave, others don’t really care.
There’s been a few girls who walk outside and cry on the curb in the dim streetlight. It’s never loud sobbing, just quiet sniffles as they hug themselves. Max never talks to them, she has no idea what she could ever say to them.
Today it’s one of those nights again. His dad booked a fancy dinner in some restaurant across county lines so he won't bring her mom home until the early hours of the morning. This also means whatever girl Billy brings over is going to be there for a long time.
Under usual circumstances this would be fine, Max would just skate downtown to kill time, except it’s the middle of June and a storm is rolling in.
She thinks it’s ridiculous, why is there rain in the middle of summer? It was never like this in California, they had some bouts of rain in December and April but never the summer. Even when it did rain it never lasted long or was bad enough that her mother invested in proper rain attire.
Which is how she finds herself walking down the street, her jeans and converse completely soaked. The crappy poncho her mom bought at Melvald’s was in the clearance section for a reason because her hair is soaked through and she can feel water soaking her shirt.
She wants to go home. Not that dump on Cherry Lane but San Diego.
She feels hot tears welling up in her eyes when her shadow starts to elongate in the puddles and she hears the rev of a car engine behind her. Great, some asshole is gonna splash water all over her. Instead the car slows to a gentle stop next to her and when she turns her head she sees a familiar red BMW, Steve’s already rolling down the window to talk to her.
“What are you doing?” he frowns, and she can see you in the passenger seat craning your head to look at her. “It’s pouring out here.”
Max’s mouth goes dry, what is she doing out here?
“Walk,” she finally says, hoping the lump in her throat isn’t obvious.
“C’mon get in,” Steve replies without missing a beat, nudging his head toward the passenger side. “You’re gonna get yourself sick.”
“I’m fine,” Max insists, because she really is about to start crying and she doesn’t want to be in his car when that happens.
“Max get in,” your voice cuts in, frowning at her and exchanging a glance with Steve, like you two can communicate without speaking.
She does, only because you’ve been the coolest person ever to her since you stabbed Billy with a tranquilizer syringe and threatened him with a baseball bat.
She gets in the backseat, probably ruining Steve’s fancy leather seats with how soaked she is, and immediately notes the grocery bags. Not junk food but actual ingredients, great Steve was gonna cook you dinner and now she’s crashing your date night.
Steve is already slipping off his knit sweater and cranking up the heater. He sets the car in park in the middle of the road before turning around so he can hand her the sweater.
“You wanna actually tell us why you were walking around in the rain?” He has a disapproving frown on his face but for some reason Max doesn’t feel like it’s directed at her.
She wants to refuse the sweater but she’s shivering in the backseat and it feels warm in her hands. So she takes her crappy poncho off and slips it on, hoping the two of you mistake the few tears escaping her eyes for rain.
“Hey we’re not gonna tell your parents,” you say gently, reaching out to smooth down her soaked hair. “We just wanna know, I promise.”
“My parents are out for the night,” her voice cracks when she talks and she really hopes you two just think she’s cold. “So Billy invited a girl over.”
She’s looking down at her soaked shoes because looking at either one of you feels scary right now. Even then she knows you two are exchanging glances, communicating without speaking again. She remembers her mom and dad doing that, when she was younger and they still loved each other.
“Okay,” Steve says after a beat, his voice softer and reaching out to fix the sweater so it sits evenly on her. “You’re gonna come back to my place with us, and then you can use my phone to leave a message for your mom that you’re sleeping at a friend’s house. Sounds good?”
Max nods, trying to rub her hands and warm them up. Steve takes the car out of park and starts driving back to his place. The two of you are quiet throughout the drive and she doesn’t feel like starting a conversation. Every so often her eyes dart back to the grocery bag, the thought of Billy making a girl dinner is so laughable it feels absurd.
After a few minutes the BMW rolls into the driveway and you come over to her door with an umbrella while Steve grabs the grocery bags from the other side. It’s ridiculous for you to walk her twenty feet over to the door with the umbrella but she humors you anyway.
She follows suit when you and Steve slip off your shoes by the front door before walking in. The two of you actually own proper rainboots and Steve gives a glance at her thoroughly soaked converse.
“Alright I’m gonna start cooking dinner,” Steve tells her, gesturing to the grocery bag. “Why don’t you go take a shower?”
“I don’t need–”
You both give her a look.
“...Fine,” she relents after a moment, because it does feel like her bones are rattling inside her body.
“Perfect,” you take her hand, leading her over to the staircase. “I’ll show you where it is and get you some clothes.”
You take her upstairs, stopping by one of the cabinets in the hallway to grab some towels before leading her into Steve’s room. It’s mostly what she’d expect from a teenage boy, some movie posters, a basketball laying around, and a desk that obviously has seen very minimal studying.
She does catch the fact that there are multiple pillows on the bed and the sheets are a nice cream color instead of bachelor navy blue. There’s some books and a candle on the nightstand, along with two mugs holding the remnants of last night’s tea in them.
“Here we go,” you say, finally looking up after having rummaged through the top dresser drawer. Based on the clothes Max can see in, it’s your designated space in Steve’s room.
You hand her the towels along with some fluffy pajama pants, they have little teddy bears on them, along with an oversized t-shirt.
“Bathroom’s down the hall on the left, just yell if you need anything.”
She mumbles acknowledgment and you turn to leave, then Max calls out your name before she realizes it.
“What’s up?” you turn around. Her chest feels tight, everything feels wrong and right at the same time. This is how things should be for her, but they’re not and she’s terrified this brief moment will be stolen from her in seconds.
“You’re not gonna call my parents… right? You or Steve?”
Your face softens and you walk over to her. Wrapping her in a hug and pressing your lips to the top of her head.
“No we’re not,” you murmur and rub her back. “You just have to promise me one thing, okay?”
Max’s shoulders are shaking as she cries into you. Quiet sniffles like the girls who sit on the curb outside of their house after Billy decides he’s done with them. “What is it?”
“Next time something like this happens,” you whisper, still rubbing her back. “Call us, we’ll come get you.”
She nods against you and you hold her for a few minutes until the crying subsides. When she pulls away you press a kiss to her forehead before leaving.
She follows your instructions, going down the hall and to the left to find the bathroom. There’s two of everything. Tooth brushes, towels, body washes, and shampoo and conditioner sets. She can’t resist being nosy and taking a peek in the bathroom drawer. She finds a makeup bag and inside all the products look minimally used.
Steve must have bought it so you wouldn’t need to bring yours back and forth.
The idea of him standing in your bathroom carefully writing down the products and their shade names to buy them is so silly and sweet enough to make her giggle quietly.
Max takes her time in the shower, letting the steaming hot water warm her body. She also wants to make sure she’s fully composed because it’d be way too embarrassing if she started crying again.
She steals your body wash and washes her hair with Steve’s shampoo and conditioner because she thinks it’s funny. The boys make fun of him for preening with how much he invests in his hair products. It’s stupid considering how nosy they got when Dustin revealed he knew Steve’s hair routine. He never actually told any of them.
She dries herself off thoroughly after the shower and examines the skincare products on the counter. Not the cheap soaps she convinced her mom to buy after her face started breaking out. Fancy expensive ones that you need adult money to buy. Two of everything again, things Steve bought to make you more comfortable in his space.
She uses your facewash and dabs on a little moisturizer out of curiosity, it smells like clay and she likes it a bit. After wrapping her hair in a towel she heads out of the bathroom and walks over to the stairs.
The smell of garlic hits her nose and just as she’s about to head down she clears the click of the front door. Then your feet padding on the floor as you walk into the kitchen and tell Steve: “She’s a size six.”
“Hmm you think red rainboots are a little too on the nose?”
“She likes the color so it’ll probably be fine. Just maybe make the pants and coat a different color?”
“How about all yellow? She can look like the Morton Salt girl.”
“Well she would look adorable, but she’d also probably kick you.”
“Red boots it is. I’ll get a small for the pants and a medium for the coat.”
“Steve, that jacket is stupidly expensive.”
“Which is why I’m getting a medium so she can grow into it.”
Max doesn’t tell herself it means anything, she never does, but the next morning she finds a bag of rain gear on her porch.
Hii! I saw you where taking requests for Byers!reader!! I was wondering if I could request a romantic epilogue!Robin x epilogue Byers!reader where they are having a family movie night over spring break at the Byers family and Jonathan shows them some of the films he has been working on at nyu and he uses the reader and robins relationship as inspiration for his short film? Thank you!!!
‘Let’s practice writing blurbs!’ I say- ‘just a few hundred words or so’, I say-
Then I write over 1k words in a couple hours bc idea went wild and now it’s 3 am
Ty for requesting anon, I don’t think I followed the request exactly but it was fun to write- <33333
“I made this for you.”
Robin Buckley x F!Byers!reader [plus added on platonic!jonathan, platonic!will and platonic!steve x reader]
Summary ; In which your adoptive twin surprises you and your girlfriend.
Requested? ; yes
Warnings? ; might be out of character, also kind of bittersweet fluff, small references to homophobia in the film industry, reader is adopted although it isn’t explicitly stated within the fic.
Word count ; 1.1 k words
Other requests? / Masterlist here
——————————————————————
“Remind me why Steve’s here again?”
You scoffed at your twin, eyes trained on the screen rolled out over the wall in front of you both. You were trying to be a supportive sister. Trying to watch the film your brother made for his thesis this year.
But if you heard one more question from him, you were going to tear the projector screen down and snip each piece of film in half.
“Well, you and your boy toy need some time with each other”, you began, voice quiet out of respect. A sliver of the remaining respect you harbored for him. “And my girl needs her soulmate.”
Jonathan’s brow crinkled, head turning toward you. He reached into the popcorn bowl Will had offered from his spot on the floor. Your younger brother was comfortably sitting on the carpeted ground, back pressed into both of your shins.
“Soulmate?”, he asked incredulously. Will smacked his knee with the back of his hand. Jonathan repeated his question in a whisper. “Thought she was your soulmate.”
That thought warmed your chest. It spread up your shoulders and towards the back of your neck, then up to your ears and the swells of your cheeks when your eyes spotted Robin and Steve walking back into the room with pizza. “They’re a packaged deal, Jonny. You know that.”
You ignored the withering glare that he bore into the side of your face.
Robin settled into the free spot next to you, and Steve on the ground in front of her. She leaned against your side, and kicked her legs over the arm of the couch. Your cheek met her shoulder in greeting, and she pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head.
Will was finally able to break his concentration away from the movie to smile up at Robin, and nod a hello in Steve’s direction.
Paper plates with heavy pizza slices passed between the five of you, grease from the cheese already soaking into the material. The rest of the movie wore on with a comfortable silence, only broken by a few murmurs or laughs caused by the film. That, or for a mini-snack run.
The ending, really, was what surprised you all the most. The rest of it was already great, after all. Your brother had an innate talent for camera work and directing. Honed over the years in Hawkins and now practiced to perfection at NYU, it was a lovely feat of talent you’d already expected from Jonathan.
What you weren’t expecting, though, were the two main characters - both women - to kiss. Not even a quick peck, either. That was a kiss. A mouth opening, tongue grazing lock that’d never hit the theatres like all the couples with men and women did instead.
Steve whooped in support, and so did Will. The grin on his face was bright and unbidden. The light from the movie projector caught onto the small looped earrings he had pierced to his ears, a matching set with yours that you both had gotten for his eighteenth birthday.
Robin’s jaw dropped in shock. Eyes wide. Spellbound, even. If there was a way to rewind the film in such a way that it wouldn’t get damaged, Robin would abuse that function just to watch that scene over and over again. Purely, truly in a bout of awe.
Now you, on the other hand, just stared at the screen. Watched as the credits rolled soon afterwards. Watched as the words rolled down the screen, naming each person responsible for the film.
Although it was mainly on instinct, you clapped with the other three when it hit Jonathan’s name. A few times, actually. You didn’t register the action in the slightest. Didn’t register all the times Jonathan kept bouncing his eyes between you and his movie.
Then came the acknowledgements.
The usual thanks for the companies involved. The appreciation for his professors. The actors.
Then…
‘And most of all, thank you to my siblings. Both of you. This movie was made with the both of you in mind. But most especially, my sister and her partner. My inspirations.’
‘Never stop being the way you are.’
‘Jonathan’
Soft skin brushed against the side of your face. Warm and comforting. Smelled vaguely of pizza and lavender. Robin.
“Babe?”, she asked, voice gentle against the heavy air. “You alright?”
You blinked. Hot tears rolled down your cheeks. You brought a hand up to cover your mouth, face crumpling up as the acknowledgment burned into your retinas. The hum that came out of you sounded more or less like a whimper, breaking in all the wrong places when you nodded at her question.
Her arm wrapped around your shoulder and led you back into her arms. You freely let yourself lean into her. Will had put his hand on your knee this time, a point of contact that grounded you as the tears blurred your vision. Jonathan’s hand was a gentle, comforting pressure against your bicep once you were able to get a sharp intake of air. You felt it through the sleeves of Robin’s old sweater. Still thick despite all the years of washing, all the scrubbing of the dirt and chaos that had plagued the town for years until recently.
When the quiet sobbing made itself known, Steve passed Robin the tissues from the side table.
“You—you really did that?”, you asked your twin through the warbling sound of your voice. Robin passed you a tissue, and you blew your nose into it. “Based them off of me an’ Robin?”
The corners of Jonathan’s mouth pulled upward. “I did, yeah. Thought that it’d make sense for the characters, yknow? One of the script writers was struggling with their dynamic, and all I thought of was you. I convinced them it needed to be there, and that it needed to be seen, otherwise nothing else would’ve made sense.”
He glanced between you and Will, and put his hand on your younger brother’s shoulder. “Sure, there’s a chance that some dumbasses won’t want it to go to the film festival next summer, but who the fuck cares, right? I made this for you.”
Will’s eyes went glassy. Steve patted him twice on his other shoulder, and let his hand rest there. Although his brows twitched from happy to melancholy, his smile remained the same. Bright and unbidden.
You shut your eyes, shoulders shaking along with your tears. Robin held you close, chin propped up on the top of your head. Her left hand brushed your back in gentle circles, while her right hand scratched slowly at the nape of your neck.
Her eyes met Jonathan’s, and she mouthed a ‘thank you’ to him.
For once, Robin thought, she could have a spring break where she belonged.
A cold walk back to the dorms turns into an almost-confession under the stars, and by the time you fall asleep holding the words you didn’t say, you have no idea it’s the last quiet night before everything and everyone changes.
7. Cold Air, Warm Jacket, Unsaid Words
It's too cold to be out this late.
That's your first thought as you push the library door open and step into the night—the way the air bites at your cheeks, the way your breath fogs out in small, startled ghosts. Shiz is quieter after dark, sound swallowed by stone and snow. Lanterns burn low, painting smudges of gold along the paths and leaving the rest to shadow.
Boq lets the door close behind you with a soft thud.
"Still can't believe they assigned twenty pages on municipal boundaries," he mutters, hitching his bag higher on his shoulder. "Who knew lines on maps could be that boring?"
"You did," you say, hugging your books to your chest. "You've been warning me about this unit for weeks."
"Yes, but I didn't expect them to prove me right so thoroughly."
You huff a laugh, breath puffing white in front of your face.
You've been in the library for hours. It started as a group thing—Fiyero insisting everyone study together "for morale," Galinda sprawled dramatically across two chairs, Elphaba pretending she wasn't double-checking everyone's citations, Nessa sitting primly at the end of the table with her hands folded over her notes.
But one by one, they'd drifted away.
Fiyero, first, complaining loudly about his brain melting.
Galinda, announcing she had to "rest her voice" for tomorrow.
Elphaba, eyes shadowed, muttering something about needing sleep if she was going to endure certain people in the morning.
Even Nessa, wheeled gently back to Crage by Boq for an hour's rest.
You'd stayed.
So had he.
Now it's just the two of you and the cold and the soft crunch of gravel under your boots as you walk.
You feel tired in that good, heavy way—eyes gritty, mind buzzing with too many facts. But under that, something else hums. A small knot of nervous heat low in your stomach that has nothing to do with municipal boundaries.
"Here," Boq says suddenly. "You're shivering."
You blink, because you hadn't noticed you were. Then you look down at yourself—thin cardigan, ink-stained fingers, a skirt that's doing absolutely nothing against the wind—and okay, fair.
Before you can protest, his bag thumps gently onto the path and he's shrugging out of his jacket.
It's a simple thing. Well-worn, the color softened by time. You've seen him in it a hundred times—hurrying across the quad, shoulders hunched, books clutched to his chest. It's part of him, like his hat and his nervous laugh and the way his brow creases when he's rephrasing a statute in the margins.
"You'll freeze," you say, as he drapes it around your shoulders.
"I have layers," he says. "And a martyr complex. Let me have this."
The jacket settles over you like a blanket. It smells like him—ink and starch and something warm you can't name. It's too big, of course. The sleeves swallow your hands. The hem brushes your thighs.
You pull it tighter anyway, fingers curling into the worn lining where his usually rest.
"Thank you," you murmur.
He smiles, quick and bright in the lamplight.
"You'd do the same for me," he says simply.
You don't tell him you would do more than the same. You don't tell him you'd give him anything he asked for if he just looked at you the way you wish he would and said please.
Instead, you fall back into step. The path curves away from the main dorms, skirting the edge of the little garden you like—a square of hedges and benches and a stone fountain that only runs in warmer months.
Tonight, the fountain's dry. The hedges are dark lumps against pale gravel. The sky overhead is crowded with stars, sharp and cold.
Boq slows as you pass the gate.
"Do you... want to sit for a bit?" he asks.
You should say no.
It's late. You're tired. Your bed is a few minutes away and tomorrow will come whether you're ready or not.
But the garden is quiet, the sky is clear, and his jacket is warm on your shoulders.
"Alright," you hear yourself say.
You slip through the gate together. The bench you both favor—the one tucked beneath a bare-branched tree—is cold when you sit, stone pressing through your skirt. The jacket helps. So does the fact that his thigh is a line of heat beside yours.
Boq settles next to you. Not quite touching. Not far, either. Exactly the distance that would take half a breath and a small decision to cross.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
You listen to the campus breathing—the distant creak of a cart, the muffled laugh of someone heading in late, the soft hoot of an owl. Your hands curl inside the sleeves, fingers finding frayed seams where his have worried at the fabric.
"You know," Boq says at last, voice quiet, "when I got here... I thought I'd made a mistake."
You turn your head. His profile is a silhouette against the pale bowl of the fountain—nose, mouth, the line of his jaw. His hat sits slightly crooked, hair ruffled from the wind.
"You?" you say. "You, who practically begged your way into the civic structures course?"
He huffs a little laugh.
"Not that part," he says. "The part where I thought I could belong here. In Shiz. With all these people who've... always known they would."
You know exactly what he means.
"They've had tutors since they were five," you say softly. "Governesses. Private libraries."
"And staircases so they don't trip in front of very important professors," he adds.
You smile in the dark.
"You didn't trip," you say. "You only stumbled a little. Heroically."
"Thank you," he says dryly. "But that first week, every time someone looked at me, I felt like I'd gotten on the wrong train. Like I was going to wake up back in Munchkinland with dirt under my nails and my mother reminding me that people like us don't go to places like this."
His hands move as he talks, fingers twisting together, thumbs rubbing at his own knuckles. You want to reach over and still them. Or hold them.
"What changed?" you ask.
He glances at you, then away again.
"You," he says.
One word. Small and plain and devastating.
It drops into your chest like a stone into a pond and everything ripples outward around it.
"Me?" you echo. Your voice doesn't sound like yours.
He nods, looking down at his knees.
"You didn't... treat me like I was a novelty," he says. "Or a project. Or background noise. You just... talked. Like of course we were both meant to be sitting at the same table."
"Of course you were," you say, before you can stop yourself. "Boq, you're one of the smartest people I know."
He snorts. "That's a low bar. You know Fiyero."
You elbow him, gentle.
"I mean it," you insist. "You notice things other people don't. You care. About laws, and grain, and people not getting crushed by systems they never built. That's... rare."
He goes quiet for a heartbeat, like he's turning your words over in his hands, checking them for cracks.
"Sometimes," he says slowly, "when I'm in a lecture and everyone's talking over each other, I look for you."
Your breath stutters.
"Why?" you ask, though you think you know.
"Because," he says, "if you're there, I don't feel like I'm faking it quite as much."
You swallow.
"I feel that way too," you admit. "When you're there."
He looks at you then. Really looks.
You're close enough to see the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his lashes clump into damp little spikes. His cheeks are pink from the cold. His breath mixes with yours in the narrow space between you, turning the air hazy.
Suddenly you're aware of everything.
His jacket around your shoulders. His knee, just barely brushing yours now. The steady rise and fall of his chest. Your own heartbeat, pounding so hard you're half convinced it's audible.
You could say it now.
The words sit heavy and bright on your tongue.
I like you. Boq, I really like you.
You could say it here, in this small pocket of night, with no one watching but the stars and an empty fountain that keeps its own secrets.
You picture it: letting them spill out, watching his eyes go wide, his mouth form your name with something new behind it. You imagine him smiling, leaning in, closing that sliver of cold air between you.
Your hand twitches on the bench, inching closer to his.
Boq inhales, sharply.
"(Y/n)?" he says, barely louder than the wind.
"Yes?" you whisper.
"I..." His gaze drops to your mouth, flickers back up. His next breath comes out uneven. "I'm really... I'm really glad I met you."
It's so close.
You laugh, but it's soft and a little unsteady.
"I'm glad I ran into you on those steps," you say. "Literally."
His smile is crooked, tender.
"Best collision of my life," he murmurs.
You're both leaning now. It's happening without you meaning it to—bodies tilting along some invisible line. Your shoulders turn in, knees angling, noses nearly bumping. You can feel his warmth against the front of your body, feel every careful breath.
You part your lips.
Boq, I—
"Boq!"
The voice snaps through the quiet like a wire breaking.
You jerk back; he flinches so hard his hat nearly tumbles off.
The garden gate creaks.
Nessa wheels herself in, cheeks flushed with excitement, shawl slipping from one shoulder. Someone must have helped her down from Crage and left her at the top of the path; she's maneuvered the last bit herself, hands tight on the rims of her wheels.
"There you are," she says, breathless. "I've been looking everywhere. You weren't in your room and Galinda said you were at the library and then you weren't there either—"
She stops when she registers you properly.
"[Name]," she adds after a beat, as if you're an unexpected item in the aisle. "I didn't realize you were... out."
You paste on a smile. "Hi, Nessa. Long night?"
"They assigned extra readings in theology," she says, rolling closer. "I needed Boq to help me. I can't make sense of half of it."
Boq's eyes flick from her to you and back again.
He's still flustered, hair mussed, ears pink. You can feel phantom warmth on your mouth from where his breath had been a moment ago.
Guilt moves through you like a cold breeze under the jacket.
Of course she needs him. Nessa always needs him—someone to steady her chair, to turn pages when her hands cramp, to stay up late and untangle difficult paragraphs.
And Boq... Boq always answers when she calls. That's who he is.
You see the expectation on her face. The assumption. Of course he'll come. He always has.
"Sorry," she says, glancing between you. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
But she did. Even if she didn't mean to. You feel the interruption like a bruise.
The easy thing rises automatically—we were just about to go in, it's fine—and you curl your fingers into your palms inside his sleeves until it stings.
"It's fine," you hear yourself say. Your voice sounds almost normal. Light. "We were just... talking."
Boq opens his mouth, then closes it again.
"I can... walk you back first," he says, looking at you. "If you want. And then—"
"It's cold," you cut in gently. "Nessa shouldn't be out here alone."
Her chin lifts, defensive. "I managed."
"I know," you say quickly. "But you don't have to."
You feel the weight of his jacket then, heavy and wrong and wonderful all at once. His warmth still clings to the lining.
You push it from your shoulders, careful, and hold it out to him.
"Here," you say. "You'll need this if you're going to be out longer."
He stares at the jacket. At you.
"You... you can keep it, until—"
"Boq," Nessa says, impatience threading through her voice.
He flinches, just a little.
"Right," he says. "Right. I should... Nessa, I'll take you back and then I'll—"
"Don't worry about it," you say, forcing a smile into place. "I'm heading in anyway."
It's the sensible thing. The kind thing. You're tired. It's late. They have work to do.
You are a good friend.
You repeat it like a charm as you stand, as the night air snakes under your cardigan where his jacket had been, as you clutch your books tighter to your chest.
Nessa doesn't thank you. She doesn't need to. The way her shoulders loosen, the way her mouth softens, is thanks enough.
Boq looks up at you from behind her chair, hands resting on the handles.
"Goodnight, (y/n)," he says quietly.
You swallow.
"Goodnight, Boq," you say. "I'll see you tomorrow."
You don't know yet what tomorrow will mean. Where Elphaba will go. What name the world will give her.
All you know is the way his eyes linger on you for one extra, aching second before he turns Nessa toward the path. All you know is the soft squeak of wheels on stone, the murmur of their voices shrinking as they move away.
You stand there a moment longer, alone in the garden.
The stars feel further away than they did before.
Your dorm is quiet when you slip in. Someone's snoring in the next bed, a soft, nasal buzz. The window's cracked just enough to let in a thread of cold night air.
You undress by touch, fingers clumsy with tiredness. Your hairpins snag; you curse under your breath and then laugh at yourself. You fold your skirt over the chair, straighten your books on the little table, pull your mother's quilt up over your legs.
For a while, you just lie there.
The ceiling is a patchwork of shadow and moonlight. You trace the cracks in the plaster with your eyes, pretending they're rivers on a map, anything but the lines you almost crossed tonight.
You replay the evening again and again.
The library's warm hush.
The sting of the air outside.
His jacket settling over your shoulders.
The way he'd said you like it was an answer to a question you hadn't dared say aloud.
His hand, inches from yours on the bench.
His face, close enough to count the freckles across his nose.
I'm glad I met you.
You whisper it into your pillow, answering the way you didn't when you had the chance.
"I like you," you breathe.
The words hang in the dark above you, fragile and soft-edged.
"I like the way you care about things no one else even notices," you murmur. "I like the way your whole face changes when you explain something. I like that you save me seats and share your notes and push Nessa's chair like it's sacred work. I like that you notice when I'm tired. I like..."
Your throat tightens.
You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling, practicing, because it's safer here than on a cold stone bench with his mouth inches from yours.
"Boq, I like you."
Too blunt.
"Boq, I... think about you. More than I probably should."
Too much.
"Boq, when I'm in a room with too many people, I look for you too."
Better. Maybe.
You say it again, under your breath, like an incantation that will never leave this narrow bed.
Outside, somewhere on campus, a clock tolls the hour.
You turn onto your side, pull the quilt up to your chin, press your lips together until the ache in your chest blurs into something you can sleep through.
Tomorrow, there will be lectures and lists and things bigger than you that you can't name yet.
Tonight, there is just this: the words you almost said, the almost-warmth of his jacket on your skin, the almost-kiss hanging in the air between two people who want and don't yet know how to reach.
You close your eyes and tuck those words back where you always keep them.
Hidden.
Practiced.
Yours.
But you didn't get a regular tomorrow.
No.
Tomorrow was the day everything changed.
🌪️ 🌈 💚 🌪️ 🌈 💚 🌪️ 🌈 💚 🌪️ 🌈 💚
Want to follow this fic down the Yellow Brick Road? 🌪💛 🫧
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: after a messy breakup, you and steve are constantly at each other's throats. the party is tired of it.
themes & warnings: steve being a douche, reader being petty, screaming matches LOL, emotional angst, jealousy ugh protective STEVEEEE we love, eventual resolution
since the new season has been approaching ive been on a steve kick so bad guys
steve had never been so bored.
right now, he was sitting in the parking lot of the mall, his shitty AC blowing insufficiently cold air onto his body while robin sat in the passenger seat, flipping through static-ridden radio stations. after the past year of his life, he'd have thought he'd at least be doing something entertaining with his free time.
but no. he was babysitting. again.
well, not technically. the kids were all inside the arcade, old enough now to not need a constant supervisor. but he was the ride. always the ride. and right now, he was waiting on you. you were inside with the kids, having a particularly strong bond with max and will, playing games with them on your off time. plus, you supplied the quarters.
you'd dumped him three months ago in a blaze of shouted heartbreak and slammed doors. now, thanks to the tangled web of friendships in hawkins and the love you had for the kids, he was constantly, unavoidably forced to be around you.
"can you at least try to be civil today?" robin asked, finally settling on a crackly pop station. "my ears are still ringing from the last time you two went at it in the scoops ahoy break room."
"i'm always civil," steve snapped, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "she's the one who starts it."
"she asked you to pass the salt and you told her she was 'seasoned enough with bitterness.'"
"it was a joke!"
"it was a declaration of war, steve."
the arcade doors slid open and you walked out, a vision in your summer dress, a small, victorious smile on your face. still as infuriatingly gorgeous as you'd always been. dustin was trailing behind you, chattering excitedly, no doubt about some high score you’d just helped him achieve. the sight sent a familiar, unwelcome pang through steve’s chest. you looked happy. you looked free.
you spotted the car and your smile tightened into a polite, distant line. the war mask was on. you slid into the backseat, the air in the BMW instantly turning frigid despite the struggling AC.
“took you long enough,” steve muttered, putting the car in reverse.
“some of us were actually having fun, steve,” you said sweetly, buckling your seatbelt. “it’s a novel concept, i know.”
the kids clambered in on either side of you, max having to sit in your lap due to the cramped back seat. you shifted to allow her some space as she looked down at you with pleading blue eyes. they screamed 'not again.'
the silent plea in max's eyes was a gut punch. she, more than any of them, knew what real fighting sounded like, and the last thing she needed was to be trapped in a metal box with another one. you gave her a small, reassuring squeeze, a silent promise to try.
the promise lasted all of five minutes.
the drive was a tense, silent standoff. steve would adjust the rearview mirror, and you’d be staring out the window, pointedly ignoring him. you’d lean forward to ask dustin a question, and steve would crank the radio just a little too loud.
it came to a head at the stoplight by the town square.
“so,” dustin said, his voice unnaturally high, “mike’s having a D&D session tomorrow. you guys in?”
“wouldn’t miss it,” you said at the exact same time steve said, “i’m busy.”
you locked eyes in the mirror. a challenge.
“doing what?” you asked, your voice dripping with fake curiosity. “scooping ice cream and realizing you peaked in high school?”
steve’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. “no. i have a date.”
the words hung in the air, heavy and poisonous. robin visibly flinched. dustin sank lower in his seat, lucas pretended to not notice his surroundings, and will frowned. max went rigid in your lap.
you, however, just smiled, a sharp, brittle thing. “oh? anyone we know?”
“tammy thompson,” steve said, the name feeling like ash in his mouth. it was a lie. a stupid, petty lie.
you let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “tammy thompson? the one who cries when she sings? wow, steve. raising the bar, i see.”
“at least she can carry a tune,” he shot back, the words out before he could stop them. he was referring to your tone-deaf rendition of “total eclipse of the heart” you’d sung together, drunk and happy, in this very car a lifetime ago.
the light turned green. the car didn't move.
the air was so thick with hostility you could taste it.
“you’re an asshole,” you whispered, the hurt finally breaking through the icy facade.
“takes one to know one,” he retorted, his heart hammering against his ribs. He hated this. He hated every second of it.
a horn blared behind them. steve slammed his foot on the gas, lurching the car forward.
in your lap, max let out a tiny, involuntary gasp at the sudden movement, her hands flying to grip your shoulders. the sound was small, but it cut through the anger like a knife.
you looked down at her wide, anxious eyes, then up at the back of steve’s head. this wasn't just about you and him anymore.
the rest of the drive was a silence so profound it was deafening. when he finally pulled up to your house, you were out of the car before it had fully stopped, the door slamming shut behind you. you didn't look back.
steve watched you go, a hollow ache spreading through his chest. in the rearview mirror, he saw max staring out the window, her expression closed off and weary.
“tammy thompson?” robin finally said, her voice flat. “really?”
steve just rested his forehead against the steering wheel, defeated. “i know.”
dustin piped up, his voice matter-of-fact.
"all you two do is fight. and never about the actual issue."
the car was silent for a beat, the truth of dustin's words hanging in the air, sharper and more accurate than any insult you or steve had thrown. steve lifted his head from the wheel, his eyes meeting dustin's in the rearview mirror.
"what's that supposed to mean?"
dustin shrugged, but his expression was uncharacteristically serious. "it means you're not fighting about tammy thompson, or who can carry a tune. you're fighting about how you broke up. you're fighting about who was right and who was wrong. but you're just.. poking each other with sticks instead of actually talking about it."
will nodded slowly, looking down at his clasped hands. lucas mumbled, "he's not wrong."
max, still sitting stiffly, added, "it's getting really old."
steve felt a hot flush of shame creep up his neck. he looked at robin for backup, but she just raised her eyebrows in confirmation of the kids' statements.
he was being schooled by a bunch of teenagers. and the worst part was, they were right.
the "actual issue" was a tangled mess of miscommunication, stress, bruised egos, and one stupid, heated argument that had spiraled into a nuclear winter between the two of you. he missed you. he was pretty sure, underneath all the venom and ice you had on the surface, you missed him too. but all you did was lob grenades at each other, and the kids were stuck in the crossfire.
he sighed, the fight draining out of him completely, leaving only exhaustion and the same hollow ache he'd felt for three whole months.
"okay," he said, his voice quiet. "point taken."
he pulled away from your house, the silence in the car now contemplative rather than hostile.
robin glanced at him. “what are you gonna do about it, hair?”
steve kept his eyes on the road.
"i don't know."
you wiped your tears, sticky and black with mascara, and checked your reflection in the mirror of your vanity. groaning, you smudged it off the corners of your eyes. behind you, max, who had skated to your house shortly after steve dropped her off, frowned. sniffling, you tried to muster a half-assed smile in her direction.
"don't worry about me, mayfield. i'm tough."
max didn't buy it for a second. she crossed her arms, leaning against your headboard. "you're not tough. you're sad. and he's an idiot."
a wet laugh escaped you. "he is an idiot." you grabbed a tissue and wiped the remaining smudges from your face, your reflection looking raw and tired. "a massive one."
"but you still like him," max stated, not a question. she knew these things.
you sighed, dropping the tissue into the trash. "it doesn't matter. it's too messy. we're just.. we can't be in the same room without trying to murder each other with our eyes."
"because you're both too stubborn to say sorry," she said, her voice blunt. "its easier to be mad than to be hurt."
her words, wise beyond her years, hit a little too close to home. you sat down next to her, the mattress dipping.
"it's not that simple, max."
"isn't it?" she asked, picking at a loose thread on your comforter. "you guys used to be so happy. and cool. you made him less of a douche. now he's just.. a douche again. and you're.. not you. you're sad."
you looked at her, at the genuine concern in her blue eyes, and felt a fresh wave of tears. the kids weren't just bystanders, they were casualties. they'd lost the easy dynamic, the fun group outings, the two people who used to be a unit now acting like rival generals in a nasty war.
"i don't know how to fix this."
max shrugged.
"just stop breaking it more."
the words were so simple. but they meant so much. the reality of it made your chest ache, forcing you to confront the truth. you were the problem too, not just steve. your desire to fight with him was just to keep a connection.
maybe the solution was to let the connection go? the thought made you genuinely sick, but maybe it was the best choice for you and the kids. and steve.
it wouldn't be easy. but then again.. nothing about this was.
parties weren't really steve's scene anymore. especially since he'd graduated high school and didn't even want to see half of the people he used to be inseparable from. but here he was, one of the only nights that he wasn't being the babysitter, holding a half full cup of warm beer and talking to tommy.
tommy was home from college, so naturally, it meant he was throwing the biggest party of the year. the guy talked his ear off, prattling on about college, the women, the sports. but all steve could think about, usually, predictably, was you.
it had been a month. you'd been avoiding him.
not like before, when you only saw him around the kids. this time, you even avoided the kids for the most part, too.
it was a clean break. a quiet, devastating ceasefire. there were no more arguments in the video store, no more sniping in the car. the kids had stopped trying to get you both in the same room, their hopeful attempts dying out one by one in the face of your polite, distant refusals.
it was what he’d thought he wanted, wasn’t it? peace. quiet.
it was hell.
he hadn't even noticed tommy was still talking until the subject changed.
"--so honestly, they could've won if they just-- yo. isn't that your girl?" tommy said, jaw dropped straight to the floor.
steve raised an eyebrow, looking in the direction of tommy's pointed finger. the bass of the music vibrated the beer in his stomach, making him physically ill at the sight before him.
there you were. he could tell you were drunk from where he was standing, thirty feet away. your eyes were hazy, lips stretched out in a lazy grin. you were dancing on the fucking table, slowly inching your shirt up, slowly, slowly, slowly, until the hem was just below your ribs. the crowd around you was whooping and cheering, a sea of faces he mostly despised, all looking at you. at the skin you were revealing.
"oh jesus christ." steve hissed, the plastic cup in his hand cracking, soaking his sleeve with warm beer. he didn't even notice. he was already on the move.
he was across the room in seconds, shoving people out of his way without a word of apology. the music was a distant thrum, the only sound he could focus on was the pounding of his own blood in his ears.
he reached the table just as you laughed, a loose, carefree sound that felt like a personal insult, and went to pull the shirt higher.
his hands closed around your waist. not gently.
you yelped as he hauled you off the table, your feet stumbling as they hit the floor. the crowd groaned in disappointment.
"hey, man, what's your problem?" some guy slurred.
steve ignored him, his grip firm on your arms as he steadied you. your hazy eyes struggled to focus on his face.
"steve?" you mumbled, your grin fading into confusion. "what're you... i was dancing."
"you were making a spectacle of yourself," he snarled, his voice low and vicious, meant for your ears only. the horrified feeling was a live wire under his skin. "what the hell is wrong with you?"
your confusion sharpened into defiance. "i'm having fun. something you wouldn't know anything about anymore." you tried to pull away, but he held fast. "let go of me."
"not a chance," he bit out, his eyes scanning the leering faces around you. "you're drunk and you're coming with me. now."
"i'm not going anywhere with you!" you shouted, your voice rising above the music. the fight was back, bright and ugly in your gaze. "you don't get to tell me what to do! you lost that right!"
the words hit their mark, but he was too far gone to care. he started pulling you toward the door, your heels digging into the carpet.
"steve, stop it! get off me!"
he didn't stop. he couldn't. all he could see was you on that table, all he could feel was the need to get you away, to get you safe, to make you stop. the quiet ceasefire was over. this was all-out war.
he finally managed to manhandle you out the front door and into the cool night air. you wrenched your arm free, stumbling back a few steps on the lawn.
"what is your problem?" you shrieked, your chest heaving.
"you are my problem!" he roared back, gesturing wildly toward the house. "dancing on a table? for them? letting them all... look at you like that?"
you laughed bitterly, drunkenly stumbling into the opposite direction. getting as far away as possible.
"now you decide you give a shit. well guess what? it's too late!" you shouted.
steve didn't have time for this. you were drunk, he was irritated, and it was very possible that you wouldn't even remember this conversation in the morning. he needed to get some water into you and get you home.
dragging you back toward the house, he sat you down and filled a glass of water from tommy's sink, stalking back outside.
"you're going to drink this," steve said, his voice tight as he thrust the glass of water toward you. you were slumped on the curb, head in your hands. "now."
you looked up, your eyes glazed with tears and alcohol. "go to hell."
he crouched in front of you, shoving the glass into your hand. "drink. it. or i'll pour it down your throat myself."
a fresh wave of anger surged through you. you took the glass, but instead of drinking, you threw the contents directly into his face.
the cold water was a shock, dripping from his hair and nose onto his shirt. he froze for a second, water plastering his bangs to his forehead, before he slowly wiped his face with his sleeve. the look in his eyes was dangerously calm.
"feel better?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
"no," you spat, the fight draining out of you as quickly as it came, leaving you shivering and miserable.
"get in the car," he commanded, standing up and turning away from you, his shoulders rigid.
you did what he asked. you slid into the passenger side of his car, crossing your arms and leaning your head back, the spinning dizziness making you nothing short of sick. the ride was silent for about five minutes before, inevitably, your slurring voice could be heard again. angry. resentful. drunk.
"i hate you, steve. y'know that?" you slurred out, your lips and tongue not quite matching your vocal chords. you were so drunk that you were barely awake. but the words still had the effect they were meant to.
the words, slurred and heavy with alcohol, hit him with the force of a physical blow. his grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles were bone-white. he didn't look at you. he couldn't.
"i know," he said, his voice flat and empty. it was the only defense he had left.
"you don't," you insisted, your head lolling against the window. "you don't know. you broke… you broke everything. and now you… you just get to drive me home. like you're… like you're some kinda hero." a bitter, wet laugh escaped you. "you're not a hero. you're just… a boy. a stupid, mean boy."
each word was a shard of glass. he focused on the yellow lines of the road, counting them as they passed, a desperate attempt to anchor himself.
"and i hate that i… that i miss you," you whispered, the anger dissolving into a heartbreaking confession you'd never make sober. "it's so stupid. i'm so stupid."
steve felt his own eyes burn. he blinked rapidly, staring straight ahead, trying to make the tears disappear. he'd never let them drop in front of you. he knew they'd come back later.
"just go to sleep, Y/N," he managed to rasp out. "we're almost there."
you didn't say anything else. a few moments later, a soft snore told him you'd finally passed out.
the rest of the drive was a special kind of torture, trapped in a metal box with the ghost of everything he'd ruined. when he pulled into your driveway, the silence was absolute.
he carried you inside, your body limp and heavy in his arms. he laid you in your bed, taking off your shoes and pulling the comforter over you just as he had time and time before, but this time, he didn't get to join you. he didn't get to hold you. in the dim light from the hallway, he could see the tear tracks dried on your cheeks.
he stood there for a long time, just watching you sleep, the echo of your words -- i hate you... i miss you -- playing on a loop in his mind.
he stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest. the anger was gone, leaving behind a vast, empty ache. you were right. he wasn't a hero. he was just a boy who had been too stupid to hold onto the one good thing in his life.
then, he drove home in a daze, the silence in his car now a heavy, accusing presence. in his driveway, he punched the steering wheel until his knuckles were raw. the sharp pain was a relief, a physical distraction from the emotional maelstorm inside him. he sat there in the dark, the only sound his ragged breathing and the faint, metallic ring fading from the steering wheel.
he didn't even make it to his bed. he sank onto the couch in his dark living room, head in his hands.
and then, finally, alone in the dark where no one could see, the tears came. silent, shuddering sobs that wracked his entire body. they weren't just about tonight. they were for every stupid comment, every missed chance, every moment of the last three months he'd spent pushing you away when all he'd ever wanted was to pull you closer.
he cried for the "stupid, mean boy" he'd been, and for the man he was too scared to become without you.
for now, all he could do was sit in the dark and feel the weight of it all. the silence wasn't peaceful anymore. it was just heavy. he wasn't sure he'd ever truly wanted it in the first place.
the vile taste of tequila and regret created a film on the inside of your mouth. a pounding headache rocked your temples, making you want to rip your head from your shoulders and throw it in an ice bath.
sunlight stabbed through your eyelids like a hot knife. you groaned, burying your face deeper into your pillow, but the movement sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you. fragments of the night came back to you in a nauseating kaleidoscope. the bass of the music. the feeling of the table under your shoes. the whooping crowd. then… steve.
steve’s furious face. steve’s hands on your waist, hauling you down. the cold water hitting his face. the silent, tense car ride. your own voice, slurred and venomous.
i hate you, steve.
i hate that i miss you.
a fresh wave of humiliation, hot and sharp, washed over you, worse than the hangover. you’d said that. you’d actually said that out loud. to him.
you dragged yourself out of bed, your body protesting every movement, and stumbled toward the kitchen for water and aspirin. as you passed the living room, you froze.
there, on the coffee table, was an empty glass of water. next to it sat two aspirin, and a note, written on a ripped piece of notebook paper in a familiar, slanted handwriting.
Drank the water. Take these. There’s Gatorade in the fridge.
- S
no “love,” no “xoxo.” just his initial. it was so simple, so practical, and it somehow made everything a thousand times worse. he’d been in your house after you’d passed out. he’d seen you at your most vulnerable, your most pathetic, and his response wasn’t anger or a lecture. it was… caretaking. the one thing he’d always been good at, even when he was being a world-class jerk.
it was a peace offering you didn’t deserve and didn’t know how to accept. you picked up the aspirin, dry-swallowing them with a wince, the gesture feeling like a surrender you weren't ready to make. the war was over, but the aftermath was a minefield, and you were standing right in the middle of it, hungover and heartbroken.
as you were dissociating, your phone rang, worsening your headache. muttering a curse, you stumbled to the wall it was on, answering it begrudgingly.
"hello?"
will's voice crackled through on the other end, soft and hesitant as it always was. at least it wasn't someone annoying.
"hi, y/n. it's will," he said. "i was just wondering.. well, max told me to call and ask.. if you're still planning on coming to dustin's birthday party today? we really want you to come. we haven't seen you in forever."
the question felt like a physical blow. dustin’s birthday. you’d completely forgotten. of course steve would be there. he was the official party chauffeur, the defacto older brother. the thought of facing him, sober and raw, after last night made your stomach churn.
“i, uh…” you stammered, your mind racing for an excuse. a work emergency. sudden illness. a spontaneous trip to antarctica.
“please?” will’s voice was small, and you could picture his earnest, worried face. “it hasn’t been the same without you. everyone keeps arguing about the campaign rules and steve just… mopes. it’s not fun.”
steve just mopes.
the image was so pathetic, so unlike the loud, boisterous king steve of old, that it pierced through your own self-pity. the kids were suffering. they were caught in the crossfire of a war they didn't start, missing the easy dynamic that used to exist.
you looked back at the note on the coffee table. s. a simple initial that held so much weight. he’d taken care of you, even after you’d thrown water in his face and called him names. he was trying, in his own, messed-up way.
taking a deep, shaky breath, you made a decision. it wasn't a surrender. it was a ceasefire for a higher cause.
“yeah, will,” you said, your voice softer. “i’ll be there. what time?”
“four o’clock!” will said, his relief palpable even through the phone line. “at mike's. thanks, y/n!”
you hung up the phone, your heart hammering. you were going to have to see steve. sober. in broad daylight. and you were going to have to find a way to be in the same room without vomiting.
mike's basement was decorated with streamers. a banner read "happy birthday, dustin!" courtesy of joyce byers, who had a particular eye for these things. after the parents let the kids know that they couldn't go on random, spontaneous trips through the woods or accidentally on purpose set the basement aflame, they were cut loose. it wasn't too long after that that steve showed up.
the air was thick with the smell of pizza and the sound of bickering over the D&D board. steve ran a hand through his hair, desperately trying to keep the peace between lucas and mike.
"look, who cares what color the wizard's robe is? is it significant to the story line?" he sighed tiredly.
lucas glared at him, crossing his arms.
“it establishes his alignment!” lucas shot back, his voice cracking with teenage indignation.
“it’s a robe, sinclair! it’s not that deep!”
max bounced her leg restlessly from her spot on the couch next to el, staring at the basement stairs. she missed you. steve knew it. she hadn't seen you in a while since the argument about tammy thompson, when you'd obviously decided that being around steve was too much.
"when's y/n gonna be here? did you tell her it was at 4?" max questioned will.
will, who was carefully arranging dustin's new dice by color, looked up nervously. "yeah, i told her. she said she was coming."
the unspoken i hope hung in the air. steve, who had been pretending to be deeply invested in the pizza box design, felt his stomach clench. he hadn't known you were invited. he hadn't allowed himself to even consider the possibility. the fragile, silent truce from the last party felt like it had happened a lifetime ago.
the creak of the basement door opening cut through the bickering.
all heads, including steve's, swiveled toward the stairs.
you appeared, looking hesitant, holding a clumsily wrapped present. your eyes immediately found Max, and a genuine, relieved smile broke across your face. "hey, mayfield."
max practically launched herself off the couch, skirting the D&D board to wrap you in a quick, tight hug. "you're here."
"wouldn't miss it," you said, your voice soft. you handed dustin the present. "happy birthday, dude."
as dustin tore into the gift (a ridiculously advanced model rocket), your gaze inevitably drifted across the room, colliding with steve's. it was like two magnets, repelling and attracting at once. the air grew thick. the kids, sensing the shift, went unnaturally quiet.
steve gave you the same small, cautious nod he had before. an acknowledgment. a white flag held aloft. you returned it with a tight, almost imperceptible dip of your chin. a reluctant acceptance of the ceasefire.
then, you deliberately turned your back to him, focusing all your attention on max and el.
steve felt the dismissal like a physical blow. he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned back to the pizza, the cardboard box suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. the party continued, the noise level slowly rising again, but a new, unspoken rule had been established. you and steve existed in the same space, a careful, orbiting distance between you. for the kids, it was enough. for steve, it was a special kind of agony.
and for el and max, it was annoying.
they sat on the couch, doing their teenage girl thing, analyzing with their eyes and whispering to each other. the occasional giggle, the occasional annoyed groan, and the formation of a plan bubbled from their lips.
you, of course, were oblivious due to the nature of the party. you listened to the boys rant and rave about D&D like you had for hours, curled into a recliner next to will, who sometimes glanced at you dozing off and smiled in amusement.
steve was too busy staring at you to notice either. it was pitiful, if you asked max.
with one final exchanged, deciding glance between blue and brown eyes, max and el clambered up from the couch and walked up to the chair you and will shared. they tried to look innocent (max mostly struggled) as el spoke.
"help." she simply said, gesturing to the upstairs.
you raised an eyebrow, sitting up.
"with what?"
"closet. need supplies."
groaning, suspecting no foul play, you sat up and followed the girls.
you followed max and el up the basement stairs, the noise of the party fading behind you. they led you to the closet they spoke of. when the door opened, your eyebrows furrowed. it was karen wheeler's cleaning supplies, full of pine sol, mops, and buckets.
"what do you--"
without another word, you were shoved in. the door shut behind you and clicked, the sound of a lock.
"what the fuck? jane hopper! maxine mayfield!" you seethed, pounding on the door.
you heard a giggle before you heard, "we will go get more help. don't worry."
they sprinted downstairs, now quickly approaching where steve sat, completely dissociating and sprawled across the couch they'd just been sitting on. he'd come over to claim their spot.
"help. y/n is stuck in the closet!" el said excitedly, grabbing steve's hand and attempting to yank him up.
steve matched your look of confusion, sitting up slightly.
"stuck? what are you talking about?"
"stuck," max confirmed, her face a mask of exaggerated urgency. "the door locked behind her. she can't get out."
a flicker of genuine concern crossed steve's face before it was replaced by deep suspicion. he looked from max's poorly concealed smirk to el's wide, "innocent" eyes. this had "ambush" written all over it.
but the thought of you, trapped and probably furious, was enough to get him moving. he sighed, heaving himself off the couch. "fine. show me."
they led him back upstairs, practically vibrating with suppressed glee. he could already hear you on the other side of the door.
"--so help me god, when i get out of here, i am telling joyce you've been using your powers to cheat at monopoly!" you were yelling, your voice muffled by the wood.
steve almost smiled. almost.
"stand back," he said, his voice firm. "i'm gonna try the door."
he heard a huff from the other side, but the pounding stopped. he grabbed the doorknob. it opened without an issue. there you were, face red, surrounded by cleaning materials. he smirked, turning back around to look at the girls.
"really? that was-- jesus christ!" he exclaimed.
el shoved him into the same closet, slamming the door behind him before he could get his hands on it. the lock clicked again. steve groaned, trying the knob, but it was damn near cemented. el using her powers.
"talk." el simply said from the outside, crossing her arms.
"without yelling." max added. "for twenty minutes."
crossing their arms, the girls turned and walked away.
"goddammit," he muttered, leaning his forehead against the cool wood of the door.
on the other side, you stood frozen, your own anger momentarily eclipsed by sheer disbelief. you were locked in a broom closet. with steve harrington. by two fourteen-year-old girls.
the space was suddenly, unbearably small. the sharp scent of pine-sol filled your lungs, mixed with the scent of steve's aftershave and the mint gum in his mouth. you could feel the heat radiating from his body just inches away.
"this is ridiculous," you whispered into the cramped darkness.
"you think?" steve's voice was a low, frustrated rumble right next to your ear. he shifted, his shoulder brushing against yours, and you both flinched away, pressing yourselves against opposite walls. it was a futile effort; the closet was barely big enough for the two of you and karen wheeler's cleaning arsenal.
silence descended, thick and heavy. you could hear his breathing, a little too fast, and the frantic thumping of your own heart. twenty minutes. it felt like a lifetime.
you knew that if you didn't address what had happened the other night, you'd look weak. and you'd also explode. neither were good options, and if you and steve kept ignoring what was happening between each other, things would only get broken worse.
"thank you." you whispered, crossing your arms.
the two words, soft and unexpected, seemed to suck all the air out of the cramped closet.
steve went completely still. "for what?" he asked, his voice cautious, confused.
"for the other night," you clarified, your voice barely audible. you stared straight ahead at a bottle of bleach, unable to look at him. "for... getting me home. for the water and the aspirin. i was... i was a mess. and you didn't have to do that."
there was a long pause. you could almost hear him processing, the gears turning in his head.
"i did have to," he said finally, his voice low and earnest. "Y/N, i will always have to. even if you hate me. even if you never want to see me again. if you're in trouble, i'm... i'm there. that's never going to change."
the raw, unvarnished truth in his words was a battering ram against the walls you'd built. it wasn't a grand romantic declaration. it was something deeper, more fundamental. a promise of loyalty that transcended their broken relationship.
a sob caught in your throat, and you pressed the back of your hand to your mouth to stifle it. the sound was small, but he heard it.
"hey," he said softly, his tone shifting from defensive to concerned. "don't... don't cry. please."
"i'm not crying," you lied, your voice trembling.
you felt him shift beside you, his arm hesitantly brushing against yours again, but this time, neither of you pulled away. he tried to turn your body towards his.
"look at me," he whispered.
you shook your head, still facing the bleach bottle as if it held the secrets of the universe.
"please, baby."
the pet name simultaneously shot sparks down your spine and poured cold water over your head. slowly, reluctantly, you turned your head. your eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and you could see his face, all sharp angles and shadows, his expression open and unbearably sad.
"i'm sorry," he said again, his gaze holding yours. "for all of it. for being a stupid, mean boy. for not being the man you needed me to be."
the tears you'd been holding back finally spilled over, tracing hot paths down your cheeks. you didn't wipe them away.
"i miss you," you whispered, the admission feeling like both a failure and a liberation. "and I hate it."
a shuddering breath escaped him. he lifted his hand, his fingers hovering near your cheek before he gently wiped a tear away with his thumb. the touch was so familiar, so achingly gentle, it made you want to scream and lean into it all at once.
"i know," he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "i miss you too. and i hate that you hate it."
you stood there, trapped in a closet, crying while steve harrington wiped your tears, and for the first time in months, it didn't feel like a battle. It just felt sad, and real, and like maybe, just maybe, a beginning.
you could feel him getting closer, his smell, the heat of his body, until you were breathing it all in. his nose brushed yours gently. two days ago, you would've never dreamed he'd be this close to you ever again. it felt like you were floating, an out of body experience.
his lips were a breath away from yours. you could feel the warmth of them, the ghost of a touch you’d ached for and resented in equal measure. your eyes fluttered shut, the world narrowing to the space between your mouths. jt would be so easy to close it. to fall back into the familiar warmth, to let the anger and the hurt dissolve into this. but you couldn't move.
steve could. this was all he'd ever wanted for months.
"i promise you," he whispered, his scent fanning over your face. "i swear on everything i love. i will never hurt you again."
the words were a balm and a brand all at once. a promise you desperately wanted to believe, seared into the air by the heat of his proximity. your resolve, already cracking, began to crumble.
that was all the invitation he needed.
he closed the infinitesimal distance, his lips meeting yours.
it wasn't like the frantic, desperate kisses from before the breakup. it wasn't like the angry, bruising clash you'd shared in the middle of your worst fights. this was slow. reverent. a silent apology and a desperate question all in one.
a sob escaped you, muffled against his mouth, but you didn't pull away. your hands, which had been braced against his chest, unclenched. your fingers curled into the soft fabric of his t-shirt, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world.
he kissed you like he was memorizing you, like he was trying to pour every unsaid "i'm sorry" and "i miss you" and "i love you" directly from his soul into yours. one of his hands cradled the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, while the other splayed across the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until not even a whisper could fit between you.
the world outside -- the party, the kids, the months of pain -- ceased to exist. there was only the dark, the scent of pine-sol and his cologne, and the devastatingly gentle pressure of his lips on yours.
when you finally broke apart, you were both breathing heavily, foreheads resting together again in the dark.
the lock clicked.
the door swung open. max and el stood there, their eyes wide.
max’s mouth dropped open. "whoa."
el just smiled, a small, knowing smile.
steve didn't jump back. he kept his forehead against yours for a second longer, his eyes still closed, as if savoring the moment before the real world intruded. then he slowly straightened up, his hand sliding from your back to find yours, lacing your fingers together.
he looked at the girls, a new, quiet confidence in his gaze. "we're good," he said, his voice low but firm.
it wasn't entirely true. the hurt wasn't gone. the trust wasn't magically rebuilt. but the war was over. the peace talks had ended with a treaty sealed with a kiss.
you looked down at your joined hands, then back up at him, and gave his fingers a slight squeeze. it was an answer.
