#Steve Harrington x gn!reader comfort | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

strangerstilinski · 2 months

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𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩

summary: steve is plagued by bad dreams. one night, he needs a little help finding his way back. [3.8k]

content warnings: roommate!steve, hurt/comfort, night terrors/ptsd, panic attack?, copious amounts of pining, could actually be either canon compliant or au depending on how you want to interpret his nightmares, this was mostly just an excuse to write sad cuddles with stevie

a/n: no, this most certainly has not been sitting in my drafts for the last 9 months. what are you talking ab-? ok, yeah, it definitely has. but i finally got my shit together! everybody cheer! [p.s. mar ily to the actual ends of the earth thank u for proofing this for me]

as always, please reblog if you enjoy! xx (if you're feelin really crazy, you could even say smth nice)

dividers by @strangergraphics

It's a knock against your bedroom door that wakes you. A quiet rap of knuckles on wood so soft that you nearly fall back asleep after convincing yourself you must've dreamt the noise entirely— until it sounds again.

A soft grumble of confusion escapes you as you push your weight onto your forearm to sit up in bed, using the knuckles of one hand to rub sleep from your eyes and squinting toward your bedroom door in confusion; fighting to focus the way that the faint light coming in through your bedroom window illuminates the hallway through the crack in the door. The familiarity of the shadowy figure slowly solidifies under your hazy gaze.

“Steve?” You call out in question, voice a little hoarse from disuse.

“Yeah.”

His voice is quiet on the other side of the door, the sound more of a breathy exhale than a word, really. You run your fingers through sleep-mussed hair as you try to focus on the clock on the bedside table. Your brain can barely comprehend the early hour, even as the clock clicks quietly, the last number flipping as one minute gives way to the next. It takes a few seconds, but your eyes begin to adjust to the dark rather quickly and it's with newly awakened attention that you turn toward the door again.

“You can come in.” You call out softly, your words slightly less scratchy with sleep now that your drowsiness has begun to bleed away and the quiet night around you comes more and more into focus.

The door creaks open a little further after a moment and you find Steve there in the dark. His chest is heaving, his lungs expanding and deflating rapidly beneath his ribs. The sound of his quick breaths is loud in the silence, bare feet shuffling against the hardwood in the hallway as he continues to stand just outside the door.

You wait, but he makes no move to enter. He looks so meek like this. His sharper edges have been softened and shrunken by the weight of his anxiety. The threadbare tshirt that's stretched across his shoulders hangs loose around his neck. You can see the crooked line of scattered moles you love so much decorating the line of his throat and eventually disappearing beneath the fabric, though the cotton sags enough to reveal a bit of the hair below his collarbones.

It all makes him appear smaller, somehow. Like a man so much younger than he is. Like a boy standing in the dark outside of his parent's bedroom, patiently awaiting comfort.

“Sorry. For wakin' you up.” Steve manages quietly, his words clipped.

The full-blown panic attack he'd been on the brink of moments before in the privacy of his own bedroom had receded, but just barely. The world around him still shifted in and out of focus, a buzzing sort of white noise filling his ears like cotton.

He glances up at you— Where you've pushed up onto your elbow to squint at him in the dark, your face baring the faint imprint of creases from your pillowcase. Steve spares a fleeting thought to how lovely you look like this, sleep-induced wrinkles on your cheeks and heavy lidded eyes. But he's only granted a moment to admire the sight before the heavy pounding of his heart in his ears forces his gaze to drop to the floorboards again.

With difficulty, he swallows past the lump lodged in his throat, pinching his eyes shut for a moment when a discarded pair of jeans on your bedroom floor look just a bit too much like a thick, crawling vine making its way toward him in the dark.

“No! No, it's okay,” You're reassuring him in a rush, “What's wrong?”

“I, uh.. I-I need your help.” His admission comes out a little like it causes him physical pain to say it out loud. His fingers shake as they comb through the sweaty hair that's flopped down over his forehead in sleep, pushing it back from his face, though a few stubborn strands immediately break free and curl over his brow again.

“Okay,” You readjust yourself on the mattress, pushing yourself to sit up a little straighter, crossing your legs beneath the blankets while you watch him in confusion, “Y'can come in.” You repeat softly.

“I just-” Steve pants, voice hoarse with the way his labored breaths have dried out his throat, “I-”

“Steve?” Your skin has begun to prickle with that itch that tells you something isn't right, but lingering drowsiness fogs your brain just enough that the severity of it hasn't quite sunken in.

His gaze flicks once again to the rumpled pile of denim on your bedroom floor, one pant-leg outstretched in his direction, and the longer he keeps his eyes trained on it, the more the shape of it melts into the dark vines from his nightmare. He blinks, just once, and he swears the thing fucking moves. He thinks it might be crawling its way across the scuffed floorboards, toward him-

Steve's panicked breathing picks up, and your own heart ticks a little faster with worry. You watch as Steve's hand meets the trim around your doorway, his long fingers curling tight around the wood as he tries to steady his wobbly legs.

He makes an awful sound, like he's suffocating. He's nearly gasping for air, choking on the words as he pushes them out, “I- I can't-”

The blankets that cover your lap have already been tossed haphazardly to the side as you stumble from the bed in a rush. You're reaching out for him even as your mind struggles to comprehend what's wrong — why it is that he seems to be panicking.

“Hey, hey, you're okay,” You soothe as gently as you can manage, doing your best to push your own anxieties down to focus on the man in front of you. “Steve-”

His cheeks are warm beneath your palms as your hands find either side of his face, thumbs dragging soft over the apples of his cheeks while your fingertips tangle lightly in the tufts of hair that curl out from behind his ears. The ragged breaths rushing past his lips fall over your face when you guide his gaze up from the floor to meet your own, his dry lips parted and quivering with every exhale.

“It's okay, you're okay.” Your words don't come out nearly as firm as you want, one of your hands leaving his cheek to drag over his sweaty forehead.

Your fingertips smooth over the furrowed line of his eyebrow before falling back to his cheek and finally settling over the column of his throat. His racing pulse thumps soft against your hand, a barely-there fluttering like a hummingbird's wings flapping beneath his skin.

Steve reaches up. His sweaty palm grips your wrist so tight it aches while his head tips a little farther into your touch. He lets out a shaky breath once he makes it just one small step through the doorway.

“What is it? What d'you need my help with?” You ask, voice a little airy with concern.

His chest continues to rise and fall with quick, shallow breaths, and with the help of the soft glow of the streetlight outside your window, you manage to catch the longing glance that he casts to the bed behind you. You're quick to guide him toward it, back peddling until you feel the cushion of the mattress against the backs of your thighs. You settle into the rumpled blankets again and tug at Steve's hand until he has little choice but to climb in after you.

“What is it? What's wrong?” You ask, words whisper-soft.

It takes a moment before his breathing has calmed enough for him to respond, the clock on the bedside table clicking quietly once more as one minute flips to the next, the sound of Steve's ragged inhales and shaky exhales drowning out the silence of the night.

“I, uh. God, it sounds so stupid now, but I-I had this dream,” Steve starts slowly. His trembling fingers prompt you to tighten your grip on the large hand still cradled in your own as he continues, “It was- Fuck, I just- It was a bad one and I-” A harsh breath is forced past his lips, “Feel like I'm still dreaming.. Even now, I feel like.. Like everything's about to flip on its side n' then the nightmare'll take over-”

Your heart cracks at the wobble in his voice, and you can't help but reach up to smooth some of the bedhead back from his face once again, “You're not, though. You're awake,” You promise softly, “You're with me, you're safe.”

“Well, to be fair, you'd probably say that in my dream too, though, right?” Steve points out with a weak laugh, muscles in his jaw tense as he gives a self-deprecating shake of his head.

The dim light pouring in from outside catches the sharp line of his jaw, casts a pretty glow over his long lashes when his downcast eyes focus on the mess of blankets surrounding the two of you. In any normal situation, you'd be ecstatic to have Steve in your bed. But tonight, in the presence of his distress, that elation is decidedly overcome by something more akin to sorrow.

“Yeah, I guess I probably would,” You laugh quietly, though it's a joyless sounding thing, “What can I do then? How can I help?”

“I dunno, I just- I.. Didn't wanna be alone, I guess.” His voice is quiet, embarrassed maybe, and it only makes that urge to pull him into your arms that much stronger.

“You never have to be alone.” You tell him. And you mean it.

“Right,” Steve nods once, adam's apple bobbing in his throat when he swallows, “Thanks.”

You want to help. God, you ache to help — but you have no idea where to start.

“How.. How do you usually bring yourself back after you wake up? When you are alone?”

“Sometimes I, uh, I count my fingers-” His voice is scratchy as he speaks.

He brings one of his hands in the narrow space between you with a small, playful waggle of his fingers. But both of your gazes fall to the slight tremble of his hand, and he clears his throat awkwardly.

“-I read somewhere once, 'm pretty sure, that if you're dreaming, the number of fingers? On your hand? It'll be off.” His words come out choppy, unsure. Like he's expecting you to misunderstand him.

“Off.. Like, you'll have twelve fingers or something?” You clarify carefully.

“More or less.” He shrugs like it doesn't mean much, but you know it does. “It's stupid. And I'm probably not even remembering it right-”

“It's not stupid,” You insist, continuing only a moment later when he only frowns in response, “You are not stupid, Steve Harrington.”

Steve laughs weakly, the sound dejected and harsh, “That's a first.” He jokes.

Now's not the time to get into it, not really, but his words make your stomach twist with a pained emotion you can't quite name. You find yourself needing to reassure him just once more, even if he might not believe you.

“I mean it.”

He doesn't respond to that, though his eyes shine a little at his waterline. The silence that follows feels heavy enough to smother you both. Another click sounds from your alarm clock, seemingly louder now, though you know its volume is the same as it always is.

“You.. Y're warm,” Steve whispers after a moment, tongue poking out to wet his dry lips before his eyes flick up to meet your own, “That helps, y'know? Because there's no warm or cold in.. in dreams.”

You squeeze his hand once before pushing up onto your knees and turning to prop a couple of pillows up against the headboard. You lean back into the cushion when you're done and urge him to lay with you with a small wave of your hand.

Steve only hesitates for a second before he follows your silent command, crawling forward as you fall back with a sense of familiarity. The two of you move a bit like there's a tether connecting you to one another. It's easy. Like it could just be a ordinary Thursday night, settling onto the sofa in the living room for the newest episode of Night Court. The simple normalcy of it has a shaky sigh tumbling past his lips when his head finally meets your chest, and he all-but melts into your side.

“How's this? Okay?” You ask cautiously. When Steve nods, lightly-stubbled cheek scraping against your shirt, you wrap an arm around him and take both of his hands into your smaller ones, “D'you wanna count with me?”

“Please.” Steve's response comes so quiet, so vulnerable.

You've never seen him like this. You're flooded with the overwhelming urge to protect him, to shield him away from every bad dream he's ever had, and every one that threatens to haunt him in the future. He avoids your gaze though his face is upturned toward your own, his chin dipped into his chest so he can focus on the way your joined hands fit together.

It's slow going. You fold Steve's fingers down one at a time, the two of you counting them off together beneath whispered breaths.

He audibly sighs in relief when you finish his first hand with five fingers, and his breaths truly begin to even out as you carefully curl your palm around his knuckles and fold down finger number ten on his other hand.

The moment you finish, Steve is grabbing one of your wrists in a gentle grip, his thumbs smoothing over your soft skin before he starts to count off the fingers on your hand as well, silently this time. He continues to calm, though it's a gradual thing. The once rapid heaving of his chest slows imperceptibly. His body relaxes more heavily into your own.

His whispered counting comes to a stop when he reaches your last finger, but he doesn't release you. You allow your free hand to card through his hair all the while, combing delicately through the silky strands, damp as they may be. Your fingertips rub over his scalp softly while he continues to toy with the fingers of your opposite hand.

“You okay?” You murmur in question after a few minutes have clicked by in the silence.

“Yeah.. Yeah, 'm fine.” Steve admits quietly, and he almost means it. He's comfortable here, in your arms — far more comfortable than he thinks he has any right to be. He narrows his eyes as he focuses determinedly on the smooth length of your fingers beneath his own, “Sorry. I just- I mean, Jesus Christ, 's fucking humiliating-”

“Would you.. Do you want to talk about the dream?” You interrupt carefully.

Steve doesn't say anything for a moment, and you're about to reassure him that doesn't need to tell you anything, but he speaks before you can.

“Usually, it's these.. Well, they're kinda bats.. But also not..?” He chuckles darkly, squeezing your hand once before loosening his grip and unfolding your fist.

He begins straightening your fingers one at a time, his thumb stroking soft along the inside of each one as he continues, “Tonight it was the vines. Sometimes.. Sometimes it's this.. This giant thing. Made up of blood and flesh, but in all the wrong ways. 'n there're these face-less, alien-looking...” He pauses like he's debating the final word, “'s just.. It's kid shit, y'know? Or, maybe horror movie shit. Just.. Monsters.”

“It doesn't sound like kid shit. It's.. It sounds terrifying. Honestly.” You acknowledge when he falls silent, your fingers still combing gently through his hair. “The bats..?” You repeat, leaving the word open in question.

“The bats..” Steve swallows, no longer counting your fingers but merely stroking the length of them idly as he speaks, “They're huge. Like, the size of a fuckin' hawk. But they've also got, like, four tails? N' I dunno if bats even have tails, normally. But they just- Just tear into you 'til you either bleed out or wake up.”

The motion of your hand running through his hair stutters, but just for a moment, “Jesus,” You pause for only a second before you have to ask, “And the vines?”

“They're.. Damn, what's the word? Sentient, kind of?” He explains in a soft rasp, “And strong as all hell. If they get ahold of you, you're not gettin away, y'know? They wrap around your limbs and you're stuck. They- they wrap around your neck and you can't fuckin' breathe.”

The air seems to catch in his chest at just the memory. A small hitch in his purposefully steady breathing that has you readjusting on the mattress to press yourself that much harder into his warmth.

“I'm sorry-” Your chin presses into the crown of his hair for a moment.

The gesture is meant to comfort him, and you hope it does, even as your nose fills with the scent of his expensive shampoo and a delicious, sleepy scent that's entirely Steve. It makes your stomach swoop familiarly, though you try to push the feeling down.

“-That all sounds awful.”

He swallows thickly before continuing in a quiet voice, “And it's not just me, y'know? More often than not it's the people I care about. It's Robin, or the kids, or Nance and Jonathan. It's-”

His voice grows hoarse with emotion before he cuts off to lick at his lips, head tipping back. His wide, earnest gaze flicks up to you, his eyebrows pinched with something pained.

“Sometimes it's you, and that's- Fuck, 's worse. So much worse than when it's just me. Christ, it's fucking scary. Having to watch any of you dying.. Bleeding out, right in front of me — and there's nothing I can do, I can only watch-”

“I know it doesn't feel like it, but they're just dreams, Steve,” You whisper carefully, “That's all they are. They can't hurt us, any of us.. And they can't hurt you.”

He nods once after giving your words a moment to sink in, stubble on his chin scratching softly against the cotton of your shirt. You ache to say more, to find the right words to magically make it all better, but you know there's no articulation that will serve as such an all-healing balm. Even if there was, he's gone this long without someone to placate him with empty, pitying promises, and the absolute last thing you want is to make him feel any smaller than he already does.

Silence falls over the room again like a weighted blanket, a contented sort of quiet that you're both grateful for.

The rumble of a lone car cuts through the night, headlights colliding with shadows against the far wall. The glow reflects on the window as the car comes and goes, and for just a brief moment, you get a clear view of the twin beauty marks on his cheek — You have to rein in the all-encompassing urge to drag your thumb over them.

Now's not the time.

But you do wonder what it might be like, to share a bed with Steve under more normal circumstances. What it would feel like to wake in the late hours of the night and have his head resting on the pillow beside your own. For your sheets to hold that musky, sleep-riddled scent that lingers on his skin now.

You watch Steve's full lashes flutter as he blinks, his unfocussed gaze trained on the way your fingers curl and straighten under his own ministrations, bending them this way and that as his thumb presses into the meat of your palm. Your tongue has gone heavy in your mouth with the words you long to say:

I want you.

I love you.

I'll protect you.

You push them down, tough as they are to swallow, and instead break the silence as gently as you can, “You know, you can always come in here after a bad dream. Even if it's not as bad as tonight. If this helps, then I want you to.. I don't want you to worry about waking me up or-”

“Thanks, I- Yeah, maybe.” Steve murmurs noncommittally.

“Steve,” You speak sternly. Your fingers tangle in his hair and you carefully tip his head back, his chin jutting up as he's forced to look at you. “I mean it. You're more than just my roommate. We- We're friends. I care about you. I don't mind.”

Steve swallows, hesitates. His adam's apple bobs before he nods his head in your hold slowly, “Okay.” He says finally, a weight that he didn't realize was even there suddenly lifts from his shoulders.

You allow yourself to drag your thumb lovingly over the long line of his brow, just once. A soft smile tugs at the corners of your lips, “Then it's settled.”

The wonky streetlight outside your window flickers for a moment-

You probably wouldn't have even paid the momentary darkness a second thought if not for the way Steve stiffens suddenly. The flickering only lasts a second or two before it re-settles into that same dim stream of light that always illuminates your bedroom at night, but Steve lets out an audible breath of relief when it does.

Neither of you mention it, but the shakiness of that gust of air when it pushed past his lips is nearly enough to break your heart.

You watch the way his jaw flexes, your gaze drawn to the smooth expanse of his neck covered only by the long, curling ends of his hair. You can almost make out his jumping pulse at the hollow of his throat, the dark shadow twitching nearly imperceptibly as Steve forces the too-quick beat of his heart to slow once again.

You're about to ask him if he's okay, but Steve must feel it coming, because he manages to speak first.

“You should get back to sleep.” He says softly.

He releases your hand to prop himself up on an elbow, a small gap of space growing between you that feels so much larger than it is.

Your hand slips from the hair at the back of Steve's head, but you manage to grab ahold of his bicep.

“Do you wanna stay?” You find yourself asking.

“Y'sure?” Steve asks in surprise, “I mean, you.. really don't mind if I stay?” He questions cautiously, golden eyes wide and entirely too pretty, looking a little like even after all this, he can't quite believe you'd let him stick around any longer than necessary.

In lieu of responding, you slip further underneath the blankets. You roll onto your back and open your arms — a silent beckoning for him to join you.

Steve huffs a soft breath through his nose, a relieved sounding thing. The walls that he was rushing to put back up just a moment before crumble in an instant, the stiff set of his shoulders falling slack as well. He drops his head down onto the pillow beside you before draping an arm around your waist to drag you back against his chest.

You're lulled back to sleep by the soft puffs of breath he lets out against your neck and the warm weight of his body wrapped around you.

The last thing you'd ever wish for is for Steve to suffer, but you can't help finding yourself somewhat looking forward to the next time he'll crawl into bed with you — Regardless of the circumstances.

You're more than happy to be his rock.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington hurt/comfort #steve harrington angst #steve harrington x gn!reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x gender neutral reader #*

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bookshelf-dust · 1 year

Text

healing

billy hargrove x gn!reader

word count: 5,445

warnings: swearing, smoking, mentions of past trauma (starcourt), slight sexual innuendos??

a/n: hi! remember when i made you do a poll for my 1k celebration? and one bed with billy won? well this is that fic! i'm sorry it took so long to get here, but school was kicking the ever loving shit out of me. anyways, i really hope you like it. it's a little different than other fics i've written, but i think that's a good thing. just for context, this is post the end of season three, with billy and hopper being okay and jopper being in full swing. i think that's all i wanted to say. thanks again for 1k followers. that's still so wild to me. i love you. and billy loves you too <333

————

November 1985

“No.”

“What do you mean no? You just fought an interdimensional being, don’t you want a vacation?”

Lucas wipes both hands down his face, flopping down on the arm of the couch beside where Max sits with El between her knees, tying off one of the two braids she’s trying to make.

“Max, can you help me? Please?” Lucas has been arguing about this for fifteen minutes.

She rolls her eyes, but looks up from her work nonetheless. “Billy.”

The man in question crosses his arms, locking eyes with the redhead. “Maxine.”

Max finishes Eleven’s braid and she hops up to join Will where he’s working on a puzzle. Joyce brought it home from work a few days ago, and it’s been spread out on a card table in the corner of the living room since then. Will couldn’t watch The Golden Girls with Joyce from the kitchen table.

“Just come with us, Billy. We all know you hate it here. It’ll give you a chance to get away for a little while.”

Except that’s not totally the truth. He doesn’t hate it here. Not with you around.

“There’s a pool.” Will looks up, a little shyly, from the puzzle, fingers flipping around a single piece. “At the place Robin found.”

Billy nods, and it’s enough to make Will smile at the acknowledgment.

It’d been Steve’s idea, after everything that happened in July. He thought everyone going on a trip together might be a good idea. Go a little ways out from home, calm down.

You and Billy started going to school, though Billy is still working. He found a job at a record store across the street from Melvald’s that opened after the mall went to shit. It definitely wasn’t his first choice, but it works. And he’s slowly fixing up the Camaro.

Steve had offered to pay for the repairs in full, considering he did most of the damage when he rammed the side of it, but Billy couldn’t handle that. So far Max has only convinced him to let Steve cover the really expensive parts. It hurts Billy more than he’d care to admit—having Steve Harrington give him money.

But he can’t lie, going somewhere away from Hawkins, even just for a couple days, sounds really nice. It’s the group part that’s bothering him. He’s still not used to everyone wanting him to tag along, but apparently major trauma brings people together.

There’s the slamming of car doors, and footsteps running up the driveway before the door swings open, Robin bursting in with a stack of movies in her arms. She’s followed by Dustin and then Steve, bags and keys being tossed every which way.

Billy doesn’t see you for a moment and starts to worry maybe you aren’t coming. He’s already supplying excuses for having to go home, but Steve left the door ajar, and after a moment, there you are.

You look sleepy, footsteps the quietest of everyone else as you carefully push the Byers’ door shut behind you. He watches as you accept a hug from Eleven, overhears her ask, “how did your test go?”

He’s happy to hear you tell her it went well. It’s only after you’ve looked at her and Will’s puzzle and snapped a few more corner pieces in that you make a beeline for the open spot on the couch beside Billy.

When you’ve settled, your knee bumps against his. “Hey.”

He looks at you, a little grin playing at the corners of his mouth. His arms are still crossed, thumb playing with the pendant resting on his chest. A chest surprisingly covered by a sweater, though the sleeves are pushed up.

“Hey. Glad your test is over?”

That sound of his voice makes you smile, and he’s never been so grateful for something, even if it’s just an expression. “Yeah.”

You glance down at the new tattoo on his arm, a dark colored snake wrapping around the skin covering his elbow. You run your thumb across the tail that flicks across his forearm, and Billy relaxes into your touch.

“You have work today?”

Billy shakes his head. You’re glad he had the day off. And you’d tell him so if it weren’t for the sudden bombardment.

Lucas is suddenly standing in front of you, having returned from the kitchen where you think he and Dustin may have been cleaning out Joyce’s fridge.

“Holy shit, thank god you’re here. I need you to convince Billy to go on vacation.”

You glance at Max, assuming she’s already tried. She looks rather annoyed. “Lucas, would you sit down?”

The boy looks at Max, and she glares at him. Clearly he knows better and sits down next to her.

“Billy doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to do,” you finally say.

The man in question turns to face you. You have to lean your head back some because of how close he is.

“Are you going?” he asks, voice quiet and thick with something you don’t know that you’re supposed to notice.

“Y-yeah. I was gonna. Robin only went on about it to me for an hour over the phone last night. I just think it might be nice to get away for a little while.” Billy doesn’t break eye contact with you, and while it makes you a little nervous, it tells you he’s listening.

“And I can watch Max for you if you really don’t want to go. Just make sure she doesn’t kill Lucas or anything.” Max snorts at your response, though Lucas looks at her in panic, already calculating how best to prevent that sort of situation.

Your gaze softens and you fight the urge to reach out and run your thumb across Billy’s cheek.

Please come with us. I want you to go. I want you there, you think. But it’s not what you say. You don’t know how badly he needs to hear it.

“You really don’t have to go, Billy. Not if you don’t want to.”

“But there is enough space, man.” Steve stands behind the couch, handing El a scrunchie he retrieved from her bag. His voice is calm, informative. “If you decide to go. There’s plenty of room, and we’d be happy if you did.”

Billy could make some smartass remark. But he won’t. He knows that Steve is being honest, and that he’s not trying to be a dick. It seems that witnessing the guy who beat the shit out of you almost die not even a year after he moved to town really brings you together.

Billy gives an acknowledging nod. “I’d be very happy if you did,” Eleven says. She loves having Jonathan as an older brother, really she does, but Billy lets her play with his hair. And in her books, that really ups the scale.

He smiles at her, and El considers that a win.

You notice him shift next to you, and then he’s leaning forward to whisper in your ear. “Come with me?” He cocks his head in the direction of the door.

He gets up, assuming you’ll follow him. You always do.

When you’ve shut the door, you move to the porch swing. It’s your favorite spot out here, and Joyce says it makes her happy to see someone use it. She used to sit there with Will in the mornings after Jonathan left for school and read to him. She did the same with Jonathan, but he was a much more fidgety kid, wanting to find something else to do.

Billy lights a cigarette, and you watch where he fidgets with the ring on his middle finger.

He’s standing a little ways away from you so as to not breathe the smoke directly in your vicinity, but you wish so badly that he was closer. You like having him close. The weight of his body next to you, the warmth, how solid his arm feels when it’s pressed to yours or when he slides down on the couch some and it's more so pressed to your side.

“Which part of it are you worried about?” you ask him.

He shrugs. “You really think they want me there? You think Max wants me around?” “Billy, I know she does. And I know that voice in your head is telling you that it’s a pity invite, but it’s not. And, besides…” you trail off, but he’s not having that. He needs you to reassure him.

“Besides what?”

You look up at him. “I want you to go. And yeah, I’ll be sad if you don’t go, but that shouldn’t sway your decision either.” You push your feet against the concrete porch a little harder, and the swing responds to the movement. You move quicker, now feeling very pleased with yourself.

Billy almost laughs at the child-like look on your face, but you look so at home on the swing that he holds it in. A grin escapes nonetheless.

“Say that again.” He stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray either Hopper or Joyce have left outside. He’s watching you again.

“What?” He’s not gonna let you go all shy on him now. He needed to hear that. He needs to hear it.

“You know what.”

“I want you to go.”

“Then it’s settled. Need to get out of this shithole anyways.”

————

The place Steve found is about two hours from Hawkins, with three bedrooms, a shockingly luxurious pull-out couch, and bigger common areas than you’ve ever laid eyes on. Excluding the ones in Steve’s house. In short, the rental is like Hopper’s cabin, if Hopper’s cabin were updated and substantially larger. It feels like the kind of place rich people have to take weekend trips. You’d rather not find out how much Steve is paying for the lot of you to stay there.

Robin takes you on a grand tour while everyone else explores the backyard. Dustin is already determined to climb a tree. One of the rooms has two sets of bunk beds, dedicated to the four boys. “To ensure no cootie-spreading,” Robin proclaims.

She and Steve will share the couch, with Max and Eleven in the smaller bedroom.

Robin stops at the end of the hallway. “Which leaves…”

You and Billy.

You and Billy Hargrove.

Sharing a room.

Sharing a bed.

Speaking of, the man in question brushes past you, setting his bag on the floor at the foot of the bed. Robin takes that as her queue to leave and gives you a thumbs up on the way out. You hope she can feel your death stare on the back of her head, and she knows it, being quick to run down the hall.

“So we’re roomies, huh?” Billy says, gathering his hair at the base of his neck. You hadn’t even realized he had a tie on him, and it takes him finishing off a lazy bun to realize it’s a blue scrunchie. You have to bite your lip to keep from saying anything.

“I can sleep with Max and El, if you want. Or–”

That crease between Billy’s brows forms. “Why would you do that?”

You’ve gone all warm. You’d have to sleep in bed with him. And you sit next to him all the time, but this is different. Isn’t it?

Maybe it’s not so weird. You’re just friends. It’s like a sleepover, right?

“I don’t know, you might not want to sleep together or something.”

He cocks a brow, but you catch the double meaning of your words just in time. “You know what I mean, Billy.”

He sits on the end of the bed, and reaches out for you. You move towards him slowly, but the moment you’re within his grasp, Billy spreads his legs and grabs your waist, slotting your body between them.

“You can go if you really want to. If you think I’ve got cooties or somethin’ and you don’t wanna share a bed with me.”

You snort, and Billy drinks in the sound, knowing he’s the one that made you laugh.

“I don’t think you’ve got cooties.”

You realize in that moment that his hands haven’t left their spot on your waist, never straying anywhere else. The weight of them on you is enough to keep you focused on him, and he seems to acknowledge that.

“Then what is it?” he asks, in that low drawl you fear could get out any answer he wanted from you.

You hesitate, but say it anyway. “You don’t think it’ll be weird? Sleeping in the same bed?”

Billy fights the urge to rest his forehead against your stomach. He wants to tell you he’s wished you were in his bed on more than one occasion. Sometimes he just wishes you were there so it wouldn’t feel so cold, so he’d have someone to pull him out of his thoughts before they eat him alive altogether.

“No, I don’t think it’ll be weird.”

You nod your head, and try to move back from him.

Billy whines. “Uh uh. Nope.”

You go to put your hands on your hips, and they graze Billy’s on the way. He grabs hold of them. “You don’t want to have a sleepover with me?”

Billy’s looking up at you with those watery blue eyes, and you know this is a battle you’ll never win.

“Really?”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, and your eyes fall to his neck when he tosses his head back.

“Yeah, baby.”

Baby.

It feels like every cell in your body has been sent into overdrive, like you can’t compute a single coherent thought. All because Billy called you “baby”.

And if he’s being honest with himself, he feels the same way. He hadn’t meant to say it. It’s just that he calls you “baby” in his head all the time, and it just…happened.

“I’d love to have a sleepover with you, Hargrove.”

“Mhm. Thought so.”

This time he lets the laugh out, and it’s a beautiful sound. The kind of sound you’d commit unspeakable acts to hear again. And this time, he does let his forehead drop to rest on your stomach. It surprises you, but you’re not mad about it.

“Oh, fuck off,” you say, and you can feel his chuckle against your skin.

When he quits, you find yourself just standing there, find your hands moving around his back. He’s always so warm. You rub your hands up and down his back, the denim of his jacket rough on your fingertips.

You feel him shift, feel his change in position, the hard press of his chin against you. Billy is looking up at you, and you know he’s hoping you’ll return his gaze. His eyes bore into yours, and you hate to think of what you must look like from this angle. Clearly he doesn’t mind.

You push a curl behind his ear, a shockingly perfect ringlet that’s too short to be contained like the rest of them.

Billy would be taken aback by the gesture if it weren’t for the fact that you always go this easy on him. Like you know he’s healing, in more ways than one.

“We can’t stay here forever, you know. I wanna go look around.”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “I’m sure it’s riveting.” He lets you go anyway, following you down the hall to the rest of the cabin.

————

Your back rests on the base of an oversized chair, one that’s surprisingly comfy, your body in between Robin’s legs. She’s sitting next to Steve, watching you moderate El, Lucas, and Will play Twister. Dustin’s already out.

“Right hand blue.”

“You’re kidding right?”

“Sinclair, have you never played this game before?”

Lucas scoffs, trying to reach the blue on the other side of the mat without toppling into Will. Max went with Billy to the store, but they should be back soon. You have a sick feeling they’re taking advantage of having been given Steve’s debit card.

“Yes, I’ve played the game before. If you’re so good, why don’t you get down here and show us how it’s done, Harrington?”

“Yeah, Harrington, why don’t you show us how flexible you are?” Billy’s voice makes you look up from where you’ve been mindlessly twisting the spinner on the board around with the tip of your finger.

He stands just inside the living room, holding the door open with his leg. He kicks it shut once Max has made it in. She heaves the paper bags she’d been holding up and onto the counter. Steve rises to help unpack them. You follow on instinct, handing the spinner to Robin instead, and Dustin is quick to take Steve’s spot before Mike can.

Billy won’t let you take anything from him, but he will let you help figure out what the hell to do with all of it. “Do I even want to know how much you both spent?” you ask.

He gives you that fucking smile, and you know you don’t. “Max said she wanted to have a spa night–whatever that means–with El, so we sort of split up. I’m sure Steve’ll live.”

“For your information, Lucas,” Steve continues, clearly not ready to let the quips towards his limberness go, “I was the captain of the swim team.”

“What’s that got to do with being flexible, dingus?” Robin directs the two remaining players, the young boy in question having just busted his ass.

“Swimming is an art form, Rob. You gotta learn to respect it.”

You choke on a laugh, and Billy is quick to rub your back while he chuckles into your shoulder.

“Something funny over there?” Steve questions.

You straighten, trying to wipe the smile from your face though it’s to no avail. “Nope, Steven. I’m sure you’re just incredibly stretchy. Like Mr. Fantastic.”

His brow furrows. “Mr. Fantastic?”

Dustin snorts, elbow deep in a bag of chips, and you quickly realize that you probably shouldn’t have given him an opening, but you don’t exactly regret it either.

The lot of you spend the rest of the night in this fashion, playing games, eating way too much food, taking turns smacking the top of the television so your movie will keep playing.

It feels like home. It feels safe. You wish it always felt this way.

————

You’d just finished brushing your teeth when you hear the bedroom door click shut, hear footsteps you can tell are in search of you.

You peek your head out of the bathroom and Billy grins at the sight of you in pajamas, a smear of moisturizer on your forehead you’ve yet to rub in.

He squeezes in the small room, about the same size as his at home, to join you. There’s something about this moment, the domesticity of it, that makes your heart swell. It feels like something you could get used to, getting ready for bed with him. Neither of you have to say anything, you just do your own thing, but having him be there, having his presence–it’s more than enough for you.

When you climb into bed, you try and read for a while, the sounds of Billy washing his face comforting you. You find it easy to read even when he does get in with you, the mattress sinking underneath his weight, the sheets rustling as he moves around experimentally, trying to get comfortable in a bed that isn’t his own.

You feel odd though, reading when he’s right there, so it isn’t long before you close the book and slide further into the covers with him. Billy’s quick to turn on his side, wanting to see you like this.

He watches you yank the blankets up to your chin, looking at him over a blur of fluffy white comforter. “It’s fuckin’ freezin’ in here,” you tell him.

“C’mere then.”

You burrow further into your pillow, fearing you know exactly what he’s going to suggest. “Huh?”

“You’re cold. You always whine about me being warm or somethin’ and I’m telling you to come here.”

“Billy.”

“Stop.” He lifts the covers up some, untucking you from them, and he wraps his arm around your back, tugging you into his side.

Suddenly you’re pressed against him, having slid across the sheets easier than you’d have imagined.

He’s let go of you, his arm hovering over your back. “You want me to hold you or no?”

“Yeah.”

Billy lets his arm drop against your side, his fingers splaying out over your back. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, hoping it’ll warm you up. “This okay?”

“Yes.”

He nods. You’re looking at him like he’s something special.

Billy realizes, in that moment, that that’s how you’ve always looked at him. Even before.

He also realizes that your hands are tucked under your chin and your legs are curled up and into you like you’re afraid of making any contact with him.

“You can loosen up, you know. It’s just me.”

You let out a breath of a laugh, and he can feel it against the skin of his neck.

“It’s okay, I promise. You can touch me.” Billy has this feeling that you’re afraid of hurting him. He’s sure you’ve noticed that he’s wearing a shirt to bed, something he never did before. And he thinks that you’re worried he’ll break.

“You’re sure?”

“Wouldn’t have said so otherwise.”

He watches you unfold your hands and stretch your arm over him, hooking it around his hip. You want to rub up and down his side, but you’re nervous.

It’s just me.

“Do they hurt at all?”

Your thumb skates up a little further, and you don’t have to tell him what you mean.

“Not all the time,” he says, voice low and thick with drowsiness. “At first, yeah, like hell. Now it’s just sometimes. They can feel a little tight, or just bug me. Depends, I guess.”

You nod, feeling brave enough now to slide your hand up a little further. Your touch is light, barely there. You close your eyes, trying not to think about when it happened. How he’d screamed.

He can tell when you’ve calmed down some, because your arm relaxes and you hug him a little more firmly. You scoot in a little closer, close enough that your noses would touch if you tried to make them.

“Goodnight, Billy.”

He makes the move, dragging the tip of his nose across your forehead. He kisses the top of your head, and you grin so wide you feel like a kid in a candy shop.

“Goodnight, baby.”

————

When you wake up, you almost don’t want to disturb him, but you know you should get out of bed.

Billy is sprawled out on his stomach, having separated from you at some point during the night. His tank top is rucked up from the tossing and turning of sleep, and you look away when you catch a glimpse of pink skin. It doesn’t feel like your place to look.

You wander out of the room, carefully shutting the door behind you. You make it down the hall, and find that Robin seems to be the only other one awake. You should’ve guessed. She told you once before that her body doesn’t seem to let her sleep in.

Steve is still passed out on the pull-out couch, completely covered by the blankets. The only sign of him is a tuft of messy hair against the light colored pillow case his head rests on.

Robin waves at you from her perch at the kitchen counter, a bowl of cereal in front of her. “Want some?” she whispers, pushing the box in your direction.

You fill up your own bowl, having a feeling that Robin is about to ramble.

“Sleep okay?” she asks.

“Mhm. You?”

“Fine. Though, y’know, Steve is a horrific bed hog. Seriously, he was half on top of me the whole night. I might have to bunk with Max and El.”

You laugh, and Robin takes that as her queue to ask what she’s been pondering since she woke up.

“Was it okay? Sleeping with Billy? Well, not like that. Well, I’m assuming not like that, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I just meant like actually sleeping? Please stop me.”

You grin at her. “Please breathe, Rob.” She does, over exaggerating her inhales. “And it was fine.”

“Okay, good. I was kind of worried you’d be frustrated with my matchmaking tendencies. I just really want you two to be happy. And he seems so calm when he’s with you, and I realize I’ve just told you that I’ve been pushing you two together and I–”

You wipe milk from your chin, having almost spit out your cereal. “Robin, sweetheart, it’s okay, I promise. I know about your matchmaking tendencies. But I think we’re just friends, right?”

“Just friends, my ass.” You hadn’t even seen Steve get up, but he’s reaching for the fridge and pulling out a carton of chocolate milk. He really can’t say anything about Dustin’s eating habits when he has the exact same diet.

“Oh my god.”

“Listen, I’m just saying, there’s been something going on between you two since before the world went to shit. I don’t know why you two tiptoe around each other like it’s not obvious that you’re in love.”

“Steve!” you exclaim. “Seriously, what the hell? I’ve been up for like twenty minutes and you two are schooling me on my love life?”

“Or lack thereof,” Robin says.

“Okay, damn. You know what, I’m going back to bed.”

Steve pushes your bowl back towards you when you attempt to get up. “No, you’re not. I’m just saying, there’s no sense in avoiding this. You both clearly feel a lot for each other, and I don’t see any reason to avoid it when you could be together.”

He’s being vulnerable with you, his big brown eyes boring into yours and trying to convey how serious he’s being.

“Just think about it, okay? There’s no harm in talking about how you feel with him. And don’t say that you don’t feel anything, because that’s a goddamn lie.”

————

Billy’s had his swim trunks on all day, but he hasn’t done more than sit in the shade by the pool while everyone else makes a mess and plays ridiculous games in the water.

It’s killing him to watch you in there from time to time, swimming around or sitting in the shallow end. You told him once that swimming calms you down.

It’s not until after dinner, when everyone has moved inside for the most part, though there seems to be the plotting of a water balloon fight out front, that he’s brave enough to head for the pool.

You follow him out there, see him contemplating the water.

“Whatcha doin’?”

Billy drops the cigarette he’d been smoking, snubbing it out. “Thought about going for a swim,” he tells you.

“That sounds nice.”

“Mhm.”

“I can go back inside, if you want.”

Billy turns to face you. “No. No, I want you to stay.” He wants you to see. He can’t explain why, but he does.

“Okay.”

He takes a shaky breath, hoping you don’t catch it. You do. You always do.

“I just…wasn’t ready for everyone to see.”

“I understand, Billy.”

You know what he’s really saying. He wasn’t ready for everyone to see. But he’s ready for you to see.

“I can get in first, if that helps. And I won’t look if you don’t want me to,” you say.

“That helps, yeah. And you can look. It’s okay.”

He watches you wade in, watches the way your swimsuit changes color as you tread water.

Billy takes another deep breath, and he’s pulling his shirt off. He’s quick though, diving straight into the deep end, knowing he needs to get it over with.

When he comes up, his hair is sticking to his forehead, and he flips it out of the way, giving you a glimpse of the broad pink scar on his chest.

He meets you halfway, and you think he’s in a serious mood until he’s splashing you like a child.

“You motherfucker!”

You get him back, and he’s laughing.

Billy is laughing and he looks so pretty in the last of the day’s sunlight, beads of water sliding over his collarbones and down his arms, and you feel like you could die. Like seeing him this way is enough. You don’t need anything else.

You try to return a particularly aggressive splash, but he catches your waist, pulling you up and over his shoulder.

“Billy!”

“What?” His voice is teasing. He tosses the rest of the way over, your laughter fading out into the water.

You come up, a brilliant smile on his face. Billy’s sure if you stood close enough you’d be able to hear his heart beating.

When you’ve both gone quiet, your eyes drop to the scars on his sides, the way they stretch across his skin, mean and twisting. Some spots are darker than others, and while it hurts you to look at them, you know it must hurt him even more. But he looks just as beautiful as before, if not increasingly so.

“See something you like?” Billy says it on instinct. To hide the fact that he’s worried you don’t really like it. That maybe you think he’s gross looking. But he knows that’s all in his head. He fucking knows it.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, Billy Hargrove.”

You say it with such surety, such admiration, that he can’t even begin to doubt that you mean it.

He smiles at you. It’s boyish. You’d do anything to see a million more of them.

He moves towards you, the sky having darkened enough that the outside lights have come on, the lights in the pool too. All that remains of the sun is a slash of deep orange, though the night quickly pushes it away.

Billy’s got you backed up against the wall of the pool now. His hands find your sides.

It’s overwhelming, having him this close. You can feel his breath on your face, see the rise and fall of his chest, the freckles on his cheeks.

When he kisses you, you think your heart stops. His mouth is warm against yours, and he tastes a little like chlorine, but you don’t care. Your hands find his face, and you’re smiling so hard that he pulls away because he wants to see. You don’t let him for long though, pulling him back, wanting more. He laughs into your mouth, and your chest aches with this feeling.

Eventually you do let go, and when you hold his eye contact, he knows what you’re going to say. He needs to tell you first, though.

“I’m in love with you, you know.”

“I know,” you respond.

He tosses his head back in a laugh, and you press a sweet kiss to his throat.

“I’m in love with you too, Billy.”

“Damn right you are.”

You snort against his chest, lowering slightly to kiss his scar. His breath catches. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve you.

“About fucking time!” Steve’s shouting and Robin is yelling, and Max would be making barf sounds if she wasn’t so pleased with seeing her brother so happy.

“So much for that,” Billy says.

But you wouldn’t have it any other way.

————

“I’m regretting this, Billy.”

“Stop whining.”

Billy wraps his arms tighter around your back, pressing a kiss to your jaw in hopes that you’ll let him keep doing this.

“Get off.”

“No.”

“Get off, please.”

“Make me.”

There’s the sound of a slap, your hand having met his ass.

He raises his head from where he’d buried it in your chest, looking at you drowsily. “You just spanked me.”

And you’d do it again.

“Didn’t work, did it?”

“No. Shut up and take it.”

By that he means continue letting him lay on top of you, his entire body pressed to yours. It doesn’t matter to him that there’s an entire bed, one that’s made for two people.

You settle for playing with his hair, something he seems to enjoy, and you’d mess with him about the fact that he’s essentially purring if it weren’t for him looking so content.

He might be heavy, but having Billy Hargrove sleep on top of you isn’t exactly something you just give up.

He’s never had this before.

Hell, you’ve never had this before.

And he thinks it’s healing him. More than the salve he puts on his scars, or the physical therapy, or fixing up the Camaro.

You’re healing him. You.

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

5K notes · View notes

actuallybarb · 5 months

Text

here with me

pairing: male x gn!reader (i tagged with a lot of different male characters i find comforting, but there’s no names used so you can imagine anyone you so please)

word count: 0.6k

warnings: reader is in pain (nothing descriptive), he comforts. just fluff

a/n: i wrote this as a result of my own migraines, but i kept all the symptoms vague because any chronic pain is a bitch, and you deserve to be treated softly by the person of your choice

The apartment usually wasn’t this quiet when he got home.

Or this dark.

He set his keys on the counter and left his boots by the door, then carefully stepped through the apartment. The kitchen and living room were both empty, and the office looked like it hadn’t been touched all day.

There was no light under the bedroom door. He set a cautious hand on the doorknob, but a quiet whimper had him opening the door without question.

You were laid out on the bed, on top of the covers, with an arm draped over your eyes. The ceiling fan and rotary fan on the ground were both spinning at top speed, and he could just see a dark bag poking out under your neck.

He quietly closed the door and returned to the kitchen, now a man on a mission. He grabbed a straw and a water bottle from the fridge, then took an ice pack from the freezer and wrapped it with a dish towel. He took the last item, a bottle of painkillers, from the cabinet and silently returned to the bedroom, the only sound of his presence being the faint click as the door closed one more time.

“Baby?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

You let out another small whimper.

“How bad is it?”

“9.5.”

Unbearable, then, if you were using an actual pain scale.

He set his items on the nightstand and took a seat beside you on the bed.

“Meds?”

“At 3.”

Only a couple hours ago, too soon to take more. He put those beside the lamp.

He uncapped the water bottle and put the straw in, then he gently tucked a hand behind your head and lifted. “Drink.”

Your lips wrapped around the straw, and he didn’t pull the bottle away until you’d swallowed at least four times. But before you could lay back down, he replaced your old ice pack with a new one. You shivered a little, but the cold was a welcome reprieve.

“Stay or go?”

You could’ve cried. He’d stuck with you through this so many times he knew your comforts by heart. He read your moods instantly, and most of the time didn’t need promptings, but he always took the time to ask when it got bad like this. And he never shamed you for only being able to say a few words at a time.

“Stay.”

It nearly came out as a sob.

He shed his jacket and started unbuttoning his jeans. “Shirt or no shirt?”

“Soft.”

He took off his current shirt and replaced it with his sleep one, nothing decorating the black fabric, just ultra-soft cotton.

“Where do you want me?”

It differed every time. Sometimes you didn’t want him at all, the thought of another person with you sending jolts of pain through your body. Other times you wanted him to stay, but on the other side of the bed. Or you wanted him close, but barely touching.

“Top.”

Or sometimes you needed him to put all of his body weight on top of you like a human weighted blanket.

“Covers?”

“No.”

He positioned himself, knees on either sides of your thighs, then he slowly lowered himself until his hands on either side of your face were the only thing keeping him up.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

He finished lowering himself and settled his full weight against you.

You sighed in relief.

“Better?”

You nodded and tucked yourself into the crook of his neck. “Better.”

“Three taps if I’m suffocating you.”

For the first time that day, you took a deep breath and relaxed.

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munsster · 2 months

Text

hold my hand through it

A/N: oh, nothing just thinking about being taken care of by a lovely boy :( (gif creds: @keery)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x GN!Reader

Summary: Even if there ends up being someone else to turn to, he hopes you always pick him. Especially now, battered and sore and desperate. 1.8k words.

Warnings: season 4 canon divergence, canon level gore, (secret) mutual pining, a hint of best friends to.... lovers?, hurt/comfort, pet names (sunshine, honey, baby), wound/scar description

The clench of your jaw and the way you slump into the dusty cushions of the Wheeler's old couch is telltale. Steve's side aches when your hand curls over your own ribs, the fabric of your band tee wet and sticky beneath your fingers. Nancy, Robin, and Eddie filter through the thickly fogged rooms, waving their flashlights up the steps and walls in slow circles. He watches the ashen air fill your lungs, the realization splintering your face, and you'd scramble to the bathroom if you could get up.

You glance up to find he's watching you.

"Steve?" you squeak. And tears spill over the rims of your eyes, down your cheeks, wetting the corner of your mouth and the column of your throat.

"Woah, woah," he huffs, skidding to his knees at your feet and winding his fingers around your wobbly wrist, uncertainty making you ache and hyperventilate even with his soft brown eyes honeyed over the blood like antibiotic. "Hey, eyes on me, sunshine, look at me."

But you're flickering between your soaked shirt and the delicate slope of his nose, between your scrape and the forgiveness he harbors in his slumped shoulders.

"There you go," he says, "can I...?"

You nod. Lifting your arms, it hurts. Like the skin was trying to heal just to be stretched apart again. You hiss, and he cradles your wrist back down.

"Ooh, careful, honey, don't push yourself. You've been hurt enough for one night."

"Is it bad? Steve," you cry, and he looks up to find your chin wobbling. It breaks his heart. "Steve, please, is it bad?"

"No. No, honey. It's alright." But the panic sets in around your eyes, wrinkling your forehead as blood trickles across your knuckle.

"How bad is it? Fffuck, it's bad, isn't it?" There's a maroon pool, slipping through the hardwood cracks beneath the tangle of your fingers and his.

"No, c'mon, you're fine. You're good," he huffs. Your eyes slink closed out of exhaustion or fear or the fact that it's so easy. "Baby, keep your eyes open, please. I'll go find a first aid kit. Promise me you'll keep 'em open 'till I'm back."

You frown, and his heart races. You were supposed to be the one to make it out. Back to reality. You were supposed to be his forever in the real world. Not just in this fucked up, pitch black underworld. Someone must be playing a trick on him. He's gonna wake up tomorrow to the sun hot on his face and you smiling sweetly back at him, fingers combing through his hair. He blinks hard just in case.

When he opens them, you're nodding.

"I promise." It sounds so weak dribbling from your cracked lips. Steve wipes the dirt from your jaw before darting to the lower level bathroom.

He roots desperately through the cabinets, sweat pricking across the back of his neck and his forehead and his scalp and his cheeks. God, he needs a shower and to make you better and to be home safe in his bed. With you.

You take a shaky, deep breath when he reappears with a dull, blue box under his arm. He sits beside you, wincing at the constricted noise that escapes your scratchy throat.

"What've we got... gauze, yes. Bandages, yes. Antiseptic, fuck yeah. We're in business, baby. Still with me?"

You nod weakly, hissing when he lifts your wrist into his lap. He watches your face as he rips the antiseptic wipes open.

"Gonna hurt, okay?"

A strangled sound escapes you and your head lulls onto his shoulder.

"Okay, sunshine. So proud of you, doin' great," he hums, pressing his dry lips to your damp temple. You grab for the hem of his sweater when he pats the blood from your gash. He can tell you're struggling to stay quiet, muscles tense and fingers wringing. You're tightly wound, and yet, you can feel yourself losing control.

Or maybe it's more like surrender. Relinquishment of your responsibility over your own blood. And you only do it because it's so easy to let him command it. Especially when he's so gentle in cleaning your wounds, why shouldn't you share your hurt if he's so willing to bear it.

His fingers spread neosporin over the cut, which is suddenly clean and only a little irritated. You can't help but watch him, so focused on packing the cotton and tightly sealing the wound with gauze.

"Alright?" Steve hums, and god, those brown eyes deserve their own gallery. He waits for an answer, but you're distracted and pouting at the thought of him putting your hurt before his own. Everyone has scrapes and cuts and soreness from climbing and running and falling. You saw it in his limp. And yet, he looked to you and didn't hesitate to kneel beside you and tend to your open wound. "Sunshine?"

"Yeah," you sigh, more sure than before, "feels better."

"Yeah?" he chuckles, "Feels better? That's good. I'm glad." He sighs, trying not to anticipate your reaction to the next step. He knows it's going to hurt. "Let's get you changed, okay?"

You bat your lashes up at him. That's what he was worried about. You're gonna do it, but it hurts his conscience to know how much pain the process will put you through. He stands from the couch, whipping off his sweater and shivering a little at the hellish chill.

Usually, you'd made a joke about his promiscuity. Something or other about him taking it all off. Maybe a catcall or two. He honestly misses it. The silence is deafening.

"Lift your arms."

You do, wincing and grating your teeth.

"Slowly. There you go." Once your arms are sufficiently above your head, he tugs at the soaked hem of your tee. He feels bad for cringing at the state of your side: sticky and dark red, a chunk of skin missing. Thankfully, it’s not too deep, but it still makes his heart clench.

He can’t bring himself to look in your eyes, knowing the strain and suffering he’ll find. Doe-wide and pleading as he tosses your shirt aside.

“Definitely won’t be needing that anymore,” he teases, looking at the bundled up pile of blood and cotton.

“Too bad,” you shudder, “that was my favorite.”

He grins.

With your arms still above your head, he carefully fits the rest of the gauze around your ribcage, cleaning the excess grime built up around the gash. He can tell you’re fighting to keep your eyes open as he pulls your hands through the sleeves of his damn yellow sweater. You always said it reminded you of a fuzzy bumble bee, a lingering title that he bore proudly.

He thinks you look so beautiful. Even now, streaked with dirt and ozzing blood. He thinks he'll never get used to your lazy smile and how you reach for his hand even when it hurts. His heart skips a beat feeling the warmth flood back into your fingers. "Careful, baby. Don't hurt yourself."

"Okay, Stevie," you whisper. You still have plenty of wounds that need tending to, but you're glad Steve was there for you. "Thank you."

He nods like it's all second nature. Shrugs it off like he didn't just save your life.

"Know what I'm looking forward to?" Steve says. It cuts through the fog suddenly. A welcome breath of fresh air in a conversation. "French toast."

You laugh, but stop short at the pinch of your ribs.

"Shit. Didn't mean to make you laugh. Well, I mean I did, just didn't intend for it to hurt," he says, looking a little guilty. Then, he looks over at you and his stomach drops. "Honey—"

"Sorry"—you choke a little, tears pouring hot down your cheeks, leaving clean streaks through the sheen of grime—"Sorry, I don't know why I'm crying."

"It's okay, you can cry. C'mere," he hums, resting your head back on his shoulder. He catches a tear from your cheek on his knuckle, wiping it on his collar then pushing the hair from your face.

"I'm just," you sigh. "I think I'm overwhelmed. And in pain. Obviously."

He smiles, sympathy tugging at his heartstrings when you inhale sharply.

"I know." It's mumbled against your forehead, his eyes closed and his voice hushed.

...

Eight months and a couple stitches later, the scar tissue on your forearm glistens gossamer in the sunlight as you face the push-door to the Hawkins gym. There’s a low roar coming from inside; the squeaking of shoes and blaring brass section welcomes you back. Steve had asked you to be his date to Lucas’ last game of the season. You couldn’t refuse.

Steve spots you as soon as you enter, his caramel hair sweeping soft across his forehead. Free of all the sweat and blood and weight it had that twisted spring evening. Seeing you again makes his heart soar. Knowing for a fact you’re safe and healthy. It makes him sweeter on you than he’d like to admit.

You climb the bleachers to the spot he has saved next to him. He kisses your cheek, which surprises you.

“I thought we weren’t kissing in public, yet,” you whisper. Yet, he remembers. He had agreed to that, he supposes. Only after you’d both hastily shared one outside your door one night and decided it would be best to share the rest of them where the kids couldn’t tease you incessantly. He scrunches his nose, shoving his nervous hands into his jean pockets.

“Well, you still owe me a certain yellow sweater’s worth of kisses,” he teases, “Besides, I don’t think anyone noticed.” You scowl playfully up at him, nudging his side.

“I told you you could have it back!”

“Nah. Looks better on you anyway.” He shrugs. He wouldn’t take it back if it came with a million dollars cash. It’s rightfully yours. “You know what I could go for right now?”

You tilt your head in amusement. “French toast?”

“You know me so well.”

stranger things masterlist

#steve harrington #fluff #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x gn!reader #x gn!reader #x fem!reader #x reader #stranger things #hurt/comfort #friends to lovers #tw gore #tw blood

152 notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 6 months

Note

i am also sick and now dreaming of comfort from Steve :( hereby requesting a sick fic with Steve and gn!reader pls and thank you (when/if you feel like it!!)

Thanks for requesting babe <3

Steve Harrington x gn!reader ♡ 915 words

When Steve knocks for the third time, you relent.

You cover your mouth and nose with your blanket as you open the door and block the entrance with your arm. “Don’t come in here,” you warn.

Steve pushes past your arm easily. He’s carrying a small plastic bag. “How am I gonna make your soup from out there, genius?”

“Steve, I’m serious,” you say, though you close the door behind him before tailing him into the kitchen. “You don’t want to catch this.”

He sets his bag on the counter and turns on you. You’re not prepared for his hands on your face, cool and unbelievably soothing. He frowns. “I can tell," he says. "Has it been this bad all week?”

You’re so tempted to fall asleep in the safe haven of his palms that it takes you a second to answer.

“Pretty much,” you admit.

Steve hums and thumbs a line down your cheek. “I should have come sooner.”

“You shouldn’t be here now,” you say, but the fight is going out of you with every second of tenderness. You’ve been pathetically lonesome this last week, filling your home with tissues and discarded dishes while telling Steve over the phone that you weren’t that sick and then indulging in copious amounts of self-pity while walking to the store to restock on drugs and cough drops.

“You should’a had someone to take care of you,” Steve argues gently.

“I’m fine.”

His smile is wry. He lets his hand slip down to your shoulder, giving it a good squeeze before turning around. “Maybe I’ll start to believe you when you can say that without all your consonants sounding like bs and ds,” he says, rustling through his bag. “Deal?”

You sigh but follow him to the stove, leaning forward to rest your elbows on the counter. “What are you making?”

“Harrington family recipe.” Steve holds up a box of noodle soup mix. “Water and sodium.”

You start to laugh but it turns into coughing, horrific, racking coughs that you hide in your blanket. Steve’s hand lands on your back, tentative and then firm as he rubs between your shoulder blades.

“Jesus,” he says softly. “You okay?”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak as the fit dies down.

“Why don’t you go lie down?” He sounds concerned. “I’ll meet you in there.”

You want to stay but your cough drops are in the bedroom, so you shoot your boyfriend a lame thumbs-up as you go. Every cough ignites a brood of aches, your throat and chest and temples each throbbing with their own special brand of hurt. The one in your temples sticks around the most. You grab a washcloth after popping a cough drop in your mouth, dampening it with warm water and laying it across your eyes while you lay down on the bed.

You’re still trying to suppress your cough despite the lozenge when Steve comes in. When you move the washcloth to see him, he looks upset.

“Your head hurts?” he asks, so concerned you really could cry.

“It’s just my sinuses,” you say, like that makes it better. “Is that my soup?”

“Yeah, but it’s too hot to eat.” He leans forward, setting the steaming bowl on your nightstand. “You wanna face massage for now?”

You blink. “Are you serious?”

Steve grins, suavish and yet sweet beneath that. “Yeah, honey. Close your eyes.”

You do. Steve’s hands on your face aren’t a surprise this time, but the effect is about the same. You relax, instinctively, before he’s even done anything, and when he starts pushing at the skin just above your eyebrows with his thumbs, you actually sigh.

He laughs. “Good?”

“Yeah.” Your voice is breathy and embarrassing, but at the moment you couldn’t care less. “Where did you learn how to do this?”

“Hey, I know things, okay?” Steve feigns offense, but he’s no good at hiding the pride in his tone. “I’ve been sick before, too.”

“Thank you. I owe you my life for this.”

His voice softens. “Don't sweat it. Just relax for a bit, yeah?”

It’s not a hard direction to follow. Steve’s thumbs are firm but kind as they press into your forehead and the areas around your eyes. You imagine your skin moldable as wax, his touch smoothing out the crackly lines of your sinuses until they’re soft and supple.

“Can I say something stupid?”

You crack an eyelid, sniffling. “Sure.”

“I’m feeling, like, weirdly protective of you right now.” Your surprised laughter launches you into another hacking fit, and Steve’s own smile is guilty as lets go of your face, rubbing your shoulder. “Seriously! I couldn’t give a shit if I’m going to get sick. You look all sad and vulnerable, I feel like a bear or something is going to come in here and you’re too weak to protect yourself, so now it’s my job.”

“You w—” You press a hand to your chest, tiny tears squeezing out of the corners of your eyes. “—wouldn’t have protected me from a bear before?”

Steve grins. “And your voice sounds hot like this, too.”

Your coughing worsens again. You shoot him a look to say Stop making me laugh, but you don’t really want him to.

“This is what does it for you?” you croak.

He shrugs. “I’m just saying, there are silver linings.”

You don’t argue as Steve unwraps another cough drop and passes it to you, placing it in your mouth as he resumes his work on your headache. You suppose there are.

320 notes · View notes

we-out-here-simping · 4 months

Text

Kiss it away, honey.

(s.h. x reader)

from the river to the sea. (get in your daily clicks, read about it, donate if you can.)

summary: you have a perfect and loving boyfriend, and everything should be great but something is just not right.

word count: 6.7k

warnings: use of y/n, no pronouns used (gn!reader), use of pet names (honey, etc), codependency, dark themes, a new flavor of jealousy, horror (spookies and scawies), gore, murder

a/n: yall remember when i was yapping about clones and all that? yeah. I went a lil feral while writing this lmao✌️🤪

another banger by @procrastinationprincesses and I on tumblr dot com. Thank her for listening to me babble on and just helping me sift through the different routes this could go and also being what is basically my proofreader

i might write a part two of this. do not ask me when.

masterlist

You haven’t changed out of your work clothes yet, staring at the phone on the wall.

It was silent now but it had rung, blaring, louder than you'd ever heard it before. Five times it had rung.

5 calls– 5 missed calls. Unknown number. No voicemail.

You hadn't picked up. You had just stared, you weren’t sure why– the ringing scared you. you weren't sure why but every fiber in your being had coloured you stuck– immovable even if you wanted to do otherwise.

Now it had stopped, empty as vacuum, dead quiet left in the wake of those shrill rings.

And just when you were about to let out a sigh of relief, just when you thought you could finally get to changing out of your work clothes, it started ringing again, your temples hurt from its shrill notes.

Your nostrils flared, you will not cower, no, you huff of frustration before stomping towards the phone. Its red plastic is just as bright as it had been when you had first gotten it with Steve.

It's probably just a prank call. It's a prank call. A stupid kid doing a stupid prank call. Why the hell is your heartbeat so loud?

You pick up the receiver, gripping it tight, ready to give the prank caller a piece of your mind.

Hello? Hey you stupid shithole, find something better to do with your stupid, pathetic life, why dont ya’? Good fucking night.

“He– hello?”, your voice comes out nowhere near as fierce as you had wanted it to be.

The line is silent for a second or two. But then you hear a gasp and then some rustling, crackle. You strain your ears, the sounds seemingly impossible to decipher, “hello, who– who is this?”

You think you hear muffled crying, after a few seconds they finally speak up, “y/n”, their voice is of a woman's. “y/n–” is all they choke out before breaking out into a sob. She says your name as if she hasn't said it in a long while, as if she can't believe she’s saying it. And you don’t know why but you feel your eyes sting. You press the receiver closer to your ears, the plastic creaks under your grip. you think you recognise her. The realisation hits you that you do. She sounds familiar.

“y/n, my baby where–” you hear a click, followed by beep beep beep beep, indicating that the call has been disconnected. This time you blink, a tear finally trickles down your cheek. You stare at the receiver, the beeping barely audible. You take in a deep breath, and dial the number again, waiting for the ring or the woman’s voice.

The ring never comes, her voice never comes. Invalid number.

You stare at it. If you were to look any harder, you think the plastic would melt. Too many thoughts were running through your head. And why the hell are you crying?

You hear the jingle of keys followed by the sound of the door opening. You tear your burning gaze away from the phone to the clock. 7:08 p.m.

“Steve?”

“Yeah!” he answers back immediately, you hear the door shut, the keys in his hand jingle again followed by the clink of them landing in the ceramic ashtray-turned-bowl next to the door where you keep your keys.

Any other day you would have walked to him, and even if he’d be in the middle of taking his shoes off he’d stop, give you a loving smile, hold his arms up, ready to engulf you into a hug. Any other day, you would have wrapped your arms around his torso, kissed his shoulder before burying your nose into his neck.

He is the only one who could ever fix you, everyday you come from work, bags under your eyes, tired to your bones and everyday he comes and puts you all back together as if it was the easiest thing to do, as if he was made for it. And you want to go to him so bad. Any other day, you would have. But today doesn't seem like any other day.

“Hey honey”, he finally comes around the corner and he gives you that smile you love being on the receiving end of, all lazy and adorning, “haven't changed out yet?”

You look back down at yourself, and you see that you had still been stuck, body still facing the wall where the phone hung. you indeed haven't changed out yet. You barely shake your head before his brows scrunch up, “You okay? Your eyes look all red”

You blink before shaking your head, “Uh, yeah, yeah. I’ll go ch–”

Ring-ring. Ring-ring.

What you were saying is left abandoned, your head snaps towards where the phone is.

“I’ll get it. You go change,” Steve tells you, not noticing your immediate panic. As he ambles to the phone, you slowly shuffle away– moving towards the bathroom, making sure to listen in on the conversation. “Hello?” you hear him speak into the receiver, he pauses for a second and so do you in your tracks, “..oh hey, Henderson'', you breathe out in relief at hearing the familiar name, “Yeah, yep, doing good. How’s the new place treatin’ ya?”

The audibility of his words lessens as you continue on your way to the bathroom. In the small, tiled room, your own breathing echoes, it engulfs you. you immediately regret not just changing in your room because you can't hear Steve’s voice anymore. But you have already locked the door. You weren’t sure why you did– maybe it was your uneasiness and apprehension but normally you never lock the door because your ever clingy Steve loves joining you in, majority of the time there is nothing sexual about it. Most of the time he just stands there by the door, that same adorning smile on his lips.

When you step out of your jeans, it rings in your brain, again and again. The piercing ringing of the phone, the woman’s voice. You know that voice. You know that voice. You know that woman, you are certain. It is like its on the tip of your tongue, like it is obscured behind a frosted glass, like an itch you can’t scratch.

A knock on the bathroom door breaks you out of your thoughts, “uh honey?” the voice comes muffled through the wood, “Are you done? Need to take a piss.”

“Yeah, just–” you quickly hop into your shorts, balling up your dirty clothes and tossy them into the laundry basket before unlocking the door.

And he is there, that smile blooms across his face, “there you are”, and then his lips are on yours, his wide palm comes to hold your face, thumb rubbing softly at your cheeks— he’s a tactile being, your boyfriend, loves holding your face, loves holding you, touching you anywhere.

When his fingers burrow into your hair behind your ear, you somehow manage to breathe out between the deepening kisses, “Thought you had to take a piss”

“Don't bring up pissing when I’m kissing you”

“Oh, but its okay when you wanna hold my hand while pooping?” He once told you he’d hold your hand while pooping if you’d let him– he had been absolutely drunk, maybe high off weed– inebriated, really and didn't remember saying it the next day. you love to tease him about it. he groans at the mention.

“I was high”, he whines, embarrassed, “I told you I didn't mean it.”

“Drunk words… sober thoughts, honey.”

“You said it was endearing”

“It is endearing but still a weird thing to say”, you laugh all toothy and cute.

“Whatever, I gotta piss”, he mumbles trying his best to hide his smile before moving you by your shoulders to swap places with you so it’s him who is in the bathroom. He shuts the door, the sound of the lock clicking never reaches your ears.

You’re left alone with your thoughts again, and your smile fades away– you’re anxious, you know that much. You’re not so sure of what exactly. You plop down on the edge of the bed, leg bouncing restlessly, finger tracing over the pattern of the sheets. The pillows and comforter are set up perfectly for the night– every morning Steve sets the bed while you shower knowing you always get frustrated with the task.

Your back sinks into the mattress, you breathe out, deep and slow, eyes closing on their own accord. You almost fall asleep for a second, but the bathroom door clicks open. A few seconds later, the bed dips beside you, the fabric rustles, “tired?” the question is followed by a groan. When you peak a look, you find him stretching out his arms beside you.

“Absolutely”, you answer.

“Yeah, me too,” he sighs out.

“We still have to make food.”

He lets a frustrated groan tumble from his lips, “can't we just have mac and cheese today?”

…

The night goes by in a breeze, not a lot of talking.

The love is still there though, in the way that Steve holds the corner of the open cabinet door to make sure your head doesn't hit it, in the way he lets you sit on the countertop while waiting for the water to boil over, in the way you stare at him when you think he isn't looking, in the way you pull his hand over your lap and massage the tight muscles of his palm while he stirs the pot with his other hand.

You put on his favourite show when he plates the food, he makes sure to put some chives on your plate to make it look a little more pretty for you. You watch the show in silence, eating under the flickering light of the tv. You let it play in the background while you wash the dishes, it is Steve who watches you this time, his head resting against the cabinets behind him. and he thinks he could watch you all day. Something about doing the most mundane things with you makes him feel all warm and lovely. He is sure that past anything grand and dramatic, its the everyday things that show love. He hopes in every world, he gets to hold you and love you. He thinks he'll give it all up just to be with you, just to watch you wash dishes, just to have you sit beside him while he cooks.

When the dishes are done, he makes sure the doors are locked, you turn off the lights and the TV. Before you know it you’re in bed, and before you know it, you’re already falling asleep.

…

At first you weren’t sure why you were awake. Then you hear shuffling behind you, and you barely even roll over when there is a warm hand on your hip, “honey,” he whispers– voice all scratchy and low that makes you melt, you hum for a response, “I’m sorry honey, wake up please”, his tone is slightly rushed, you’re a bit more awake at that.

Barely did you sit up when he engulfs you in a tight hug. You hold him back without a thought or hesitation. Your hand rubs his back, his arms tighten around you, nose nudging into your neck, his skin warm. your fingers find their place in his messy head of hair like they always do, you card through the strands. He pulls you closer, and then you're in his lap. He holds you like a boy holds his favourite toy– like he doesn't plan on letting go.

“Want some water?” After some time you ask softly. You feel him nod into the junction of your neck.

He loosens his hold on you enough for you to climb out of his lap. Not saying a word, he follows you to the kitchen, and he stays close when you pour him a glass. He is mid-gulp when you ask, “nightmare?”

He nods once, the rogue strands on his forehead bouncing with the movement, and downs the water before saying a soft ‘yeah’.You take the glass from his hands and place it in the sink, and lead him back to bed.

You brush aside his disheveled hair. You tuck yourself into his side, an arm around him, “wanna talk about it?” you ask softly, fringernails scratching his faint stubble.

In the dim of the room, you see his adam's apple bob. Apparently, he does want to talk about it, because he nods– the movement barely noticeable but there. You put your head back on his chest and you wait patiently, trying your best not to fall back to slumber.

It takes him a while before he starts, “You were…” his hand moves to hold yours, “you were sick–in the hospital, these wires and tubes attached to you. Y-You had been there for months. You were sick and you wouldn't talk to me, wouldn't even look at me. And– and…. Then the– the damn heart monitor–”

“Honey–”

His words are frantic and uneven, “I didnt– I didnt know what to do after. I didn’t–”

“Steve—” you hold his face to make him look at you, “I'm here.”

He licks his lips, then swallows, nodding. he pushes his face forward so your foreheads are touching. “I know", his nose is hot against yours, "it was still awful.”

You both lay that way for a while. Your thumb brushing against his red cheek, he sniffles a couple times. you hate seeing him this way, with his lashes clumped together, his beautiful eyes all red. The moisture glistening under his eyes doesn't let you fawn over his freckles like you'd normally wish to.

When his skin is a little less warm, and his heartbeat calmer beneath your fingertips, you kiss him. Your hand snakes up to hold his face. Fingers, softly rubbing over the spot behind his ear that makes him melt. You kiss him all slow and purposefully, so he knows that he has all the time in the world.

When you pull away, he murmurs, “Can we go back to sleep?” he pulls you closer, face burying into your neck, warm puffs of breath against your collarbones.

You land a quick kiss on his eyebrow before resting your chin above his head, “‘course”

...

You wake up to the alarm clock on Steve’s side of the bed. He turns off the thing before rolling around in your arms onto his back and then turning his head to face you. “Hi”, he smiles that way again and you do the same, sleepy as ever.

“Hi”, you say still half asleep– you ended up not getting a lot of sleep last night. Thankfully you had the day off today, so you plan on being unproductive and sleeping it away.

He stretches, a yawn escaping him, “Jesus, I so don't wanna go to work today”, your boyfriend laments.

You hum, “then don't go” you propose, eyes still closed, “We can both have a day off”

He turns his body so it faces you, leaning on his elbow. His hand moves to your waist before massaging the love handle there “hmm, tempting. I can't though”

“No fun”, you mumble groggily.

“Hey, don't fall asleep on me”, he brushes the hair that falls on your face with the back of his hand.

"But ‘m sleepy", you mumble into the pillow.

"Aw, don't worry, I will kiss it away, honey." He leans down, a smirk painted across his features. His soft lips land on your cheeks first, then one on your nose, they follow a trail that leads to your lips.

You hide your face in the pillow before your lips could meet though, “No, No kissing!” you giggle, holding up your palm to his face, effectively blocking his attacks, “no kissing before brushing your teeth!"

“You're no fun”, he rolls out of the twist of sheets. He stretches his arms, the muscles rippling beneath the skin– he's trying to entice you, seduce you. and if you weren't so damn sleepy, you would have climbed him up like a koala. He gets up to go to the bathroom. When he notices that you haven't moved, he pulls you by your ankle. You let out a surprised shriek that transforms into giggles when you feel his fingers creeping up your torso– tickling you. ”Here comes the tickle monster!”

A fit of giggles erupts from your throat, "What are you–", your question gets interrupted by your own laughs.

"The tickle monster will not relent unless you wake up!"

“No! Okay, okay, I'm awake! Steve! I am awake!”

The two of you share the cramped space of the bathroom. It is small, but its the best you could afford. So when you brush your teeth together, you try to relish it when your elbows bump. And when you're done, he kisses you as if he waited ages.

By now, you're a bit more awake so you decide to get his breakfast ready while he takes a shower. It's simple enough, waffles with banana and some coffee. When he comes back out, he kisses you again when he sees you at the stove, this time on the crown of your head.

When he is getting his keys to leave, he gives you another peck, “drive safe", you murmur against his lips..

“I will. You get some sleep, yeah?” you hum and nod in response. You both bid your goodbyes before he turns to leave.

You decide to eat the leftover waffles and clean up a little before returning to your bed. You make yourself a plate with the bananas neatly cut and placed beside the waffles. You drizzle maple syrup, and then start eating the sickly sweet breakfast, skipping the coffee. While you're pouring yourself a second helping of the maple syrup, the expiration date on the bottle catches your eye. expired more than a year ago. ew.

Your face scrunches in disgust before immediately throwing it in the trash. And you wonder how the hell either of you hadn't gotten food poisoning yet. then it hits you, from what you remember you bought that bottle only a couple months ago. Did you buy an already expired one?

You open the fridge, the condiments and bottles staring at you. One by one, you check each and every one; ketchup, expired. Hot sauce, expired. Whipped cream, chocolate sauce, milk– expired, expired, expired.

What the fuck?

You throw it all out and make a point to call Steve later to buy everything as he often calls to ask if you had to get something from the store. And that makes you wonder, when was the last time you actually told him he needed to get something?

You try not to think too much about it. Honestly, you don't know what to make of it, so you decide to go back to sleep.

…

You hear your name. Its faint. It echoes. Like a whisper in a church.

“y/n”, you know that voice. “I– I know you’re there, y/n”, the woman says, all shaky but sure. “y/n”, she repeats. Its that voice… again.

Who are you?

“Its me, y/n! Its me!” she exclaims as if that would make you remember.

I don't ... understand.

“Baby, just tell me where you are– I'll find you.”

I’m home.

“Home? No– no baby, you’re not. You haven't been home—” her voice gets cut off. It becomes too loud. You feel as if the veins in your temple are going to explode. Its too loud to even tell what it is you’re hearing. Its a static like a radio or a TV, or maybe its wind, maybe its cars, maybe its screams. You think you hear sirens– you wonder if they’re the police or an ambulance. You hear your own breathing, your own heartbeat. Its deafening. And beneath it all, you hear….. Ringing.

Ring-ring. Ring-ring.

Your eyes fling open and you see your ceiling, you smell the faded mixture of your perfume and Steve's cologne. You’re in your bed. You still hear the ringing. The phone.

You are up in a second. Rushing towards the origin of the sound. When you’re there, you dont wait a second, the plastic is already to your ear.

“Hell– hello?” it comes out all out of breath and broken.

“Honey, you’re– you okay?” its not the voice of that woman.

“...Steve?”

“Who else?”, he chuckles, “you okay?”

“Uh– yeah,”you clear your throat, “I was um– sleeping. I think I just had a dream..” your hand creeps up to the back of your neck, scratching there to try to alleviate a little bit of the ache.

“Oh, well okay sleepy. I just wanted to check if you need me to buy anything? Like, groceries or whatever on my way back.” you give him the entire list of everything you wanted him to get. You would've talked more if Steve hadn't been interrupted by a customer. Nevertheless, you said your 'I love you's and the call ended.

Your heart is still loud in your ears but the ache has dulled down for the most part.

that voice. that woman.

Its me.

I’ll find you.

You haven't been home.

"Home..", you say out loud to yourself. Home.

...

Hours have passed. you think you’re losing your mind because you have turned the apartment upside down. you're surrounded by boxes, most of them filled with normal things, your tattered rollerskates, shoes, old clothes. Most of it was normal, except one.

One unlabeled box you found in the corner of your closet. You haven't touched that box in ages, not since your fallout with your family, lying out of sight and out of mind. It didn't have a lot, all packed in a hurry. things you'd had in your room. picture frames, some books, clothes, papers.

You pick up a frame. The picture was from when you were a twelve-year-old. Wearing what were your favourite clothes back then, your hair in a manner that made you feel a little sorry. You're so different now, yet somehow its still you. There's your older sister, her braces glimmering under the flash of the old camera– her smile wide. Your dad, who doesn't ever know how to pose in pictures. Your mom, she holds you and your sister by your shoulders, a soft smile on her lips, her makeup done perfectly. Another picture from your high school. Another of you with your sister and cousins.

You pull out the books, the pages are slightly yellowed and they have an earthy smell to them that you love. Pages you don't remember reading, dog-eared and written in.

Then there's the papers– some doodles, some notes, a few maps, some scraps and then.... a file. the file that has your name written on it. And when you open it; medical papers. medical bills. They are a little more than a year old. This wasn't a small stay apparently. From what you can tell from the dates on the bills, it lasted months. You don't remember going to the hospital.

Okay, what the actual fuck?

You find yourself reading through all the details of the paper on the floor of your closet.

months. you had been there for months. Steve's dream.

The entire time, you read and re-read the papers. Why don't you remember any of this? Why does Steve not remember any of this? Maybe he does, he had that dream after all, right? Why are there no discharge papers?

Hours pass. It's maddening, how slow the time passes. Its absolutely maddening. What the fuck does it mean that you haven't been home? You are home. and who the fuck was that woman?

You look through the box again, its contents scattered around you by now. The photos. Your family. Your parents. You miss them. You haven't seen them in so long...

Some broken memories have come to you. You had left– run away. You don't remember why. Then you met Steve when you were stopping by in Hawkins for a few months. You fell in love so quickly. Then one day, you asked if he wanted to run away with you. He said yes and you both left Hawkins and came here.

You don't remember much after that.

Wait, where is hawkins? and why did you go there?

...

It is 7 p.m. and you are pretty sure you have lost your mind. Why isn't Steve home yet? You need Steve. He's the only one who could ever fix you. And now, you need him to fix you again. You need him to fix this, to make some sense of this.

You are sitting by the door, eyes fixated on the hands of the clock.

7:01, nothing. Your arms fidget.

7:02, nothing. Your leg bounces.

7:03, 7:04, 7:05, 7:06, 7:07; nothing, nothing, nothing.

Then, 7:08 p.m., rattle of keys and the sound of the door being closed. Steve. Steve is home. Steve.

You're up on your feet instantly, Steve comes in holding a bag of groceries in one hand and his keys in the other, “I was so worried about you!” you say all hysterical.

“Worried, why?" he says, almost chuckling, but his brows furrow before he looks down at his wristwatch, shaking his head,"I don't think I’m late.” He leans in to land a kiss on your lips, but before he could do so, you turn your head away, “whats– whats wrong?”

“Can I ask you something?” you wrap your arms around your torso to somehow collect your thoughts a little better.

"Sure", he assures before moving to put the grocery bag on the beige kitchen counter.

You follow behind him with hurried steps, "When did we buy groceries before this?"

He starts taking out the groceries, "um.. I don't–” he pauses, looking up as if trying to remember himself, “last month probably?" Confusion paints his face, "why?"

"All the stuff in our fridge had gone bad ages ago."

"What?"

“Have you talked to your friends recently? Where are they?” All your attempts to collect your thoughts are all for nought as questions come tumbling out of your lips and you don't even wait for Steve to give a response.

“Honey, why are you–”

“Okay, okay– what about that nightmare you had?”

“Nightmare?” he echoes, brows scrunching together as if he had no idea what you were talking about, “what nightmare?” he asks like he hadn't cried in your arms the previous night.

“Last night! You had a nightmare that I was in a hospital and– and then I was looking through our closet and I find these medical bills–

“Woah, honey. I didn’t have a nightmare. I think I'd remember something like that.. And– what bills?”

Your feet are moving before he even finishes his sentence, you grab the bundle of papers, you show him everything. And he just... stares at them. After some time, all that comes out of his mouth is a “what the fuck...” under his breath.

“I don't understand Steve, I don't remember, you don't remember. And there was this call yesterday–”

“Call? what– from who?”

“From– “ you pause, trying to remember, “ I– I dont…” from who? And then you feel everything you had recalled leaving you. Who called you? What was Steve's nightmare?

“I don't remember!" you exclaim, frustrated, "why do– I'm so– I'm scared Steve. I’m–”

“Hey, it's okay. you have me honey, you have me”, he holds you by your shoulders, to provide you some semblance of comfort, "we'll figure something out.”

“Steve….”, you mumble, tears starting to collect on your lash line, “something's not right Steve…”

“Its okay..”

“No, no– I dont– I keep forgetting stuff. Why don't I remember anything?”

“Hey, honey—”

“And whatever I do remember; none of it makes sense– nothing makes sense!"

“Its okay–”

“Do not tell me to breathe–”, “breathe for me–” you warn him the exact same time he says it.

You have lost it. You have lost your mind. Eyes wide, you ask, “Why do I already know what you’re going to say? How is that– “

“Hey, hey look at me”, he holds your face in his warm palms, “Breathe for me”, he instructs, “please honey.”

“Steve”, you pull his hands away from your face not because you don't want him to hold you. You do, you want him to hold you forever, but dammit, you feel like you’re going crazy, “where did we meet?”

“Honey–”

“Where did we meet?”

“Family video! We met in Family Video! You just came in one day and asked if I could help you pick out a movie to lift your mood up”

“Where is family video? Like, what town? Wh– what state?”

“..Hawkins, Indiana”

“Steve.. There's no town named Hawkins in Indiana”

“Of course ther–”

“No– no. You can look in a map steve. There was a map in one of those boxes. No town named Hawkins. And then– those papers...” you gesture towards the papers in his hand. You stand there, impatiently so, as he scans over the papers once again. For a split second, you think you see a tinge of recognition in his eyes.

“What does it mean, Steve? Then your dream last night–”, he hands you the papers before turning towards the door.

“Steve, hey, steve!” He heads towards the apartment door. “Steve, come back here!” he doesn't stop, doesn't even spare a glance, his movement robotic. Your voice gets louder, more authoritative, angry “Steve! Come back here right the hell now.”

He doesn't stop, not for his keys, not to tie his shoes. Not for you. Tears cloud your vision and your words come out all desperate and weak, “Steve please! Please don't leave me..”

The door slams shut. Its loud, the silence after it.

“No..” you whimper to yourself. Tears, finally streaming down your face.

He'll come back, you know he'll come back, sooner or later. He’ll come back to you. Steve wouldn't leave you. He couldn't.

You wait by the door. hours pass. You fall asleep waiting for him.

…

You wake up to the smell of something sweet in the air. When you open your eyes, you’re on the couch. But you don't have time to think about whether your neck will hurt for the rest of the day because Steve is there, standing over the stove– his back facing you.

“Steve?” your voice comes out croaky.

“Y’wake baby?” he turns to take a glance at you. The furrow between his brows you saw the previous night gone. He smiles softly when you nod dumbly at the rhetorical question, “Well brush your teeth I’m making pancakes”

“Steve..”

He notices that you don’t move, your gaze fixed on him. “Hey, what's wrong?” he leaves the batter he was working on on the counter before walking towards you, “You okay?”

“I’m sorry”

He kneels down infront of you, holding your hands in his– he smells like vanilla from up this close, “Sorry, for what?”

“Yesterday… I didn't mean to upset you. I just– I was–”

“What would I be upset for?”

“Last night.. I–”

“baby, I’m not upset”

“But you just left and..” you sniffle, “when did you come back?”

“I didn't leave. I was here the entire time”, he shook his head, confused.

“But– I… “

“I think you had a dream honey. Freshen up, kay? I’ll bring breakfast. I think we should rot in bed the entire day today. Get some sleep. How’s that sound, honey?”

You nod, he smiles as he pulls you in for a quick kiss, “Good thing we both have the day off– thank jesus for sundays”

…

7:08 p.m. that is what Steve's wristwatch reads and he is standing at your apartment door. Steve isn't sure why he is back. He isn't sure why he left. Maybe he needed some time. And spending nearly an entire day alone... he remembers things. things he wishes he could forget again.

Although Steve is unsure about a lot of things. one thing is for certain. He loves you. He loves you like he was made for it... and he was.

He was made for loving you and not loving you is not living. He's been there before, not having you to love, he remembers the torture of it. You still don't recall it yet and he doesn't want you to, but he does. He remembers it all. All the hurt, the loneliness, the grief, the silence.

The grief that was too much to bear. Silence was unbearable when it wasn't mixed with your heartbeat.

When he turns the door handle– the door isn't locked. He steps in slowly.

He can hear the TV playing, you're on the couch. there's someone else with you. Its him.

Steve watches as he sits between your thighs on the couch– his place, your fingers playing with his hair. He readjusts his head as if can’t quite find a comfortable spot, “You okay?” you ask as gently as you always do.

“Uh, yeah its just–” he sounds just like him, “I just have this nick in my neck”, he says rubbing the back of his neck.

“Here, let me…” you mumble sweetly as your expert fingers move to where he said it ached.

He sees you dig that spot a little with your thumb, “Ah, thanks honey” he almost melts, and it makes him groan the way that always drew a groan out of Steve.

Steve doesn't mind you made him, you probably didn't even know you did, you're powerful like that. But Steve feels something bubble inside him– maybe this is what jealousy feels like. Steve watches, watches as you touch him. He digs his nails into his palm, he feels the urge to touch where you are touching him. He wonders what he would feel when his thumb would run over that area.

His fingers rise on their own accord. Skin barely touching skin, almost hovering. And then he feels… a bump. He isn't sure how to describe it but he knows that that isn't supposed to be there. Not normally, anyway.

He watches as your expert fingers move up into his hair, he always loved when you did that to him.

His own fingers move higher into his hair. He feels another– another protrusion, another bump.

Steve knows what those are, he knows not to press down on them. You have them too. You have them where he holds you when he kisses you. Its the reason you don't remember, its the reason he didn't remember. Just for a day, he didn't have you to hold him like the way you always do and now he remembers.

Steve watches as he leans down to kiss you. And all Steve sees is red. He doesn’t have control over him as he stomps over to where the two of you were. Your heads snap towards the sound. Confusion flashes through both your features.

“y/n”, Steve says. He watches as your eyes flick between himself and the other. Your eyes land on his. Of course you know he is the real Steve. You made him.

He holds a protective hand infront of you, “y/n”, he sounds like him, “y/n, get inside”, he nods towards your bedroom door.

“Look, man I dont know who the fuck you are. But you need to leave”, Steve hates him, he sounds nothing like him. objectively that might not be true, but he isn't him.

“You don't know who I am? Fucking look at me"

“y/n get inside”, Steve doesn't like how he says your name, how he shouts it. It sounds nothing like him.

Steve lets you go, he doesn’t want you to see this.

You can't look away despite not being able to see much through the sliver of the slightly ajar bedroom door. It is only when he lands a punch on Steve, that you move away from the door– eyes closing on themselves.

You hear shouts. Then thuds, knuckles hitting jaws. Some more thuds and then a loud crack. Then nothing. Its becomes too quiet.

You quietly step even further away from the door when you hear footsteps approaching, until you feel your back hit the wall.

The hinges of the slightly ajar door creak. and he is there. Your Steve.

He has a split lip, bruises blooming on his cheekbones. Blood splattered on his jeans, on his hands, his arms. He lifts his arm to wipe his bleeding lip, more so smearing the blood in the process. Your eyes water, heartbeat too damn loud in your ears, eyes wide as a doe.

“It's Steve. your Steve”, he reassures you, holding your face by your chin. From up this close, the blood on him doesn't look quite like blood. Its too dark, too shiny, more viscous than it should be and it doesn't seem to clot. “I’m gonna take care of you, okay?”

“But you already know that. dont you, honey?” Steve coos oh so gently as he thumbs over your cheeks to rid you of the tear stains. He feels sorry when the action instead makes the blood on his hands smear across your skin. He regrets it immediately, to have tainted you with it. He is sorry you have to see all this, to see him like this.

Steve knows he'll give it all up for you. If he ever had something to give, he would give it all up, just like you did.

Ring-ring. Ring-ring.

“It's for you, honey.”

He moves aside so you can go to the phone. It rings loud as it did earlier. You move past the kitchen, you don't see him– not entirely. He is on the floor, you see his hand around the corner of the kitchen counter, lifeless, a pool of that blood surrounding him. The corner of the kitchen counter drips with the liquid, forming a stark contrast against the light beige.

You move past the kitchen counter, eyes not daring to look at him or Steve, you don't turn around to see if Steve is there watching. You know he is.

You move to the bright red phone that is still ringing, blaring. You pick it and hold it up to your ear, “hello?”

“y– y/n? y/n its– it's me”, that woman says. And somehow, now, you know who she is. “it's me, do you–”

“Mom?” you say it before you even realise you did.

“Oh my goodness! Yes baby, it's– it's me!”

“I’m sorry mom, I had to.”

“y/n, what–”

“I have to go now.”

“y/n, no– no. Please don't hang up–” click.

“There you go honey", you feel Steve's warm hands on your shoulder, he rubs into the tense muscles there– surely staining your shirt with the liquid, "there you go."

You turn around and you see his eyes-- beautiful coffee coloured things, moles littered across his skin just the way you've memorized to heart. That smile, adorning and warm as ever. He holds you like he always does, thumb on your cheek, palm holding your face.

He holds you like he was made for it. Your cheek fit perfectly in his palm as if you were made for him. You were made for each other.

You lean in closer and then your lips meet. It isn't hard and fast. Its slow and deep. Like you have all the time in the world, and you do.

When you pull apart and look at him, its just him. Your Steve.

You don't even remember what it was you had been worried about. All you see is Steve, all you feel is Steve. Your lover, your home, your family, your everything. It's all Steve.

You smile up at Steve and everything is right. The blood he had smeared on you was gone. The counter was clean. He was gone. Everything is right, once again.

"So", he starts, walking towards the stove, "what are we feelin' today? pancakes with blueberries, strawberries, or plain ol' choco-chip?"

"Is there an ‘all of the above’ option?"

"For you? always."

...

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader angst #steve harrington angst #steve harrington x reader fluff #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington hurt/comfort #stranger things #dark!steve harrington #steve harrington stranger things #steve harrington x gn!reader

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eds6ngel · 1 year

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Hello lovely I was hoping you could do a Steve with a kid fic! Reader is Steve’s kid’s teacher and they have a parent/teacher meeting and Steve falls for her!

Love you and your writing 💋

✎ when i kissed the teacher | part one

firstly, thank you so much for the compliment darling!! secondly, you are one lucky person as i've decided to make this into a multi-part series! i've always been a massive fan of dad!___ x reader, so i've taken it upon myself to create a series out of it! i'm aiming for four or five parts, but we will see where it takes us <33

warnings: dad!steve. singledad!steve. 90s!au. fem!reader. mentions of bad mother. deep talks about life. swearing. slow burn. mutual pining. pet names. fluff. comfort. steve's daughter is the cutest. more warnings as the chapters commence! [4.9k].

“All right my loves!” you yell calmly to the children, them waving at their parents from the glass window, the group excited to head home after a tough day of school. “Come and sit on the rug for me, I have one more thing for you all before you get to go home!”

A bunch of chatter and pattering feet can be heard as the six-year-olds bounce over to the colourful, spotted rug, each plopping themselves down and crossing their legs as they look up at you with eager eyes.

You cross your arms and put your finger up to your lips, the children copying you and nudging their friends to look up at you and replicate your action. The final kid finally turned his eyes towards you and copied you, you shaking your head and smiling, “What took you so long Harry?”

He frowns slightly, “I’m sorry Miss, I wasn’t paying attention.”

If there’s one thing you could call a success in your teaching, it would be the ability for your kids to reflect on where they went wrong. It was one of the most important things they could learn as they grow.

“It’s okay honey, just remember to use those listening ears to hear your friends quieten down next time, okay?”

He nods as all of the kids sit with their hands tucked between their crossed legs, you now knowing that everyone was completely focused. “Firstly,” you smile softly, “You have all made amazing progress today, I’m very proud of each and every one of you.”

You can see each of them smile brightly, bouncing in their sitting position, especially the less-able kids, they deserved some extra love with all the hard work they put in to improve.

“Secondly,” you say, leaning over and grabbing a neat stack of papers, “Next week is your parent-teacher meetings! So, I’m each going to give you a letter and I want you to give it to your mommy or daddy, okay?”

The children nod, you smiling and standing up, giving each of them a letter. Once you put the spare sheets on the side, you say to them, “Okay, as always, stay seated and I’ll call you up if I see your mommies or daddies, okay?”

You walk over to the window, peering out to see two different parents stood next to each other: Mr. Byers and Mr. Harrington. Mr. Harrington, who from day one insisted you call by his first name Steve, waved at you, you giving a small smile back as you turn towards both dad’s daughters, “Okay, Ashley! Alena! Your daddies are here!”

The two girls stand up, toddling over to their tables to grab their backpacks, you giggling to yourself as you see how huge they look on their small figures. Ashley is the first to stand in front of you, smiling as you open the door, “Go and see daddy. See you tomorrow!” you say, the girl rushing over as Mr. Byers picks his daughter up, grabbing the sheet she was holding in her hand and heading out of the gate.

As you turn your back, Alena is standing there, grinning at her dad through the open door. Alena was a spunky character. She was super friendly, always willing to help out the other kids and almost always had her hair styled in two un-even pigtails. But, she wasn’t fussed, her hair usually a mess by the end of the day after tumbling around on the grass in the playground. The amount of times you had to bring in the poor girl when she had scraped her knees or elbows was insane, but she always put a brave face on. She was a very cute kid and you were lucky you got to teach her.

“Hello!” you say, pretending to jump at her sudden presence, making the young girl giggle, “Oh, come here my love, your backpack strap is twisted.” You lean down and un-twist the purple backpack strap, swiping the few bread crumbs off of it as you signal to her dad. “There’s your dad, honey. Have a great rest of your day!”

She bounces over to her dad, smiling as she passes him the letter, him taking a quick glance over it as he realises what it was.

He had to spend time talking with you. Just you, him and Alena. Alone.

It was no doubt that Steve knew of his little crush on you. He tried his best to push it to the back of his mind, but with seeing your gorgeous face five times a week, how could he ever forget about your beauty?

Now, he had to practically spend time alone with you. Sure, it was still under professional circumstances, but how was he supposed to concentrate? It was a meeting to talk about his daughter’s school progress, yet his mind treated it like a first date.

Steve looks up from the sheet to see your back turned attending to the other students, Alena tugging at his leg, “Daddy, come on! I wanna go home!”

“Yeah, okay, okay,” he replies, waiting for the moment for you to turn to face the window again, which you do. He can’t stop staring at you as you give him a small wave, Alena waving back at you as you giggle, the girl not knowing that you were in fact waving at her dad, who weirdly couldn’t stop looking at you. Strange.

You divert your eyes to attend to the next kid, Steve snapping out of his trance as Alena continues tugging at his jeans. “Okay pumpkin, I’m going, I’m going.”

He grabs his daughter’s hand as he heads out to the gate, him trying to compose himself at the inevitability of you two talking in private. Hopefully his daughter being there would be enough of a distraction.

Until she wasn’t…

You were setting up your classroom for the day. It was the start of a brand new week, so you knew it was going to be a little bit more tough on your end to get the kids to be quiet. They had curious minds, so they would definitely want to go into excruciating detail about their weekends to their friends.

A knock on the door can be heard as you lay out a worksheet full of math problems on the children’s desks. You turn around, smiling as you see Alena standing there with her dad, sheet of paper held between her small hands. “Good morning Mr. Harrington, and good morning to you too Alena!” you brightly say, her dad replying, “Please, just call me Steve.”

“Well,” you chuckle, “Good morning Steve and Alena. How was your guys’ weekend?” you ask, turning your back as you put out the final worksheets.

“Daddy and I went to the aquarium!” she beams.

“Ooh, that sounds like fun!” you smile widely, “Did you see lots of fish and sea creatures?”

“Uh huh!” she chirps, “I saw clownfish and seahorses and turtles and octopuses!”

“That sounds like you had a great time! But, remember, what do some plural nouns end in?” you ask her, trying to correct her on her simple mistake. Even you didn’t have the answer to why some end in ‘I’ instead of ‘Us,’ it was just another weird variation of the English language.

“Um…” she thinks, “They end in ‘I?’”

“Good job! So, it wouldn’t be octopuses, it would be…”

“Octopi!” she smiles brightly.

You put your last worksheet down as you walk over and ruffle her hair, “Well done!” You look down to the sheet of paper in her hand, “And what is this?” you ask, taking it from her delicate hands.

“Parent-teacher meeting letter,” Steve tells you, “Is it alright if I bring her along? I chose some of the earliest slots as it’s just easier for me to come straight from work to here instead of hiring a babysitter. But, if you just want parents alone, I’ll get a friend to pick her up.”

“No, it’s totally fine Mr. Har— Excuse me, Steve,” you reply, “I’m sure a lot of parents are in the same position as you. You can totally bring her along! It’s also an opportunity for her to hear how she can improve first hand, which is great. So…” you mumble, walking over to your computer and opening up Excel, “Alena… 3:45PM. Is it just you coming or is your wife coming also?”

He freezes up at the mention of his ex. His ex-girlfriend’s name wasn’t on the school system at all as he frankly has nothing to do with her. But, you’re Alena’s teacher, how were you supposed to know his life history? Steve stutters as he thinks of a reply, “I, um… I don’t have a wife…” Shit. Not the answer.

“Oh my Gosh,” you frantically say, looking up at him where he had now entered the classroom and was stood in front of your desk, “I am so sorry. I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had the chance to go through the student’s personal files yet. I apologise for assuming, I really am.”

God, you were too kind. It just made you all the more attractive.

“It’s okay,” Steve sighs, “It’s not even on the record. Well, her mother isn’t mentioned on there for… reasons, so it’s fine really.”

You sympathetically smile, “I may teach children Steve, but I know when an adult is hiding a pain too. Whatever happened, I truly am sorry, and you shouldn’t have to pretend that everything is okay to make others feel comfortable.”

He knew you were right. But, you were the first person to ever say it out loud. To be completely honest with him. No beating around the bush and just accepting his passiveness, you understood how he felt about Alena’s mother, even without the backstory. You’re exactly the kind of person he needs in his life.

You turn your head, sighing with a smile, your head leaning against your intertwined hands. Alena was sat at her desk, grabbing a piece of paper and a couple of crayons from the centre and doodling away. It was a rule in your classroom that no kid was to start their early morning worksheet before the bell rang. That way, no kid felt left behind.

“She’s such a good kid,” you smile, “She’s kind and brave and always completes her work. I’ll obviously tell you more of that on Wednesday, but you’ve done an amazing job raising her, especially as a single dad. I hope you know that.”

Steve looks into your gorgeous eyes, fumbling over his words, stunned at the comments that easily flow out of your mouth. You weren’t afraid to be kind, and that was a beautiful quality. “I try my best,” he awkwardly says, not used to the compliments, “I have a hard time accepting that, but, thank you anyway.”

“Of course,” you softly reply, “You deserve to hear it.”

The two of you stay in silence, the quiet sound of Alena’s crayons scraping across her paper being the only noise in the brightly decorated classroom. Steve rubs the back of his neck and coughs, “Well, I should get going. Head to work and all…” he says, pointing his thumb behind him towards the door.

“Uh, yeah…” you awkwardly reply, “Don’t want you to be late,” you quietly laugh.

“I’ll see you later,” he finalises, referring to when he would pick up his daughter at the end of the day. You nod, Steve heading over to Alena and asking for a kiss which she gives him, before he turns around and heads towards the door, exiting the classroom.

You sit there in contemplation, how did you compliment him so easily? You didn’t do that to other parents, and you knew that a few of them were single moms. Why just him? Why did you feel different towards him?

Steve was feeling a similar way as he pushed the door open out to the main entrance. He swore he wasn’t going crazy, he felt something between the two of you. It couldn’t have just been his crush on his daughter’s school teacher convincing him that. He’s dated women in the past and even they haven’t complimented him to that extent. Even the women he tried to date as Alena was growing up hadn’t dared say anything complimentary about his parenting skills. You were different. You showed him the kind of praise he always wanted.

He was falling in love with his daughter’s teacher.

Your day had gone pretty well. As predicted, the students were extra chatty because of their busy weekends, but you didn’t mind. All of them getting along with minimum bullying in your class is what made you most proud. If they were kind to each other, a little extra talking was good for the mind. They were developing, which means their brains were super busy. It was a sign of healthiness.

All of the parents had shown up on time to collect their kids, which was the biggest accomplishment for you. Usually, at least one parent was running late, so you had to take on the task of guiding them to the front desk to wait for their mom or dad. But, today you were free, meaning you got to go home a little earlier, or so you thought.

As you led the last kid out to their parent, you shut the door, beginning to tidy up the classroom before you drive home. However, a faint knock can be heard against the glass, you turning to see Steve and Alena patiently waiting outside, his larger hand holding her smaller one.

You open the door, you smiling and saying, “Hi guys!” Steve speaking up, “Hi, um… I know you’ve probably filled up a lot of your slots by now, but is it okay if I could change the time for our parent-teacher meeting? Work asked me to stay an extra two hours.”

“Of course!” you reply, walking over to your desk, “I’ve shut down the computer for now, but I’ll make a note in my planner, okay? I keep everything stored twice in case this thing decides to play up.”

“Sounds great.”

You flip through the pages, finding Wednesday’s date and opening the cap to your pen, “Okay. How late are we talking?”

“You have anything after 6PM?” Steve asks, “I can do slightly earlier if it’s a problem for you, but I don’t want to accidentally run late and mess everything up.”

“Not to worry,” you reply, “I’m pretty sure I have after six,” you look down through the list, finding some empty slots after 6PM, “Yes, I do. I have 6:15 and 6:25. Any preference?”

“6:15 would be great, thank you,” he says with a sigh, thankful that his change of work schedule hasn’t messed up yours. You cross out Steve’s 3:45 appointment and re-write him in for 6:15, making sure to update that in the school system tomorrow.

“Also,” he starts, “Is it alright if I get my friend Robin to pick up Alena on Wednesday?”

“Um…” you think, “If you could give me a description of them, that would be helpful. You know, keeping the kids safe and all. Don’t want to give your daughter to any stranger who claims they are your friend, you know?”

“No, I totally get it,” he replies, “She has a dirty blonde coloured hair that, I guess is shoulder length? She has a fringe too, slight wave to her hair. A little shorter than me, so I guess like 5’9-ish. Blue eyes, freckles on her face, she had black painted nails the last time I saw her which was like three days ago. Is that good enough?”

“Yes, let me just write it down so I don’t forget. I’ll confirm with Alena on the day anyway, she’ll probably be excited to see her,” you say, making a note underneath your column of parent-teacher meeting times.

“Oh yeah,” Steve chuckles, “She calls her Auntie Robin, so if she yells that, you have the right person.”

“Great,” you smile, mumbling out, “Okay… Alena picked up by ‘Auntie’ Robin — short, dark blonde hair with fringe, blue eyes, freckles, black nails. Okay, all written down.”

“Thank you,” Steve breathes out, “I’m still on for dropping her off tomorrow and Wednesday, it’s just picking her up Wednesday afternoon that’s the change. Hope it’s not too much of a fuss.”

You wave your hand, “You’re fine, trust me. It’s only one day, you pick her up every single other day on time. Plus, you told me in advance, which many parents have failed to do in the past,” you softly laugh, reminding yourself of the endless days of random people claiming they’ve come to pick up a certain child, you having to go through the endless hassle of contacting the parent to confirm the stranger is who they claim they are.

“Yeah, well, I thought it was best you should know. Hawkins is a scary place, I’m sure you’re well aware,” he awkwardly smiles, trying not to focus of the events that happened just under ten years ago.

“Yeah, not got the best reputation around here,” you laugh, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Well, I guess I will see you in the morning.”

Steve smiles, lifting Alena up onto his hip, “You will. And again, thank you for letting me change the time.”

“No problem at all,” you smile, “Bye Steve. Bye Alena!” you shout, her giving you a big smile and a wave from over Steve’s shoulder. God, she was a cute kid. And her father… Well, he wasn’t bad-looking either.

The parent-teacher meetings had been going well so far. You had conversations with parents that were brave, their kids little mini-me’s of them, to kids you just wanted to save from the inevitable attitude they would someday inherit from their parents. As a teacher, it sometimes felt that you were becoming the mother that the children wish they had.

No parent had actually booked after 6:15, so Steve was your final parent to speak with, and you couldn’t wait to gush about how beautiful of a girl Alena was.

As you bid farewell to Mr. and Mrs. Cromwell, you sigh in your seat, leaning far back and placing your hands on your face. A voice interrupts you, “Not the nicest, huh?”

You move your hands away, leaning forward once again and softly laughing, “Yeah, bit of a silver spoon shoved up there.”

Steve enters the classroom and takes a seat in front of your desk, “I hate parents like that. I heard them from outside saying that you were lying about Rhys. Like, come on man, just accept that your child has flaws. You didn’t even say anything bad!” he exclaims, arms flailing up in the air.

“Right?” you smile widely, “All I said is he needs to improve on his spelling and suddenly I’m the worst person in the world. I never even said it was a bad thing, they came to that conclusion. I don’t expect every child to be perfect at everything, I wouldn’t even say that about Alena, it’s normal for children to have a few tough spots in their education.”

Steve softly smiles, “Well, you’re lucky I won’t complain even if Alena was bad at everything.”

You laugh, “I certainly won’t be doing that. Speaking of, shall we start?”

“Of course.”

“Okay,” you say, flipping through your grade sheets and coming across Alena’s name, “Firstly, grades. I don’t really do a typical grade system, your A-F kind of thing, I actually do it in stars. A bit weird, I know, but it actually helps the kids understand their current learning levels, so I just adopt it as well,” you smile.

Steve grinned at your explanation, actually preferring your way of grading. So what if it was weird? It was different, and he liked that.

“Her spelling is spectacular, 10/10 on her spelling bee last week, 9/10 the week before. Pretty consistent in the top levels there. That would land her in adult talk around an A, so that’s five stars in child’s talk,” you say, turning the page over to the reading section, “Are you aware of our reading levels?”

He furrows his eyebrows, “I can’t remember what the highest level is again.”

“Not to worry,” you reply, looking him in the eye, “So we do levels 1-6. One obviously being the lowest, six being the highest. Six is very rare in this class, just for warning. I think I only have two students on level six, so don’t panic that Alena’s not there yet. She’s on level four, which is just above average, a B grade if you will. Plenty of room for improvement, so I’m not overwhelmingly worried.”

Steve laughs, “Definitely a change from me. I can’t spell for shit,” he freezes, “Sorry, I shouldn’t curse, should I?”

You chuckle, “We’re technically out of school hours, curse all you want honey.”

Honey. That was new.

“Now,” you say, flipping over to the next page, “She is struggling a little with math. I’ve noticed that she gets her numbers confused around a little. When counting on her fingers, sometimes she skips a number or goes ‘3, 2, 3.’ And that has sadly affected her in other subjects. We sometimes do timelines in history, and her switching up of numbers means she’ll put a date from the 1500’s in front of the 1600’s. So, she’s currently on two stars, which is sadly a D in normal grades. But, it is only simple mistakes. If she doesn’t get those numbers mixed up, she’ll naturally bump herself up to a B, possibly even an A. I was wondering if you could help me out with this next part.”

“Of course,” Steve replies, “Anything to help my pumpkin.”

You smiled to yourself. What a cute nickname.

You pass him over a couple sheets of paper, “Since I have fifteen kids to teach, sometimes it’s a little hard to notice the mistakes Alena is making before I mark her work, and the markings do equate to the grades. So, I have some math problems here, and I was wondering if you could maybe help her at home? Try and get her out of the habit of skipping numbers or mixing them up. That way, if you know they’re right, you can bring them in, I’ll mark them, and they’ll bump up her grade. Also, the affect of you getting her out of the habit will probably help her in class too.”

He takes the sheets off of you, “Totally, I’m on it. She’s still doing better than I ever did at school, so that’s always a bonus,” he slightly chuckles.

You smile, shaking your head, “To be honest, as humans, we’re not supposed to be good at everything. I shouldn’t really tell you my thoughts on this, but the education system is designed for competition. The idea is that kids are supposed to be good at everything, which is utter bullshit to me. Alena is probably just not gifted at math, and that’s okay.” You sigh, “But, because of the system design, if she wants to graduate first grade, she’ll need to get at least a C in math.”

Steve smirks, “Ain’t that the truth. But, I understand. Math homework will be on the agenda for this weekend,” he smiles.

You close your book, “That’s the main grades done. Writing is also very on point, she can trace the letters almost perfectly. It’s just removing that guide now and seeing how she does without it,” you smile.

“Great,” Steve agrees.

“Now, I’ve done this with every parent tonight, so I’m just going to talk about how Alena is as a growing human, because no amount of grades will ever outweigh personality, and it definitely won’t for Alena. She’s is such a sweet girl. She’s always willing to help others, easily makes friends due to her kind persona and has really respectable manners,” you explain, “I mean, you saw what she was like on Monday morning. Instantly came in, followed my rules about not starting any tasks until the bell rings, and just sat there drawing. She’s amazing at being honest and respectful, but also has just enough spunkiness to set her apart in a crowd. What I’m saying is, you’ve done an amazing job raising her Steve, and I’m sure she gets her beautiful personality from you.”

Steve can’t help but let a small blush rise to his cheeks at your compliments. Again, it was just something about you. You take notice, but don’t point it out, smiling widely at his reaction.

Steve sighs happily, “Well, I’m glad she’s like that. I wasn’t the most… nicest person at school. I let the popularity get to my head, all that shit. Treated everyone lower than me like they were a second-class citizen. Even did that to Jonathan, Mr. Byers, for a while. His wife is actually my ex,” he chuckles, “She pretty much got me out of that shitty popularity ordeal. So, I think I just want my daughter to be the opposite of me. Be the me I could’ve been when I was younger, you know?”

You nod, “I get that. I’ve learnt that parenting can either be one of two things: you don’t want your kids to end up like you, or you want them to be exactly like you. Based on how you described yourself, I’m glad you chose the first option. Although,” you shrug your shoulders, “I would give yourself some credit. It seems like you’ve done the inner healing and reflection to give your daughter a chance to become a kind human being. A shit person can’t create a nice one.”

“Yeah,” he thinks, “Maybe you’re right. I do still say mean stuff every now and again. Judge people before knowing them, all that kind of shit. I’m not proud of it, but it’s just engrained into me by now.”

You look into his eyes, “I think that’s more a generational thing. I mean, I try my best to see why people act the way they do, but even I judge people. What I said for Alena also applies for you too, Steve. Humans aren’t meant to be this definition of perfect. We’re always gonna have a flaw. You can try and work on it as much as you want, but there’s only so far you can go. Sometimes, it’s just easier to accept that’s who you are and it’s actually doing you more harm than good the more you critique yourself for it.”

You were so goddamn smart. You couldn’t have been more than twenty five years old, and yet, you had a better understanding of life than he ever did. Maybe it was seeing life through a kid’s lens, but he feels that can’t be all to the intellect. Life experiences make you understand the world. It sure helped him understand it. He was intrigued. He wanted to understand your mind, get to know you better than just his daughter’s teacher. You were such a beautiful soul and had such a fascinating mind.

Steve has no words as he stares at you in awe, unaware that he hadn’t even said anything as you clear your throat, “Um… anyway…” you begin, grounding Steve back to reality, “Do you have any questions for me?”

His mind did go to asking you out on a date. But, you were his daughter’s teacher, was that even allowed? Was that breaching any rules or codes?

And little did he know you were asking yourself the same questions. Your brain was itching to research into the questions. Why did he have to be one of your student’s dads?

“Uh, no, no I don’t,” he stutters out, taking this as a queue for him to leave as he raises from his chair. You hold out your hand, him taking it as you shake it, each basking in the warmness of the other’s palm.

“Well, thank you Steve for being here. I usually do another one of these around March time, so I hope to see you here for one of these again then!” you smile.

“Of course,” he replies, “But, really I should be thanking you. Supporting me and all when I basically rambled about my life.”

“Just because it’s a parent-teacher meeting doesn’t mean I have to lose all my kindness to be professional,” you sympathetically say.

Steve hums in agreement, you weren’t completely wrong. He’d take you any day to compliment and uplift him. If only he could somehow have that…

“Yeah… Well, see you tomorrow morning,” he smiles, turning his back and heading out the classroom door.

You stand up and start to pack away your folders and planners into your bag, thinking about Steve. You could tell that he wanted to change, wanted to shape his daughter into the man he never was. Give her the opportunity he only wished he had. But, there was something about him. Sure, he had a gorgeous mop of hair and the prettiest hazel eyes, but there was something inside too. A sense of kindness, warmth, comfort. Something you’d never felt so intensely with a man before.

Shit. You were falling for your student’s father.

thank you for reading!! i can't wait to write for the rest of it! i'll try and get a chapter out every few days amongst other smaller fics, so please be patient <;33

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#eds6ngel #stranger things #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x gn!reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington comfort #steve harrington x y/n #dad!steve harrington #singledad!steve harrington

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munsonify · 3 months

Text

desc. when with with your friends at a local diner, you see your ex boyfriend out with a new girl not even two weeks after the breakup. luckily, steve’s there to support you.

blurb • 525 words

you could feel your eyes welling up with tears the moment they laid eyes on him. him and his smug little smirk you only saw when he got something he wanted. it sent you into a spiral, and it was quick. you stumbled on your feet as you were guided towards a booth inside of the dimly lit diner, eyes not leaving what you saw.

he was sat with a girl with thick, curly blonde hair and a wide toothy grin plastered on her face. whatever he was saying must’ve been funny. her hand reached over to nudge his arm gently with a high pitched giggle. it was awful.

your friends knew of the situation - he’d broken up with you only 2 weeks before this, giving some fake excuse as to why he felt like he needed to. it broke your heart. you couldn’t quite pinpoint where it went wrong. you’d just been talking about your future with him days beforehand.

you sat yourself on the inside of the booth you shared with four of your other friends. it was a tight squeeze on your side, but you made it work. your thigh was pressed firmly against your friend steve’s, with the other pressed right up against the wall to your side. even with your knees knocking against his, and the slight stickiness you felt on the table, you couldn’t bring your eyes away from him.

you always had a feeling he’d been embarrassed of you. he’d insist on going on dates late at night, or in the next town over. he’d never ramble about you to his friends, or make an effort to show you off to anyone. it sounded self centered complaining about something like this, but you couldn’t help but feel overly self conscious about the whole thing. seeing him with a new girl, smiling proudly as she laughed at every last dumb joke he made, only made it worse.

it wasn’t until you felt a hand on yours that you pulled your eyes away from your ex. you looked down at your lap to see a third hand accompanying yours, large and slightly calloused and gentle. your eyes drifted to steve, whose eyes were shining right back at you, welcoming. he gave your hands a gentle squeeze, swiping his thumb against the back of your hand closest to him. there was something about him that helped you ground yourself.

steve offered you a soft, encouraging smile, his hand not leaving yours. you let yourself settle in beside him, taking a long deep breath.

he made conversation with you the entire night. his hand barely left yours as you spoke about whatever came to mind - life, friends, silly memories. he spoke to you with such care, even though the conversation wasn’t about your problem and worries. you liked how thoughtful and caring he could be.

steve was a reminder that everything would be okay. it was nights like these that made you remember you had someone to fall back on no matter what. you’d be forever grateful you had someone who wasn’t embarrassed of you. you’d be forever grateful you had steve.

taglist: @songbirdofthenight

#munsonify #this was so quickly written. i have a lot of pent up emotions about my recent bresk up that i wanted to write hurt comfory #no this isn’t exactly what went down between us but. the hurt comfort that i desperately need is here #steve harrington #steve harrington imagines #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x gn!reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington blurbs #steve harrington blurb

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urhoneycombwitch · 5 months

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shelter thee to me

foreword: apparently I just love putting Steve in Situations™️ since this is the second back-to-back sick fic I’ve written for him. Hmm. Cheers to all u other hurt/comfort lovers this one’s 4 u <3 this piece was finished thanks to the inspo I got from Syl @thecreelhouse - she has a GREAT fic called Accident Prone that you totally should check out if you’re interested in this type of subject matter! ❤️‍🩹

cw: descriptions of a migraine, Steve is a bit of a depressed mess, there is comfort tho I promise, alcohol consumption, Steve actively does things to worsen his pain (but it does get addressed), gender neutral reader

wc: 4k

___

It’s the first warm spring day of 1987, and the Munson Bar-B-Q Bash is in full-swing.

Wayne flips burgers and rotates hot dogs dutifully on the grill, cigarette perched at his lips wiggling as he talks to El. Her doey eyes are wide with rapturous attention, like she’s never seen someone cooking outdoors before (highly likely; the world holds so much newness and wonders yet-unseen for a kid who’s been recently liberated from her windowless underground existence).

A few of the other Party kids are playing a raucous and complicated game of multi-player checkers, Dustin and Lucas kneeling in the grass while Mike and Will oppose, pressed in close around the small board. Max (inexplicably and suddenly) declares her piece as “knighted”, the chorus of boyish complaints quickly silenced the moment her hand flexes around the handle of the black cane at her side (in every possible alternate universe, you hope Max Mayfield always has a cool weapon to defend herself with).

The adults of the group are in various forms of relax around Forest Hills park- Joyce stacks paper plates at a nearby picnic table while Hopper is close behind, muttering things that make her laugh, earning playful little swats from her free hand; Jon, Argyle, and Eddie gave the classic “taking a walk” excuse to Mrs. Byers about twenty minutes back, the heady smell of weed drifting from the sparse forest nearly imperceptible over the smell of cooking meat.

Robin’s at your feet, the length of your legs supporting her torso as your fingers work to tie off the neat braid you’ve just finished on the left side of her hair. She’s been letting it grow, since the shitshow of last year- tawny brown locks swing just past her upper shoulders now.

“And I really mean it, this time- Keith’s out to get me,” Robin is saying, wiggling despite your instruction to “Sit still, or your right braid’s gonna be all fucked up,” gripping the strands of her hair a bit tighter in warning. She complies, then huffs out- “Steve, are you even listening back there?”

Steve hums. He’s by your side on the bench, a spot that you’d snagged early on for the both of you- under the comforting shade of a big willow tree, slightly on the outskirts of all the activity. Heat and direct sunlight can sometimes mess with Steve’s vision, loud noise has the potential to fuck with his hearing- facts of life he hasn’t so much told you rather than the result of many quiet observations about your partner over the course of a year.

Steve doesn’t like to talk about it. He’s not interested in rehashing the past, tunes out Eddie’s dramatics whenever the curly-haired boy’s story-telling nature arises; the only thing Steve hates more than remembering is being remembered- by Joyce, tearfully thanking him for being brave and saving her boys; by Hopper, with a firm pat to the shoulder and a stilted speech of unsung heroics; even by Robin, who gets in on the recollections in defiance of Steve’s glare, her hands arcing through the air to recreate the whoosh of his wooden oar.

Alcohol also tends to affect Steve differently, in this post-fight world that you all now live- but he’s taking sips from a cooler-chilled can of beer, thick-framed glasses resolutely off and buried in that nest of hair. You’d given him a look, earlier, when he’d walked back to give Robin a soda, hands still wet from digging around in the ice- but if Steve noticed your worry he didn’t respond to it, instead pressing a freezing can of Coke to the bare skin of Robin’s leg, backing down with a laugh when she squealed and got one good smack in against his arm.

“I’m listening, Robs,” Steve says, leaning forward to rest elbows on knees, condensation dripping off the can of Coors Light between his hands. “Keith’s been on one lately. I’ll fight him for you, if y’want.”

Robin snorts. You fit another elastic around her second braid, just as she brings her fist up to bump against Steve’s. “We’ll tag team him. Out back by the dumpsters. Great place to hide a body.”

“Jesus, Robin,” Steve chides, over the sound of your giggle.

She pushes herself up from off the ground, smoothing hands over her fresh braids as she thanks you, then turns to walk towards the huddled group of teens, winking over her shoulder- “Gotta show the kiddies what a real Checker Champ looks like.”

There’s a din of excitement as Robin joins, cheering and clapping echoing across the lawn- beside you, Steve stiffens, just slightly.

You pretend not to notice, instead scooching over until your shorts-covered thigh is pressing against his leg. Steve makes a happy noise in the back of his throat, wraps the arm not impeded by a beer can around your shoulders, tucking his nose to the top of your head.

“Feeling okay?” You try to keep your tone light, neutral, plucking a stray thread from Steve’s jeans absentmindedly.

He nods into your hair, squeezing your opposite shoulder- “Yeah. How ‘bout you?”

Ignoring his immediate deflection in the form of a question, you spread your hand flat over his thigh, thumb running up the side seam of denim, a bit more earnest in your questioning- “It’s just- are you okay? You’d tell me if you wanted to go home, right? You know I’m always happy to make some excu-”

“I don’t want to go home. I’m fine.”

Steve rarely ever interrupts you, even more rare that he speaks to you with any sort of anger, which is why the sharpness of those short sentences is enough to have you pulling back to look at him, incredulous and a little wounded (though you do your best not to show it).

He seems to realize his mistake as soon the words are out of his mouth; Steve winces, palm still warm over your shoulder blade, comforting squeeze as he cuts in, quickly- “Honey. Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just- I’m good, okay? You don’t have to worry about me.”

Your eyes roam over his face: the deep-set apology in those amber eyes, the soft lock of hair flopping over his forehead, the twist at the corner of his mouth. You fit your thumb to it, and the shape changes, your heart lurching as he smiles against your touch. “Steve-”

“Steve!”

The moment you say his name softly there’s a louder, more piercing version being yelled from a few yards away, Dustin waving frantically amidst Robin’s triumphant cackles- “Steve! Stop making out and come help, Robin’s whipping our asses!”

Steve blinks, and you can pinpoint the exact second he gives in, shuttering those walls back up with a straightened spine. One tender kiss to your palm, then he rises, leaving the beer in his empty seat- “Duty calls.”

After a robust round of Crazy Checkers surrounded by shrieking children, Steve’s energy is waning, you can tell- there’s this certain way he holds himself, little indicators of pain and discomfort that you’ve learned to pick up on; his finger taps mindlessly on the rim of his plastic water cup, the space between his neck and shoulders is one tight line, and his silence has been absorbed by the miasma of noise all around.

No one else seems to have noticed, too absorbed in eating and joking with mouthfuls of food, everyone crammed around two shoved-together picnic tables.

Robin jostles into your side reaching for the ketchup, which in turn makes you bump into Steve on your right; when you hear the sharp intake of his breath, you lean in, careful to keep up appearances, making it seem like you’re whispering a sweet nothing, hand cupped around his ear to dampen all the other sounds.

“Will you let me take you home?”

Should’ve known that wasn’t gonna work. Steve squeezes your leg under the table, his hand wracked with tiny tremors, smile tight and not reaching his eyes as he turns to whisper back, “Quit asking. Stop worrying. I’m fine.”

So goddamn stubborn. Well, so be it, Harrington. You scoff, as if he’s just told a joke timed to the beat of overlapping conversations, and peel yourself off of his side.

Cool air seeps up your bare arm where it had been kept warm in the crook of Steve’s own arm. It feels strange, to not have some sort of constant contact- but if Steve is playing the obstinate game, count you in.

Twenty minutes later, lunch and its accompanying mess has been cleared away, many hands making light work, and Eddie has brought out his stereo system to try and goad the anti-dancers of the group to join a makeshift dance floor.

Jonathan’s playing at being too post-meal sleepy to move off the bench, while Will and Eddie tussle and pull at him, and everyone’s laughing but you can’t focus on anything other than Steve- silent and stiff at your side, doing the bare minimum of human interaction to fly under the radar of suspicion.

Your radar, however, is finely tuned, and you know he’s minutes away from needing to be horizontal; it’s physically painful to keep your hands to yourself as they long to soothe, hugging arms-crossed around your own middle to keep from reaching for him.

Jonathan joins the dance circle with shambling reluctance, and when everyone cheers, Steve’s voice is at your ear, faint and sounding like a shadow of himself- “Gonna use the bathroom. Save me a piece of pie.” And with a final squeeze to your shoulder, he starts back down the path to the Munson’s new trailer.

Two minutes is a rather generous amount of time, in your opinion, to stay seated- until Robin splits from the jumping, dancing fray, light sheen of sweat on her forehead as she bends towards your seated form- “If you wanna go check on Dingus, I’ll make up a good excuse for you both.”

Overwhelmed with gratefulness and anxiety, you pull Robin into a quick hug, then make a smooth break for the winding gravel path.

The noises of the party fade as you walk through the door of the trailer, wiping your feet on the Welcome mat but keeping them on in case you need to make a quick exit with a sick partner in tow.

“Steve?” You keep your calling quiet, rounding the corner of the sun-warmed trailer walls towards the sliding bathroom door, then pull up short- Steve’s sitting against the closed door, on the outside of it, shoes planted on the rug, hands in fists at his side.

His head is tipped forward, resting on bent knees; his glasses are tucked by one arm into the neck of his collared tee, bellows of his breath coming shallow and quick.

Sinking to your knees beside him, you press a hand to the back of his neck, firm pressure against the taut muscle, attempting to bring some relief; Steve makes a choked, whimpery noise, and it almost breaks you.

A wave of helplessness washes through your veins; in defiance of the feeling, you suck in a steadying breath, grasping at adrenaline-fueled resolve as you run through the mental checklist of warning signs.

Thanks to Doc Owens (and the one-and-only appointment you forced Steve into last year, when you found him passed out on your kitchen floor from overheating in the summer sun), you know what to look for, and it gives purpose to your movements.

Steve’s breathing is rapid but not emergency-levels; he’s sweating, but not entirely through his shirt, yet; you get him to lift his head with murmured encouragement- thick lashes rimmed with tears, flushed cheeks reflecting heat back into your palms, and you find what you’re looking for- the black of his pupils equally dilated, twin moons almost eclipsing the almond-brown of his irises.

Last time Steve got a migraine, it lasted for hours, a whole sweltering afternoon of him pale and in pain on your couch, arm draped over his eyes while you kept a rotating supply of fresh ice packs to his temples and top of his spine.

The worst part of all, besides seeing Steve in pain, is the fact that he so resolutely denies himself the help that he would give others, in a heartbeat. Years of putting himself on a back burner, of making sure his nearest and dearest are taken care of before he even thinks about his own needs, have stuck firm.

Steve doesn’t have any heels left to dig in, now, as you feel the slide-grind of his teeth beneath your hands; you let your thumbs brush down his cheeks, a small movement to say I’m here, I’m not leaving you, and his eyes flutter shut.

“Gonna take you home,” you say, soft as your hands that drop to the broad width of his shoulders, “And this time I’m not asking.”

“Okay,” Steve manages, voice thin and strained, and you hate how much that single word is soaked in defeat.

Moving slow, you manage to get Steve on his feet- he leans heavy against you, waving off your offer to get Robin or Eddie to help with a simple and devastatingly earnest “Please, don’t, just want you-”; at a snail’s pace down the hall, in tandem down the front steps, Steve’s eyes slamming shut to block out the waning light of the sunset as you guide him to the Beemer, thankfully out of sight from the party.

You get him settled in the passenger seat, pocketing his glasses and sliding the seatbelt into place across his chest with a click; while you don’t want to make Steve feel any more childlike than he already probably feels, you can’t stop from pressing a kiss to his cheek before pulling away, adding in a voice that you hope is quiet enough-

“If you’re gonna throw up, do it in the glovebox, okay? This is my boyfriend’s car, and I can’t have him knowing I’m taking strays home. Especially since you’re so handsome.”

Steve smiles weakly at your joke- his eyes are still closed but he catches your hand wrapped around the seatbelt, brings your knuckles up to his lips- “Sure thing, honey.”

There are footsteps crunching up the gravel, and you straighten in the tight space of the partially open car door to find Robin approaching.

She stops a few feet away, hands planted on her hips with a shake of her head. “Jesus, Harrington, you look like shit.”

Steve, eyes still closed and leaning back on the headrest, says to you in an obvious, scratchy stage-whisper- “Maybe if we stay reaaaal still, she won’t know we’re here.”

“If you didn’t look ready to keel over at any moment, I’d punch you for that,” Robin snipes, rocking heel to toe in her converse, locking eyes with you- “Need a good excuse?”

Relief washes out any remaining traces of helplessness. You breathe a sigh. “Yes. Please and thank you, Robs.”

“I got you covered. Emergency at the office, sink sprung a leak, a goldfish death in the family- got ‘em locked and loaded.” She shoots you two exuberant thumbs up, then sobers a bit, expression dropping. “Just. Take care of him, okay?”

You shut the car door with the least amount of noise you can manage, bumping your hip into the handle so the inner latch catches, then squeeze Robin’s hand on your way to the driver’s seat. “I will, Robin. I’ll call your landline later, let you know if he’s up for visitors.”

With a final salute, the ends of Robin’s hair fan out as she jogs back to the party, outdoor sounds disappearing as you duck into the car.

The ride home is mostly silent as you listen for Steve’s breathing, taking each stop sign and turn in the road with measured slowness. Brake, check for signs of life, and creep onwards.

You’re less than three blocks from Loch Nora when Steve leans into the sling of his belt, one hand flat against the dash, the other to his stomach, and you’re quick to swallow down panic, asking in what you hope is a calm voice, “Are you gonna throw up?”

“No,” Steve says, chin dropping to his chest, huffing- then, quietly, “Maybe.”

You’ve already pulled off the main road, throwing the gear shift into park before unbuckling and scrambling around in the seat pocket behind you, plastic grocery bag you’d stashed months ago for occasions such as this crinkling in your fist.

Steve’s fingers on the dash curl into a fist. There’s a spike of alarm you claw at, capture, and shove back, unable to quell the rush of murmured comfort as you lean across the middle console- “Here, baby. ‘S okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you, you’re safe…”

Steve doesn’t take the bag that you press into his left hand, still in a fist at his abdomen; his eyes are squeezed shut under slanted dark brows, and tears begin leaking out, coursing in rivulets down cheeks gone pallid. His voice is barely more than a croak when he speaks.

“I just want to be normal.”

And then, Steve’s crying in earnest: short breathy sobs and strung-out whimpers, like the only thing that hurts more than the act of crying itself would be to hold it all in.

The plastic bag gets shoved to the side as you pull Steve in, hands soothing down the shuddering planes of his back, your voice soothing and breaking in equal measure- “I know, baby, I know, I’m so sorry…”

Hot tears drip down your neck as his forehead rolls against your shoulder. Steve’s hands ball into fists, fabric of your shirt caught in his desperate grounding attempt, fighting through the wreck to speak broken secrets against your bare skin-

“Jus’ wanna be normal. Just want to drink a fucking beer without getting a goddamn headache afterwards. I wanted to stay at the party, wanted to…”

Breath catching, a fresh jolt of pain, and Steve’s whimpering like a child against your chest, unspooling a release that’s been building for over a year- Steve never affords himself time for a breakdown, and it’s all coming to a head now.

“It’s not fair,” Steve grits out. He’s doing his best to ride the wave but it’s threatening to pull him under; you can tell by the sinking weight of his head at your collarbone, the way his hands loosen and go lax at your sides, sobs giving way to gritting teeth and steel-tight jaw as Steve battles back the slicing pain in his head.

You know this is a purging, of sorts, and you’re grateful that your boy feels safe enough around you to let go and feel, but you also know that him getting worked up is just going to prolong an already-bad migraine.

So you let your hands drift up again, take his face between your palms, let his forehead rest against yours, speaking low, stripped raw with honesty.

“You’re right, honey. It’s not fair.” Your thumbs smooth gentle against his cheeks, under the dark lashes that flutter into your touch. “I’m so sorry that you have to go through this, and you’re allowed to be upset- but right now, I need you to just breathe, okay, Stevie? Can you do that for me?”

It gives Steve something to focus on, instead of spiraling out- he’s obedient, clutching at your shirt again, eyes shut in concentration, trying to match his too-fast breathing to your steadied tempo. Your fingers wind into the longer pieces of hair at the base of his skull, notching against the pressure points Doc Owens instructed you on ages ago.

Steve shivers. Lets out a dry, choking laugh that sounds nothing like him. “Couldn’t even last one full afternoon.”

He sounds so disappointed in himself. It makes your heart ache, tears stinging at your own eyes as you respond, still gentle despite your first instinct to bite back against his self-loathing. “Steve, give yourself some credit. You’re doing remarkably well, considering the circumstances.”

Steve scoffs, makes to lean back and away but your hands stop him in his tracks, nose to nose with you now as you insist, “When you had to drive Max home because her leg was hurting during Will’s birthday party, you didn’t judge her, right? Didn’t question why she needed a ride home?”

With this proximity, you can see the light dusting of freckles spanning the width of his cheeks, color returning slow but sure. He doesn’t try to pull away again so you keep speaking. “And all those times you’ve taken care of me during a nightmare, or had to come home early ‘cuz I just couldn’t stand an empty room. Remember?

“You were there for me. Always have been, just like I’m gonna be here for you. Better or worse, Harrington. You’re stuck with me.”

There’s a puff of warm air against your lips, a half-laugh but you’ll take it, pulling him in by the elbows, nuzzling against the side of Steve’s tear-lined face for a close hug as you whisper, “I’m really glad you’re alive.”

Your nose follows the slope of his neck down, brushes at the rippled line of scarring, tissue healed but still lightly raised in a ring at the base of his throat.

“Really glad,” you whisper, fiercely.

___

Steve lets you take him home. Even lets you baby him, a bit; though you make a solid effort to not infantilize him, there lives in you a deep desire to swaddle Steve in a blanket and keep him there. Safe from all the swirling noise and light and too-bright colors of the harsh world.

You compromise. Get Steve stretched out on the couch, take his shoes off with a calculated swoop-tug, lay his favorite green knitted blanket over the length of his body.

There’s a pill bottle on the kitchen counter that you pocket, leaving his glasses folded in its place. Blue ice pack burning-cold until you wrap a thin dishcloth around it to take out the sting, you bring it to Steve’s side along with a glass of water.

He takes the pills you offer with a wince- sitting up causes the blood to pound at his temples so you help him back down, sliding the ice pack into place at the top of his spine where the pain is blooming.

From your place on the floor, you monitor Steve, one hand stroking soft at his chest to lull his breaths to normal. After a few minutes, his brows smooth out; a few more, and he’s taking careful blinks in the low-lit room.

“C’mere,” he says, voice still scratchy, doe-brown eyes pleading, catching your hand on the upstroke and giving a small tug. When you start to protest, he whines, sounding more and more like himself by the minute- “Come here, baby. Please.”

Another compromise. Keeping the jostling to a minimum, you settle into Steve’s side, ear pressed over the thumping beat of his heart, arms fit around his waist.

Steve holds you. Breathes. Says, “Thanks. ‘M sorry we had to leave so early.”

Nose tilting up, you kiss against his scar again. “It’s okay. I really didn’t want to dance, and Eddie was about to drag my ass out there against my will so really, you did us all a favor.”

Under your head, Steve’s chest dips and rises with a laugh. His lips press into the crown of your head, and you can feel his smile as he says, “You’re dancin’ with me next time. I wanna see some ass shaking at our next family barbecue.”

You exhale a laugh, too, kiss his jaw, his cheek. “Okay, Swayze. Next time.”

Eventually, you both fall asleep, winding down sleepy and safe in each other’s arms, Steve’s pain eased to near-extinction with the care you’ve given him.

Later you’ll call Robin, give her an update for her peace of mind, cuddle up to Steve some more and listen to a record.

But for now, you’ve got a boy in your arms and the warmth of his body as your anchor into the dreaming.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #stranger things fic #sickfic #hurt/comfort #cw migraine #steve harrington x gn!reader

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love-hs28 · 4 months

Text

I hope you're ready to lose, Harrington.

Summary: A competitive game of beer pong with Steve leads you to become a bit drunk, but the best kind; giggly, playful, and flirty. And Steve, of course, knows exactly how to take care of you when this happens. CW: Alcohol 1.5k Words fem!reader - ("pretty girl" is used) Henderson!reader - doesn't impact the story Sweet, sweet fluff & comfort Posted on: 5-27-24

It’s Friday night and, per usual, you and Steve are at a party. Nancy and Johnathan came with you guys too, and you had all gotten ready at your house (despite Dustin’s complaints). Steve is in the living room with a few of his old friends and the rest of you are in the kitchen getting drink refills. You and Nancy are having a conversation with one of your friends from class and Johnathan is opening a new bag of chips for you guys (because everybody knows you should never take chips from the open chip bowl). You’re sipping your drinks and laughing with the conversation as the music is blasting in the background.

A minute or two into the conversation, you feel a pair of arms wrap around you and someone sweetly kiss your neck. A smile immediately appears on your face and you twist around to see Steve grinning down at you. His hands rub up and down your waist and he leans in for a kiss as he pulls you closer into him.

“Hey pretty girl,” he whispers before his lips touch yours, and you giggle into the soft kiss. It’s short but sweet; exactly what you needed right now. Your drink-free hand comes up to his hair and your fingers play with a few strands on the back of his neck.

“How’re you feelin?” Steve asks, as his hands travel up and down your arms. He knows you can get kinda anxious at parties, but you sweetly smile up at him. “Good. A bit hungry though.”

You can see a frown start to appear on Steve’s face, but Johnathan pipes in and says “I just opened a new bag of chips, here you go.”

You turn around and he hands you the bag. You thank him with a smile and grab a few out and munch on them. Your back is against Steve’s chest now and he wraps his arms around your shoulders, resting his chin on your head. You rejoin the conversion with Nancy and your friend, and a moment later you hear someone yelling that a new cup pong game is starting in the backyard.

Steve spins you around and grins down at you once again, wiggling his eyebrows as you return the smile.

“Wanna go play?” he asks with a twinkle in his eye.

Last time you played each other Steve beat you terribly and you ended up getting pretty drunk. But not the bad kind; nothing but happy, flirty, and giggly.

You mirror his eyebrow raise and set your drink on the counter.

“Oh you’re on. And be prepared to lose this time.”

Steve laughs and grabs your hand as you walk out back.

“Oh yeah? I seem to remember a certain someone getting their ass whooped last time, but sure, we’ll see about that.”

You roll your eyes with a smile, shaking your head as he winks at you. The two of you wait for the round already going on to finish and take your places.

“I hope you’re ready to lose, Harrington.”

Steve does a little shimmy to get himself ‘in the zone’ and laughs slyly.

“Ohhoo, prepare yourself, honey. You’re about to get your ass. whooped. again.” The crowd that has gathered “ooo’s” and you laugh.

After your first couple turns, it’s looking up for you and you’re winning by a good amount, having only taken 3 drinks in the first few minutes. You only need to make a few more balls in and you’ll win.

When you only have 2 more cups left, Steve starts to make a comeback. You play-banter throughout the whole thing and it eventually comes down to one-on-one; next ball wins.

You imitate Steve’s shimmy from the beginning and crouch down to aim your ball. A small crowd has formed now, and you and Steve each have a half cheering for or booing you.

“Oohh!” you laugh and point at Steve, “Good luck now, Harrington. Good. Luck.”

He grins at you but shakes his head, “Don’t get too excited, honey. I could still make it. Redemption round.”

You nod your head and shrug your shoulders, “I mean, good luck, but don’t come crying to me when you looooseeee.”

The two of you share a grin, both knowing the banter is full of nothing but love.

Half the crowd chants “Steve, Steve, Steve!” and the other half, mostly made up of your friends, boos and tries to distract him. He does another little dance, crouches down, and puts a focus face on. He shoots his ball, aaaannndddd…

It goes in.

A few of his buddies surround him and clap him on the shoulder. He cheers and walks over to where you’re standing and shaking your head with a disappointed look on your face, but smiling as you take the last shot.

"I guess we tied, huh,” he pulls your waist into his as the crowd starts to disperse.

“That just means we gotta try again next week,” you say, and lean up to give him a kiss. It only lasts for a few seconds, and he’s smiling when he pulls away.

“You’re so cute when you get competitive, you know that?”

You smile, blushing a bit, and playfully swat his arm. “Oh, stop it.”

You walk back inside, holding hands of course, and rejoin Nancy and Johnathan in the kitchen. They’re laughing with your friends and you’re quickly and easily able to rejoin the conversation. You have a few more drinks, probably a bit too many, and soon everyone starts to leave the party. It’s gotten pretty late, and you and Steve are eventually the last two left of your friends in the kitchen. You tilt your head back to down the rest of your drink, and Steve starts to notice how much you’ve drank throughout night.

“You ready to go? It’s getting pretty late,” Steve gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You give him a head shake and move to pour another drink.

“Noo let’s stay for a bit longer!” You start to drink your newly filled cup but Steve gently takes it from your hand.

“I think you’ve had enough, hun. Don’t want you feeling like last time.”

You whine in protest and try to reach back for it, but almost tip over in the process.

“Whoaa, hey,” Steve sets your cup on the counter and steadies you by holding onto your arms. “I think it’s time to go home, yeah?” By home, he means his house. You make a sound that's a mix between a whine and a hum, and slouch into him.

“Come on,” he puts an arm around your waist and leads you out to his car. He struggles a bit to open the door, but eventually gets it and helps you into the passenger seat. You slump into the leather and don’t let go of him.

“Stevie,” you mumble and grab onto his shirt as he’s leaning over you to buckle the seatbelt.

“‘s the matter, sweetheart.”

“Don’t feel good,”

He leans back a bit and looks at you concerningly, “Are you gonna be sick?” He quickly starts to unbuckle your seatbelt in case you need to get out of the car, but you shake your head and lean into his chest.

“No. Jus’ dizzy. ‘m tired.”

He gives you a sympathetic smile. “I know, honey. We’ll be home soon, just close your eyes, okay? That’ll help with your head.”

You sluggishly nod and lean back into the seat. He buckles you in once more and kisses your forehead before shutting the door and jogging around the front of the car to the driver's side. He gets in and turns the car on, cranks the heat up a bit, and leans over to brush some hair out of your face and kiss your cheek. He backs up and keeps a hand gently rubbing your leg the whole ride home.

When the car pulls into his driveway, he looks over to see you half asleep, but not fully. He smiles to himself and turns the car off, hopping out to help you. He unbuckles you and you stir awake a bit and hum.

“‘s just me, baby. I’m gonna carry you inside and get us to bed, okay?”

You sleepily nod and he puts his arms around you. Your head rests on his chest and you hold onto his shirt and allow your eyes to fall closed. You’re almost asleep by the time you get to his room, and he gently lays you on his bed. You grab his arm before he can walk away to get ready for bed.

“Wait, can you help me change? 'm uncomfy.”

“Um, yeah, you sure?” Steve gets kinda flustered and stutters. You giggle sleepily and make grabby hands towards him.

“Yes Stevie. ‘s not like you haven’t seen me naked before ya know.”

He softly laughs and comes over to help you sit up.

“I know. Just wanna make sure you’re comfortable.”

You nod and gaze up at him, your fingers lightly brushing over his cheek and lips.

“I trust you, Stevie.”

He sweetly smiles down at you. “You’re so cute.”

You giggle and blush as he kisses your forehead.

He gently helps you get your pajamas on and take off your makeup. He lays you back in bed, and by then you’re half asleep again. He climbs into bed next to you and you subconsciously snuggle into his side, finally feeling comfortable enough to drift off.

a/n: Hope you enjoyed!! I could not be more grateful for all of the love shown on my last few posts, it's very encouraging <3 As always, leave requests for me pretty please! :) Also, I have my first day of work today, wish me luck!! Love ya <3

xoxo

#Steve Harrington x reader #Steve Harrington x gn!reader #Steve Harrington x fem!reader #Steve Harrington x henderson!reader #Steve Harrington x reader fluff #Steve Harrington x reader comfort #Steve Harrington x gn!reader fluff #Steve Harrington x gn!reader comfort #Steve Harrington x fem!reader fluff #Steve Harrington x fem!reader comfort #Steve Harrington x you #Steve Harrington x you fluff #Steve Harrington x you comfort #Steve Harrington fanfic #Steve Harrington fic #Steve Harrington imagine #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfic #Steve Harrington stranger things #Steve Harrington #Joe keery #Steve Harrington fluff #Steve Harrington comfort #Steve Harrington x henderson!reader comfort #Steve Harrington x henderson!reader fluff #Steve Harrington x reader imagine #Steve Harrington x reader fanfic #Steve Harrington x reader fic #Steve Harrington x gn!reader imagine

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strangerstilinski · 24 days

Note

hiii my dear <333

would love if you could combine [heal] and [kiss] with steve 🫶

love u n have the bestest day

[HEAL] sender ends up in the receiver's lap trying to tend to their wounds to the best of their abilities. [KISS] the sender lowers themselves into the receiver's lap in order to kiss them properly.

Steve is bleeding. Again.

And why is it that Steve always seems to be fucking bleeding? If it's not a fistfight, it's inter-dimensional monsters. And if it's not monsters, it's foreign governments who hold no qualms against beating and torturing minimum-wage mall employees in the hopes that it might yield answers.

This isn't like any of those times. You know that. And yet, watching the slow trail of blood ooze from the gash at Steve's hairline, crimson dripping slow down his temple and smearing into his brow — It makes your stomach turn. Makes your knees wobble just slightly. The floor suddenly feeling decidedly unsteady beneath your feet.

You'd asked him to find a casserole dish and he'd practically crawled his way inside one of the lower kitchen cabinets in his search. Wide shoulders crowded into the space, his narrow waist on display as he reached even farther and prompted his shirt to ride up. Your eyes had been glued to the dimples at the base of his spine, objectifying gaze too stuck on the way his jeans pulled on his backside and thighs, the way the elastic waistband of his briefs cut into the softness of his hips-

He'd yelled triumphantly as he re-emerged, and you'd been too distracted to warn him to watch his head when he turned a bit too early and bashed against the edge of the opening with a resounding thunk.

You couldn't care less about cooking dinner, now. You're entirely too consumed with worry at the sight of the blood pouring from Steve's head. And, alright, pouring might be a bit dramatic. But your boyfriend is bleeding, and it's slightly your fault.

You push him from the kitchen and he drops dutifully into a chair when you give his shoulder a pointed shove. Both of your hands find their way to his face, warmth bleeding into your palms as you try to angle his head into the light a bit.

He only winces a little when you push his hair up out of the way so you can see where his skin is split. Your fingers tighten around his jaw, biting into his cheek as you turn his head this way and that in an attempt to get a better look. A frown pulls at your lips as you note the swelling that's already building into a sizable lump, and no sooner have your lips quirked downward when Steve's hands find the backs of your thighs.

"Hey, pretty sure I'm the one who's supposed to be pouting, pouty." His hands tighten, dragging you forward until you're standing slotted between his legs.

Warm, honeyed brown eyes peer up at you, his hands rubbing up and down the backs of your thighs in a comforting motion. The way he looks after you, even now, when he's the one who's injured — It sends your heart thrumming wildly.

You snatch some paper towel from the tabletop and dab at his head lightly, frown sinking further when blood immediately wells back up and begins to follow that same path down his forehead and into his eyebrow.

"It seems like it's bleeding a lot," You tell him, blotting at the growing egg on his head again, "I don't think it should be bleeding this much. Should it be bleeding this much?"

"It's a head wound, they bleed a lot." He shrugs, like it's no big deal.

You repeat his words back, mockingly, putting a little more pressure on the towel to his head. And then, "How much is 'a lot'?"

To your frustration, Steve just shrugs again, "I dunno, should stop in the next few minutes, I guess. If it does, we're good. If not, I guess I'm probably a goner-"

The pressure you're applying to the towel increases enough to have Steve wincing again, but you refuse to feel bad.

"That isn't funny." Your eyes drift as Steve's lower lip juts out, soft and plush and not even remotely portraying genuine apology. "Now who's pouting?" You grumble quietly.

"The guy who just came within an inch of braining himself to find your casserole dish, actually." Steve returns your snark all-too easily, "You know what'd really help, though?"

Your eyes narrow just slightly at the sweet edge to his voice, at the way his palms press with a little more intent into the backs of your legs. He's still looking up at you, lips quirked up now into that flirty grin of his, chin jutting out like he's expecting you to just bend down to kiss him already.

"What?" You ask, infuriatingly breathless in the wake of his touch, the gentle rumble of his voice.

"C'mere."

He pulls at your thighs again and you realize he's trying to get you to sit down. You smile softly, stepping back from between his legs and settling into place in his lap. Your thighs frame his hips, towel still pressed firmly to his head all the while.

"Better?" You ask, nosing at the space between his brows before placing a fleeting peck to his forehead.

Steve hums, "No, no, not quite. Think you could spare another kiss?"

"Oh, I suppose," You sigh woefully, like it's a big ask, though you both know it isn't. Your lips find the bridge of his nose, "Like this?"

Steve hums again, "Not quite. Little lower, honey."

You lean back just a bit to look at him, the way his eyes have clouded over with something like adoration. It still makes your head spin, that he looks at you like that-

Your thumb strokes his cheek, lips finding the tip of his nose and just staying there for a moment — waiting.

"Lower." He orders softly, his nose nudging up against you as he tips his chin up toward you.

Your lips brush his cupids bow, faint stubble scratching softly when you press the faintest kiss to his mouth. "Here?" You whisper against his lips, breath mingling warmly with his own, "Does this help?"

He knocks the bloodied paper towel from your hands and ignores your protests as he drags you back down for another kiss, this one deeper.

You're breathless when you pull back again, your eyes glued to the shine of spit on Steve's lips before your gaze flicks up to the drying blood at his hairline, the cut clotted and no longer bleeding.

"Hey, you stopped bleeding." You tell him, relieved.

"Yeah, that's great-" He says blankly, already sliding his hand to the nape of your neck to pull you back in, "Now, c'mere-"

#this is actually a bit longer than intended (shocker!) Also i didn't proof this so if there are typos? no there aren't!#steve harrington #steve harrington hurt/comfort #steve harrington x reader #*#steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x gn!reader #steve harrington x gender neutral reader #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington fluff

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bookshelf-dust · 1 year

Text

how people can change

steve harrington x gn!byers!reader

word count: 4,427

warnings: swearing, like one use of y/n, mentions of season one steve's bullshit, mentions of death, enemies to friends to more type beat

a/n: my very first *full* steve fic. look at us. who woulda thought? not me. i've been working on this since february. don't look at me, i know. i know. but i think i've gotten some sort of hold on how i'd like to write steve. some of the dialogue (season 2) isn’t mine. (also the title is a lyric from strange by celeste!) let me know what you think, okay? i love you. steve loves you. don't tell me if it's bad.

————

November 1984

The door slams behind you with a deafening thud, and you take the extra five seconds to lock it. You know, that action no one else in your family seems to be capable of performing.

The house is quiet, and you step over the map of Hawkins sprawling over the hardwoods, careful not to damage Will’s work.

Your keys clang against the table, knocking into your mother’s ashtray. It’s dead quiet again, and you freeze at a subtle interruption in the silence. There’s a muffled sound coming from somewhere else in your home, and frankly you’ve had enough of everything the last couple of days. Which is why Joyce sent you home to get some sleep, to clear your head.

There’s no denying that you have a soft spot for Will. He’s always been your buddy. And you love Jonathan, you do, and he’s got this sick ability to know what you’re thinking or feeling before you do, but he doesn’t need your protection like Will does.

Will is your best friend. And he’s got one hell of a support system with you, Jonathan and your mom behind him. He deserves the world. You’ve always thought that.

You quickly infer that it’s a walkie making the sound, based on the staticky crackle, the slightly muffled voice of whoever’s trying to get through from the other side.

Yours is off—you know it is—so it has to be Will’s. Jonathan was too good for a walkie-talkie.

You step down the hallway, pushing your younger brother’s bedroom door the rest of the way open. You scan the small area for it, listening.

“Code red! This is a code red! I repeat, this is a good red! Shit, is anyone there?”

You snatch up the device, extending the antenna.

“Dustin? Is that you?”

“Jesus christ! Where have you been?” Dustin exclaims, and you swear you can hear someone else interfering with his words.

“Sorry! I wasn’t home. What’s wrong?” You sit on the edge of Will’s bed. It’s so much comfier than yours.

“It’s Dart! He’s, he’s just…you know what? It’s a long story. Where are you right now?”

This time you definitely hear another voice, and maybe even music.

“Dart? You kept him, right? I fucking knew it, Henderson! You’re so not a good liar.”

“That’s for sure.” You can’t place the voice, not over the walkie and over Dustin’s rambling, but you do catch that and it’s enough to leave you curious.

The boy starts to argue back, but you cut him off. “Dustin, who are you with?”

“Uh,” he coughs, “Well you see, um…Steve Harrington. I’m with Steve Harrington.”

Dustin gets a severe eye roll from said partner-in-crime, but he brushes it off.

“What?” You’re so confused. How did that even happen?

“I know! But everyone’s been MIA!”

“Oh my god,” you say, and Dustin can practically see you face-palming.

“Look,” he shoves a handful of rogue curls back under the brim of his hat. “Can you just meet up with us? The old junkyard?”

You push off of Will’s bed, and start walking through the house again, retrieving your things. So much for a nap or eating anything other than hospital Jell-O. What are you gonna say? Fuck no?

“Yeah, yeah, I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thank god,” Dustin breathes. “See you then. Over.”

You make sure to check the batteries in Will’s walkie before you go, and then you’re back in your car again, backing out just as aggressively as your mother (something you said you’d never do).

————

“Yeah, Farrah Fawcett. You tell anyone I just told you that, and your ass is grass you’re dead, Henderson. Do you understand?”

“Yep.”

“Okay.”

Dustin goes quiet for a minute, watching each step he takes. The train tracks are old, and there are one too many loose nails for his liking. “So what’s Y/N got against you, man?”

Steve adjusts one of the gloves he’s wearing, trying not to think about the fact that he’s gonna smell like raw meat for who knows how long. “Uh, I don’t know, exactly. Never really talked to them before. But I’d assume it’s the–”

“The assholery?” Dustin interrupts.

“Dude.”

“What? It’s true.”

“No, yeah, you’re right.”

Dustin catches the slip in Steve’s attitude almost immediately. “Hey, they’re good, okay? I don’t think you’re a total dick, if that means anything. You’re trying and that’s what matters, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, we will. Thanks, Henderson.”

Dustin gives Steve a winning smile. This kid could rule the world, he thinks.

“Anytime,” Harrington. He lifts his hand up, awaiting a fist bump that Steve returns without a second thought.

————

You wander down the trail of raw meat you’ve found, not bothering to even question what's happening or where the meat came from. Frankly, you don’t really want to know.

At the end of your path, you catch a glimpse of familiar curls, even if they are crushed under the red brim of a hat.

“Dustin?”

The boy practically gives himself whiplash turning around to face you.

“Holy shit, I’m so glad you’re here. It’ll be nice to have someone older than me who’s not a total pain in the ass.”

“Hey, I heard that.”

The voice pulls your attention away from Dustin. When you look up, Steve Harrington is walking out of the biggest vehicle in this abandoned lot: a school bus. He’s wiping his hands on his jeans and pushing the ends of his sleeves up.

Dustin looks at you. “You guys have to be acquaintances at the least, right?”

You nod at him, feeling your face burn. If there’s a word for a less-than-acquaintance, you don’t know it. But that’s probably where your relationship with this boy lies. King Steve isn’t really someone you just miss.

But yeah, you know him. You know he’s a dick.

“Hi.” Steve pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and crosses his arms.

“Hi.”

You only look at him for a moment before your eyes are back on Dustin. The younger boy notices the tension radiating from you, and honestly, he gets it. Steve Harrington wasn’t exactly the person he’d planned on spending his day with, but here he was. Desperate times call for desperate measures or whatever.

“So what are we doing?” You ask.

Dustin puts his thumbs underneath the straps of his backpack, bouncing on the balls of his feet a little. “It’s a long story. Best if we talk while we work.”

You roll your eyes at him, but follow the thirteen-year-old wherever he wants to go. You’re not sure you could deny Dustin Henderson anything.

————

You watch as Max, a young girl you’ve just met, stomps up the steps of the ladder you’ve rigged inside the mess of a bus that you’re camped out in.

Your chest aches because what Dustin just said to her was rude, it was rude, and you can’t believe the two of them. You sit, arms crossed and leg shaking up and down, glaring at Steve.

You find it hard to believe that after everything you’ve learned tonight, about Dart, about Mews—which you’re never going to get over because you only visit Dustin’s house for his cat, never him—that this is what they’re doing now.

“That’s good,” Steve says. “Just show her you don’t care.”

Dustin is pacing, hands deep in his pockets. “I don’t,” he breathes.

Steve winks. Watching the two of them is like watching a tennis match. You don’t even like tennis.

“Why are you winking, Steve?”

You drag your hand down your face, sick of hearing this stupid ass conversation. When Dustin sits, the constant clink of metal where Steve keeps flicking his lighter open over and over starts to give you a headache.

“Fuck, Steve, would you quit it already?”

He scoffs, snapping the lid to his Zippo closed harder than he had been before. “What’s your problem?”

“You’re pissing me off, that’s my problem.”

Steve’s brow furrows. He doesn’t really understand the sudden need for aggression.

“Is this really the time for you to be yelling at me?”

“Is this really the time for you to be a dick?”

Dustin jerks the antenna on his walkie down, clearly sick of the two of you. “Would you children stop bickering? This is a life or death situation we have going on here.”

“I’d prefer death,” you proclaim.

Dustin glares at you. “I can arrange that if you’d really rather die, than act civil for one evening.”

“I think all of the civility,” you gesture vaguely with your hands, “went out the window when you asked me to come help fight demo-dogs.”

Steve snorts at your words, and you glare at him, an “oh, is that funny?” look on your face.

Dustin rearranges the hat on his head, stuffing his curls underneath it once again. “Alright. I’m gonna go check on our status, you two…work shit out, okay?”

“Dude,” Steve starts, “I’m older than you. I don’t have to listen to your instructions.” He gestures vaguely with his hands.

Dustin flips him off, and that’s the only response Steve receives, leaving the two of you alone in the bus.

You remain quiet, hoping that if you do you might just disappear or dissolve into the cracked leather of the seat you're sitting on. Then there really wouldn’t be any form of confrontation.

Steve starts flipping the lid to his Zippo open and shut repeatedly again, but this time it doesn’t annoy you. In fact, it gives you something to focus on, and you know that if you had one you’d be doing the same exact thing.

You wonder if he’s nervous. Or just bored.

Your knee begins to bounce when you realize that he’s looking at you, that he’s stopped messing with the lighter. But you refuse to look back, staring instead at the way the moonlight glints off of the metal in between his fingers.

“So what’s your problem with me?”

The way Steve says those words is so unlike the way he’s spoken the rest of the day, the way he’s behaved with Dustin, that you feel a pang in your chest.

He sounds like he used to.

“Did you even hear that? How conceded you just sounded? Like it’s funny that I might have a problem with you, king Steve?”

Obviously the use of his nickname hits a nerve. He shoves the lighter back into his pocket and sits up, tucking his hands under his knees.

“Would you just cut the shit and tell me what your problem is then?”

You sit up, matching his stance. There’s a part of you that wants to piss him off. You ache for it.

“You’re a dick, that’s my problem.”

Steve scoffs.

“That’s it? Like I don’t already know that?”

You roll your eyes, oblivious to the fact that all three of the younger kids you’re with have their heads hung over the escape latch in the top of the bus, listening eagerly.

“You think I’m just gonna put up with you, Harrington? I’m sorry, did you forget the slut shaming you and your shitty friends did publicly last fall? Because I sure as hell didn’t. I didn’t forget that you walk around like you fucking own the entirety of Hawkins because you’re swimming in daddy’s money. I didn’t forget that your girlfriend took my best friend away from me.”

You stop, and Steve just looks at you. You realize how heavy you’re breathing and subconsciously watch the steady movement of his chest, trying to match the pace and calm down. You hadn’t meant to get worked up like that. But sometimes…sometimes shit just happens.

Steve sighs. Honestly he feels a little sick. And he could argue with you some more, say that you don’t know what you’re talking about, that that’s the past, that he’s getting better. But that feels shallow. It feels meaningless. Because he knows it’s true. That in worrying about only himself or getting the girl or impressing whoever, he hurt loads more people than he realized.

It’s such bullshit, he thinks. This life he’s been living.

“You know, I’ve gotten plenty of earfuls about my actions from Dustin, I promise you that much. He can be very mean.”

You snort, considering there’s absolutely no denying that. “He’s a smart kid.”

Steve nods. He’s trying to think of a way to respond. He’s not good with words.

“Look, I-I know I’m a dick, okay?” he starts. You decide to be brave and look at him. He seems to like that. The eye contact. It’s like it lets him know you’re paying attention. He doesn’t get a lot of that, not away from school.

“The thing with Nancy,” he gestures with his hands, looking away from you and at the wall of the bus, like it hurts him to talk about or something. “I don’t know. My solution to not getting what I wanted was apparently to take it out on her. Tommy H. proposed the idea, and I didn’t stop it.”

“You know I cleaned it off, right?” he continues.

You uncross your arms and sit up, criss crossing your legs instead. “No. I didn’t know that.”

“It’s okay. It’s not like I broadcasted the information across Hawkins. Tommy and Carol don’t even know.”

Oh. The fact that they didn’t know tells you that he did it without needed recognition. He did it because he wanted to.

“I just—she saw it. And then there was the whole thing…”

You start to grin before you catch yourself, but he sees it.

“It’s okay, you can laugh. I got the shit beat out of me.”

“You deserved it.”

He can’t argue with that. He won’t argue with it. “You’re right. I did. I said and did a lot that day that I regret.”

You nod, and then you’re both just looking at one another. It’s quiet out here, the same quiet you get at home, where you can hear the crickets, where you know there will be lightning bugs in the warmer months, free to roam uninterrupted by human activity.

Steve pushes his hair from his forehead, and though he sees you track the movement of his hand, he doesn’t point it out.

“What did you mean about your friend?”

If you’re being honest with yourself, you hadn’t intended for that to come out, but being in such close proximity to Steve in this moment had just made everything spill out.

You try to wave him off. “That was a whole thing. I didn’t mean to spill my guts like that.”

“No, it’s okay, I want to know. If you want to tell me, that is.”

You nod, chewing at your thumb nail now. Steve has the urge to reach forward and pull it free so you won’t hurt yourself, but he doesn’t. Instead he stays still and quiet, watching you contemplate a while.

Eventually he decides to keep going.

“I’m trying, you know,” he tells you. You look up and it gives him that little push to continue speaking. “To be better. I know you think I’m a total dick, and you’re not wrong, I know that, but I really am trying to be better. To be a good influence on those little shits.” He quirks his head upwards where he knows all three of his charges are eavesdropping, without a doubt.

You take a second and look at him. Really look at him. He seems to carry himself differently, though it’s not something you’d notice if you weren’t looking. He’s not dressed like his mommy picked out his outfit. He looks messy. The mess draws you in.

“I believe you. And I-I know I shouldn’t stereotype you, but it’s just—”

“I am a walking stereotype,” Steve grins. So do you.

“Yeah. I guess so. But I believe that you’re working on it. I suppose some people don’t remain assholes forever.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, though a little distracted. You still haven’t told you what you meant, but that’s not what’s really bugging him.

There’s this pull inside him. This longing for a friend. A real friend. Not someone he knows just because their dads were up each other's asses, or someone he just sits with at lunch because they’re of the same status quo.

And he just feels so alone right now. What with Nancy, this girl he thought he was in love with and everything, but clearly she doesn’t feel the same. What’s he even supposed to do with that? Did he ever actually know anything about her?

It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that he’s sitting here with you, hanging out with thirteen-year-olds and hiding from creatures Steve’s brain can’t even begin to decipher.

“Barb,” you say. Steve panicked a little internally at the mention of her name, considering. But he keeps his eyes on you, focused on each word that leaves your mouth. “She was my best friend, in middle school that is.”

He nods. Oh. Oh.

“We were still close when we got to high school, had a little group and everything, right? And even though high school kinda fucks everything up, I didn’t want to believe that would happen to our little partnership, you know?”

He nods again, trying his best to pay attention. He’s trying harder than he ever has in school. He probably shouldn’t ever say that out loud.

“Anyways, she was my best friend. She was all I knew, and then we got to lovely Hawkins High, and she met Nancy. Nancy and I never really clicked, even when we tried. I guess it’s because I’ve always thought she was a pretentious bitch—sorry, Steve—but I don’t know. We just fell apart after that.”

“So Barb had Nancy and I had…no one. And the way my brain saw it was Nancy took my best friend from me, and then Nancy started seeing you, and so I saw those two from across the cafeteria, lounging with the popular kids. With you. And then she died.”

Steve is looking at you in a way he’s never looked at you before. Like he’s in awe of you. And it’s not anything negative. It’s warm. Understanding. Like something you’ve said has straightened something out in his brain, sorted something he couldn’t figure out on his own.

“S-so it was like we took her from you, in a way?” he asks.

“Yeah. And you didn’t. God, you didn’t. But it just felt like this…” you trail off, searching for the right words.

“Domino effect?”

“Yeah! Yeah. Exactly. And it’s not your fault, not at all. But I guess I already saw you as some dickish rich kid and that gave me another reason to stay the fuck away from you. And now that I’m saying it out loud I realize how awful it sounds because people change, you know?”

“No, I get it. I’ve been an asshole, and I’m sure I still am—Dustin can attest to that—but there are rich assholes that don’t change or probably won’t ever change. I know a few of them.”

You go quiet again. Steve doesn’t want you to stop talking. He’s starting to think he likes the sound of your voice.

“It’s good that you’re changing, Steve. I’m sorry I said you were such a dick.”

A breathy laugh leaves his throat. “It’s okay, I promise. I’m sorry for…everything.”

“Maybe we can make a truce or something. Start over. It’s not like we really know each other that well anyhow.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s cool. Whatever you want.” He means that. He thinks he’d do whatever you wanted him to.

“Okay. Maybe we can just try and figure it out.”

“I’d like that,” Steve says. He stops himself from proclaiming that he wants to try and fix this with you. Because you’re listening to him. You’re not mad. He doesn’t want you to disappear on him after this.

You give him a small smile and he swears he might cry. Not that that feeling lasts.

“Hey!” Dustin is leaning down into the bus, hands clasped together. “I’m so glad we’ve got this handled, but we’ve got a code red, so let’s get this show on the road, yeah?”

————

June 1985

The door to the back room swings open, a frazzled boy rushing in. You drop your candy wrapper on the table, and Robin keeps talking about the girl that you missed coming in this morning. She was “such a babe.”

“Hello?” Steve stands in front of the both of you, hands on his hips. You have to fight back a laugh.

Your eyes find Steve’s immediately, and you swear they soften, but maybe you’re imagining it. You nudge Robin’s leg where your foot is propped up on one of the supports under her chair.

She stops flailing and looks up, seeing Steve’s hand raised where he’d been about to snap to get her attention. She quirks a brow. “Don’t you snap at me, Harrington! This is important shit.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Could you two come and help me? I’m dying out here!”

It’s one of the hottest days of the year, and Scoops has had a line since it opened at ten.

You look at your watch. “My shift doesn’t start for…fifteen minutes.” He rolls his eyes at you, though the gesture is void of any malice it could possibly hold.

“Yeah, well this is supposed to be my break, so get out there, Buckley!”

She stands, though she’s pouting. “Come on.”

“You took the job,” he says, shoving her through the door. Robin gives him a look that you can’t see, but you can practically feel it from across the small room.

Steve lets out an exaggerated sigh, ripping off the hat he’s been wearing and throwing it on the table in front of you.

You watch him rummage through a bag before he emerges from its depths with a banana and throws himself down in the chair across from you, lifting your leg up from where you’d moved it to occupy the seat Robin had abandoned. His hand is warm on the bare skin of your calf, and he shifts the chair some, laying your leg across both of his.

“Steve.”

“Huh?” He peels the banana, aggressively fast actually, and rips off a chunk, popping it into his mouth.

“Why do you have a banana?”

He meets your eyes. “Snack, duh.” He chews, and then gestures at the closed window. “Been working up a sweat out there I think I deserve a break.”

You grin at him, and he feels like he might hit the floor.

“Want some?” Steve pulls off a chunk and holds it out to you.

“Did you wash your hands?”

He gasps, mid-chew, and forces himself to swallow. “D-did I—yes, I washed my hands, mom, I’m not four.”

“Eh,” Robin’s voice breaks your little bubble. She’s pulled the window open–that way she can eavesdrop– propping herself up on her elbows.

That makes you laugh, and when you smile your cheek is full of banana and Steve swears something is breaking inside of him.

“Gang up on me then why don’t you,” he says, handing you the last piece he’s got left. He tosses the peel in the trash, “what do you want anyhow, Robin?”

“Your break is up, and her shift has started. Let’s get to slinging ice cream, shitheads!”

You wipe your hands on your shorts and hop up. Steve doesn’t move, just looks at you.

“C’mon, Steven. It’ll be lunch sooner than later.”

He grins. His eyes look tired and you wonder if he slept any last night. He told you once recently that he doesn’t always sleep well, that sometimes he has to listen to tapes in order to keep his head from being so busy, to keep the thoughts from being so loud.

Steve has told you a lot since last fall. There’s a significant bit more that you know that’s more than what he’s given Robin, but you know he’ll let her in. He just needs the time.

Though sometimes you think he might be giving you everything. The parts of himself he’s never shown anyone else. Because you’ve been such a good listener, and Steve’s never really had that before.

He wishes he had the balls to tell you more. But he can’t fuck it up this time. Not with you. You’re too good.

Steve is your best friend now. You know that. He knows it.

If yourself from a year ago could see you now, she’d probably knock your fucking teeth in. But he’s just so much more than you thought. You’re not sure you’ll ever forgive yourself for not thinking there could be more in him, though he’s told you not to be upset. You’ve told him the same when he berates himself for not having paid you more attention in school.

It’s the past. You can’t live there. And today, you’re scooping ice cream for pre-sticky kids, for shitty pay, but it doesn’t matter because you have him. You have Robin.

You stick out your hand, and Steve takes it without a second thought. His palm engulfs yours, skin warm and a little calloused.

“We can watch whatever you want tonight.”

He squeezes your hand. You and Robin are supposed to have a sleepover with him tonight. He suggested he sleep in a guest room and you two have his bed, but Robin said she needs to be cuddled. You said you’re not letting him sleep anywhere but his bed.

“I thought you wanted to watch Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”

“I always wanna watch that. But you can pick first, Stevie.”

Stevie. His stomach flips at that. You don’t let it out often, but when you do it’s like Steve might just die right there.

He straightens, deal clearly made, and you pull him up–not that you need to.

You push through the door with him, and immediately regret it. It’s like the soccer moms can smell your fear, and you know it.

“Breathe,” Steve says. “Dustin’s here.”

He is. The entire party. That you can deal with.

You think you could deal with an absurd line and angry mothers for the rest of your life if it meant assembling Dustin and Lucas’ weird orders. Even if you have to endure Will’s questioning looks and his pleas that you bring some ice cream home. If you have to listen to Robin’s word vomit.

If it meant spending time with Steve, you’d do it.

God, how shit changes.

————

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