#accident prone reader

[crownedghostprince]

That’s My Emotional Support Wife!

Legolas x Female!Accident Prone!Reader

Fandom: The Hobbit

Legolas and (Y/N) had courted for about a decade before finally deciding to marry.  (Y/N) was the daughter of Lord Elrond, just slightly younger than Arwen, and after marriage she moved to Mirkwood to live with Legolas and her father-in-law the King, Thranduil.  Legolas didn’t mind how accident prone (Y/N) was, sometimes it was even sort of cute.  And now there are 13 dwarves in the cells of Mirkwood having to be dealt with whilst the Elves continue their parties, patrols and usual antics that the dwarves were unaware of until that day.

Requests: Closed. Requested: no.

Warning(s): None.

Note: This is sort of silly, so if you enjoy a fun fanfiction, this is the one to read! (Y/C) - stands for (Your Choice) and (Your Colour).

Word Count: 2,021

[Third Person Perspective]

(I couldn’t find any attached link to this picture from Pinterest, but it was under the account name “The Facegirl” when I found it. They seem cool from what I checked out.)

The dwarves were not happy to be locked up in the cells of Mirkwood under King Thranduil’s rule.  The elves would just pass by here and there as if it was an ordinary path to take.  These cells weren’t in dungeons or anything like you might expect, for the bars of the cells were incredibly tough and strong.  Therefore, there was no need to put the cells in such an inconvenient spot and instead it was closer to the main area where most Wood Elves just wandered through.  (This was also best as the Woodland Realm almost never had prisoners to jail).

So, the dwarves were trapped in their cells, waiting for Thorin to join them (hopefully with good news).  They’d tried breaking out of the cell in whatever way they could think.  From slamming against the bars with their shoulders, to kicking them with their legs and shaking them with their hands.  But still the cell bars held strong.  Bofur was the first to actually observe the elves, rather than sneer and ignore them like the others.  The others didn’t wish to make eye-contact or even look in their general direction.

Bofur watched, as many elves walked through speaking elvish and looking graceful.  Some elves were so graceful when they walked it looked almost as if they were floating across the floor, not even touching the ground.  He struggled to tell who was male and who was female, but the sounds of their voices definitely helped - even if he couldn’t understand their language.

Eventually he saw a beautiful elf with (Y/C) hair and (Y/C) eyes.  His?  Her? Dress was a beautiful mixture of pink and purple that fell past their ankles and hid their feet.  Thus, they appeared to be floating as they walked.  Bofur smiled, appreciating how beautiful the elves could truly be.  How graceful and--and she walked into a wall.  This got the dwarves quietly chuckling from they cells.

Even Dwalin was hiding his snicker.  They would laugh more openly, but they were in foul moods and didn’t want to anger the elves when the elves had an advantage against them.  The elf maiden didn’t seem to mind - hearing their chuckles with her good hearing - and laughed with them.  A shadow crossed the floor and Legolas landed with perfection as he came to check on his wife.  The dwarves’ faces immediately molded into scowls at the sight of the rude elf that found them and cast them into their cells.

They continued to watch as Legolas checked his wife’s face for cuts and smiled when she was cleared to be okay.  He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and took her hand, walking her to the staircase to continue her on her path.  She was not halfway up the staircase when she tripped and fell.  Luckily, Legolas was used to this and simply caught her and gracefully carried her the rest of the way.  He set her back down on the marble floors, kissed the back of her hand and returned to his position up high, watching over the area.  She curtsied and although the dwarves could not hear - or understand it - she thanked him.  “Ni ‘lassui en, Legolas.”

An hour later, Thorin joined his company in the cells.  He simply explained how he had not taken any deal with King Thranduil and that all the Elves could...well...let’s not translate that now.  The dwarves were upset by this news, feeling like they’d be trapped forever.  But Thorin knew there was a Bilbo Baggins somewhere out there.  And he would help free them.  He was sure of it.  Bilbo was not so sure.  Every time he thought he had a clear path to descend to the cells, suddenly a bunch of elves walked by.  He was thankful the ring he found made him invisible.

Some were going to patrol outside, some were laughing and telling jokes in Elvish, some were carrying wine and food, or decorations and others were reading a lovely looking book as they walked by.  The thing is this: Bilbo didn’t have many openings to sneak past and not bump into someone.  So instead he decided to follow them for a brief moment and saw them setting up a sort of party.  With decorations and a clear view of the sky where Bilbo could see the tinges of orange and pink beginning to appear in the clouds.

There were tables lined with bottles of wine and kegs of wine and cups for the wine.  There were a few tables of food, but mostly it was wine.  With lots of seats, some elves already perched on the staircases and some elves sitting up high on ledges already getting drunk.  Many were singing and some were possibly telling poems?  Or stories?  Bilbo wasn’t quite sure but it was a merry gathering that was forming.

‘Well,’  Bilbo decided to himself, ‘Time to find those dwarves.’  And so he walked back the way he came, sneaking down corridors of marble and past beautiful pillars with beautiful, intricate carvings running down them.  Soon his eyes laid upon, a (Y/C) haired elf with a beautiful dress and stunning eyes.  She was reading a book as she walked absentmindedly.  He decided to follow her and see where he ended up.

They walked for almost half an hour when he heard the familiar, grumpy dwarves’ voices as they hushedly whispered to each other in Khuzdul.  ‘Finally,’ Bilbo thought excitedly, ‘I’ve found them!’  He waited behind the she-elf, watching where she was headed.  By the time he realized she was about to walk down a flight of stairs and possibly injure herself, a blond elf was by her side with an arm around her waist.  Legolas was so accustomed to stopping his wife from falling down stairs it was almost a daily thing to catch her and gently lead her away.

“A, Legolas.”  She smiled to her lover with such a soft gaze he felt sure to melt under it.  Although the dwarves did not know it, ‘A’ was Elvish for ‘Hi’.  However, they simply thought it was an exclamation like the English ‘Ah’ when one realizes they almost walked off the top step of a flight of stairs.

However, (Y/N) was so accident prone she was no longer surprised when someone stopped her from walking into a wall, or a door, or out a window and this case was no different.  Bruises and cuts from falling down stairs was common for our silly she-elf lady.  Legolas sighed fondly.  “Hiril vuin, please do fall down the stairs before a most wonderful celebration.”  ‘Hiril vuin’ was Elvish for ‘my lady’ and was a sweet and simple way for Legolas to remain caring, but serious, in front of the dwarvish prisoners.

Bofur spoke up with a chuckle from the cells below, “Is falling down the stairs a common occurrence?  I would love to see such a performance everyday!”  He joked.  The dwarves laughed in agreement except for Oin who could barely hear what Bofur said.

“What did he say?”  He asked Gloin who was in the cell beside him.  His question went unanswered as Gloin continued to loudly laugh.  Legolas glared down at the cells whilst (Y/N) simply laughed with the dwarves.  She had a wonderful sense of humour - she has two older and fun twin brothers after all - and she was also used to these jokes which made it even more fun in her opinion!

Once the laughter had settled down a bit (Y/N) chuckled out, “I knew I should’ve been the King’s jester!”  and the howls of laughter sprung back up again.  Their thunderous voices bounced of the walls and echoed through the building.  Even Legolas and Bilbo chuckled at (Y/N)’s joke.  As the dwarves continued to laugh, crack jokes and sometimes just rest in silence, Legolas decided to simply ignore them and inquire about his wife’s current book.  “Oh!  It’s a book of Elvish poems and short love stories.  I fell in love with it after reading the first couple of love poems.  It even has some poems specifically to be read just before you sleep.  Oh!  I’ll find one of my favourites for you!”

She began to carefully flip back through the previously read pages, keeping her bookmark on her current page as she did so.  Bilbo took this chance to quietly sneak past the couple and down the stairs to the cells in order to look for the keys.  Legolas smiled adoringly as his wife quietly muttered the poem titles until she found the one she was looking for.  Although the Elvish is truly beautiful and wonderful to read, here’s the English equivalent instead:

“ Your Divine Beauty,

The stars crown your head, As you rest peacefully in bed, And the moon bathes you in its’ light, Kissing you with all its’ might.

Such beauty even the sun bows down, So its’ colours may reflect onto your white gown. Pink, orange and gold, Dare not touch or enfold.

For they will not dare, To hide your beauty nor ensnare.”

Although Bilbo and the dwarves had no clue what she said as it was in Elvish, still they folded to the sound of her melodic voice when she read aloud her favourite poem.  Legolas gently kissed her forehead when she was finished and sighed wistfully.  “I adore that poem so much now.”  He smiled down as their foreheads rested together.

“I’m glad you liked it, dear.”  She grinned, returning his kiss with a giggle.  Only a moment had passed when they heard approaching footsteps.  Bilbo snuck back to a corner in case they should pass him and the dwarves returned to their original scowls as two Elven guards came to a stop in front of the couple.  The woman curtsied to the guards and they returned with a bow.

“We’re sorry to interrupt, but the celebrations are beginning.”  They explained, carefully watching Legolas’ eyes as he sighed.

“Very well.  Then I shall not keep you any longer, my dear.  Please, go enjoy yourself and do not wait up for me.  I will join you shortly after I have finished my patrol over the cells.”  Legolas kissed his wife’s hand with a tenderness and care you only hear and see in romance books.

“Thank-you, darling.  I shall join them, but I shall still wait for you.”  She grinned with a cheeky glint to her eyes.

“Why do I bother to tell you to not wait, you don’t listen anyway.”  He chuckled sweetly.  “Very well.  Now go, before my father is disappointed with both of us being absent.”

“Ah, yes, I should hurry then.  Take care, darling, and try not to roughen up the dwarves too much.”  She kissed him once more before leaving with the guards to the celebrations.  Legolas sighed wistfully once more and did not move until she was safe out of sight with the guards.  He trusted them to catch her if she should fall.

But even if she is injured, they have healers that are always pre-prepared for her anyway.  He turned back and before he could ascend back to his post, the dwarves spoke up.

“So she and you are...well...together, huh?”

“She’s my emotional support wife.”  Legolas grinned mischievously, knowing fully well she could still hear them with her excellent Elvish hearing.  A second later his ears heard her voice in the distance,

“I heard that!”  And he smiled hearing her voice once more.

“You’ll do well to not disrespect her whilst you’re here.”  Legolas stared the dwarves down as he finally returned to his post, just out of their line of sight above them.  The dwarves rolled their eyes and proceeded to taunt him with funny comments anyway.  All were harmless, but they were fishing for a reaction from Legolas so they did their best to make it sound almost like insults.  He didn’t care enough to hear though, he was ignoring them and mentally reciting his wife’s favourite poem so when she was having a bad sick day he’d know it off by heart.

[orestesimp]

Rainy Night Patrol

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Summary: Miguel comes home after a night of patrolling with a lot of pent up tension to find you sound asleep.

Content: Somnophilia, panty-tearing practises (in this fucking economy?!??! I know gurl) jerking off with panties kind of? overprotective Miguel is our favourite Miguel. Rough sex. Multiple orgasms and overstimulation (cause do I evern write anything else anymore?). Implied violence against random street criminals.

A/N: Pre-established relationship with pre-established consent for somnophilia.

Word Count: 4,800

Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist

Rainy nights in New York are the fucking worst.

It brings out the worst in people. Stressed-out bankers who will push old ladies out of their way to get to a seat on the subway. Drunken assholes who piss everywhere, making everything reek, and alleyway mugging seems to increase by a disproportionate amount whenever it's pouring.

It surprises Miguel that street robbery even happens outside of comic books anymore. Do these people not have a computer? Cybercrime is a thing. A successful phishing scam targeting a bank employee can net millions overnight.

Yet here Miguel is, headbutting this public nuisance for trying to rob and assault a sorority girl on her way home, fists eating into the man's face. Even though it is evident by now that there is no way the man has a fighting chance, he refuses to stop. He's hissing and spitting at Miguel, lunging at him with the ferociousness of a rabid racoon.

The easiest solution would be to bite and paralyze and call it a night. But from the reek of stale sweat and copious body Axe spray coming off of this asshole, Miguel has no desire to put any part of this man's body into his mouth.

So here Miguel is, putting this bargain-bin Sylvester Stallone wannabe in a headlock and slamming his head into a street lamp in an attempt to knock the man unconscious, instead of where he wants to be: home, in your questionably sized apartment and lumpy feeling bed.

Christ, he hates this city.

By the time it's all said and done, and everything is wrapped up, it's already past midnight. As he slinks in through the window sill into your bedroom, you're fast asleep.

You're lying on top of the quilts, the bedside lamp still on, which means you've been up waiting for him, even though you're supposed to have an early morning tomorrow. Something, something about how it's year-end and you have to present... something or the other.

It's... endearing that you still do that, try to wait up for him every night, even though you should know by now that more often than not, he'll be home much too late for you to still be awake.

Climbing inside the bedroom, the post-fight adrenaline is still surging through his veins. He's riled up, irritated. There's heat brandishing under his skin that is pushing at the edges begging for an outlet.

He glances in your direction. You look so soft in the dim bedroom light, half of your face buried into the pillow.

No, tonight is not the night. You need your sleep.

With a shake of his head, he walks over to his side of the bed, letting the Unstable Molecule fabric of his suit recede until he's left standing naked in the half-darkness of your bedroom.

Dragging away the sheet, he tucks it over you, you hum and shift in your sleep. Leg swinging Akimbo over to his side before he's even had the chance to lay down. The oversized sleep shirt does nothing to disguise the curves of your body, falling completely off one shoulder and riding up to reveal the tantalizing curve of your bare thigh.

Shit.

His mouth waters at the sight, cock half hard just from watching you. It's not helped by the adrenaline still buzzing in his head. It wouldn't take much to get him the rest of the way there.

Miguel groans and rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to ease the tension growing between his temples. How exactly is he supposed to be getting any sleep with you lying next to him, all soft heat and sweet little hums that make him want to grind up against you like a cat in heat?

The weight in the bed shifts as you roll back away from him. A quiet snore issues from where you’re digging your face deeper into the pillow, clearly exhausted. 

Fuck, guess he's just going to have to try. It'd be cruel to wake you now.

He slides into bed next to you, settling for the comforting warmth of you next to him, as he curls one arm around your waist and wraps himself around you. Burying his face into the warm nape of your neck and taking a deep inhale. The smell of your shampoo and soap that pleasantly lingers on his skin, washes away the memories of the stench of rain-soaked streets of this city, the disgusting smell of sulphur and piss.

New York throws a lot of stuff in his way. Muggers, arsonists, would-be murderers. It's nothing he can't handle. And he can handle what it throws at you too. Whether it is torrential rain or some freak force of nature threatening to put you in harm's way, it doesn't matter. He keeps you safe.  And despite all the close calls, you're still here. Still alive. Still his.

His hand slides over the curve of your thigh at the thought, needing to feel your warmth underneath his fingertips. Goosebump prickles your skin at his caress, and he watches the way your back arches, pressing into his touch, even in your sleep.

A slow steady warmth blooms in his chest at your reaction. It's a heady blend of protectiveness but also pride. The universe itself can throw any tantrum it wants. He'll protect you from it all.

Your eyes stay shut, still clearly asleep, but your mouth parts with a needy hum, and Miguel gives you what you want, easing your body back into his arms. Like clockwork, you snuggle back against him, and the slight wiggle of your ass brushing against his front ensures there's no half about how hard is dick is anymore.

Needy heat rolls off his back in waves, and he slides one hand under the hem of your shirt and up along the softness of your stomach. If you were awake, you would be leaping away and smacking him for tickling you. But now the touch just makes you stretch and let out a contented little hum, your nipples already drawn up tight and hard for him by the time he reaches them.

Why are you so reactive when you're sound asleep? Part of him thinks you must be doing this on purpose; there's no way you can't be when he feels you shift again, the soft lace of your panties brushing up against his aching cock.  He palms your hip, following the edge of the lace down over the curve of your ass, then hesitates.

You only pull out the lacey panties when you really want to rile him up. Saving them for special occasions because (as you never fail to mention while scolding him whenever he's ripped another pair in the heat of the moment) 'fancy underwear isn't cheap!' One of these lacey thrilly little things easily would set you back at $80 a pop. Miguel isn't exactly hard pressed for cash, but he sees your point.

Still Miguel doesn't know what he is supposed to do when you keep pressing back against him the way you are at the moment. He grits his teeth, jaw muscles protesting as he grinds them together, knowing fully well he's fighting a losing battle. It’s really only a matter of time. Miguel isn't a fucking saint, and right now the need riding the length of his spine is burning hot enough to incinerate him.

Oh fuck it!

Hooking a finger around the hem of your panties, he eases them to the side, and his hips hitch forward, rubbing himself against you. Sharp pleasure skitters along his back, and he has to bite down the groan in his throat. He draws back, and does it again, letting his cock ride along the curve of your ass. Letting his aching, leaking cock settle between your cheeks, the delicate lace trapping him in place against you.

You’re definitely gonna bitch at him later for stretching out the elastic. But that's okay, you'll forgive him, the way you always do.

He holds there, gently rolling his hips, doesn't go too forceful or too eager with his thrusts, some half-formed intention to not wake you. Thighs shaking as he savors the contrast between your smooth skin and the textured lace. He tells himself that he should take it slow and not disrupt your sleep. But Miguel's never been a patient man.

His hands are already moving, reaching, before his brain has anything to say about it, fingers hitching your panties even further to the side, and fuck the elastic, he'll buy you a new pair. Shit, he'll buy you twenty new pairs. A whole fucking store of panties if that's what you want.

He pulls back, presses forwards again, cock sliding between those plush thighs, the head, slick with precome, gliding smoothly against you.

And fuuuuuck.

He drops his forehead against your shoulder, eyes squeezing shut to ground himself. He can feel how wet you are, drenching his cock as he skims the hard length over and through your slick folds. You're warm and inviting and oh so fucking tempting. You may still be fast asleep, but your body is telling him it’s oh so very ready for him.

God you feel so fucking good.

Angling his hips, he slides the sensitive head of his dick against your slick folds, notching himself against your entrance, gritting his teeth against the way your pretty pussy clenches at the threat of invasion. He holds himself there, breath hissing between his teeth as he teases you both, with tiny, incremental movements forward, in, and back.

Pleasure swirls through him, hot and heady, his ears buzzing with electricity. He's lost in it, but not so far gone that he misses the noises you're making, your reaction. Those little sounds of dissatisfaction, the way your back arches, pressing your hips back against him.  All of it telling him the same thing.

He presses his mouth to the corner of your shoulder. Has to hide the feral grin threatening to break out, because for all his vague intentions of letting you rest, part of him has been waiting for this. Part of him has been aiming for this exact outcome.

You. Awake. Fully ready to take him.

He presses forward again, just far enough that the head of his cock slips inside you, and is rewarded by your body clenching warm and wet around him.

Fuck, you feel too good. You always fucking do. It punches the breath right out of his lungs, needy heat singing through his veins and along every nerve ending in his body until he goes dizzy with it. There are advantages and disadvantages to enhanced senses, and right now, he's fully feeling both. Needs to get on with it, because he intends to have you coming on his cock at least twice before he's done.

Hooking an arm around your waist, he cups your mound. He stays there, pressing with his fingers and the heel of his palm, until he's rewarded by your hips hitching forward into the pressure, then rocking back again, causing you to sink down further onto him. A gasp and a small soft moan falls from between your lips.

He does it again, encouraging you to rock forward and then back again, taking him deeper each time. Inch by brain wracking inch, you take him in. He can feel your tight little pussy stretch around him, adjusting to his cock, as he presses your hips back and back and back until you're taking him all down to the root. Until he’s buried as deep as he can go.

Somehow it's not enough. Not when he's waited this long.

He centers three fingers over your clit through the lace of your panties, resting the heel of his hand just above your pubic bone, and then he presses down.

Your pussy clenches tight, and you jolt hard against him, gasping awake with a breathy 'oh' that does funny things to his brain. Makes rational thought skitter away from him, and when he hears his name on a long gorgeous drawn out moan everything inside him roars to attention.

"Miguel."

Satisfaction thrums under his skin. You’re awake, and he wants you awake for this. Wants you to know exactly who is about to fuck your brains out.

"That's right, nena," he croons, easing his hips back, and skimming his lips up from your shoulder to nip at your exposed neck, careful not to break the skin, relishing the sound of the perfect little gasp of yours. "I'm right here. You ready for my big cock, baby?"

"It– mmmmmm– It feels…" you mumble, voice still stumbling and sleepy.

He slams back into you just as you're trying to find your words, taking a bit too much pleasure in interrupting them when he hears you whine out a breathy, "Fuck, fuck!"

"What's that?" Miguel raises a hand to your chin, cradling it in his palm, tilting you back until he can press his lips to the edge of your jaw. "What does it feel like, tell me."

"Fee-feels like– ngh– like I'm already– taking your big cock." Your words are staggered, stuttered out each time he fucks his cock into you, and Miguel smiles.

"You are," he tell you, "You're taking me so well, nena."

It's a struggle for him to get the words out smoothly. He’s rolling his hips at a steady pace, fucking you in earnest now that you're awake to appreciate it. Every slick slide into your needy little pussy has pleasure burning sharp and insistent through his nervous system, overwhelming and inescapable.

He pauses, moving his hand away from your clit for a second, and grins when you whine and clutch at his arm.

"Patience," he scolds you "I've got you. I'm just gonna..."

He tucks his hand under your panties, and you stiffen against him, making a sound like an outraged cat. He knows exactly what you're going to say even before the words leave your lips, so he ignores you, sliding his fingers along the boundary where you're stretched so wide around the base of him, getting them nice and slick.

"You didn't take off my panties!? Miguel, these are my good wuh– oh fuck."

The words cut off when he locates your hard little clit, settling two fingers over it this time, one on each side, the way he knows always drives you crazy.

"What was that, nena?" he bites back a smile, "Something you wanted to say, huh?"

You suck in a breath, but he doesn't give you a chance to answer, fucking into you hard, and wastes no time resuming his former rhythm. The only thing that comes out of your mouth is a broken moan.

"Sorry, baby," he teases, "I didn't quite catch that."

You don't answer. There's no way you're going to, not with the way your body is drawing up tight, gasping for breath as if he's driving every last ounce of oxygen from your lungs.

He knows your body as well as he knows his own, and he has you caught now, like spider with a fly in its web. He keeps holding you tight against him, hips angled to drive up against just the right spot inside you, the one that has you sobbing and clawing at him with every thrust, each one forcing you forward against the fingers he has bracketing your sensitive little clit.

No more words from that smart mouth of yours now, only gasps and whimpers and cut-off moans that might be the first syllable of his name.

You're clawing at his forearm, breath stuttering in and out of your lungs in staggered gulps. Your heart beating loud and fast and alive in your chest, and he can tell that you're close now. He can feel it in the way your tight little pussy clenches and quivers around him, clutching at his cock like it wants to hold him close, closer, closest.

"Mi– Mi– Mig–" The sound stutters out of you in time with his thrusts, high pitched and desperate—cut-off moans that might be the first syllable of his name, more whine than words. Pride swells in Miguel's chest at seeing you, hearing you like this, strung out and stuttering on his cock, begging him for your pleasure.

Pleasure that only he can give you.

"That's right, nena." He fucks into you hard. Can feel you clench around him relentlessly.

"I'm right here."

You're squeezing him so goddamned tight.

"Fucking you."

It takes everything in him to hold to the same angle, the same pace. To give you just what you need, the way only he can give it to you.

"Making you come," he bites out.

You writhe against him, whining louder now, sweet noises growing higher pitched.

"Come for me, nena," he demands, and you shudder against him, your voice rising into a wail.

Your hot little cunt clamps down tight, fluttering around him, and bright spots of pain bloom into pleasure as your fingernails dig into his arm, drawing blood. Your pretty eyes flutter shut as the whole of your body tenses under him.

Fuck, you're coming.

"That's– fuck– That's it," he grits out, slowing his thrusts, rocking against you gently to help draw out your orgasm. To buy himself a freaking second so you don’t take him over the edge with you. He keeps the soft rolling rhythm until the wracked shivers seizing your body settles. Counting down the seconds until the grip of your nails into his biceps is easing, and then…

"Again," he demands, snapping his hips forward, fucking into you hard, "Come for me again, nena."

Miguel locks his arm in place, holding you at the angle that will let him hit that perfect spot inside you every time, the one that makes your eyes roll back in your head, and he intends to have you seeing stars. He hears your breath leave you with a strangled noise, feels your pussy clench tight and perfect around his cock, and grins through gritted teeth.

If he times it juuuust right, he can send you over the edge a second time. He's done it before, forcing you into another orgasm before you've even come down from the first, and he’s not above using his enhanced reflexes to make you do it again.

And right now? The way you're writhing against him, hands and arms and pussy clutching at him, like you're trying to pull him closer—pull him in, despite the fact that he's already fucking you as deep as he can go. All of that tells him his timing was spot-fucking-on today.

It doesn't take long. It never does when he makes you come this way. And thank fuck for that, because the feel of you clenching around him is almost enough to take him over the edge with you. He has to grit his teeth as he slows to the gentle rocking rhythm you like best when you’re coming. His free hand fisting in the bed sheets, claws digging into them in a way he knows will earn him another scolding later. But R.I.P. your damn linens. Better them than him. You may have come twice, but Miguel's not ready to be done with you just yet.

This time, when you come down, he keeps things slow and gentle until you go loose and boneless. Forces himself to slows further until every muscle in your body melts under his grip. You sink down into the mattress with a little sigh, like you're ready to drift back off to sleep just like this, safe and snug in his arms, his hard cock still buried inside of you.

And if he wasn't so hard up, skin crawling with need and desperation, maybe he'd let you.

But that’s not happening tonight.

Unfortunately for you, Miguel's too hungry for you. Starving. Wants to lick and bite and swallow you down to the very marrow of your bones. 

He's been good. He's been patient. Has held himself back while he made you come. Twice. Satisfaction burns bright in his chest, almost as bright as his need for you. Two fucking times he's gritted his teeth, holding back his own orgasm by the skin of his fucking fangs as that pretty little pussy came around his cock, squeezing him so tight that for a second he was sure he'd black out and see god behind his eyelids.

Miguel is out of patience. 

Any intention to go easy on you because you need the rest is gone. Any consideration for your early morning tomorrow has flown the nest.

Hands on each side of your hips, he rolls the two of you, easily flipping you forward onto your stomach and drags you down along the bed. You stay limp and relaxed, as you let him move you like a ragdoll, positioning you the way he wants, head and chest resting against the matress, ass in the air.

Once he's got you where he wants you, he takes just a second to admire you, taking in the way those pretty lace panties highlight the curves of your ass but do nothing to conceal your slick center, pulled to the side as they are, leaving your pussy fully exposed, all pretty and puffy from how well he's fucked you and glistening in the low light.

You shiver under his heavy gaze, and he can see the way your pussy clenches, can see how wet you are, shining slick, halfway down your thighs.

Miguel must've taken too long with his one second. A soft inquisitive "hmmmmm?" emerges from where your head is buried in the pillow, and you rock your hips gently side to side.

His dick jerks at the obvious invitation. Precome oozes from the tip, and he takes himself in hand, lets himself stroke once to spread it along his length, as though he wasn't dripping with you already.

"What's that, nena?" he bites out. He's so fucking hard for you, cock aching from holding back, but even now, he can't help but tease and goad you. "You want more? You didn't get fucked good enough already? Does that pretty pussy want my cock?"

"Mmmmm.... yes," you say, one hand outstretched behind you, making a 'gimme' motion at him.

The gesture is ridiculous, but he can't help the way it makes his chest pull tight. You're always so ready to have him, no matter how much he tires you out. Suddenly, he can't wait another fucking second to be inside you again. 

He starts to line himself up, the wet heat of you just kissing the head of his dick when you tense up and make a sound of alarm. Fear stings his spine, and he freezes.

"You okay, nena?" he asks, pulling away from you, suddenly terrified that he's hurt you somehow.

Miguel has always been big—even before the "accident" that changed him—and he's bigger now, exponentially stronger.  He’d thought he was being careful, but fuck, it'd be all too easy for him to let his strength get away from him, to go harder than you can handle.

"Are you hurt? Was I- Was I too rough?"

Because he forgets sometimes. Forgets that others don't heal at an accelerated rate like he does. That your body isn't protected by enhanced endurance that lets him walk off falling from a building, barely feeling the six broken ribs and fractured arm that results.

It's why he needs to protect you. 

Always. 

Unlike him, you can be hurt. Can be broken, can be killed. And if he’s hurt you, then he–

You make a negative sound, shaking your head.

  "No, you big doofus," you mumble out into the pillow, and Miguel's heart slowly starts to ease its way out of his throat. "The panties. Take them off first. Don't want them to tear."

He stops, blinking in confusion as his eyes narrow down at you.

Your. Fucking. Panties!?

Really? His mouth curls down into a peeved frown. That's your fucking priority right now? After he's fucked you silly, made you come twice the way only he can?

"You want me to take your panties off, nena?" he demands, tone low and harsh, edging forward on the bed until he’s looming over you.

"Yes," you confirm. "They’re my last good pair." You’re nodding your head energetically in a way that tells him he hasn't done nearly as good of a job of tiring you as he thought. He’ll have to fix that.

With a snarl, he lances the crotch of your panties with a single claw, ripping them off your body.

"Miguel!" you squeak, clearly not expecting that, your voice pitched with disbelief, "Did you just–?"

"They were in the way," he manages to rasp out, lining himself up and pressing forward, unceremoniously shoving inside.

The tight, hot clench of your pretty pussy is blindingly good. It always fucking is. And just like always, Miguel is lost to it. He holds there, buried as deep in you as he can get, shuddering against you. He's damn lucky that extraordinary stamina comes bundled along with super-senses, or he'd probably come every damn time he slips inside you. It'd be all over at the first thrust.

Fuck, he has to move. He pulls out, and you gasp and claw at the sheets, shuddering under him as he starts to fuck you again. Obscene wet, squelching sounds fill the room, along with the echoing slap of flesh on flesh as he fills you over and over and over. You’re so fucking wet, so fucking perfect. He grits his teeth, trying to get a handle on the feeling, but it’s overwhelming. 

Your hot, perfect little pussy clenches and flexes around his dick, and a blissful burn sears against his spine, streaking white and hot with pleasure. A tell-tale sign, warning him of what's to come if he doesn't stop. He sucks in a breath, trying to stave it off, barely hanging on to his control by the tips of his claws because he wants to feel you come around him one more time.

Because twice isn’t enough. Three times won’t be either. Nor would four, five, ten. Miguel’s greedy for you. Selfish. No matter how much you give him, it will never be enough. He will always want more of you.

More of your soft body pressed up against every inch of his. More of your eyes looking back at him, glazed over as if you have no coherent thoughts left in that pretty head of yours. He wants all of that and more. Another orgasm. Another fuck. Another kiss. One more breath. Just more, more, more.

He curls his hand around your throat, feels the chaotic race of your pulse under his fingertips.

"Come for me, nena," he demands, "I need it. Need to feel you." 

He tilts your face up, your back arched like a bow towards him. So fragile. So trusting, that you let him do this to you. 

He dips down to claim your lips, snapping his hips into yours faster now. Ramping up the pace as he chases his inevitable climax, forcing you to yours. 

You whimper and keen with each thrust, eyes rolling wildly. Your mouth hangs open, panting out sweet, stuttered moans that he swallows in a bruising kiss. Your whole body tenses under him, going rigid, then your pretty pussy starts clenching down around him as you come again.

This time, Miguel can't hold himself back. Doesn't even try. Lets himself succumb to the sight, the sounds, the smell, the feel of you surrounding him, coming for him. His stomach draws in tight, toes curling into the sheets, as he can feel his balls drawing up, cock swelling further as he manages a last few ragged thrusts. Then he’s tumbling over the edge with you, burying himself as deep as he can as the unforgiving bliss rises and spreads, blotting out everything else.

It's endless. Pulses after devastating pulse that won't stop. He comes and comes and comes, emptying himself inside of you until he's lightheaded, barely able to hold himself.

No amount of supernatural stamina can help him in this moment. Not when he can feel his spend filling you to capacity and more, so full that it starts leaking out of you, down the line of your thighs and onto his. His strength gives out, and he collapses into the bed, bringing you down with him.

The two of you lay there, trying to catch your breath. You’re trapped under his weight, your small back heaving under his larger chest, sweat slicking your skin to his. He has no desire to move. Shifts slightly to the side, a concession to your need to breathe, but refuses to go farther than that. He wants to keep you right here, covered and cocooned by his body. 

You tilt your head until you can peek over your shoulder at him. There's a look in your eyes, one that he has only ever seen on you. One just for him, filled with exasperated fondness, heat and loving familiarity. One he wouldn’t give up for anything.

"You're getting me new panties."

A warm huff of laughter escapes him. The bright warm glow in his chest spreads outwards, filling him with contentment.

"Sure, nena."

"And coffee in the morning," you add.

He hums in agreement because that's fair. You're going to be in zombie mode otherwise.

"And cupcakes for breakfast," you finish triumphantly.

Miguel turns his head to observe you, the way you're trying to hide that satisfied grin into the pillow to not betray how fucking over the moon you are right now after he's fucked you silly.

Smartass. Always pushing your damn luck. But it's not like he's going to ever say no to you is it?

He puts on a show of sighing loudly with mock exasperation. "From Gladis, yeah?”.

You nod into your pillow.

"Mmhmm."

He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, circling his arm around your waist, easily pulling you to his side.

The rain is still pouring down outside, but here in bed with your warm body pressed up against his side, the sound of it pitter-pattering against the window is almost soothing. He can feel his eyes slipping closed as it lulls him off to sleep. 

The rain isn’t so bad when you’re warm and safe in his arms. Nothing is, as long as you’re here with him. 

He’ll keep you safe. 

Always.

Credits and Dedications: I have to give so so so so much credit to my clown-in-crime @thirstworldproblemss poor woman doesn't even go here, and spent the whole of her evening writing porn to me in my DMs. 90% of the porny parts have been written by her. So for all those who enjoyed this, please go to her inbox and send her much deserved love!!!

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

[thecreelhouse]

accident prone

part two - I laugh often, so, I suppose, I’m gonna be fine

Paring: Steve Harrington x fem!OC - Francesca “Frankie” Amato

Summary: Steve and Frankie really get to know one another, and the friendship blossoms quickly. So fast, Steve can’t keep up with his own feelings, even in the face of an emergency.

WC: 8.6k+

Includes: angst, hurt/comfort (like, a lot), internalized ableism, language, PTSD, revolving around Hawkins/the Upside Down, discussions of chronic pain/illness and disabilities, a teensy bit of fluff and flirting if you squint, medical emergencies, etc.

series playlist ⋮ masterlist 

here, here and here - meg & dia

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

“I’m a wanderer now, sorrow befalls me / I laugh often so, I suppose, I’m gonna be fine”

A/N: hey there! Wow. I didn’t think this would really gain any attention— this fandom seems to hate OCs (y’all’s loss tbh), but the support I got on the last chapter, though small to some major blogs, means a fuck ton to me. I don’t want to tag everyone, but thank you to whoever sent me a kind message or pep talk after posting the first part— I really am glad this is relating to others with chronic health concerns, one way or another. Even if it relates to one person, it means more than meaningless notes. Also, may 12th is Fibromyalgia Awareness Day! So, consider this my contribution lol. As previously stated, for anyone with fibro, or without, but living with a chronic illness/condition, mental and/or physical, I am sending all my love, and this is for you <3

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The next morning, Steve’s up early; if he can’t push past the pain, he’ll try working with it. He refuses to let the opportunity to get to know Frankie slip away. 

And the opportunity for a possible job. That’s important, too. Just… not right at this very moment.

What the hell do I wear? 

He glances at the pair of glasses he’s been neglecting lately, just annoyed he needs yet another tool of assistance to help him function; his vision blurs easily these days, especially with migraines. And while it’s not severe, he’s been warned to wear the glasses to prevent further deterioration of his vision.

To Steve, it’s another reminder of how broken he feels. If this was about anyone else, he wouldn’t feel that way, but when it comes to himself, the internal ableism never ends.

Just like the day before, everything hurts terribly. It’s one of those days where even certain fabrics and elastics add to the widespread ache, and it’s not like he has to dress up, but he doesn’t want to just show up in sweats, either.

At least I don’t have to wear that ugly, stiff uniform anymore.

He opts for a well-worn, loose cardigan with a pair of jeans that he ripped at the knee years ago; the tear is conveniently over his bad knee, making it easier to wear the brace he has on his bad joint days. And today, he really needs it. 

Steve also needs a boost of confidence and a way to shake his nerves; the thought of seeing Frankie again and possibly getting another job have him on edge.

Too bad there’s no medical device to assist him on that one.

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Noticing the ‘CLOSED’ sign on the door of the record shop, Steve hesitates, realizing he should’ve asked Frankie about the hours; a tiny note taped to the bottom of the sign catches his eye. “Unless your name is Steve,” is scribbled in disheveled handwriting, with a small smiley face drawn at the end.

Entering the record shop, he first sees Frankie, sitting criss-crossed on the checkout counter; her cane is laid over her lap while she’s meticulously applying stickers to the aluminum. The door’s chime goes off, and her head pops up, immediately breaking into the warm smile Steve had thought about since the last time they spoke. 

“Steve!” There’s an urge within her to hop off the counter and greet him with a hug, but she holds back, reminding herself that they’re barely even friends. “Hi,” She opts for a wave instead, eyes falling to the coffees, one in each hand.

He shyly nods with a sweet smile, all bundled up in layers most folks would consider unnecessary. For him and his temperature intolerance, the obnoxious amount of warmth is very necessary.

“Hi, Frankie,” He hands her coffee over to her, in all its icy, sugary sprinkled glory. She takes it, eyes crinkling as she smiles wide. Steve can’t help teasing, “Cade’s right, you really are sick for liking iced coffee in the winter.”

Her smile flips into a comical frown before snarking, “He’s never getting that damn tape now.”

“The one about dinosaurs?”

Frankie snorts just as she takes a sip of her coffee, covering her face with her sweater bundled arm.

“Robin told me you’d say something like that.” 

“… So it’s not about—“

“Steve, it’s the name of a band,” She giggles, moving her arm away from her face. Steve notices the way her sleeves cascade over her hands completely; the sweater she’s in is way too big, but with that and her flowing skirt, she looks comfortable, and warm. 

“Right. I knew that!” He tries playing it off with a shrug, “They’re great.”

“You’ve never listened to them before have you?”

He laughs at the knowing smirk Frankie gives him, shaking his head, “Yeah, no, not at all.” If this was high school, he’d be trying to save face right now, to look cool, pretend he knew what he was talking about. Mid-twenties Steve is able to let it roll off his back, poke fun at himself, move on.

Plus, Steve knows this interaction wouldn’t happen at all in high school. Labels and useless popularity would keep them far, far apart. He’s alright with that; Frankie definitely didn’t need someone like ‘King Steve’ and his bullshit to deal with. 

“Okay. What about Jawbreaker?”

“… The candy?”

Frankie giggles, shaking her head, before running down a list of bands off the top of her head; The Cure, Joy Division, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Strawberry Switchblade, Sonic Youth, Nirvana, the list went on. Steve says most he’s heard of, but never listened to. Some, he’s heard some of their singles on the radio.

“You’re into all that… punk stuff, right?” He’s a little lost, but he’s headed in the right direction. Frankie doesn’t tease him for it, though. 

“To an embarrassing degree,” She smiles, crinkling her nose, and oh, god, Steve’s not expecting the way that sets off butterflies in his stomach. “And new wave, grunge, honestly some pop, too— oh! Dolly Parton! Just her, though, can’t get into any other country otherwise. I’m a mess when it comes to music interests.” She shrugs.

He shakes his head, shrugging his jacket off before unwinding his scarf; Frankie catches on immediately, pointing to the coat rack behind the counter.

“No… it suits you.”

“Is that an insult or a compliment?”

“O- oh, no, I meant that in a— it’s a— nice way, promise!” Frankie smirks as he stumbles over his words. “So… got any recommendations on what to start with?”

“Oh, don’t you worry, Steve. I’m gonna make you a mixtape later.” No pretentious undertone can be found in her words; Frankie’s just really excited to introduce someone to music they haven’t heard. “What do you listen to, then?”

Steve sits on the stool behind the counter while Frankie still hangs out on the countertop, kicking her legs over the side now. He watches as she continues sticker-bombing her cane; it’s got quite the variety of holographic stars sprinkled about.

“Uh…” He shrugs, tugging at the edges of his sleeves before shoving them in the pockets of his cardigan. “Whatever sounds good, I guess.”

Frankie narrows her eyes at him, “C’mon, you can do better than that.”

Steve nervously laughs as a hint of red creeps across his face.

“Okay, uh… Queen, Springsteen, some of Bowie’s stuff—“

“Some?”

“I just- I can’t get into it all!” He stammers out. Frankie dramatically sighs, throwing her head back with a hand over her forehead, pretending like she’ll faint. When she levels her gaze to him again, she gives a teasing smirk, and he carries on, red in the face. “I like U2’s last album… uh, shit. What’s it called?”

“Achtung Baby?” She’s so quick to answer in a nonchalant tone, like this is common knowledge.

“Yeah! That one.”

“Oh, you’d really get along with my dad, then,” She teases, watching Steve’s expression flatten in a playful annoyance. “That’s not a bad thing! Bring it up in your next appointment— actually, don’t. He’ll talk about it for hours.”

Steve laughs, pushing his glasses up his nose with his pointer finger, “Alright, I’ll try to remember that.”

“Might want to write a reminder with the brain fog,” She quips, and it easily earns a chuckle; if anyone else tried to joke about his symptoms, he’d be bothered. To laugh it off with someone else equally as sick as him, though, is weirdly… cathartic. “Sorry, I’m distracting you. Go on.”

“Okay, don’t make fun of me, but Blondie’s got some good stuff, too.”

“Yes!” Frankie throws her hands out excitedly. Steve admires how animated she can be.

“I like a lot of other stuff,” He’s becoming more comfortable talking about this, not as afraid of rejection. Frankie didn’t give that kind of attitude off, but he second guesses himself always these days. “But it’s just singles and stuff.”

“Gimme a list one of these days, I’ll give you some recs.” She looks up from her sticker work on her cane, warmly smiling, but it falters seconds later. “Not pushing that on you, but it might— you don’t— don’t be afraid to tell me no—“

“Frankie.” Her name comes out of Steve’s mouth like the night before, a combination of reassurance and teasing. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

Dusting over her cheeks is a tint of rosy pink as her smile returns, ever so slightly. “Okay, cool.” She plucks a star sticker off the page, leaning towards Steve to stick it on his forehead. Her touch makes Steve’s heartbeat quicken, but it’s over as soon as it began. “Congrats, Steve, you’re hired.”

Brows furrowing, he doesn’t bother to remove the sticker. “What? Seriously? That was the interview?”

Frankie nods enthusiastically. “You already seemed nice, and got a good review from your best friend—“

“Seriously, what did she tell you?”

She pretends to zip her lips shut and shrugs, holding back giggles. 

“I’ll get you all that boring ass paperwork later, but yeah, I’m serious.” She holds her cane out, rolling it in her hands to make sure the stars are placed the way she wants. Her tongue pokes out while she’s focused, and Steve thinks it’s the cutest thing in the world. Directing her attention back to him, she continues, “I don’t wanna work with someone I just tolerate.”

Though Steve’s flattered to find he’s more than just tolerable to her, he’s still skeptical; not of her, but how this friendship is growing so easily, so suddenly. “Frankie, we barely know each other.”

“I don’t know anyone else my age that’s disabled, and you just… you get it. I wish you didn’t, but you do. If you don’t wanna work here, no hard feelings, but I want to continue getting to know you.” Her words, her tone, even her facial expression, they’re all sincere. “If you’re up for having a new friend, that is.”

Steve nods embarrassingly fast, but he doesn’t care. “My friends get it to an extent, but I don’t have to explain shit to you, and it’s… well, I don’t want to say nice, ‘cause like you said, I wish you didn’t know what this was like, either. But it makes me feel a little less alone, I guess.” His fingers grip the edge of the stool between his legs, arms straight, as he looks away shyly. “And I- I’d like to make you feel a little less alone too— jesus, that makes me sound like a douche. You get what I mean, right?”

“I get you, Steve, don’t worry,” Frankie picks up her coffee, holding it out to Steve. It takes a few seconds, but he catches on, grabbing his own coffee to hold out to her. “To a sick friendship. Get it. Sick? ‘Cause we’re both—“

Steve knocks his cup against hers, smirking, “Yikes, I thought my humor was corny.”

“Fine, no more jokes at all, then.” She deadpans, but her expression immediately cracks, breaking into a laugh, one that scrunches her nose and crinkles the edges of her eyes. It’s contagious, pulling Steve into her fit of laughter, too. “Yeah, I got a good feeling about you, Steve.”

“Huh? Like what?”

“Oh, we’re not that far in the friendship, buddy.” She props her cane onto the floor, sliding off the counter. The proximity between her and Steve when she’s on her feet is a little too close for him to handle, breath hitching in his throat. “Gotta earn the sappy moments, man.”

With that, Frankie rounds the counter, heading towards an aisle of vinyl records. She turns back to him, “Well, you want a tour?”

Steve’s eyes widen as he scrambles off the chair, “Y- yeah, that’d be— I probably need to know where things are.” Frankie resists teasing him further, leading him around the shop.

The pair walk slowly as she points out the main sections, split into three— vinyl records, cassette tapes, and CDs. 

“I still can’t get behind ‘em. They’re too flimsy for my clumsy self.” Frankie’s lips curl in a snarl as she eyes up the racks of the shiny discs, tucked away in their jewel cases. 

“At least they’re not LaserDiscs,” Steve murmurs, cringing. “I hated those things.”

“Yeah, never was a fan myself,” Her brows crinkle. “They’re like frisbees.”

“But vinyl… isn’t?”

“No. And I’m not elaborating.”

“Francesca, you’re something else.”

She scoffs playfully, “Can’t believe you just called me that. You’re fired.”

“Mhm, sure.” He smirks before glancing around the shop; it’s on the smaller side, but jam-packed with nearly anything and everything music related. Beyond CDs, tapes, and records, are band shirts, Walkmans, headphones, record players, tape players and boomboxes, useless novelty items, and so on. “So, when’d you open the store?”

“Oh, I didn’t. It’s not mine, only running it for now… kinda took over when the owner had to take a sick leave.”  Frankie begins leading Steve towards the back, through a worn, beaded curtain. She points to an open door, “Stockroom,” Then, to the door across the hall. “Break room.”

Steve acknowledges her directions with a nod before asking, “Oh, are they okay? Well, wait. Shit. I guess not if they’re on— my bad.”

Frankie gives him a half-smile, more for the sake of reassurance, along with an answer, “Dementia. So, uh, yeah. Probably not coming back.” A pained expression washes over Steve’s features. “The own— Mr. Fisher wanted to close the shop when his health continued declining, so I told him I’d keep it going for him. This was before the diagnosis, he just knew something was wrong and warned me he’d most likely shut down.”

“That’s… fucked.” 

“Yeah. He actually lived a few floors up, now he’s in a senior living home.” She wanders into the break room, falling onto the worn couch hanging out in the heavily used space. Steve sits on the opposite side, not wanting to invade her personal space as he listens intently. “Cool dude, hired me years ago, and he was really into jazz when he was younger. Like, used to play the sax for a living. He knew nothing about punk music, but he loved asking me about it. I learned a lot about jazz from him, too.

“He was empathetic with my pain, too. The couch is back here ‘cause he felt bad I had nowhere to rest on break.   Then he ended up using it more than I did.” Frankie’s a little dazed as she retells the circumstances. “I knew he’d never get better, and he knew it too, but I told him I’d love to watch over the business until he’s ready to come back. Couldn’t stand watching this place close, so… yeah. S’why I asked you.”

“I’m sorry, Frankie.” It’s all Steve can come up with, but it’s genuine, and she can tell.

“I hope it doesn’t come off like I’m telling you this so you’re guilted into being here, ‘cause if you wanna find another job, don’t feel like you have to st—“

“You do that a lot,” Steve blurts out, but it’s not mean-spirited. He stammers, “N- not that— it’s not bad— sorry—-“

“And you do that a lot,” Frankie observes bluntly. “Guess we’re kinda similar in the whole ‘overly apologetic’ department, huh?”

Steve glances at her, sighing with a hint of a sad smile. “Guess we are.” He rests his head on the back of the couch, blowing air between pursed lips as his eyes fixate on the ceiling. “Anyway, you’re not guilting me. I’m staying.” Then he sits back up, narrowing his stare at her. “Unless I’m still fired.”

She sits up, shoving her hand out towards him. He grabs it as she shakes it obnoxiously, snorting, “Steve Harrington, you’re re-hired.”

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“Fibro’s just like… a bag of jellybeans.”

Steve scoffs out a laugh, lost on Frankie’s words. “I’m sorry, what?”

At the end of the day, Frankie and Steve wound up at a diner, still caught up in the excitement of getting to know a new friend.

“Y’know, it’s always a mystery over what color and flavor you end up with ‘til you get it.” Frankie begins to explain, hands on the diner’s table; Steve’s noticed she talks with her hands, a lot. She’s always so animated, even talking about the most mundane subjects. “And you might have ‘em all, but there might be more of one flavor, or another. Fibromyalgia is just a bag of symptoms, ‘cause you don’t know what’s gonna hurt that day ‘til it does— does that make sense?” 

“Oh, like, I get a lot of headaches, sometimes ocular migraines— the first few times, those freaked me out, and joint pain the most, but the other symptoms still exist, too, just not as frequently.” Steve scrunches his eyes shut with a nod, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Right? Or maybe I’m way off—“

“No, that’s exactly it! 

“That’s actually… a really good analogy,” He tucks the comparison away in his mind, for future use. “Wait, so you also have fibromyalgia?”

Frankie’s about to answer, until the waitress brings their milkshakes and fries to the table. Her smile over something as simple as a milkshake is contagious, and Steve finds himself grinning along with her.

“Yeah, but we found out lupus was a bigger concern,” She shares casually. “Y’know, I wouldn’t wish fibro on anyone, but I’m pissed you have to deal with it.”

Steve’s face distorts into confusion. “Why d’ya say that?”

“It’s such a fucking mess of a disability. Tests come back normal, x-rays show nothing, MRIs are clear, too— shit is so infuriating. You’re living in constant pain and most people don’t believe you. Then ya’ got these fuckin’ misogynistic doctors who see it as a “woman’s disease”— yeah, it’s more prevalent in women, but men get it too, and it’s like y’all are told to just… suck it up. “Man up”. Deal with it.

“Honestly… not sure which sucks to be told more, that you’re just “hysterical and attention seeking” for being sick as a woman, or being told you’re just a “whiny baby” if you’re sick as a man.”

Steve only stares at her; Frankie feels warm under his gaze, sinking into the booth.

“Sorry, I— you’re so spot on, I have nothing to add.” Steve’s shaking his head, fidgeting with his napkin. “But I can’t get over that someone my age fucking gets it.”

Frankie sighs, relieved to hear she wasn’t overdoing it with her rambling.

“Steve, I hate that we’re both in pain, but it’s… it’s nice not having to struggle alone, for once.” She stretches her legs under the booth, resting her boots on the cushion on Steve’s side. He mirrors her, sneakers kicking up to  rest next to her. She smiles, nudging his shoe with her elbow. “Copycat.”

“You really lucked out having a dad who’s a doctor,” Steve softly chuckles, and Frankie smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Immediately, he panics he might’ve said the wrong thing. “I- I don’t mean that in a bad way—“

“No, I know you didn’t. He—” Frankie looks off, eyes fixating on the bustling traffic out the window, despite the two of them being seated in the far end of the diner. She looks back to her milkshake, swirling the straw mindlessly. “He wasn’t always a doctor. He wasn’t in the medical field at all, not ‘til I got sick as a kid.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yup. He got tired of taking me to specialists for them to always say I was being overdramatic, or “Oh, she’s a girl, she might just be faking that for attention.” I guess what I was going through made him realize shit had to change for the sake of us sick folks. I don’t know how anyone would be able to juggle a full time job, full time med school, and raising a kid on their own, but he did it. Even if shit is terrible most of the time, I’m grateful to have a dad as incredible as him.”

Steve let Frankie’s words sink in before curiosity took its hold, “He’s a single parent?”

Frankie sips from her milkshake, looking back at Steve as she sits back. “Wasn’t always, but yeah. Never met my mom, she, uh, she was sick, too. Cancer. Passed before my first birthday.”

“Jesus, Frankie… I’m so sorry.”

She shrugs, trying to let the everlasting sting roll off her back. “I heard she was really sweet, and funny. My dad showed me some home movies a few years back, and it was the first time I heard her voice. She was so pretty, and happy, and—“ She shakes her head, scoffing at herself. “God, I’m sorry for rambling.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for. If you ever wanna talk about this… or anything, I might not know what to say, but I’ll always listen.”

“Right back at ya’, Steve,” She murmurs, gaze friendly before sipping her milkshake.

“I don’t think you want to know my story,” He tries shrugging it off, as if a chuckle would follow, but never does.

“I do, and I mean that.” She firmly states, locking eyes with him. “But only when you’re comfortable sharing it.”

Steve nods, “Yeah. Maybe someday. Kinda hard to even talk to my therapist still about it.”

“You’ll get there eventually. On your own terms.” Frankie can tell he’s uncomfortable, searching for a change of subject. She looks back at his legs, still next to her in the booth. “Isn’t your leg cold?” She nods to the hole in his jeans, right above his knee.

“Yeah, but I needed to wear my knee brace today.”

“I can sew loose, stretchy fabric in, and snaps to remove it, if that helps,” She slurps down the last of the milkshake. “You cool with hanging out longer?”

Steve can’t suppress the grin that graces his face.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨

Frankie’s apartment is in a repurposed warehouse; a large studio, cluttered with art supplies scattered all about. An easel hangs out in the wide open room near a window, with canvasses, both finished and unfinished everywhere surrounding it. Cups and cups of paintbrushes, tubes of paint, pastels, graphite pencils and drawing pads strewn atop nearly every surface. A sewing machine rested snug in a corner of the open room. 

Among it all was the kitchen and living room; down a hallway were the doors to the bathroom, and her bedroom. 

After Steve changes into the sweats Frankie found for him, he enters the main room, holding the sweatpants up by the waistband awkwardly, handing his pair of jeans over to her.

“Sorry, I knew they’d be kinda big, but not that much.” She has jersey knit fabric already cut, sewing snaps to the edges. As she works, she elaborates, “I keep a buncha sizes in clothes, ‘cause my weight fluctuates all the time with flare ups.”

“That’s actually… really smart.”

“Yeah, I got tired of buying and donating the same several sizes over and over. Just easier, and cheaper, to keep ‘em all on hand.” Frankie’s zoned into the impromptu project, so Steve wanders around her apartment, stopping at the kitchen table, blanketed with multiple sketches. 

“I didn’t know you could draw.” He wonders aloud, glancing over the sketch pad papers. There’s a certain style he can’t quite put his finger on with her work; for plain subjects and ideas, they’re incredible.

 Steve turns to the easel with her latest work in progress. It’s a portrait of a woman weeping, holding a mask of her face that’s smiling over her real expression. It’s gorgeous work, but he feels a pang in his chest, wondering if Frankie feels this way more often than not.

“Holy shit, Frankie…” He breathes, recognizing his own struggles through the piece; how often he feels as if he needs to bury his own pain to keep everyone else comfortable. Then again, who hasn’t felt at one point or another they need to cover up how they truly feel?

“I hope that’s a good “holy shit”,” She responds as she continues sewing.

“Your work is amazing,” He’s still staring at the painting, admiring how her art style is slightly unkempt, and leans toward traditional tattoo-style art, but she makes it work somehow; some of the paint bleeds outside the lines, or speckles in random splotches, like watercolors, but it adds character. “Do you just paint as a hobby?”

“I actually had plans to become a tattoo artist, did an apprenticeship and everything,” She murmurs, loud enough for him to hear, but still weighed down with disappointment. She pulls the denim away from the sewing machine, trimming away the loose threads. “Can’t really tattoo when you’ve got unpredictable hand tremors, though. S’why the paintings are such a wreck.”

Oh.

“Shit. That’s…” Again, Steve can’t find proper words of empathy. “I’m sorry.”

Frankie finally glances over her shoulder at him, “Kinda normal for folks like us to leave behind our dreams. Mourn what our lives could’ve been, and what they used to be.”

The familiarity of surrender in her voice hits Steve hard. He might not have had the same dreams to give up to prioritize his health, but it’s still an experience similar to hers. Giving up any dreams or goals he had to accept they probably wouldn’t, couldn’t, come to life. He’s watched his life’s potential slip through his fingers, and has no way of stopping it from vanishing completely.

Mourning what your life was isn’t easy, either. Reminiscing on better health in earlier times of your existence, proof you’ll never be that happy, that healthy again— even if Steve was unhappy deep down in high school, he wishes he had the energy to still fake it.

“Yeah. Fucking sucks.” He mutters. At the same time, Frankie turns to him, holding his jeans out for him to take.

Steve glances over her handiwork, grateful to have soft fabric that’ll finally work with his knee brace, while being removable when it’s too warm out.

“On the bright side, at least you’ve got a friend who gets it now.” She’s speaking softly, with so much, too much, understanding. It helps to finally have a friend who can relate, but with that comes sharing the same emotional hardships, ones that feel endless. 

Still, it’s better than navigating that all on your own.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

It’s been a handful of weeks— maybe about a month and change— since Steve’s life began to feel good again. He’s not sure how long exactly, he just knows since finding a doctor that sincerely cared for his patients, and befriending Frankie, someone his age he could finally relate to, he doesn’t care to keep track of time like a dismal countdown.

He’s not counting the days he feels like a prisoner in his own body anymore.

Timing, though, is always perfectly unfortunate when it comes to Steve’s luck, and life.

On a dull Wednesday night, he and Frankie are closing up the shop before their plans to meet up with Robin at the diner. Steve has had a muted ache in his head since the previous night, but it wasn’t enough to keep him in bed, thankfully. He took some Tylenol earlier in the day, and that helped with staving off most of the pain. Any relief he can find, he happily takes.

The sun isn’t setting as early anymore, a sign winter’s almost at its end; he’s been looking forward to spring, because this cold has done no favors to his aching joints. Until then, he’s still bundling up ridiculously to keep from violently shaking in the cold.

“Hey, Frankie?” He’s looking behind the counter, puzzled. His head feels heavy, thoughts settling in a thick fog. Pushing past it, he asks, “Have you seen my scarf?”

Frankie returns from the tiny stockroom, keys swinging lazily on her finger. “Is it the blue one?”

“No, it’s—“ Steve pauses, hands on the counter to hold himself up from a sudden bout of dizziness. He gives a weak laugh, “I can’t even remember if I wore one at all. Maybe I didn’t.”

Frankie’s quick to notice something’s not right when Steve practically white knuckles the edge of the counter; her firsthand experience with chronic illness is setting off alarms in her head.

“Steve, you should sit down—“ She rushes around to him, pushing the stool towards him. Grabbing his shoulders, she pushes him gently into the chair. “What’s going on?” 

“S’blurry,” Is all he mutters to her. She lifts a hand to his forehead, and he shivers, speaking up a bit more, “You’re always cold.”

She keeps her panic to herself, and rolls her eyes with a tiny smile, pulling her hand away to reach into her bag on the floor; straightening back up with a heavily sticker-bombed water bottle, she hands it to him.

“When’d you last eat?”

Steve shrugs, weakly sipping out of the bottle. “Uh, a few hours ago, I think.” He’s struggling to stay in conversation as the vision in his one eye blurs. “Frankie, I can’t see shit out of this eye.” He points to the right side of his face, hand nearly limp.

“Does your head hurt?”

“Been hurting all day, actually,” He waves his hand in front of his own face, repeating, “Yeah I- I can’t see a damn thing out of this eye.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Wasn’t a big deal ‘til now— shit—“ Steve clutches his head; everything’s too overwhelming. The lights are too bright, the buzz of electricity is too loud, and he feels nauseous. The dizziness is only growing stronger, too. Curling into himself, he doubles over, head in his hands as he leans towards his legs. “God, I hate this.”

Frankie rushes to the light switch across the room, turning off all the lights inside; the only light available is what wanders in from the city outside through the windows. 

There was one crucial detail Steve left out when he confided in Frankie about his ocular migraines: the pain is so intense, it works in tandem with his anxiety, triggering flashbacks of those miserable last few years in Hawkins.

They roll through so quickly in his mind; the first time he fought off a demogorgon with Nancy and Jonathan.  When Steve became a personal punching bag for Billy nearly one year later, the same night he had been roped into fighting off demodogs with the kids, nearly dying multiple times before the sun rose again. The fucked up elevator in Starcourt that plummeted to an artificial hell that also nearly killed him and his friends. He could picture the fists flying at him, his honest answers for the countless times he was asked “who do you work for?” never enough for his captors. 

“Stop, stop, stop—“

Frankie hears Steve whimpering while his flashbacks drag him deeper into the past.

Because who can just forget nearly dying far too many times with your friends before turning twenty? Why forget it when the past just continues to help you survive even further carnage?

His lungs burn while he recalls swimming down to the bottom of the lake, in search of the gate, only to be pulled back down after resurfacing to his friends. It’s not easy to erase the way he fought for his life once dragged into the Upside Down, especially not when the scars refuse to fade, continuing to keep the nightmare alive. Even if his scars blended into his worn, tired skin now, the proof lies in each and every person in the group. Hell, the proof is in anyone from Hawkins.

“Steve—“ Frankie’s voice breaks through to him, only for a moment, too quick to pull him out of this traumatic loop of memories. 

Vecna. Stumbling upon Eddie, nearly dead, in Dustin’s arms. The “earthquake”. Max deep in a coma in the hospital. Watching the Upside Down bleed into reality on this plane of existence. The ultimate downfall of what was once his hometown— once a haven of memories, good and bad, ones that taught him life lessons, ones that he still reminisces on to this day. Leaving behind everything he loved in that shitty little town. Goodbyes with everyone as they all split their separate ways, with hopes and dreams of making the most of a new life somewhere safe.

Hawkins, Indiana was wiped off the map. Wiped from existence to keep the rest of the world safe.

Hawkins was only a memory, now.

Hawkins was gone. 

“Hi, y- yeah, we need an ambulance, my friend, h- he—“

Everyone made it out alive, but what was the point when everyone was hurting badly, one way or another?

What’s the point in surviving if you continue to live in your own personal hell? He thinks, barely making out Frankie reciting the address for the record store. He blindly reaches out for her, still folded over in agony.

Instead of finding her, he finds himself slipping off the chair, hitting the cold, hard floor before abruptly losing his grip on reality. 

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The first thing Steve sees when his eyes weakly flutter open is Frankie. Everything is blurry, but not like before; his vision slowly comes into focus, while the edges of tunnel vision have faded away. A dim, frail smile appears on his face at her sleeping figure, curled up next to him.

Pressure in his head spreads, like there’s an ache about to begin, but it never does, held at bay. That’s when he notices the IV in his arm, prying his eyes open a little more, baffled and trying to sift through the brain fog.

Frankie stirs, eyes squinting open, but once she sees Steve’s awake, her eyes widen; she sits up too quickly, stumbling out of the chair she folded herself into, catching herself at the last minute.

“Steve—“

“Hi Frankie,” He smiles, dopey and sleepy, like he just woke up from a nap, and not a medical scare. She grabs his hand, and he blushes. Looking down at their hands clasped together, a dazed look covers his features. “Your hand’s not very cold. You okay?”

A laugh slips out of Frankie, “I think all the panic made me overheated.” Her bottom lip wobbles, despite Steve’s lips still curved up lazily, “You’re the one in the hospital bed, I should be asking you that.”

“M’fine, I feel great, actually.”

“That would be the drugs doing their job, buddy.” She’s surprised to hear herself giggle, but it rises a weak yet genuine laugh out of Steve. Her thumb softly swipes back and forth on his hand, still in hers. “You scared the hell outta me, Steve.”

His face drops, beginning to realize the severity of the situation, despite gaps of memory to recall on. “I… don’t remember anything.”

“Do you want me to tell you?”

He wordlessly nods.

“Your head hurt all day, but you didn’t tell me until a migraine started,” Frankie sighs, gently pushing his sweat-matted hair away from his eyes. “I think it was an ocular migraine, ‘cause you told me you couldn’t— well, in your exact words, you said “Frankie, I can’t see shit out of this eye”, and then it— you—”

It all floods back to Steve in a flash— his headache that rolled into a sudden, ocular migraine, making him dizzy and weak. How his right eye went blind, then everything hurt, sent him into a panic, and triggered the flashbacks.

“You fell, too, but thankfully you landed on my bag instead of the floor.” She reaches down to his forehead, just above his brow, gently sweeping a thumb across his skin. “There’s a small bruise, but could’ve been worse.”

That, he ignores. Instead, Steve’s heart drops at the thought of what Frankie might’ve heard or seen. Before he can ask, she gathers the courage to tell him.

“You were crying, saying ‘I wanna go home’ a- and ‘stop, stop, stop,’” Her fingers grip his hand, shaking. He squeezes back, sobering up fast from the pain medication. “You kept calling out names, calling for Robin, and I- I don’t know who else, but you sounded so hurt, Steve.”

Steve doesn’t even realize he’s crying until Frankie whispers, “oh” and grabs a handful of tissues from the side table, handing them over to him.

“I— goddammit. I’m so sorry, Frankie.” 

“It’s okay—“

He shakes his head, eyes falling shut; he can’t look at her right now, he feels nothing but shame. 

“It’s not. It never will be. I wasn’t trying to hide anything or lie, but I- I- I—“ In the midst of his panic, he remembers the plans they had with Robin.  His bloodshot eyes lock with Frankie’s teary ones. “Shit, does Robin know—“

“She’s on her way. Thankfully she stopped by instead of meeting us at the diner, right when the ambulance came. I asked if Robin wanted to go with you, but she asked if I could instead; she wanted to grab your meds and a few other things.” Frankie reassures him, but Steve can’t shake the guilt, can’t escape the embarrassment. “Robin’s really a great best friend.”

Steve rubs his eyes, nodding as his voice wavers, “Best friend I ever had. I- I’d be dead without her.”

“Give yourself some credit, man.” A familiar voice floats into the room; Frankie and Steve both look across the hospital room to find Robin, along with Eddie and Dustin trailing in behind her.

“It’s definitely that charming stubbornness to survive y’got going on,” Robin teases lightheartedly.

Frankie looks back at Steve, finding his face about to light up, but he just falls apart again. She releases his hand so Robin can hug him. Steve shakes in her grasp, while Robin murmurs “you’re okay, you’re safe”, soft enough for only Steve to hear; Frankie’s still able to catch it, though.

“Wh— what are you two doing here?”

“You picked the best time to go to the ER,” Dustin grins, trying to point out the bright side. “We were gonna surprise you at the diner, but now we get to surprise you here!” Steve’s smile wavers; he wants to be happy to see his friends again, but the sudden visit and multiple voices, louder than Frankie, makes him wince, too.

Still, he finds himself asking, “Dustin, why are you excited about that?” 

“‘Cause, hospitals suck. Unless Eddie and I are in ‘em.” Dustin looks over at Frankie with a questioning, yet friendly look. “Who— oh. Are you Frankie?”

Her cheeks turn rosy while Steve groans, head falling back on the pillow.

Trying to redirect, Eddie teases, “The kid tells no lies, we’re the best free entertainment a hospital can get.” He’s shooting Steve a knowing look that earns a short-lived laugh out of him. 

Now Steve knows how Max felt when she woke from her coma, when Eddie was finally stable enough to leave his room next to hers. How him and Dustin did everything they could, said whatever they could say, to crack a smile on her face.

 It’s the thought that counts, he thinks, grateful to have friends who care. Steve always felt like everyone would forget him when they all left Hawkins behind. After all, he was usually the one looking out for everyone else. Putting them first. Making sure everyone was safe and sound before himself.

How relieved he was to be wrong, for once.

“How you holding up?” Dustin asks,

“Uh… I…”

All of this is overwhelming; Steve’s still trying to process what happened, was in the middle of Frankie retelling details, and now he’s on an emotional rollercoaster from a surprise visit from two friends he hadn’t seen in god knows how long.

On top of all of that, his head is one loud, startling noise or bright light away from kicking off another migraine.

Robin can tell he’s a step away from falling apart, so she jumps in to give him some breathing room. “I think… we should get snacks from the vending machine. Do either of you want anything?” Frankie shakes her head, and Steve only shrugs without an answer. “We’ll be back, ‘kay?” She backs up, gently pushing the two curly heads out of the room despite their protests; the room falls silent once again.

Steve sighs loudly, eyes shutting as he relaxes into the bed. “I love them, but I— it’s just—“

“Bad timing, I get it. There’s nothing wrong with asking for space.” Frankie assures him, then adds, “I should’ve asked too, do you need me to leave?”

“Don’t,” Steve’s cursing himself inwardly for answering so quickly. “Un- unless you wanna leave—“

“I wanna stay,” She answers at an embarrassing speed, making Steve smile. “I— I can stay overnight, if you want. But don’t feel obligated to say yes.”

“They’ll let you do that?”

“Usually, no, but I know the nurse on shift tonight, and she’s incredibly sweet. Told me already I can stay if I need to.” Frankie smirks. “One, tiny upside of being a hospital regular. Honestly, everyone’s nice here, at least who I’ve met.” She stops herself from rambling, glancing at Steve with concern. “You need anything right now?”

Steve murmurs, “No, just cold,” and releases her hand to pull the covers over himself, shivering. As he does, Frankie catches the scar around his neck while the flimsy hospital gown shifts along with him, exposing a sliver more of him than she’s seen. 

He notices her stare, hand flying to his neck in a pathetic attempt to cover it; he’s quick to stammer out an excuse, “Oh that’s, uh, from— it’s actually a long story, but it’s not— it’s—“

Frankie shakes her head, reaching for Steve’s hand to squeeze softly. “You don’t have to tell me anything, not unless you’re ready and want to. Whatever your story is, Steve, it’s for you to tell on your own terms.”

Again, she watches him relax from a tensed state. 

“Thank you, ‘Key.”

She smirks, “Y’know, I only let people I’m close to call me that.”

“Oh- oh, shit, I’m—“ He sits up, about to stammer out an apology, but her free hand gently stops him before pushing him back down slowly. 

“That includes you.”

“Really?”

“Just one condition.”

“What is it?”

“You tell me if you’re in pain. I know that’s nearly all the time, but if you can’t come in, or can’t hang out, you tell me. Hell, if you need, you can call me if you’re home alone and just need to talk about it.” She softly demands and suggests. Steve nods; it’s only fair, especially after tonight’s scare. “Or even if you still come to work or want to keep plans, don’t be afraid to ask for what you need. I’d rather you take care of yourself than push your body past its limits.”

Steve’s mind races around for the right words to return to her, but all he can respond with is a sincere, “Thank you, Frankie.” Then he adds quickly, “All of what you just said, that applies to you too. Got it?” He tries coming off stern, playfully, of course; instead, his lips crack into a smile, but the sentiment is still true.

“Got it, Stevie,” She tries winking, but it looks more like a twitch, and the two burst into giggles. “You make it look so easy whenever you wink!”

Steve just shoots her a smooth, quick wink. In return, he gets her playful eye roll. He finds comfort and safety in the harmless teasing between one another.

Things might’ve gone to hell tonight, but at least Steve didn’t go through it alone.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

When everyone returned to the hospital room, they made sure to keep their tones quiet, soft, and Steve felt some guilt over that, but he reminded himself too that he’s lucky to have friends who accommodate his needs.

He catches Robin, Dustin, and Eddie up to speed, leaving out the gory, telling details of his flashbacks; Robin must’ve warned Dustin and Eddie to not speak about the Upside Down, for Frankie’s sake. And really, for Steve’s sake, too. After his mind ran through every event, every memory, down to the very last detail, he was exhausted. The last thing he wanted to think or talk about was Hawkins, and all the horrors it once contained.

And once proper introductions were made, Steve admired the way Dustin and Eddie automatically included Frankie into every part of the conversation, making sure she felt welcomed among them, too. 

Steve needed this. He needed the distraction, needed the laughter, the inside jokes, with stories explained to Frankie to keep her in the loop. The longer the visit went on, though, the more Steve realized at some point, he’d have to explain everything to Frankie. She told him to take his time, that he wouldn’t ever need to talk about it if he wasn’t ready, but he’d rather get it out in the open sooner rather than later. 

This friendship was something Steve never had with anyone else before, and he was quickly growing attached to the dynamic. He never expected to grow attached to Frankie so fast, either. Or at all.

Visiting hours end, with Dustin hugging Steve a little too tight, apologetic as he loosens his arms when Steve grumbles in pain. Dustin narrows his eyes at Steve, repeating a sentiment from the time they were stuck in the elevator in Starcourt. “If you die, I die. So don’t die.”

“Oh, we changed that one up a bit? Alright,” Robin snorts, and Dustin flips her off.

Meanwhile, Steve only shrugs. “Okay.”

“Some things never change,” Robin mutters, shaking her head.

The older two out of the trio say their goodbyes, too, with Eddie reminding in a sing-song voice, “Gonna bother you again tomorrow, Big Boy.”

“Please, for the love of—“ Steve sighs, sinking under the covers, embarrassed. “Stop calling me that.” Frankie’s lost, but still giggling over the exchanges; he points at her, “No, don’t— do not encourage his nonsense”

“Respectfully, no, I’ll never stop.” He grins while Robin shoves him out of the room. As he’s nearly out the door, he waves and shouts, “Nice meeting you, Frankie!”

Alone, yet again, Frankie bites her lip to contain her laughter, and Steve narrows a glare at her. “Oh, I can already tell you’re gonna be trouble with them.”

“Listen, it’s not my fault your friends are funny and charming.”

“They’re anything but—“

“Oh, I’m telling ‘em tomorrow you said that.”

“Where’s your proof, Amato?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Harrington.” She sticks her tongue out at him.

Laughing, his brows knit together, “I would!”

He tries to conjure a better comeback to throw her way, but his thoughts fizzle out while watching her set up the chairs into a makeshift bed.

“Frankie.”

She spins around, watching Steve lean up on his elbow. “Huh?”

“You’re not sleeping on those chairs. That’s gonna kill your neck. And your back.” Steve deadpans, pulling his glasses off to set them on the nightstand. “And every other joint in your body.”

Frankie snorts, holding her arms out, “Then where am I sleeping, Steve?”

“Up here,” He’s even surprised by his own boldness, but carries through. “With me.”

If one could hold someone’s gaze in a death grip, Frankie would be doing that right now with Steve’s stare; disbelief and skepticism floods through her thoughts.

“Unless that’s too— if you’re not comfortable—“

“Steve,” Frankie pushes past the way her round cheeks flush red, “We gotta stop second guessing ourselves like this.”

“Yeah, but I just don’t want to assume—“

“When you’re close with someone, assumptions are kind of a given. When someone gets you, it’s not offensive.” She holds the extra pillow a nurse gave her earlier to her chest. “I’m okay with it, if you are. And I’m going to assume you are, because you asked—“

“Demanded—“

Her mouth falls open at his bluntness, “Okay, Big Boy, slow down—“

“Francesca,” He groans, falling back onto the pillows, “please do not call me that.”

She laughs softly, tugging the edges of Steve’s lips into a soft smile; he’s a goner. He knows he is. He’s known for awhile now, but her laugh, her smile, solidifies it. 

“Okay, Steven.”

Waving his arm out towards the uncomfortable hospital bed, he sasses, “Will you shut the hell up and get up here?”

“Didn’t know you were so bossy in bed, Steve,” Frankie waggles her brows at Steve, and while he tries rolling his eyes, his face falls back into a deep shade of red she’s been so easily able to pull out of him these days.

“Christ, Amato, do you ever sh—“

“Shut it, man. I’m moving as fast as a cripple can,” She teases, rounding the bed to climb into the empty side. Kicking her boots off, she swings her legs into the bed. There’s just enough room for her, but only if she presses against Steve by just a touch. “If this is too close—“

“It’s not—“

“Okay, well—“

“‘Key?” Steve’s voice wavers, soft and unsure of himself, despite the habitual teasing. “Can you— shit, this is stupid—“

“Whatever it is, it’s not stupid.” She reassures blindly. “Ask me.”

Steve takes a deep breath, nerves seeping through the overly confident demeanor the drugs gave him. “Can you… can—“ He sighs, frustrated with himself, before blurting out, “Can you hold me?”

Frankie doesn’t answer, not verbally; already on her side, she winds her arms around Steve’s torso, hugging him lightly from behind.

“This okay? You’re comfortable?”

He just nods definitively.

“Steve… your gown is open.”

He panics, shooting up and throwing a hand behind himself to try closing the opening, until he feels Frankie shake against him with laughter.

“You’re such a— quit laughing!” Steve laughs as he tries demanding this of Frankie. 

“M’sorry, it was just— the opportunity was there, I had to take it.”

He sighs, suppressing his grin, his chuckles, laying back down. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

“Best place to have one though, no?” Frankie settles down, snuggling closer to him; her position is certain, yet leaves room for Steve to distance himself if he wants. 

He doesn’t answer with words, just tugs her arms closer around his body, her hands to his chest.

“Hey, Frankie?”

“Mhm?”

“Thank you. I know those migraines aren’t exactly life threatening, but…” He trails off, closing his eyes before admitting the truth, “They make it so… so hard to want to be alive. I’m grateful for your help. I’m sorry you had to witness that, but I— you—“ Oh, fuck it. “I didn’t expect to become so attached to our friendship, to you. But… I’m one lucky, unlucky son of a bitch to have someone in my life like you.”

Frankie feels her tears well her eyes; her and Steve are both so easily emotional— it comes with the territory of being sick on a regular basis. Who wouldn’t be? Realistically, how can you expect someone in the depths of internal and external pain to navigate this life with ease?

Neither of them are cured from the security of this friendship, but it’s reassuring to both that neither are alone in this fight against the bodies they pilot, day in, day out. No definite future for either separately, but at least they can navigate it together. 

Frankie’s almost sure Steve’s asleep, so she speaks up to make sure.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

She sighs, pushing her sentiment into words, solidifying the security of their friendship, at the very least.

“Whatever hell you lived through,” Her voice wavers while on the precipice of sleep, barely heard under the heart monitor’s routine beeps. “I’m glad you survived.”

He’s half asleep, heart monitor rolling to a steady crawl “M’glad I survived, too.”

[starrylevi]

Levi x Accident Prone/Clumsy SO

💫 Accidentally hit myself in the face while opening my backpack and was inspired 😅

You won’t be chopping up any ingredients if Levi can help it: Don’t touch that.” “But I’m trying to helpppp.” “You can help me by staying safe, which means no touching.”

He’ll make sure you’re aware of what’s ahead of you when you’re not paying attention. “Watch out for that. I don’t want you to die.”

When the streets are busy, he’ll take it upon himself to guide you, his arm securely around your waist as he helps you navigate the people traffic.

Your apartment will already be organized because of Levi but he would try his best to organize things in a way that would make it difficult for things to be in your way.

Whenever you get packages, big or small, Levi will place them somewhere that is out of your way but that is also in your line of sight so you know where they are.

Levi’s already hyper vigilant so he’s aware of his surroundings, especially when you’re around. “There’s a step in front of you”, “Pole on your right”, “Move left”.

He’ll notice new bruises before you do. He won’t tell you directly, he’ll massage the skin near the bruise, careful not to hurt you, and ask “Now where did this one come from?”

With how often you get bruises, he’ll suggest iron supplements. If you don’t buy them, he’ll buy them for you, walking up to you and placing them in front of you. “Take them.”

Sometimes you don’t have the common sense to move out the way when Levi’s opening a cabinet or a cupboard. To prevent you from getting hurt, Levi will place one hand over your knee, thigh, or forehead (anticipated spots where you might get hit) and open what he needs to with the other hand.

When you do manage to accidentally bump into something when he’s around, letting out a yelp of surprise and/or pain, Levi can’t help but shake his head and let out a small chuckle. He doesn’t know how you manage to hurt yourself so often. It’s kind of adorable. “C’mere, are you okay?”

He does not let you try to find your way anywhere in the dark. If for some reason, after you both get in bed, you need to get a glass of water or use the bathroom Levi will make sure you have a light source. “Don’t move, let me turn on the light first.”

Again, Levi doesn’t understand how you manage to accidentally hurt yourself so often but he knows he doesn’t need to. What he does know, and do, is he does his best to mitigate it. Of course he can’t protect you from everything, but that doesn’t stop him from trying.

[firelilyofthevalley]

Came to me in a dream, corazon baby-proofing the house for pregnant!reader or baby, but it turns out to be more helpful for him. Would love to see it in a storyline. ❤️

[deathofacupid]

oops | peter parker

tw: spidey senses be letting homeboy down

summary: you're just a bit clumsy.

being popular had never been necessary to you. that being said, landing a spot in flash and liz's clique was more of a... mistake, really, than anything else. looking upon it now, as you did every other time, you cringed so hard.

since 7th grade, you'd had the most massive crush on peter parker. it all started when he'd lent you a pencil in math class. why you thought that to be attractive, you weren't sure. but it was. and you hadn't ever been very coordinated around him, to say the least. that year, you'd been partnered with him for a art project. at first, you were very excited, but didn't know that you wouldn't be able to get two words out around him.

the boy had always been picked on by flash, that wasn't news to anyone. when you had accidentally knocked over the glass of bright red paint and spilt it all over the front of his shirt, everyone laughed. they laughed because they thought you did it on purpose. they laughed because they thought it was funny. and they laughed because peter had started crying.

god, that was the most terrible day of your life.

and the worst part?

you had heard him and ned gushing over the new starwars shirt, and that he'd finally saved up enough allowance to buy it (the shirt was limited addition, and was more expensive than it needed to be) earlier that day.

the next day, you tried your hardest to explain it him that it really was just an accident, but he had made it a point to stay away from you, because the poor kid thought you were trying to bully him. not only that, but flash and his clique started to hang out around you, they claimed it was because what you had done was "epic" and "took crazy guts."

his group consisted of liz, gwen, cindy, harry, and himself. and since you had no other friends, you just let it be.

then in 8th grade, you accidentally insulted him, you were trying to make small talk, but ended up humiliating him in front of the entire grade. you'd never forget his bright red face, twisted in embarrassment, tears filling his eyes as he tried to desperately blink them back. that too, you were applauded for by your friends.

basically, every singled time (yes, there were more, but they were not to be spoken about) you'd ended up hurting him. so eventually in freshman, you'd stayed away, fantasizing from afar.

currently you were fantasizing from the bleachers, staring at peter as he did curl-ups as ned kept his feet in place.

"and i know, right? zach is so hot!" liz squealed.

cindy nodded aggressively, "he's so asking you out to the dance, trust me. ooh! i forgot to tell you! harry finally asked me. but i guess i kinda already figured that he would."

dazed, you looked up, "huh? figured who out?"

"that you like peter parker," cindy shrugged.

"yeah, but- wait, what?"

she rolled her eyes, "you've literally been checking him out all period. dude, he totally got a glow-up! did you see his abs?"

yes. duh. what do you think i've been staring at?

you hummed in response instead. "well?"

"well, what, liz?"

"are you gonna ask him?"

"no! he hates me!"

"how do you know?" cindy countered.

"because i bully him!"

"yeah," liz nodded, "i was actually gonna ask about that. do you have, like, a degradation kink or something?"

"one, that's not how those work. two, i didn't mean to do all that... i just... i freeze up around him."

"leave it to our girl to crush on a dork," the korean girl giggled.

"he's not a dork."

they rose an eyebrow at you.

"okay, well, still," you defended, "he's cute."

"girls!" a voice boomed, "you done gossiping?"

"stupid coach," you muttered, before stepping off the bleachers with your friends.

coach doss looked around, clearly last minute planning something. "uh, okay, let's do dodgeball. two teams, a and b. cindy, a. liz, b. harry, a. y/n, b. peter, a," he continued but you ignored that.

you and peter were on opposite sides. and how would that end? you pushed away those thoughts and pressed your lips together. it was fine, no big deal. just avoid him, right?

you picked up a ball, and stood there. kids were yelling and screaming, and you just stood near the corner, where no one noticed you. soon enough, it was you and just some other kids. your teammates looked at you expectantly, and you being you, panicked, not liking the sudden attention. so you squeezed your eyes tight and threw the ball as hard as you could in a random direction.

only when you heard a crack and a yelp did you look up.

and what had you done?

you'd hit peter right in the face. he was clutching his nose, which was bleeding like hell, and groaning in pain. coach blew his whistle and rushed over.

"good going," liz mouthed and your cheeks burned.

"damn, y/n, definitely busted something," harry whistled.

"oh my god, peter, i'm sorry," you rushed out.

coach doss shook his head. "definitely broken. no worries, l/n, it was an accident. go ahead and take him to the nurse. i'll write you a pass."

no worries?

you nodded and walked up to peter, avoiding any and all eye contact. the two of you walked in silence down the hall until:

"why do you hate me?" he blurted out, sounding equal parts pained and confused.

"no, i-i don't hate you!" you said quickly.

"you don't? but... you've been picking on me since... i dunno, middle school?"

"i don't- that's not-" you and two options, tell the truth or go with it. and peter deserved the truth, no matter how embarrassing it was. you inhaled, and in one breath; "ilikeyoualotijustdon'tknowhowtoactlikeanormalpersomaroundyoiandit'sreally-"

"what?"

"i, uh, i like you. like you, like you."

"is- is this another joke?"

"no!"

"i'm sorry, i don't, it's just... you, um, literally bully me."

"i get really nervous around you," you blushed, "i thought you hated me. because... of that."

"i don't hate you, either."

"really?"

"yeah," he paused for a second, "i liked you, too, but i figured you didn't feel the same because, you know."

"god, this is humiliating. i just freeze up around you. and- i, um, yeah."

"well, i don't hate you. and if you're not messing with me-"

"i'm not," you interrupted.

he smiled, "then i'd really like to hang out with you."

"like a date? o-or not, that's fine, too," you stammered.

"yeah. a date."

"cool."

you stared at him for while, "shit, i'm so sorry i broke your nose!"

he laughed as you took a step closer, brushing your fingers over his cheek. realizing how close you were to him, you jerked back, accidentally hitting his. freaking. nose.

"ow," he said quietly.

"oops."

[yourprobnowdumdum]

Rick with a partner who's terribly clumsy

Someone who keeps bumping into shit, stubbing their toes, tripping, twisting their ankle, says 'ow' even when they don't get hurt, runs out of band-aids often, etc.

At that point I think he'd stick them in a hamster ball or try to (angrily) convince them to let him make some protection so he stops hearing once or twice a week some new problem they have because they're clumsy as fuck

[ferrarifan4ever]

That went well..

Omg! So I don't think anybody saw,as I was rushing and panicky as hell,but I've been working on a Lando Norris fic for quite a while now,and instead of saving it to drafts,I'll accidentally posted it! I made quick work copying it and deleting the post,though I missed an entire paragraph,so now I'm gonna have to re-write that bit. Has anyone else slipped up like that,or am I the only one stupid enough?

[quinloki]

Sleepy reader trying to help the cooks out with early morning prep, but accidentally hurting themselves almost immediately and being ushered over to sit at the counter. Well, maybe next time you can wake up early a bit more deliberately, you won't be as tired and accident prone.

Awww

As someone who took out an entire large cup of soda yesterday, wide awake and completely aware of my surroundings, I feel this concept in my bones a bit. ^^;

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, yandere, omegaverse, forced bonding, subjugation, some type of discrimination, elements of androgyny

♡ fem reader

Thinking about the big and burly behemoth Omega finally finding himself the cutest little Alpha to breed with…

He could never bring himself to breed with Alphas. Growing up, he developed a great disdain for them—all high and mighty rabid animals prone to violence, more often than not completely dimwitted to top it off, as if their massive ego had usurped the place of basic brain operation.

He couldn’t hate them more, yet he doesn’t correct anyone when they mistake him for one, either. In many ways, he wished he was born one instead of an Omega. It would make it easier to fulfill his desires that way. A dominant Omega isn’t all that normal, after all—and submissive Alphas are an even rarer breed to come by.

He hadn't found one yet. And other Omegas don’t really do it for him. They approach him, thinking he’s an Alpha, then feel disappointed when figuring out he’s not—which is fine, as he isn’t particularly interested in their scent either. Betas make for an okay compromise—they don’t care if he’s an Omega, it makes no difference to them—yet he could never really shake the feeling that something was missing when lying with them.

At the office, the scent of Alphas plagues him all day—how they strut around, stinking up the place with no concern for anyone else. This is a workplace, for fuck’s sake—can’t they have a little dignity and not treat it like a mating ground? He really hates them. All bigheaded assholes—

“Ow—” there’s bark and a hard thunk of something hitting the floor.

Someone just bumped into him—someone so small he hadn’t even seen them over the top of his clipboard. Looking down, he sees a fellow Omega—a pretty one. You must be as disoriented by the scent around you as he is—probably why you walked right into him—poor thing. He ought to help you up.

You hold your head in your hand, wincing at the sting of your rear—you’d fallen right on your tailbone. Looking up, you give the fellow Alpha who’d knocked you down a mean glare, “What the hell, asshole!”

His outstretched hand stiffens midway. That’s not a very Omega-like thing to say—especially not by one so small as you. No, wait… what’s that scent?

You ignore his hand and get up on your own, dusting down your pin-stripes with angry brushes—face pursed, almost pouty, but not quite, too stink-eyed as you lean in and jab a finger into his chest to punctuate your words, “Watch where you’re going next time, you…”

You soften up halfway through the sentence. It must have dawned on you as well. His scent. Not like other Alphas, but something else entirely—something that suddenly makes you blush all over, wide-eyed.

You don’t say another word, only giving a weak huff before turning tail and stomping away.

There’s something very cute about it—he’s left thinking while watching you, utterly stunned and still, replaying the events that just occurred over and over in his head—wondering how he’d never seen you before. You must work on a different floor.

Luckily, he’d made sure to read your name tag—pinned all properly on your chest like a badge of honor, neatly like the rest of you. Well put together from the top of your salon-styled hair down to the tips of your pointy black stilettos. Even with their added height, you must have been two heads shorter than him—no taller than any regular Omega.

It's no wonder he mistook you for one. You were as cute as one, too—like a doll he could put behind glass, up on a mantle, and keep forever. But oh my… that mouth on you and that awful snarl. Just like any other imposing Alpha, he supposed. Bratty and arrogant, quick to jump the gun and pick a fight instead of taking it for the simple accident it was.

He goes back and sets himself down by his desk—but he’s way too distracted to work now, too busy with the thought of you. That flushed face you showed him before teetering off was something he wouldn’t mind seeing again—also that cute scowl under certain circumstances and what type of expression you’d give him if he wiped it off.

He's lucky an office party came along so quickly. He wouldn’t usually go, but now he had a reason. He bet you’d be there—the way you were dressed when you’d bumped into him tells him you’re one to respect the memo—head to toe in such a neat suit, trying to come off as androgynous as if in desperation needing everyone to know you were an Alpha. It must be hard for you—looking like that but wanting to look… well, suppose more like him.

He's glad he never felt that way—wishing to be smaller and cuter like other Omegas. Sure, he’s been envious of them at times, but more so of their easy pickings and not their appearance. He’s happy being bigger and stronger—it keeps unwanted attention at bay. You probably struggle to do the same. He bets you get a lot of the wrong eyes following you. Yeah… you must attract the bad sort all the time—alphas swarming you only to catch your scent and lose interest. Or maybe not… Alphas are sick, after all. Come to think of it, most of them would probably get off on dominating another Alpha. In that regard, it must have been worse for you than for him. Luckily, both of your issues are now solved.

He wondered what you’d wear tonight. You’d look much better in something feminine and not that suit you’d been wearing. He hopes, but no, you’re wearing much the same thing—another tailored two-piece that all but drowns you.

He understands what you’re going for. You have to dress like that, or else what Omega would ever want you looking the way you do? Aside from him, of course.

No matter. When you move in with him, he’ll dress you in all the pretty things he knows you want to wear. After all, pretty colors, ruffles, and lace will suit you so much better.

“Hello again.” He approaches you by the hors d’oeuvres even after you’d visibly and explicitly chosen to ignore him.

You groan under your breath, responding without even bothering to look at him, “Do I know you?”

Your tough act is cute. He has to withhold a chuckle before answering, “Don’t remember? You called me an asshole a week ago.”

“You walked right into me, so it’s not like it wasn’t deserved.”

You have to love that arrogance—that air of unfounded superiority. He wonders, where do you keep it all? “Well, how could I not? You’re so small I didn’t even see you.”

You’re quick to bare your teeth—obviously, he hit a nerve—showing him that same snarl you’d done back then. Cute little canines—he bet they won’t even hurt going into his neck once you mark him.

“Watch your mouth, Omega.”

Still, with a small smile, he feigns surprise. “Wow—are you an Alpha? Funny, I didn’t know they came in such tiny packages.”

It flusters you, no doubt—your brows lowered into a full glower now. “And I didn’t know Omegas could be so rude.”

You turn to stomp again, as you’d done before—though this time, he grabs your arm before you’re gone.

You whip around with another bark, “Hands off—"

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes unexpectedly, giving you puppy-dog eyes you hadn’t thought him capable of. “I should have been more mindful of my steps. It was entirely my fault.”

You go still at the sudden show of humility and respect. Finding yourself softening by the tilt of his head, bowing at you in acknowledgment of your higher standing. Not that many bother doing that to you—between mistaking you for an Omega or otherwise neglecting your standing as an Alpha, both due to your physique. Seeing it up close and so abruptly flusters you.

“Let me get you a drink to make up for it?” he offers politely, almost in plead.

Struck with feelings of somewhat regret for your own uncouth attitude, you nearly accept on a whim. “That’s kind…” But then think it over. You don’t really want to lead him on, either. You nearly stutter, yet steal yourself. After all… “But you’re not really my type.”

He hangs his head with a dejected sigh, “That’s harsh.” But he’d already figured as much and didn’t really care. Giving you his most sorry grin, he insists, “Humor me anyway? Just one drink so I don’t feel like an asshole for the rest of my life.”

It’s clear you want to refuse—still, as suspected, your heart just can’t handle seeing a desperate Omega in need. Bless your dim Alpha instincts.

“Okay, fine. One drink, that’s all,” you end up agreeing. One drink can’t hurt, right?

You feel like a good Samaritan once the big hunk of an Omega runs off to fetch you a glass. Pitying him or even sympathizing, maybe—it can’t be easy for an Omega in the mating scene to look like that. No Alpha around would want an Omega bigger than them—it’s utterly emasculating, not to mention unnatural.

Of course, you’re aware you’re in much the same shoes as him—you’re not delusional. Only, it’s easy being an independent Alpha—you don’t mind being a lone wolf in the world—but Omegas were built to be domestic. So yeah, you pity him—the poor guy, he’ll probably never find a proper mate.

But you can’t let your pity grant him too many favors—you have no intention of taking on any charity case tonight, especially not a pity fuck. You’ll have one drink with him as a mutual apology. That’s all.

Luckily… one drink is all he needs. Add a little sprinkle of this and that in your glass, and you’re already in the palm of his hand.

He has to carry you bridal style before he’s even managed to lead you to the elevator—it’s empty all the way down to the garage. He puts you in his car, locks your seatbelt in place, then drives off. It’s honestly quite astounding how easy it had been. He’d thought trapping an Alpha would be a much more remarkable feat, an impossible one for an Omega—but this was no different from eating an unguarded piece of cake.

You’re drowsy as he carries you into his apartment. And that’s when the other drug kicks in. The overwhelming scent of being inside his nest sets off your rut like a matchstick being ripped along the red.

Your claws come out, puncturing his sheets as he lays you down on his bed.

You’re too delirious to do much but writhe—making it easy for him to unbutton your dress shirt, followed by your slacks. He has to scoff at your plain black boxers and binder bra. You poor thing, always trying to run with the big dogs when you’re no bigger than a bite-sized puppy. From now on, you’ll only wear lacey things he brings home for you. You won’t have to puff your chest—you can be as sweet and pretty as your delicate physique constitutes—his cutest, littlest, most perfect mate.

You gain newfound strength once he’s peeled your underwear down, baring your needy heat to his touch. Instantly, your arms spring into action, flinging themselves around him, pouncing like a predator at its prey with your fangs bared.

He stops you easily—placing his wrist between your teeth, using it as a muzzle. He chuckles, looking at you gnaw on it like a bone.

“I think the world has it all wrong,” he starts, though he’s not sure you’re even capable of understanding speech in your state. “Omegas are the ones better suited as leaders of society, not Alphas.”

As he talks, he continues with his ministrations, stroking your needy slit with a mean finger, swiping it cruelly before splitting between the folds.

“I mean, look at you—mindless in a rut, willing to pounce on anything that moves—like a wild animal.” Once he sticks his finger inside you, your teeth do his wrist the same justice—drawing blood, making him hiss through his smile, “I ought to keep you in a cage.” And yet he doesn’t pull either hand away. “It would suit you well—on your knees with a pretty leash and collar upon your throat.”

You’re wet in his hand—soaked and so warm he loses track of his own finger as if melting within you. His cock strains against his boxer, wanting to feel it for himself. But you’re still way too tight for that.

He feeds you another digit, and you moan—suckling on his wrist now more than biting, though still with your canines out and seeking.

“Look at these wittle teeth, tch—” he grins upon closer inspection, looking between them and your eyes—pupil-fat orbs, far gone in your instincts. “I bet they’re just itching for my neck instead, huh?”

The provocation seems to make you more desperate. Pumping you slowly, more so to stretch you out than stimulate, he can feel your breaths turn thicker with need, how you press your tongue against his wrist, wet and lousy, wanting for more.

“Well, go on then, Alpha...” He chuckles again, removing his arm from barring your mouth before wrapping your throat with the same hand, holding it like a collar, keeping you under control.

And then he bares his neck for you.

“I give my consent.”

♡ part two

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Amajiki ♡ JJK – Gojo, Geto ♡ HQ – Kuro, Oikawa, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ BLLK – Reo, Nagi, Bachira, Isagi ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Suo, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[grimmsbride]

dirty mind …. ! ₊ཾִ ᖫྀ ⁣⁣.

mohawk!mark, full-masked!mark, shiesty!mark, & reader ╲ your boyfriend is a little perv <3

𖥔 ࣪˖ tags⠀⎯ separate headcanons | pre-established relationship | ooc characters | perverted behavior | mentions of panty stealing, nudes, masturbation, etc | if this isn’t for you, please ignore | silly headcanons don’t take them too seriously | fake humping | groping | voyuerism? | shiesty mark is childish asf | etc

𖥔 ࣪˖ author’s notes⠀⎯ really on the mark is a little perv train (i mean look at the lotion and tissues in his room ) so of course his variants are gonna be similar if not ten times worst. decided i may write headcanons inbetween work days cause i only ever rlly write fics on my day off— but i don’t wanna starve y’all. i’ll make more of these soon probably i need to sleep tho 🫶🏾🫶🏾

MOHAWK!MARK

- keeps sexy pictures of you as your contact info. consensual, naughty pics of course— he’s not that odd.

- however one day you had his phone to check something and happened upon his call log by accident. of course you were a frequent caller, your lips curling into a smile at the little ‘headache’ contact name he had chosen for you.

- but on further inspection you saw.. what you believed to be, was you on your knees, breasts pressed up against the damp thin tshirt you wore. along with this comprising position was mark’s hand holding your cheeks gently, your lips slick and face a complete mess; eyeliner dripping, eyes teary, the whole nine yards.

- you immediately recognized this photo, nearly tearing your blankets in half as you jumped out of your bed. without much thought you were barging into the bathroom where your lover showered, the man giving you a confused glance though not entirely apposed to your presence.

- “change my contact photo!” you huffed, gripping the phone tight and showcasing it. you watched in absolute disbelief as mark slowly grinned, not at all phased by you finding his dirty little secret.

- “nope.”

- “nope! mark, how old are y— that’s not the issue. change it now! what if someone saw this?!”

- his eyes rolled slowly, “no one touches my phone except you. c’mon it’s a hot picture, lighten up!”

- you didn’t bother in confirming or denying it, eyes squinted at your man who was practically struggling not to laugh at your dismay. a few silent seconds passed before he groaned a bit, a wet hand reaching out towards you.

- “i’ll change it right now, right infront of you.”

- “and use a tasteful picture?”

- “yeah, yeah.”

- you waited a moment before stepping closer, extending his phone— only for a tight grip to come upon your wrist. you scrambled, immediately knowing what he was going to do.

- “mark, n—“

- magically — curtesy of viltrumite speed — mark tossed his phone onto the pile of dirty clothes on the bathroom floor while simultaneously pulling you ( fully clothed mind you ) into the shower with him. you practically shrieked, fighting at the arms that wrapped tightly around you, trying to ignore the mischievous laughter escaping him.

- “you keep falling for that.”

- “you’re such a dick! i’m all wet now, mark!”

- the man would snort, peeling back to glance down at you. “hasn’t been the first time, definitely won’t be the last.” his fingers rose to pluck at the soaked shirt you wore, slowly peeling it off you.

- “now let’s get you out of these clothes, i would hate for you to catch a cold.”

- you would have to badger him later. and since mohawk!mark isn’t a total dick, he will change it to something a little less compromising…

FULL MASK! MARK

- while i don’t believe full mask!mark is timid or anything, when it comes to you he’s a little less ‘aggressive’ (for lack of a better word) when compared to the other variants.

- but that doesn’t mean he’s not just as freaky. meaning.. the man is prone to stealing your panties.

- like the doting boyfriend he was, mark was doing your laundry one day, simply moving the clothes to and from the basket to the washer— easy peasy, no need to fuss.

- except he happened upon a pair of your panties. dark blue, lacey, with such thin material he questioned if it even fully covered you.

- for whatever reason the man got so fixated on that pair, clutching it in his hand for what seemed like thirty minutes before shoving it into his pocket.

- that day, he mulled over it while you were gone, a million thoughts running through his head everytime he shoved his hand into his pocket, feeling the fabric glide across his fingers.

- should he put it back? why did he keep it? how disgusting can you be to take your girlfriend’s dirty underwear?

- but.. all that seemed to cease when mark pulled it from his pocket once again, feeling way to hot the moment his fingers dragged right against the crotch.

- he felt dirty, perverted, everything in between but that didn’t stop him from pressing the fabric against his nose. the man couldn’t help but notice your smell immediately, basically groaning right into the panties as if the single sniff left him high.

- from that point on mark began to steal your panties, always so eager to do laundry just for this reason.. and when he had some time to himself mark would spend it sniffing, licking, even dragging the fabric along his length..

- a true pervert, right to the bone.

- of course, he wasn’t subtle and of course you found out quickly, but you decided to let him have his fun. albeit a little low on underwear, you truly didn’t mind his freakiness.

- until one day the two of you were both home, cooped up in during house chores together; mixed in with a little kissing and groping, it was a good day after all

- you were busy shoving a new load of laundry into the washer whilst mark emptied the dryer, him humming along to the little conversation you had going.

- in the middle of it your hand suddenly grabbed those same blue panties, a fake look of surprise capturing your features.

- “oh, i should probably set these to the side for you.”

- mark hummed for a moment still focused on doing his part until his eyes turned, gaze settling on you— heart dropping the moment he noticed what was in your hand.

- “wh—what?..”

- you gave a sweet smile, shutting the washer close and setting the panties ontop of it.

- “i put it to the side for you. you’re welcome.” you leaned over to stamp a kiss to his cheek, walking off to finish some other task.

- leaving a completely red mark who began to stammer, clearly embarrassed, practically trampling over himself to chase after you.

- that night he makes quick work of apologizing over and over again, not at all convinced by your pretty grins and little “its okay”s.

SHIESTY! MARK

- a groper and humper. even at the worst fucking times.

- will go to sleep with his hands under your shirt, a palm full of your breasts. not even in a he wants to play with them way but in a— that’s the only way he sleeps well way.

- if you wear nightgowns around the house mark is quick to grip your ass, even spank it a little bit just to hear you whine in annoyance.

- do not bend over in his presence, ever. not unless you want strong arms to tug at your hips and for him to hump you like some dog in heat.

- will even add over exaggerated moans and groans just to fuck with you

- “oh yeah, just like that.. feels so good!”

- “mark, get off me!”

- this doesn’t stop just cause the two of you are in public, it may even increase tenfold — outside of the sight of children of course — because mark knows no one will step to him.. cocky bastard.

- imagine grocery shopping and he’s all like “babe can you hand me that” something that’s magically on the bottom shelf. you think nothing of it, trying to be a good girlfriend, you know, and bend to grab it.

- it was a trap. obviously. because like glue mark is slipping behind you, arms tight, and giving you a few pumps.

- you kick up a small fuss, slapping at his hands and throughly embarrassed by his behavior.

- to his credit most times the aisle is empty when this happens, but the one time it wasn’t, instead of stopping; mark winks at the poor guy that passed by.

- to say you were pissed was an understatement, mark spent the rest of that day groveling for you to forgive him.

[thecreelhouse]

accident prone

part three - young and bold with a heart of gold

Paring: Steve Harrington x Francesca “Frankie” Amato (fem!oc)

Summary: Steve returns home from the hospital, and with the help of his friends, he finally tells Frankie the truth about Hawkins, going anything but smoothly.

WC: 10.8k

Includes: hurt/comfort, angst, PTSD (dissociation, nightmares/flashbacks, panic attacks, survivor’s guilt, etc.), internalized ableism, canon retelling of events (mostly) up until what happens to Hawkins, realization of feelings, flirting, fluff, language, weed mention

series playlist ⋮ masterlist 

living dead - have mercy

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

“so tell me where to go / you shouldn't leave alone you are young and bold / with a heart of gold”

A/N: Y’all remember when I said this would probably be 3 parts total? Yeah… about that… this was supposed to only be one scene, but my hands slipped and I ended up with an entire chapter. lol my bad. I truly don’t anticipate going over 5 parts, honestly hoping to end it at 4. Though I love writing these two together, I’m not trying to drag this out. I hope y’all still enjoy reading this one, though! Thank you so much for all the support on the first two chapters; it means more than I can say that anyone’s reading this at all. love y’all!! 🫶🏻

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Steve was home from the hospital, and while Dustin and Eddie insisted to hang out, Robin and Frankie, on the other hand, knew Steve needed to rest. That’s where the compromise came in; they agreed on visiting at Steve and Robin’s apartment, in case Steve needed to take some time to himself, they’d at least be home already.

Eddie somehow managed to convince Steve, while both were stoned, to tell Frankie everything about Hawkins and the Upside Down, and so far, it was going as they all expected.

Which was… not great.

“So… what you’re saying is, Hawkins is just a really fucked up version of Centralia?”

Steve stares at Frankie with a scoff, Robin laughs in disbelief of Frankie’s answer, Dustin throws his hands up with a groan, and Eddie only shakes his head. They all reply at once:

“Whoa, wait, that’s not even close—“

“Oh, dude, you can’t even compare the two.”

“You just heard all of that and summed it up to be the same as a mine fire?!”

“I’m sorry, did you miss the entire part where the Upside Down exists?”

Frankie stares wordlessly, eyes darting between them all.

“You don’t believe us, do you?”

“Could’ve told me before I got high, ‘cause maybe I’d believe it—“ She catches the flash of disappointment across Steve’s face, causing her to backpedal. “Look, this just sounds… fucking insane. I- I remember the news kept trying to push the whole ‘Satanic Panic’ narrative, but I…”

“‘Key, there’s a reason why Hawkins was literally wiped off the map,” His stomach churns as the words roll off his tongue.

Though Steve has grown to appreciate the life he built in Chicago, he misses Hawkins, misses his old life, even after having his heart broken to splinters, even after falling into the town’s harrowing turmoil, he misses it. Even after the permanent damage Hawkins and the Upside Down left behind from every gut punch, blow to the head, DIY’d stitched up wound, he’s homesick.

Homesick for a sleepy, midwestern town that’s been obliterated from existence. 

There’s no containing the truth of what really happened to Hawkins, but it’s just a tall tale to anyone on the outside looking in. The world saw a completely different chain of events, details muted and manipulated by the government to control the narrative. Even the majority of those who lived in town fell victim to the lies.

Steve Harrington is homesick for a mere memory, now. One that’ll only continue to fade over time.

Frankie’s at a loss for words, lips parted but nothing comes out. She just shakes her head, befuddled.

“C’mon, there’s no way we’d all make this shit up.”

“I mean…”

Pushing his glasses up, Steve shoves his hands to his eyes, rubbing profusely; a habit he’s picked up over the years out of frustration, or nervousness. 

“This shit is why I’m sick, Frankie.” His voice cracks, and he’s embarrassed immediately, but can’t let this go. He can’t even blame the heightened emotions on the weed, he’s not even high anymore. “This shit ruined my life.”

Steve knows how outlandish everything sounds, but he didn’t expect Frankie to be so skeptical, not when this is the background of what lead to his illness.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just so…” Frankie feels terrible now; she knew this played a massive part in Steve’s trauma and health, but caught up in the bizarre details, she lost sight of that connection. “How did you all… survive?”

Eddie’s more than willing to step in to add to proof; he lifts his shirt, startling Frankie at first, until the scars come into view. Long healed now, they’re still hard to miss. “Those fuckin’ bats did this to me, and I was hanging on by a thread when Dustin found me.” He releases the fabric, letting it shield the scar tissue again.

Trying to back Steve up, Dustin, the only sober one of the group, nods, then points to his other older brother figure, “Steve’s got a ton of scars too—“

Steve doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, sighing, “Guys, don’t—“

“Totally not the same as that, but when I get too high, it reminds me of that fucked up drug they gave us under Starcourt,” Robin adds for comic relief, shrugging with a weak smile. “And I am not trying to puke like that ever again. Or eat popcorn Steve pulled out of the trash.”

Frankie covers her mouth, holding back a laugh, glancing back at Steve, “You did what?”

He gives a breathy laugh, shaking his head, and hopes she can’t tell he’s forcing it. “Look, I was fucked up on whatever they drugged us with, and had my skull bashed in a bunch. Eating garbage popcorn was and still is the least of my concerns from that night.”

“You two were the worst that night—“

Cutting Dustin off, Robin and Steve both yell, “We were drugged!” The two best friends look at each other, bursting into belly-aching laughter, real laughter for Steve, this time. 

The conversation surrounding Hawkins and the Upside Down, while unfinished, naturally flows away into lighter topics. Steve’s mind floats off elsewhere, too.

‘Key doesn’t believe me. She probably thinks I’m crazy. Maybe I am. It sounds fucking crazy. It sounds like an urban legend, like some kind of campfire story. She has every right to be skeptical.

Everyone’s voices sound so distant and muted to Steve, as if he’s deep underwater. Like he’s sinking to the bottom, watching everyone else stay afloat. It’s how he feels often since leaving home; he struggles to keep his head above water, while those around him are swimming with ease, or some even on their own boats, sailing away without a hitch.

Of course I sound crazy. Maybe I should quit working with her. Maybe I should distance myself completely. Frankie has so much going on, she doesn’t need me and my trauma around.

She doesn’t need me.

The air in the room feels thin and scarce; his breaths quicken, but he tries keeping calm while his thoughts spiral. A wave of nausea hits him.

No one needs me.

Whatever has Robin cry laughing, Dustin snorting, and Frankie and Eddie in a fit of stoned giggles— it’s all completely lost on Steve. He can’t get himself out of his own head, not without dissociating to avoid what’s conflicting him currently; he’s worked so hard on dissociation in therapy, though, and he hates the idea of reverting back to that. Running away. Escaping reality. 

All because someone doesn’t believe him. Frankie’s more than just “someone” though.

What if I never got involved to begin with? Maybe I’d be living a life with ignorance instead of stress, instead of PTSD; maybe it would’ve been worth coming out of all of this completely clueless. Shoved in the dark, away from the truth. Wouldn’t have these ugly scars. Wouldn’t have these fucked up flashbacks. Wouldn’t have to feel as if I’m pulling my own teeth just to get out of bed every day.

“Steve?”

Everyone’s moved on except me. Even with trauma, everyone’s learned to live their new lives, keep growing. Keep moving forward. Everyone but me.

“Hey, Steve,” He feels light, gentle pressure on his arm, but he can’t bring himself to focus on the present.

As unhealthy as it is to ignore his newly learned coping mechanisms for dissociation, he’s oddly cozy here. He may be drowning in his overflowing thoughts, but there’s something about letting his body go on auto pilot and let his snowballing, rapid-fire thoughts take over that’s comforting. It’s like a security blanket.

One that’s ablaze in flames, eager to swallow him whole.

Why am I still here? There were others that deserved to survive, but somehow I’m the one still here. And every second I’m wasting on self pity over my pain.

“What can we do to help?” Frankie’s hand slips into his, squeezing softly; her colder skin against his own warm touch breaks him away from the episode of panic he was falling into.

It’s quiet among the group of friends, with everyone’s stares on Steve; he feels so small, so bothersome to stop their fun for yet another panic attack. 

I ruin everything.

“I…”

“Hey, man, we can go back to the hotel if you need rest,” Eddie offers, with Dustin nodding. “We’re in town for the week anyway, so it’s all good.”

I drive everyone away. 

What is considered the happy medium between wanting to hide away in shame and wanting to reach out for help? Where’s the middle ground between the two? Steve’s been searching for years, and still has come out empty each time.

“I—“ Steve can feel himself cracking, can feel the dreadful sinking sensation in his stomach while his throat runs dry. He can feel his mind separating from body, as if he’s watching himself on the outside. It’s an attempt to escape the thoughts, gnawing away at any good left in his life, but that attempt is a failure every time. “Air. Need air.” He pushes off the floor without further explanation, and leaves the apartment in a flash.

The trip down the hall and through the front door of the building is a blur; the edge of his vision fuzzes out, triggering an effect to make every inanimate object move, ever so slightly. Like the walls of the hallway are breathing. Like the floor beneath him is melting away. The high wore off long before this began, so he can’t even blame the dissociation on getting stoned.

This never gets easier to endure, even with the progress he’s made in therapy, but as long as he’s not dragged into any flashbacks, he’ll be okay.

I have to be okay. I have no other choice.

Steve can run as much as he’d like, but the past will always catch up to him. Envelope him in a never ending nightmare. Consume his entire being, taking control of every inch of his body, inside and out. The past always wins. The past is merciless. The past should stay in the past, but it’s got its claws hooked deep, dragging him back while everyone moves on.

He finds himself asking the question that’s always on his mind:

Does this ever get better?

“Steve?” A gentle voice breaks through the walls he haphazardly threw up in a haste. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

Still on auto pilot, he nods; an arm slides around his shoulders, pulling him into a comforting embrace from the side. Slowly, another arm winds around him from the front. It’s a lifeline thrown out to him, easing his own rescue out of the endless sea of self destructive thinking.

It’s Frankie; her voice is soothing, guiding him away from the panic, but not without one last fighting chance from his anxiety.

I need everyone, but no one needs me.

“That isn’t true,”  He must’ve let that thought slip out, and usually, he’d be embarrassed, but he just continues to meld into her touch. Her hold on him feels just as consoling as the night prior, in the hospital. “Robin needs you. Dustin needs you. Eddie needs you. I need you, too.”

He shudders as the panic reluctantly dissolves away. It sticks to the walls of his mind like glue, difficult to remove quickly and with ease.

“Never wanted you to see me like this,” The statement falls from his lips with a strained tone as he turns towards her. Resting his head on her shoulder, he shakes, hands wrapping around her waist, fingers gripping onto her sweater; his knuckles cramp and ache from his tight hold. “You think m’crazy, don’t you?”

“No way,” There’s no hesitation, no doubt in her answer. “I think what you all went through is crazy, but it was real. It is real, and I’m so sorry I doubted that for even a second. It’s so hard to wrap my head around, but it’s no excuse for the way my reaction hurt you. I’m sorry, Steve.”

“S’not your fault, it- it’s okay, really—“

Frankie pulls back, hand finding its way to his face; she cards her fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes, worn and weary. They’re slightly glassy, too, taking their time to fill with tears. He acts before thinking, leaning into her touch; she doesn’t pull away, just tenderly holds him, thumb wiping along his cheekbone to push stray tears aside. The compassionate gesture curls his bottom lip, ever so slightly, trembling; he’s trying so hard not to break in front of her. 

“I don’t know who or what ever made you feel like you need to water down your pain and downplay accepting apologies, but please don’t ever feel like you need to do that with me.” Her gaze stays on him, even as he looks away. “You shouldn’t have to do that with anyone, ever.”

“I don’t want to upset you—“

“Steve.” She halts his overthinking with the same, reassuring, breathy way he addresses her when she spirals. He brings his eyes back to hers. “Your feelings, the way you’re hurting right now, that’s all far more important than if I’m upset or not. You mean well, I know you do. You’re always looking out for everyone first, but you’re allowed to put yourself first. You need to put yourself first in moments like these.”

Searching for the right words, Steve’s startled by a car honking as it passes by. His eyes dart all over, taking in his surroundings.

“When did we…”

“Come outside? You said you needed air, this is where I found you.”

He glances to the old and worn brick wall he was resting against, the filthy sidewalk he’s sitting on, the street lamp overhead, illuminating the two of them. There’s an ache, a sting of some kind along his back. It grows as he comes back to reality. 

One arm reluctantly pulls away from Frankie to reach behind him, hand splaying out onto his lower back, exposed. His own touch causes him to hiss in pain. Bringing his hand back around, there’s traces of blood along his fingertips.

Frankie’s grabbing his hand, alarmed as she inspects it. “Steve, what happened?”

“I— I don’t know,” she leans close to him, and if this was happening under different circumstances, he’d have a racing heartbeat. Her breath is right in his ear as she peers over his shoulder, hold on him firm, keeping him steady.

“Oh… Steve, your back is scratched up.” She pulls his sweatshirt up a little further, and the cool air is sort of soothing to him. “Did you slide against the wall?”

“ … I don’t remember.”

She lets the soft fabric cover the raw, scratched up skin before leaning back. “C’mon, let’s go inside, I can help you clean up.”

Steve’s first instinct is to downplay his pain, tell Frankie he’s fine, he can take care of it, he doesn’t need to make a fuss about it all. But he knows better with her; she won’t take no for an answer here, she’ll remind him he’s allowed to accept help, accept care.

Instead, he only nods, taking her hand as she extends it to help him up. His surroundings have stopped melting, his vision isn’t fuzzy and blurred at the edges, and though he’s still a bit disoriented, he feels grounded with Frankie’s hand in his.

Steve pushes past his self doubt, self loathing, accepting the care Frankie insists he deserves.

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By the time the two reach the apartment, it’s empty, with a note in Robin’s handwriting tacked to the fridge.

Went out to grab snacks! We’re good at that, huh? Steve, we’re getting your faves, and Frankie, hopefully we get yours right from what Steve told us. Be back soon! — snack squad ♡

All three of their scribbled signatures line the bottom of the note; Steve smiles and Frankie giggles. 

“You told ‘em what I like?”

He blushes and stammers, “Uh— I— just from what I remembered, like in case—“

“That was sweet, Steve.” Her hand squeezes his, still clasped together from the walk back inside. “Where’s all your first aid stuff?”

They end up in his bathroom, and without much thought, he pulls out a first aid kit, held together in a beat up tin lunch box. Frankie flips it open, rummaging through the supplies, pulling things out to continue searching for what Steve needs. Gauze, butterfly bandages, medical tape, splints are among the typical first aid kit supplies she sifts through. Then, she freezes as she comes across a needle and strong thread.

“Is this all from…” Trailing off,  she holds it up for him to see; Steve’s brows knit together, puzzled.

Oh. Shit.

He clears his throat awkwardly while nodding. “Yeah, it is. Haven’t used it in a while, but it’s— there’s something that makes me nervous about tossing it out.”

“You think you’d need it someday?”

“Sure fucking hope not.”

“Well,” She grabs his hips, twisting him around for a better look at his back. He faces the mirror, grateful he can’t make eye contact with Frankie from where she stands. Steve can feel the goosebumps prickling along his skin just from her touch. “Good news is, you don’t need any DIY sutures tonight. Or real ones.”

A mirthless laugh and an eye roll help him cope. “Thanks, doc.”

Frankie ignores him. “Are you okay standing?” Steve nods, and she sits on the closed lid of the toilet, pulling him back towards her. The unexpected movement startles him as he stumbles a little.

“Whoa— okay, Jesus, I said I can stand, that doesn’t mean you can manhandle me, Francesca.”

“M’gonna make a new swear jar like Betty has, except it’ll be for every time you use my full name,” She grumbles, placing the first aid kit in her lap. She tugs at the edge of his sweatshirt, “Off.”

His face burns up, head snapping over his shoulder with a bewildered stare, “Huh?”

“Can’t help with your sweatshirt laying over the scrapes.”

“Oh… right,” Steve hesitates, taking a few deep breaths before asking, “Is it okay if I just… lift it up enough? I’m— I don’t— there’s scars I’d rather you didn’t see if you don’t have to.” He’s tensing up under her touch, so her hands retreat.

“Steve, I understand. I have scars that I don’t like others seeing, either.” Her reassurance seems to help as he relaxes again. “Not like yours, but… I get it. And wounds are hard as hell for folks like us to heal from, so either you can let me, or someone else, clean them for you, or you’ll have to try on your own.” The firm sentiment isn’t to guilt him, nor shame him; he can tell she genuinely cares. She wants to help him.

“Right. You’re right. I— m’gonna just…” He tugs the sweatshirt up enough, but the awkward position immediately stiffens the joints in his arms and shoulders with an ache. 

Frankie frowns, noticing his discomfort. “Would it be easier to do this laying down? Then it’d—“

“No!” Steve cringes at his quick reaction, but he refuses to allow the idea of Frankie having to straddle him just to treat the scrapes to become real. Just the mere thought of her on top of him in any circumstance makes him dizzy with a desire he refuses to feed into. He can’t ruin this friendship, it’s essential to him at this point. “No, I- I can do this instead. But, uh, Frankie?”

“Yeah?”

“Just don’t— please don’t look, okay? If you see anything else on my back, it’s fine, but the front is a wreck still—“

Frankie’s hands are back on his hips, chilled touch soothing his hot skin, and shutting him up.

“Promise, I won’t.”

A pause hangs over them, then Steve mutters, “fuck it,” pulling the sweatshirt over his head. Leaving the sleeves on his arms, he covers his torso with the rest of the fabric. “Does that work?”

“Yeah, just stay still for me,” Her murmur releases the faintest breath, hitting Steve’s lower back; he shivers. “Sorry, I know my hands are cold.”

“N- no, you’re okay.” He’s relieved she doesn’t catch on, and plays off her assumption, softly admitting, “I don’t mind. Feels kinda nice.”

“Kiss-ass,” She lightly teases, holding a cotton ball soaked with disinfectant. “Might sting, you ready?”

Despite Steve admitting he used to do his own stitches, he appreciates that Frankie doesn’t assume this would be easy for him. It is, but warmth still blooms in his chest over her consideration.

So he nods, and the medicated disinfectant stings on contact, but it’s a walk in the park compared to stabbing through his skin, dragging a needle and thread through over, and over, and over again. She takes her time, not to drag the process out, but to be certain the scrapes won’t get infected.

“One of these is a little deeper than I realized,” Her gingerly touch ghosts parallel to the cut. “Still not stitch-worthy, though.”

“Damn, was kinda hoping for that,” He quips, glancing back over his shoulder. Frankie rolls her eyes at him, but with a smile. It doesn’t last very long, though. “‘Key, you okay?”

There’s a certain somber regard reflecting in her eyes. “Will you tell me?”

Steve turns back a little more, and Frankie’s hold on his hip loosens, while the other with the cotton falls away. “About what?” 

“About what happened to Hawkins.” She’s so quiet, he almost misses it. “I- it doesn’t have to be today, just… will you tell me what really happened someday?”

Unintentionally, his answer comes off terse, expression instantly turning stoic. “It’s gone, Frankie. There’s not much more to it.” He faces forward again, eyes scrunching shut as he inwardly curses himself for the attitude.

“Right. Okay, yeah.” She takes the hint as she swipes a thin layer of topical antibiotic over the scrapes, touch still gentle, but distant emotionally now. She bandages the wounds, leaving a rectangle of gauze and tape along the scrapes on his back. “You should be good. It’s more of a brush burn than anything, except for that one cut. But you know what you’re doing, so I’ll save you the medical advice.”

Steve throws his sweatshirt back on as Frankie places the makeshift kit on the sink’s counter. She stands to shuffle past Steve, but he steps back to block the doorway.

“Wh— Frankie, wait—“

“I should head home, s’kinda late anyway,” Her voice wavers, but she shrugs it off. She won’t look at him. “I’m sorry for crossing a line, Steve.”

“No— no, wait, don’t leave. I can tell you,” He shakes his head frantically, eyes scrunching shut again. “I- I’ll tell you everything.”

Frankie finally glances at him with softened features. “Steve, I don’t want you to feel like you have to tell me anything. Because you don’t. You owe me nothing. You don’t owe anyone anything, especially when it comes to your trauma.”

“Then why are you leaving?” An ache of regret floods through him. I shouldn’t have been rude, I should just tell her everything, I need to be honest and—

“Look, this is clearly something you’re not ready to open up about. I should’ve waited for you to tell me on your own, when you’re ready. I’m not upset with you, Steve. If anything, you should be upset with me.”

“I’m not upset with you, ‘Key, it’s just… really, really difficult to talk about.”

“And that’s okay. Please don’t tell me until you’re ready, okay? I shouldn’t have asked. I’m only leaving because I figured maybe you need some space from me right now—“

Steve scoffs, “Well, I don’t—“

“Then what do you need?” Her eyes flick up to his, locking their gazes together. 

You. I need you.

“I- I—“ He’s still stuck in the fog left over from dissociating earlier; no words come to mind to properly convey his feelings without sounding desperate and pathetic. He considers settling for those three words, but the apartment door opens, throwing him off; all he can come up with is, “Stay… Please?”

“Hi! We’re back!” Robin’s voice floats down the hall as she softly calls out.

“Okay!” Steve tilts his head back while he shouts in response, eyes still glued on Frankie.

The tiniest glimmer of hope graces her features, “You sure?”

“Not to put pressure on you, ‘Key, but,” Inhale. Exhale. Admit it. “You’re the only thing keeping me sane right now.”

Frankie smiles, just as warmly as the day they met, and it puts Steve at ease.

“I hear I’m good at that,” The warm smile melts into a smirk, giggling as Steve rolls his eyes playfully. It breaks through any leftover tension completely, putting the two of them in a better headspace.

“Well, no one said you were good at it,” He teases back. Frankie’s jaw drops, though she can’t quit giggling. The sound of her laugh relaxes him further, hand reaching for hers, “C’mere, Amato.”

Frankie buries her face into his chest, cheek squished against the plush fabric of his sweatshirt. She faces away from the mirror while Steve happens to glance into it, admiring the way their bodies mesh together as they hold one another. Her arms are wound around his torso as he pulls her close, with his arms around her shoulders, and one hand on the back of her head, gently holding her steady against him.

He can’t look away. Can’t stop himself from imagining holding her like this all the time. Can’t believe how quickly the tension leaves his body in her grasp. It always does, he’s always relaxed in her arms in the few times it’s happened.

Except each time Frankie wrapped her arms around Steve, he finds the longing of his feelings only grow more, and more, and more. Steve knows he’s done for, knows he’s a goner, a sucker for Frankie only a little more than a month into knowing one another. 

“I can tell you later, if you’re up for it.” Steve murmurs, resting his chin on her head. “After everyone goes to bed, though, ‘cause god knows I can’t focus with those three around.”

Frankie snorts, shaking as she laughs; another small quirk of hers that continues pulling him in. Steve does not need another reason to fall for her even more. 

“Okay, but I gotta run home to grab some clothes,” The end of her sentence falls into a groan at the thought of walking home, just to walk right back.

“I got stuff you can wear,” His lips twitch as he holds back an over-explanation; Don’t start the “or if you want, but it’s cool if you don’t,” shit. She knows. Stop second guessing yourself.

The constant balance struggle between “You’re just a burden to her” and “Just tell her how you really feel” is starting to make Steve dizzy.

“I mean… if it fits, sure.”

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Eventually, the night rolls on, with everyone in better spirits than earlier. Dustin and Eddie invite themselves to stay over, naturally, so they’re thrilled when they discover Frankie’s staying the night, too.

Once Steve gives Frankie something to wear, she heads off to the bathroom to change; Dustin immediately hurls invasive questions Steve’s way.

“When are you gonna ask her out?”

Choking on the water he’s sipping from, he glares at Dustin. “What are you talking about?”

Murmuring an “unbelievable”, he sits up from the armchair, giving Steve an incredulous stare with his arms thrown out, “Frankie, when are you asking her—“

“Shhh! Shut up, dude.” Robin hisses at Dustin, only to turn to Steve and ask, “Yeah, so when’s that happening?”

Steve shrugs as he makes a scoffing, “pfffttt” kind of noise, “Guys, c’mon… it’s not like that.”

Eddie barks out a laugh over his obvious lie, so Steve takes the high road— throwing a pillow at him like an eighth grader. He shrieks, a little too high for sudden movements like a pillow being launched at his face.

“Steven!”

“Jesus, shut up, you sound like my mom,” Steve grumbles, flipping Eddie off. He snickers, laying back on the floor, waggling his brows at Steve. “Don’t— why are you making that face?”

“You liiiiiike her, don’t you?” Eddie’s blazed out of his mind at this point, and if he’ll end up getting Steve in trouble if he doesn’t shut his mouth. Dustin just giggles along with him; he’s not high, but he has no problem being a little shit while sober.

“Steve, she’s too cool for you, anyway,” Dustin offers his unwarranted opinion with a shrug.

“Nobody asked you, Henderson.” Steve glares at both him and Eddie, “You two are the fucking worst.” Robin bursts into giggles, so he points to her too, “And you, Buckley, are on thin fucking ice.”

“What’d y’all do now?”

Everyone looks up to find Frankie with a sweet smile, tugging at the messy bun her wild hair’s thrown into, trying to secure it in place. She’s in a pair of old sweats and a worn Hawkins High t-shirt; she loosely tied the shirt’s front into a knot, causing the fabric to show off the way the sweatpants sit snug on her hips, hugging spots Steve tries his hardest not to focus on.

Steve’s breath hitches in his throat, fixated on how cute Frankie looks in his clothes.

“We were just— ow!” Robin lunges across the floor to slap her palm against Eddie’s big blabber mouth. 

“They’re just being annoying boys, you know,” Robin laughs it off nervously while Dustin gasps, offended.

“Hey, you were just laughing with us—“ She takes the pillow Steve threw at Eddie and chucks it at Dustin. “—Quit it!” Steve has his face buried in his hands, sighing at all three of them.

“How’d you get your hair to stay like that?” Eddie asks Frankie, eyes bloodshot to hell and in awe of her messy bun. He scrambles off the floor and towards her to inspect her handiwork. “That’s insane.”

“Eddie, buddy, it’s just hair in a messy bun.” She claps his shoulder with her palm, stifling a snort. “Here,” she unwinds a hair tie from her wrist, handing it over to him. He stares at it, absolutely lost. 

Frankie lets her hair down, and Steve’s unable to snap out of the daze she unknowingly has him in. “S’easy, you just,” She pulls her hair up above her head, twisting it around in a messy knot, then stretches the elastic around one, two, three times, holding it in place. “And that’s it!”

Eddie scoffs with a silly expression, “I know what m’doin’.” He tries imitating Frankie, but half of the hair in his grasp tumbles away from his fingers. Everyone watches him confidently create the closest thing he can to a bun, winding the elastic around his curls twice before letting go.

“There’s so much air back here now,” He mutters, rubbing the back of his neck in awe. 

“It’d feel better if you actually did it right,” Dustin snarks, cackling. Eddie frowns.

“I did, Frankie showed me!”

Steve wants to change for the night, but he refuses to believe Eddie won’t run his mouth to Frankie while he’s gone. Eddie and Dustin continue bickering. He panics, getting up and nodding towards the hall, leaning in to her ear. 

“Can we— is it cool if we talk now?”

She sticks her tongue out, curling it over her top lip like she usually does while focused, or thinking, “Hmm…”

Steve’s eyes go wide at a faint, metallic glimmer on her tongue. “When’d you get your tongue pierced?” He’s already blushing, unable to tear his eyes away from her mouth while growing weak at the knees; new desires threaten to form in his mind, ones that he’s never even dreamed of before.

“Huh?” She sticks her tongue out wide, making a ‘blehhhh’ noise as her face scrunches up. “I’ve always had it done.”

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, do not think about it—

Laughing nervously, he tries shrugging his reaction off, “Just n- never noticed, I guess. S’cool, though.”

“Gonna charge you a quarter every time you say something about me is cool,” She teases, giving him a once over before sticking her tongue out, intentionally pushing her piercing out for him to see. His face burns up, forcing himself to look away. 

“Okay, y- yeah, sure, can we talk now?”

Her features soften, catching on, “Yeah, f’course, Stevie.”

Steve goes from trying to suppress his lustful thoughts to his heart melting; Frankie doesn’t call him that often, but when she does, it brings a smile to his face.

They walk out of the room, when Robin yells, “Where are you going?”

Steve grabs her hand, pulls her faster, trying to come up with an excuse, “Uh…”

“Sick bitch meeting,” Frankie calls out, hoping the humor drops suspicions. “Healthy folks can’t participate, sorry!”

Stumbling into his room in a fit of giggles, Frankie leans back onto the door as Steve closes it. His hands are pressed against the door, unintentionally caging her in as the two catch their breath. Eyes locking together, their smiles begin to settle into lips parted in anticipation for something more. Her hand reaches out to adjust his glasses as they slide down his nose; her fingertips linger on his cheek like earlier. Steve fights the urge to lean into her touch, but his gaze continues to flit between her eyes and her lips, close enough to lean in and kiss her.

What are you waiting for? Just kiss her already!

A startling bang! comes from the other side of the door, causing Frankie to jump forward into Steve. Out of instinct, he wraps his arms around her, holding her protectively. 

“Hurry up, we wanna start the movie!” Dustin’s muffled voice comes through the door. Steve’s head falls forward onto the top of hers while he sighs, annoyed. Frankie laughs it off, despite her heart beating wildly.

I’m gonna kill that little shit.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just scared ten years off my life, though,” Frankie quips.

“You and me both, ‘Key.” Steve laughs, catching his breath all over again. He tightens the hug for a moment before murmuring into the top of her head, “Give me one minute, okay?”

Steve marches back out to the living room, glaring at all three of them; his hands rest on his hips, naturally, before scolding them like children.

“Start the movie, just give us 30 minutes, okay? An hour, tops.”

“Why, you trying to get lucky?” Robin snorts, but her face falls quickly as she notices Steve’s serious.

“I want to tell her what happened before we left home,” He exhales roughly, shaking off his nerves. “So just… let me do this, please?”

Robin immediately picks up on his anxious demeanor. “Steve, you know it’s safe to tell her everything now, right? No one’s watching us anymore. She’ll be safe if you tell her the truth.”

Again, Steve exhales, relief filling him as he takes his next breath. She’s right. There aren’t any threats to keep them quiet anymore. There’s no shady paperwork to sign, no NDAs to follow, no one tracking their every waking moments.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Take your time, man, we’ll be here.” Eddie drawls out, sinking into the couch. Dustin shoots Steve an apologetic glance.

“Sorry for scaring you guys,” He winces. “Tell Frankie m’sorry, too.”

Steve leaves them all with a slight smile, one that’s ridden more with grief than positivity.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Steve returns to find Frankie admiring the photos tacked onto a corkboard above his dresser, arms crossed and leaning onto the surface while she takes a closer look.

“Your hair used to be so… big.”

“What, are you saying you didn’t have big hair in the 80s?”

She snorts, still fixated on the photos, “The way you say that makes it seem like the 80s were decades ago. It’s 1991, Steve, slow your horses.” She smiles at a photo of him and Robin in their Scoops Ahoy uniforms; Steve looks pissed with the sailor hat snug on his head. “Oh, so this is the infamous sailor outfit, huh?”

“God, don’t—“ He grabs her shoulders gently, trying to turn her away, but she refuses to budge. “Don’t look at that. Dustin was a pain in the ass about taking that picture.”

“Aw, c’mon, you still looked good in that uniform,” She murmurs, eyes glittering at the glimpse of Steve’s past. “If I worked at that mall, I’d get ice cream every day just to see you in that.”

“Wh— you would’ve?”

She throws a glance over her shoulder, smirking, “Just to poke fun at you.”

His head falls back with an annoyed, yet playful groan. “Would’ve charged you double for ice cream then.” 

“Worth it.” Frankie turns back to the photos, with one in particular catching her attention.

Frozen in time is a memory of all the kids standing near Eddie’s van, all in swimsuits, with Eddie laughing from the driver’s seat, Robin hanging out in the open sliding door with a cheesy grin, and Steve sitting next to her, smiling, genuinely happy. All of the kids are chattering away, or arguing, or laughing.

“When was this?”

Steve moves in closer, plucking the photo off the wall to study it. A smile instantly graces his face.

“Uh, a few months after the… the earthquake that wasn’t really an earthquake.” He snorts dryly. “This was right after Eddie and Max were both released from the hospital, a day apart from each other.” She looks down at the photograph, noticing the bandaging around the majority of Eddie’s upper body, and the neck brace around Max, along with a cast on one arm, wrapped in plastic. “Poor kid still left with one cast left, but it was better than four total. 

“We took them up way up north, to one of the beaches on Lake Michigan to camp, once the lockdown was finally lifted. We all needed to get away and just pretend things were… normal.” His tone is so soft, scared to speak too loudly, like someone was still listening.

Robin’s words echo in his head: “She’ll be safe if you tell her the truth.”

“They wouldn’t let anyone in or out after week or so after it started. The Upside Down and our world kinda… bled together. Surprised they didn’t do it sooner, but a lot of people left town. More than half, I’d say.” He gives the photo back to Frankie, opening some of the dresser’s drawers. Maybe this will be easier to talk about if I keep busy. While pulling out clothes to sleep in, he continues, “My parents left not even 24 hours after it happened. Didn’t tell me ‘til they were halfway across the country, didn’t come home for any of their stuff. Just… called me and said they weren’t coming home.”

Frankie’s expression contorts into bewilderment with a hint of anger. “They what?”

“Yeah… kind of the norm for them,” Steve is nearly numb to the way his parents neglected him at this point. He grabs an old shirt and sleep shorts before turning back to Frankie. “Didn’t ask me to come with them. Didn’t ask if I was okay. Just told me to stay home until they found a way to list it for sale… but it’s not like anyone would’ve wanted to move to Hawkins, even if it wasn’t—“ He stops, staring down at the floor, losing himself in the memory.

“Steve, if it’s easier to talk about it in smaller parts, we can do that. Or you don’t even have to tell me at all. I meant it when I said you didn’t owe me anything.” For the third time tonight, she holds the side of his face, but immediately pulls back. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be so touchy—“

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, ‘Key. It’s okay.” He reaches for the hand that departed, giving a reassuring, gentle squeeze. “I don’t mind.” He wants to say so much more than just that.

I like it.

I like you.

I like you, and I’m fucking terrified to let someone in again.

Steve exhales shakily, staring at their hands in one another’s. “Do you remember the first day we spent together? When we went to the diner?” She nods. “You opened up to me, and I- I can’t remember exactly what I said, but—“

“You told me “I don’t think you want to know my story”,” Steve’s eyes widen as she recalls with ease. “Sorry, probably weird I remember that.”

“Not weird. Trust me, it doesn’t even come close to what I find weird.” He huffs, looking away. “If I tell you the rest, there’s no going back.”

“What, like… something bad could happen if you tell me?” Her voice is small, nervous to even ask. Steve’s silence speaks volumes to Frankie. “Jesus christ….”

“Other than just knowing the weight of the truth, no.” He pauses, considering skimming over this part, but he wants to be honest. “There was a point where we were under watch. Constantly. They listened to our phone calls, watched our every moves, who we talked to, what we talked about— if any of us said anything to the wrong people, we— our lives were at risk. Shit, even talking about it with the others was a risk. They expected us to just forget and move on from what happened in ‘83.

“When we were all talking about this shit earlier, I had to remind myself it was safe to tell you everything. That nothing would happen to any of us, especially you.” When he turns back to Frankie, his stare is glassy.  “Hawkins is a total wasteland now, so really, there’s nothing to worry about. But dealing with that shit for several years has it burned into my mind to keep my mouth shut, and never tell a soul the truth.”

He slips away from Frankie, clothes in hand, crossing the room to stand behind the closet door. 

“Wait, what are you doing?”

Popping his head back out, he furrows his brows, “Changing? Look away, creep.”

“I’m not—“ She spins around, hands covering her eyes as they close. “I just thought it was weird timing!”

Steve snorts, “Just figured I should be comfy if I’m gonna tell ya’ the rest of this fucked up nightmare, Francesca.”

“I could just leave, y’know. You’re the one who made it weird,” She teases. 

“Uh… yeah, don’t— o- only ‘cause the second you leave the room, Eddie’s gonna run his mouth with some nonsense you do not need to hear right now.”

“What, like he’ll tell me your secrets, or something?” She giggles into her palms, fingers still shielding her closed eyes. 

“… Something like that.” Steve throws his old clothes into the basket, walking up behind Frankie. He carefully spins her back around, and a chuckle slips, “You were covering your eyes while they were closed… facing the wall?”

She moves her hands away and opens her eyes, “I was trying to be polite!”

“After I called you out for being a creep?”

She scoffs, then it melts into a smirk, pushing past Steve. “If we’re playing that game, I could go ask Eddie what secrets of yours he wants to tell me—“

Steve twists around to grab her hand, tugging her back, “Don’t you dare—“ He tugs a little too hard, sending Frankie stumbling directly into him. “Shit, sorry—“

She bursts into giggles, face buried in his chest, arms wrapping around him. “Steve, that was not smooth whatsoever.” 

“I wasn’t trying to be— smooth about what?!” He quickly descends into his own fit of laughter; Frankie’s smile, her laugh, they’re always contagious. 

He nearly forgets that minutes ago he was beginning to open up about the end of his old life and hometown.

“You know what, Harrington.” She wriggles out of his grasp, flopping back onto his bed. She adjusts herself to lay back against the pillows, arms opening lazily. “If you wanted to cuddle, you could’ve asked.”

Steve’s face burns up, and it certainly doesn’t help that Frankie looks so cute, so sweet, in his clothes and in his bed. Traces of eyeliner are smudged around her eyes, and her hair’s falling out of the already disheveled bun.

“You’re sassy when you’re tired.”

“M’not tired,” She flips him off while he rolls into bed next to her.

“You’re also the world’s worst liar, Amato.” 

“You can cuddle yourself, jerk— hey!”

Steve brings her into his embrace, snuggling into the pillows while she ducks her head into his chest. He hums, content, as she tangles herself around him. His eyes flutter shut, breaths falling into a steady rhythm; he could easily fall asleep like this.

“So…” Frankie breaks the silence, “We still shit talkin’ your parents?”

Face still half buried in the pillows, his exposed eye pops open to glare at her lightheartedly, “You just had to go ruin the moment, huh?” 

She shrugs, “Well, I’m not gonna be a dick and shit talk them without your permission.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re so polite,” Steve rolls his eyes with a half smile. “Thought you wanted to know what happened to Hawkins?”

“What’re you more comfortable with talking about right now?”

He rolls onto his back, taking off his glasses to set them on the nightstand. “Honestly? Anything but my parents and their bullshit.” That word used to sting terribly, left a rotten taste in his mouth for years. Now, it rolls off his tongue so easily, he wonders if something as trivial as that in the grand scheme of things could count as growth.

It’s the little things too, right?

Sighing, Steve turns back to her, keeping a bit of space between them this time, but his hand lays in hers loosely. Frankie gives her undivided attention as he continues.

“Y’know, watching the town rot into an extension of the Upside Down was fucked. Really, really fucked. But I think it was more fucked up watching everyone try to go on with their lives. It was surreal to see people go back to work, or go to school, like nothing went wrong.

“I think we all tried to pretend nothing was wrong. I know I did at one point. The cracks and splits in the ground got bigger, and the fires inside them just continued burning. Worse than Centralia.”

“I get that now,” She cringes at herself. “M’sorry.”

“You didn’t know. S’okay.” Reassuringly, Steve squeezes her hand. “It just became unsafe everywhere. Sinkholes were appearing all over, swallowing houses completely. People were disappearing all the fucking time. If they weren’t disappearing, or turning up dead, they were fleeing town. The government tried covering it up at first, but over time, I think they realized there was no point. Either people were terrified to talk about what they knew, or they kept themselves in the dark, afraid to learn the truth. The few of us that did try talking about it were seen as crazy.

“There was even a rumor going around that the fumes from the fires were poisoning whoever was left, causing them to go insane and make up stories.” Steve’s jaw clenches as he retells the past; Frankie holds his hand tighter.

“Didn’t anyone have photos? Or any sort of proof on film?”

“Oh, yeah, but film rolls began disappearing without a trace. Polaroid film came out blank all the time. If someone was able to get their film to a lab, they never developed right. Nancy and Jonathan took a ton of rolls with them when they moved to New York, and Jonathan’s been a photographer for years. The shots still came out blank. There’s no reason for that to have happened, unless someone sabotaged the film.

“It got to the point where the only media outlets that’d take the proof, if any survived, were those hokey tabloids. No one believes a word or photograph printed in those. It was useless. Reporters were banned from the town as shit got worse. Whatever you might’ve seen in the news doesn’t even come close to what Hawkins turned out to be in the end.”

Frankie’s almost afraid to ask, anticipating the worst. “So… what was the end?”

Steve’s gaze grows distant. “I think it was, like, three… maybe four months after everything happened that they decided to give up on Hawkins. It was already a wreck, mostly a ghost town— Robin, Eddie and I only stayed ‘til the end to make sure all the kids had somewhere safe to go.”

“Where’s everyone else now?”

“Joyce and Hopper moved to California, most of the kids went with them. I’ve got no idea where Mike and Nancy’s parents ended up, but from what I’ve heard, they’re still in touch, at least. Max went no contact with her mom, and Lucas still visits his family, they moved to Minneapolis. Erica plans on going to college in California to live with her brother and Max.”

“Why didn’t Dustin move out there, too?”

“He, uh… he didn’t want to leave Eddie or me behind. They moved to Indianapolis, far enough from Hawkins, close enough to keep in touch with and visit. Eddie’s uncle moved with them, and Dustin’s mom moved to Florida.” He chuckles, adding, “She has like, five cats now at least.”

Silence begins to follow, but right now, Frankie can’t handle that, can’t give her thoughts a chance to run wild.

“So… everyone’s safe, at least, right?”

“Out of our party, yeah, thankfully. During the last evacuation, some people refused to leave Hawkins. Refused to leave their houses and old lives behind. They stayed behind knowing what was going to happen.” His eyes screw shut, remembering one of his neighbors was adamant about dying in the comfort of his home, rather than starting over elsewhere. Somewhere safe, somewhere the Upside Down hadn’t ruined everything it had touched.

 “I took everything I could that mattered— wasn’t much, and Robin and I packed the car and moved out here days before Hawkins was…” Steve pauses with a shudder, “Jesus, there’s no way to say it without being blunt, they just… bombed the shit out of the town.“

Frankie’s face drops with horror. “Y- you weren’t kidding when you said it was wiped off the map then… ”

“Wish I was,” Steve rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t know how they did it, but it was controlled enough that it barely left the town’s edge. All of us,” He nods towards the door, meaning the three out in the living room, “We went back to Weathertop the day it happened… figured some of us should see first hand to tell the others.

“There’s nothing left of Hawkins. No houses, no families, no roads, all of the woods are gone— it’s just some kind of fucked up, barren wasteland you’d see in the movies. No one’s allowed to pass through, either. Still fucking guarded. As far as the rest of the world’s concerned, Hawkins doesn’t exist.”

Steve doesn’t realize he’s started crying until Frankie reaches out to gingerly wipe away a few stray tears. He’s so lost in thought, her touch startles him.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” She reels back, but he grabs her hand, lacing his fingers between hers; a rosy tint washes across her features.

“N- no, don’t— what did you say to me last night? “When you’re close with someone, assumptions are kind of a given. When someone gets you, it’s not offensive.” Right?” Frankie’s shocked he remembers, and Steve surprises even himself by recalling her words perfectly. “I just get startled easily after everything, but it wasn’t you.”

Frankie searches for the right words to give Steve, the perfect combination of comfort and understanding, but she comes up short. Steve can tell she’s struggling to figure out what to respond to all of this with, so he squeezes her hand again.

“Hey, s’okay—“

“Thank you,” She rushes out. “Thank you for telling me, Steve. I’m so sorry you had to live through any of this.”

With a soft tug, Steve brings Frankie closer; she rests her head on his chest while he plays with her hair, spilling out of her bun. Her eyes grow heavy, relaxed enough in this moment where she could fall asleep in his arms. 

“I should be thanking you for listening,” He murmurs, finally at ease now that the truth is out. She lazily winds herself around him again, limbs entangling with one another. “Still wanna be friends with a mess like me?”

“No, I don’t,” Flat toned, Frankie teases, “That’s why I’m still cuddling with you.”

“Gonna start a jar for you,” He quips, voice rasping from so much talking in one night; one of his hands caress along her back, fingertips ghosting her spine. She sighs, content; a smile curls on Steve’s face at the sound. “A quarter for every time you’re a smart-ass.”

“M’kay, you can just have my next paycheck then.”

“‘Key, if you give me your paycheck I’ll just take you out for milkshakes all the time.” His chuckle is gravelly, laced with sleep. “It’ll be bad for the both of us.”

“That’s not how dates work, Steve—“

“D- dates?” So much for being tired. “You think that’s what— wait— hold on—“

She yawns loudly, but with a knowing smirk, “Huh? I’m tired. What’d I say?”

“‘Key, c’mon, don’t— this isn’t funny—“

“Shhh, Steve, I’m sleeping.” She can’t stop giggling, and oh, no— Steve discovers another trait that pulls him deeper into this crush. Frankie’s one of those people who grow sillier the longer they fight sleep, something the former king of Hawkins High would act too cool for, but that version of himself is long gone. Steve, in this moment, finds it to be one of those quirks where he’s left asking himself: How the hell can she get any cuter?

“Oh, you sleep talk, now? Is that why you told me one of your biggest secrets in your sleep last night?”

Her head pops up, staring at him, horrified. “I what now?” Steve tries holding a straight face, but it barely lasts a second before he bursts into giggles. “Oh, you dick.”

“Payback for the gown joke last night.”

Wiggling her brows, she mutters, “Wish it wasn’t a joke.”

“Frankie!”

“S’what they call me,” She snorts while resting her head back on his chest, shooting finger guns lazily. 

“Are you even going to explain the date comment?” Steve laughs, but he feels so dizzy trying to figure this all out; the lingering touches, the flirting, holding one another in hugs and cuddling, and now this.

This has to be something more than just friends… right? 

“Yeah, jus’ not now,” She’s quick to settle right on the edge of sleep again. “Got a plan.”

Steve’s heart is racing as he fights sleep, hoping for an answer. “A plan?”

Is she serious? She can’t be serious. No way in hell she feels the same.

There’s silence, then soft, steady breaths, with some hums of comfort as she melts into him. He can’t even be mad, not with how sweet it is to see her fall asleep on him. He waits for a few minutes, until he’s sure she’s asleep.

Steve whispers with a half-smile, “You’re gonna be the death of me, Amato,” not thinking twice before kissing the top of her head. He’s fast asleep before he can overthink it.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Steve’s dissociating again. He has to be.

It’s 1983, and he’s watching himself steal Nancy’s attention away from her best friend, Barb. He’s watching as the two become lost in one another, but in his peripheral vision, out the window, he watches as Barb perches on the edge of the diving board, kicking her feet along the water. In the blink of an eye, she’s gone. She’s dragged off and gone from his sight.

Steve can hear Barb’s screams, but he watches himself and Nancy entangle themselves in one another, completely oblivious to the violence outside as it unfolds in the Upside Down, not here. Not right outside his house.

It’s 1983, and Steve’s wishing he could’ve done something more.

So, maybe he’s not dissociating. Not really. 

Steve’s reliving the past from the outside, but he’s aware. He’s aware how fucked this is. He finds himself outside the Byers’ home, begging Nancy to let him in. He blinks, and time skips ahead to him swinging the nail bat at the demogorgon. 

The bat is swung again, and he’s back at the junkyard with the kids in 1984, fighting off the demodogs. He watches himself fend some off, watches as Dustin calls him back to the bus, screaming “Abort! Abort!”

Then, it’s 1985 in a flash, and memories roll through like a flip book; the elevator, the bunker under the mall, the punches thrown at him, getting drugged with Robin. It goes too fast after that, but each blip of a memory from that dreadful Fourth of July is burned into his brain enough to recognize them all. He watches Billy die. Wonders from the outside why he keeps watching everyone die, and why he feels so much guilt for making it out alive all over again.

The Mind Flayer’s gone, but so is Hopper. He watches everyone reunite outside in slow motion. Witnesses himself wander around from each kid, each friend, making sure they’re all being properly treated despite being in the care of emergency officials. He sees the moment El locks eyes with Joyce as she hugs Will tight, notices the silent, heartbreaking exchange that says it all: Hopper didn’t make it.

1986 is just one giant blur of disasters; the murders, Eddie on the run after being falsely accused, Max barely escaping Vecna’s grasp at the gravesite, finding the water gate—

Steve can hear his own thoughts as he watches the bats attack him in the Upside Down. He fights. He fights hard. He gives it his all, but his thoughts grow louder, trying to coax him into giving up. Trying to convince him it’s not worth surviving anymore. That he didn’t deserve to survive any of this to begin with.

No more, please, no more—

The memories overlap, playing over one another in a shrill symphony of chaotic noises and visions; it’s like being stuck in a room with multiple TVs on different channels, volume cranked to an unbearable level. They blur together, the sounds are fighting one another for his attention. 

It all skips to him driving away from Hawkins, for good. He left mere days before it was destroyed, blown to smithereens, though he did return to witness the carnage from a safe distance. Yet in this moment, he watches from the rear view mirror the explosions set off. One by one, somehow controlled enough to keep the intended damages within city limits, he’s still able to feel the rush of wind, pushing through the open windows of his car. Then, the heat, and it doesn’t take long for it to grow unbearable. His eyes grow dry, his throat aches, his lungs burn, and his skin feels like it’s disintegrating from his body.

“Stop!”

Steve shakes as something winds around him, holding him in place. He thrashes, feeling his limbs lock up as his breaths fall shallow, panicked. 

“Let go!”

“Steve, hey, hold on—“

“I said let me—“ Steve gasps as he blindly shoves someone away, “Let me fucking go!”

“It’s me, it’s Frankie!” She grabs his face, cupping his jaw in her fingers. “You’re okay. You’re safe, Steve.” He opens his eyes, hands sliding over her own as they rest on his face. His eyes dart rapidly between each of hers, almost searching for a sign of reality as he fully wakes. 

“Shit…” Heart racing, he can feel the violent thumping in his throat. Patting the backs of her hands a few times, he reaches out for her face next. “… ‘Key?”

With a wavering voice, she replies, “S’me, you’re safe, I promise.” He tries to choke back a sob, but it breaks despite his efforts. Frankie softly pushes his hair from his eyes, matted with sweat. “Not gonna let anything bad happen to you, Stevie.”

Cautiously moving her hands, she brings one to the back of his head, gently guiding him into her embrace. Now that he’s awake, he begins to relax into her grasp, desperate for comfort.

“I’m- I— ‘Key, m’so sorry. I’m so, so, sorry.” He’s far too shaken up to be worried about his composure right now. There’s no playing this off or acting cool, but he doesn’t care about that. He’s on edge, and even more upset he might’ve hurt Frankie. “What did I— are you okay? I- I’m so sorry—“

Frankie’s fingers tangle through his hair, shuddering a breath while her other arm winds around his shoulders, settling back onto the pillows to let him relax and lean on her. She shushes him, and it’s soft, caring, not trying to suppress his cries for her benefit, but trying to comfort him as he comes down from the nightmare.

Steve’s arms snake around her waist, fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt— his shirt— terrified to loosen his grip and lose her. 

“S’just a nightmare, not real,” She’s unsure of what to say, wary of what might trigger him into further panic or help ease his PTSD. “You’re s- safe. I’ll never, ever let anything bad happen to you. Ever.”

“Did I hurt you? God, please tell me I didn’t—“

“Babe, you’re okay.” Steve misses the pet name; it’d make his stomach flip, make him blush wildly any other time. Right now, he’s too deep in his memories, rolling back from his dream, to care about any feelings. “You did nothing wrong. I’m okay, I promise. Are you okay?”

Steve’s silent for a moment, only his shudders and whimpers fill the space around them. Then, he shakes his head. It’s brief, light, but he does, and Frankie catches it immediately. 

“What can I do to help? Would space work?”

“No— no, no, don’t leave,” He’s frantic, grabbing onto the fabric she wears tighter. “Please don’t go.”

“I’m right here, I’ll stay,” She promises as he ducks her head into the crook of her neck. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“N- no, just, I- I— I’m so sorry.”

“Steve, you need to tell me who made you feel like you constantly need to apologize for your trauma, ‘cause I got some words for ‘em.” A brief laugh woven in between hiccups and sniffling escapes him. Her voice, despite the weak threat, is soothing. “The last thing I want you to do is feel sorry for what you survived.”

That breaks Steve. Really, truly, breaks him. He cries steadily, the cries turn to sobs as he shakes in her hold. 

“I feel so… It feels wrong that I survived. There were others that deserved to survive, not m- me,” The survivor’s guilt drives him to to believe this so often. It’s a reoccurring discussion in therapy, but he can’t seem to shake it all these years later. His therapist has tried reminding and reassuring him time and time again that this won’t get better overnight, but hasn’t five years of suffering been enough?

“I can’t imagine what it’s like to carry the weight of surviving awful, awful tragedies that others did not, but I can say without a doubt you’re supposed to be here, Steve.” If there was a way to take Steve’s pain away, Frankie would act on it in a heartbeat. But she can only offer a safe space for him, with comforting touches and words. “You making it out of Hawkins, making it this far, that’s not wrong. Not one bit.”

Steve knows better than to argue with Frankie, knows she sticks by her beliefs, even if it means putting all her care and loyalty into a man broken by horrors beyond her comprehension. He can’t understand why she’s not sick of him yet, but until that day comes, he won’t turn her comfort away.

“Surprised you’re not tired of me yet,” He’s so quiet between his cries, Frankie almost misses him speak.

“Well, I’m not.”

“You should be—“

“Steve, it’s gonna take way more than all of this to drive me away,” Like Steve earlier, Frankie leaves a faint kiss on the top of his head without much thought. She’s too tired to overthink it, just as he would have. She misses the red tint blooming across his features, even through the tears.

It ends there; he’s unsure if he won’t argue back because he’s accepting her word as honesty, finally, or if it’s because’s he’s too damn drained to defend his self loathing.

In time, Steve falls back asleep, snoring softly with his face still buried in Frankie’s neck. She can’t fall back asleep as quickly, but until she does, she basks in the comfort of both of them tangled together. She takes the soft, steady breaths he makes as a sign that he’s in a calmer dream. She’d stay up until dawn, watching over him, if it meant ensuring him a good night’s sleep.

“You’re safe with me, Steve.” Frankie leans down to press her lips to his head with a lingering kiss. She pulls back, just enough, murmuring in his hair as she dozes off, “Always.”

[softbabybelle]

𝜗𝜚 c!w. crybaby!reader, a little blood, swear words, soft!rafe, suggestive

it wasn't often that rafe cameron finished dealing with business early. his feet passed through the doorframe of tannyhill where he expected to find you rumaging around the house, up to no good as you always were, despite such pure intentions.

however, the sound of little sobs and whimpers left him trailing upstairs.

"sweetheart? wh's wrong?" he slowly creaked the bedroom door open. he spotted you sitting in the bed decorated with frilly pink bedsheets, your choice of course, fat globs of tears rolling down your cheeks and swollen lips, burying your face into a pillow. "hey, hey, wh's the tears for, huh?"

"'s my leg." rafe watched as you sat up on the bed, showing the little gash on your left knee, a little blood trailing down your leg. "w-was on the ladder 'n then―"

but rafe cut you off, his brows raised. "on the ladder? what were you on the ladder for, huh? you were already told about climbing stuff when 'm not home." there was a mean etch to his tone.

you could only blubber. "'m sorry, r-rafe. 'm really sorry, j-jus wanted my lights up."

rafe sighed, agitated as he leaned over to the bedside locker where a little first aid kit was hidden. it was safe to say that you were prone to accidents. "shouldn't have been climbing a fuckin' ladder when i wasn't home." he grasped your leg, despite his harsh tone, his touch was gentle. "stop cryin', sweetheart, you're fine."

you felt him wiping an antiseptic wipe across your knee, collecting the trailing blood too. "rafe that h-hurts." another few fat tears rolled down your cheeks, stuttering over your words.

"you're fine, pincess." rafe couldn't help the low guilt swimming in his stomach. he knew you were dramatic, it was in your nature and by no means did it hurt enough for you to be sat in the bed crying your pretty eyes out. but nonetheless, he rolled his eyes and helped you up into your lap.

he was still learning with you, gauging your every response to his touches and his words.

a little comfort went a long way, apparently.

you eventually did stop crying, albiet in his lap and clinging around his neck. you were still sniffling quietly and rafe couldn't help but give in.

"relax, sweetheart, you're fine now." you nodded gently against the crook of his neck. "'s over, okay? 'want no more tears from you, alright?"

you could only nod again, saying nothing.

rafe only rolled his eyes. though they instantly fell on the little lights that were sitting up on the desk. they were in the shapes of pink stars and quite frankly, they were a little ugly. but you'd been talking about these damn lights with weeks, every day you's show him your phone, glittery nails shooting out to show him the tracking of your delivery.

"i'll put up your lights." he grumbled, watching as your head rose.

"you will?" you sounded all stuffed up and snotty from crying, eyes all red and face a little blotchy.

rafe sighed, knowing he was mean but he wasn't downright evil. "mm." he grumbled again in response, seating you off his lap and onto the bed. "but you stay away from this fuckin' ladder, y'hear?"

you nod happily into the pink pillows and watch him grab the pretty lights into his hands. "thank you rafey."

he didn't respond, only turning with the lights in his hands. "turnin' my room into a damn pink zoo." he glanced sideways when you didn't respond, you were too busy staring at your knee with your eyes filled with tears all over again.

rafe wanted to roll his eyes but he opted not to.

a little soft tone went a long way, too, apparently. "your leg hurtin', baby?"

you nod, sniffling as your fingers trace the cut. it's not bleeding anymore but rafe knew you'd end up putting some strange plaster on it later anyway, designed with something pink, probably.

you watched him lean down, with your leg in his hands as he pressed a gentle kiss to your knee, eyes looking up at you. "poor girl, jus' wanted her pretty lights up, huh?"

"mhm." when rafe pitied you, you started to pity yourself too.

"my poor girl." he reached up for you, pulling you down into a soft embrace as his breath fanned your neck. "'s okay, baby, rafe'll make it all better, won't he?"

your mind went all fuzzy and your body went all warm. "uh huh." you could feel his hand trailing up past your wounded knee, beneath your skirt.

"you jus' relax, yeah?" fingers attaching to your pretty panties. "let rafe take care of you.

[pellucid-constellations]

Against the World

Pairing: Azriel x Human!Reader

Summary: Azriel learns that loving a human means loving the uncoordinated and the injury-prone and the acceptance that he can't save you from it all.

Word count: 1k

Warnings: small injury, wistful as human x fae goes

a/n: Yay I hope this makes up for april fools :) Thank you to the anon who sent me this idea I love youuuu <3

More Az x human!reader and here as well :)

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

The first time Azriel witnessed the plight of your ever-present bruises, he hadn’t thought much of it. You had made too much space for him in the doorway of your home, squeezing extra tight against the frame to accommodate his wings. A breathy curse clued him into the pain you’d felt ramming your shoulder into the sturdy wood, and then the discolored skin blooming in its wake clued him into the fragility that was amplified by your accident-prone nature. 

Humans were not as lithe and agile as fae. Humans, unfortunately, also bruised and broke much easier than fae, a combination that led to the heightened hypervigilance Azriel adopted since falling in love with you. The more time he spent with you, slipping away from his family under pretenses, the more he bore witness to your slips and falls and general habit of misplacing items that would somehow then stub your toe. 

At first, the accidents drove him mad. He would turn around for one second and something would clatter in the distance. A rather sharp whip of his head would find you sheepishly staring down at whatever you had been holding, and Azriel would hold his breath as his eyes inspected every inch of your body. He would stand beside you in the kitchen, pressing his hip to yours to find closeness, and you would hiss out a quick breath, crimson sliding down to your wrist. 

Gods, Azriel hated knives around you. And he hated ladders, moderately tall stacks of items, broom cupboards; Azriel quickly became wary of anything that had caused an accident in his presence

He had let it consume him into madness—at first. Azriel turned into an unreasonable force in your life, whisking you up over small holes in the ground and banning window locks unless he was the one operating them. He’d press the blankets back from your neck as you slept because cauldron boil him he was sure you’d find a way to die on them, and you couldn’t even get him started on the gardening tools you kept in the yard. Your propensity for befriending wild animals had his shadows angrily hissing in his ears and he feared the day you’d finally attempt to hang the art in your closets when he wasn’t there. 

At the beginning of loving you, Azriel considered bringing you to Velaris so many times the idea became like a mantra in his head. But then—after witnessing the casual way you went about each action that sent his heart into his throat—Azriel began to calm. And adapt. Almost instinctually. 

Soon, it became second nature for him to place a hand at the back of your head each time you exited the depths of your kitchen cabinets. With time, Azirel learned to simply catch your waist each time your steps became unsteady instead of lifting you from the ground. He wouldn’t speak to you as you made dinner, content to watch your careful ministrations with the knife—concentrated, without pause. 

Azriel would allow you to stay bundled up in your blankets and bring you closer to his chest instead, using the subtle brush of your breath against his skin to calm him. He saw things falling before you even noticed them, catching them above your head, as they fell to your feet, closing the distance to jam your fingers; he was still vigilant, but some of the fear dissipated. 

It never got easier to see the repercussions. 

Even the slightest injury made Azriel’s chest twine uncomfortably, because they always stuck around far longer than they would on any fae. A cut on your hand, a bruise along your leg, or—the worst, in Azriel’s opinion—the busted lip you got from tripping in the forest when he was away. 

He had been angry when he first saw it, and then he had been afraid. Afraid to see how delicate you were. Afraid that he hadn’t been there to stop whatever had happened. 

But then you grinned at him, so happy he was there despite the reminder of your impermanence in this world glaring and angry and red on your face, and Azriel realized this was something he needed to accept. You being in his life would include tragedies and injuries and heartbreak, and he was okay with that—the visual representation of such a truth was found in his lips lightly pressing to the split skin. 

Azriel still cataloged each disruption of your skin. He still soothed aches and pains with balms you probably shouldn’t have access to but that Madja wouldn’t miss in her clinic. When tears escaped past your lashes—rare from physical pain alone—he still wiped them from your cheeks and prayed to the Mother that he could continue to do so until his last breath. A fruitless prayer, but one he still made at the salty scent of your emotion in the air. 

Sometimes you teased him about his lack of clumsiness. You’d poke fun at the graceful steps he made around your house and the silence that accompanied his movements. The jokes were usually at your expense, something Azriel did not love, but he’d crack a smile all the same. 

He’d started knocking his wings into things on the odd occasion—catch his foot on a rug or cram his finger into a drawer just so you’d look at him with that baffled expression that made him actually burst with laughter. He loved catching you off guard, but he loved making you feel with him even more. You weren't less than him because you were human. The uncoordinated movements that made you mortal weren’t something he looked down upon. Sure, he would do away with the pain that often followed, but Azriel loved everything about you. 

And that included the casual clumsiness that often made his heart stop.

[hanibalistic]

death evasion boy // two negatives make one positive. two deaths make one life. mark lee is accident prone. every time you see him in purgatory, you hunt him down and send him back by killing him.

[pucksandpower]

War Is Over

Lewis Hamilton x Rosberg!Reader

Summary: Lewis parks his car … right into his best friend-turned-nemesis’ little sister (and somehow reunites Brocedes in the process)

Warnings: descriptions of serious injury

Note: the fact that he not only won a race again but it was his home race … this calls for a Lewis Hamilton fic 🥹

The Monaco sun glints off sleek sports cars lining the streets as Lewis navigates his Mercedes through the winding roads. He’s running late for dinner with some sponsors and the traffic is only making things worse.

Lewis mutters under his breath, “Come on, come on. Just need to park this thing ...”

He spots an open space in front of the restaurant and starts to maneuver in, glancing at his watch. The ticking seconds only increase his frustration.

“Bloody hell, why is parking always such a nightmare here?”

Lewis throws the car into reverse, not bothering to look behind him. He’s done this a thousand times before. What could possibly go wrong?

The sickening thud comes a split second before he slams on the brakes. His heart leaps into his throat as he whips around, praying he just hit a trash bin or something.

But the crumpled form on the ground is undeniably human.

“Oh God, oh God, no ...” Lewis fumbles with his seatbelt, hands shaking as he bursts out of the car. “Please be okay, please be okay ...”

He drops to his knees beside the prone figure, a young woman with long hair obscuring her face. Blood is already pooling beneath her head.

“Miss? Can you hear me?” Lewis gently brushes the hair back, and his world stops.

It’s you. Nico’s little sister. The girl he’s known since she was in pigtails, cheering from the sidelines at their early karting races.

Lewis’ jaw drops open as the full horror of what he’s done sinks in. “Y/N? Oh God, Y/N, please wake up!”

He cradles your head, heedless of the blood staining his designer shirt. Your eyes remain closed, skin alarmingly pale.

“Someone call an ambulance!” Lewis shouts, his voice cracking with panic. “Please, somebody help!”

A crowd starts to gather, murmurs of shock and recognition rippling through them. Lewis barely notices, focused solely on your still form.

“Y/N, come on, open your eyes. Please, you have to be okay,” he pleads, gently patting your cheek. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you, I swear I didn’t mean to ...”

Your eyelids flutter, a soft groan escaping your lips. Lewis nearly sobs with relief.

“That’s it, that’s it. Can you hear me? It’s Lewis. You’re going to be alright.”

Your eyes open, unfocused and confused. “Lewis? What ... what happened?”

“Don’t try to move, okay? There was an accident. Help is on the way.”

You try to sit up, wincing in pain. “My head ...”

“Shh, just stay still. I’ve got you.” Lewis supports your shoulders, keeping you from moving too much.

“Did ... did you hit me with your car?” Your voice is small, disbelieving.

Lewis swallows hard. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t see you, I swear. God, Y/N, I would never ...”

You manage a weak smile. “Always knew you’d be the death of me, Hamilton.”

Despite everything, Lewis can’t help but chuckle. “Don’t joke about that. You scared me half to death.”

“Sorry to ruin your evening,” you mumble, eyes starting to drift closed again.

“Hey, hey, stay with me.” Lewis gently taps your cheek. “Keep those eyes open, okay? Talk to me.”

You force your eyes open. “About what?”

“Anything. Tell me ... tell me what you’re doing in Monaco. Are you visiting Nico?”

You shake your head slightly, then wince. “No, I ... I moved here. Got a job at the yacht club.”

“Really? That’s great. When did that happen?”

“Few months ago. Needed ... needed a change of scenery.”

Lewis nods, desperately trying to keep you engaged. “I get that. Monaco’s beautiful. Although the parking situation leaves something to be desired,” he adds wryly.

You manage a weak laugh, then grimace. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Lewis glances around anxiously. “Where’s that damn ambulance?”

As if on cue, sirens wail in the distance. Lewis breathes a sigh of relief.

“Help’s coming, Y/N. Just hang on a little longer, okay?”

You nod slightly, eyes becoming unfocused again. “Lewis?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t tell Nico.”

Lewis’ heart clenches. “Y/N ...”

“Please. He’ll kill you. And then me. For being stupid enough to walk behind a car without looking.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Lewis insists. “I should have checked my mirrors. I was distracted, rushing ...”

You shake your head stubbornly. “Promise me. Don’t tell him.”

Lewis hesitates. “Y/N, I can’t just ...”

“Promise,” you repeat, gripping his arm with surprising strength.

Lewis sighs. “Okay, okay. I promise. But he’s going to find out eventually.”

“Let me handle it. When I’m not ... you know. Bleeding on the pavement.”

The ambulance pulls up, paramedics jumping out. Lewis reluctantly moves aside to let them work, hovering anxiously.

“Sir, can you tell us what happened?” One of the paramedics asks as they begin assessing your injuries.

Lewis runs a hand through his hair. “I ... I hit her with my car. I was backing up and didn’t see her. It was an accident, I swear.”

The paramedic nods, focused on taking your vitals. “Miss, can you tell me your name?”

“Y/N Rosberg,” you mumble.

The paramedic’s eyes widen slightly in recognition, but he remains professional. “Alright, Y/N. We’re going to get you to the hospital. Just try to stay still for me.”

As they prepare to move you onto a stretcher, Lewis steps forward. “Can I ride with her?”

The paramedic hesitates. “Are you family?”

“No, but I’m ... I’m responsible for this. Please, I need to make sure she’s okay.”

You reach out weakly, grasping Lewis’ hand. “Let him come. He’s ... he’s family.”

The paramedic nods. “Alright, but stay out of the way.”

As they load you into the ambulance, Lewis climbs in beside you, still holding your hand. The doors slam shut and the sirens wail as they speed towards the hospital.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Lewis says softly.

You give his hand a weak squeeze. “Couldn’t let you ... sulk all night. You’d probably ... crash into a street lamp next.”

Lewis chuckles despite himself. “There’s that Rosberg wit. You sound just like your brother sometimes.”

You grimace. “Don’t insult me when I’m down, Hamilton.”

The banter feels surreal given the circumstances, but Lewis is grateful for it. It keeps the crushing guilt at bay, if only for a moment.

“Y/N, I ...” he starts, then falters. “I don’t even know how to begin to apologize.”

You shake your head slightly. “Later. When everything ... stops spinning.”

Lewis nods, throat tight. He watches the paramedics work, feeling utterly helpless.

“Tell me something,” you murmur after a moment.

“What?”

“Anything. Distract me.”

Lewis thinks for a moment. “Did I ever tell you about the time Nico and I got lost in Ibiza?”

You manage a small smile. “No. Spill.”

As Lewis launches into the story, embellishing for comedic effect, he can’t help but marvel at your resilience. Here you are, cracking jokes and asking for stories while bleeding from a head wound he caused.

The guilt threatens to overwhelm him again, but he pushes it aside. Right now, keeping you conscious and calm is what matters. There will be time for apologies and recriminations later.

As the ambulance weaves through Monaco’s narrow streets, Lewis silently vows to make this right, whatever it takes. He may have destroyed his friendship with Nico, but he won’t let you pay the price for their rivalry.

The hospital looms ahead, and Lewis squeezes your hand. “We’re almost there, Y/N. You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

You meet his eyes, a flicker of something — trust? forgiveness? — passing between you. “I know,” you whisper. “I’ve got my guardian angel, after all. Even if he is a bit rubbish at parking.”

Lewis laughs, the sound catching in his throat. As they wheel you into the emergency room, he realizes with startling clarity that nothing will ever be the same after tonight.

But looking at your brave smile as the doctors surround you, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, that might not be such a bad thing.

***

The steady beep of the heart monitor fills the hushed hospital room. Lewis sits hunched in an uncomfortable chair beside your bed, his eyes never leaving your sleeping form. The stark white bandage wrapped around your head is a constant reminder of his guilt.

A nurse pops her head in. “Mr. Hamilton? There’s someone here to see-”

She’s cut off as Nico barges past her, his face a mask of fury. “You son of a bitch.“

Nico’s fist is already swinging towards Lewis’ face when a doctor in a white coat steps between them. “Gentlemen! This is a hospital, not a boxing ring!”

Nico’s momentum carries him forward, nearly stumbling into the doctor. He catches himself, chest heaving as he glares daggers at Lewis.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Nico snarls.

Lewis stands, hands raised placatingly. “Nico, I can explain-”

“Explain? Explain how you nearly killed my sister?” Nico’s voice rises, causing you to stir in the bed.

The doctor clears his throat. “Mr. Rosberg, I presume? I’m Dr. Moreau. Perhaps we should step outside to discuss your sister’s condition.”

Nico hesitates, clearly torn between getting information and pummeling Lewis. Finally, he nods curtly. “Fine. But this isn’t over, Hamilton.”

As they step into the hallway, Lewis sinks back into his chair, running a hand over his face. He glances at you, relieved to see you’ve settled back into sleep.

In the corridor, Dr. Moreau speaks in low, measured tones. “Mr. Rosberg, your sister suffered a severe concussion and a fractured skull. There was some internal bleeding, but we’ve managed to stabilize that.”

Nico’s knees go weak, and he leans against the wall for support. “Oh God ...”

“She also has three broken ribs, a fractured wrist, and various cuts and bruises,” the doctor continues. “Frankly, it’s a miracle she wasn’t more seriously injured. The impact could easily have been fatal.”

Nico slides down the wall, sitting heavily on the floor. “She ... she almost died?”

Dr. Moreau nods gravely. “It was touch and go for a while. But she’s young and strong. With time and proper care, we expect her to make a full recovery.”

Nico buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. After a moment, he looks up, eyes red-rimmed. “Can I see her?”

“Of course. But please, try to stay calm. She needs rest.”

Nico nods, pulling himself to his feet. He takes a deep breath before re-entering the room.

Lewis stands as Nico approaches the bed. “Nico, I-”

“Save it,” Nico snaps, but there’s less venom in his voice now. He gently takes your hand, his thumb tracing circles on your palm.

Your eyes flutter open. “Nico?” You mumble groggily.

“Hey, little sis,” Nico says softly, managing a weak smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a car,” you deadpan.

Lewis winces, but Nico actually chuckles. “Well, your sense of humor is intact, at least.”

You try to sit up, grimacing in pain. Lewis and Nico both move to help, then freeze, glaring at each other.

You roll your eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Both of you, help me up. And then explain why you look ready to kill each other. Again.”

With their combined efforts, they manage to prop you up against the pillows. You look expectantly between them.

Nico breaks first. “How can you even ask that? He nearly killed you!”

“It was an accident,” you insist.

“An accident?” Nico scoffs. “He hit you with his car!”

“Which I’m pretty sure he didn’t do on purpose,” you retort. “Right, Lewis?”

Lewis nods emphatically. “God, no. Y/N, I swear, I never saw you. I was distracted, rushing ... but I would never intentionally hurt you. You have to believe that.”

Nico’s jaw clenches. “Maybe not intentionally. But your carelessness nearly cost my sister her life. How am I supposed to forgive that?”

“You don’t have to forgive me,” Lewis says quietly. “I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself. But Y/N is the one who was hurt. Shouldn’t it be her choice?”

You nod, wincing at the movement. “Exactly. And I choose to forgive you, Lewis. It was an accident. A stupid, awful accident, but still an accident.”

Nico shakes his head in disbelief. “Y/N, you can’t be serious. You’re lying in a hospital bed because of him!”

“And he’s been by my side ever since,” you counter. “He rode in the ambulance with me, held my hand through all the tests and scans. He’s barely left this room in hours.”

Lewis looks down, uncomfortable with the praise. “It was the least I could do.”

Nico runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “That doesn’t change what happened.”

“No, it doesn’t,” you agree. “But it shows he cares. That he’s taking responsibility.”

“I’ll pay for all her medical expenses,” Lewis adds quickly. “And anything else she needs for her recovery. It’s the least I can do.”

Nico snorts. “You think you can just throw money at this and make it go away?”

“No!” Lewis insists. “I know nothing can undo what happened. But I want to help however I can.”

You reach out, grabbing both their hands. “Listen to me, both of you. I’m tired, I’m in pain, and I don’t have the energy for your macho posturing right now.”

They both have the grace to look ashamed.

“Nico, I love you, but you need to calm down,” you continue. “Lewis made a mistake, a big one. But he’s trying to make amends. And frankly, I need both of you right now. I can’t deal with you at each other’s throats on top of everything else.”

Nico’s expression softens. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I just ... when I got that call, saying you were in the hospital ... I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

You squeeze his hand. “I know. But I’m okay. Or I will be. And having you two fighting isn’t going to help me get better any faster.”

Lewis clears his throat. “She’s right. Nico, I know you have every right to hate me right now. But can we please call a truce? For Y/N’s sake?”

Nico hesitates, clearly torn. Finally, he nods stiffly. “Fine. A truce. But only for Y/N.”

“Thank you,” you sigh, relaxing back against the pillows. “Now, can one of you please get me some water? And maybe sneak in some real food? I’m starving and the hospital jello isn’t cutting it.”

Lewis jumps up. “I’ll go. Nico, you stay with her. I’ll be right back.”

As Lewis hurries out, Nico settles into the chair beside your bed. “You sure you’re okay, little sis?”

You manage a small smile. “I’ve been better. But I’ve also been worse.”

Nico raises an eyebrow. “When have you been worse than having a cracked skull and broken ribs?”

“Remember when I was eight and fell out of that tree in the backyard?”

Nico chuckles. “God, I thought Mama was going to have a heart attack. You were so stubborn, insisting you could climb higher than me.”

“Still can,” you tease.

“Maybe hold off on the tree climbing for a while, yeah?”

You pretend to pout. “Spoilsport.”

The banter feels good, normal. For a moment, you can almost forget you’re in a hospital bed.

Nico’s expression turns serious. “Y/N, are you really okay with forgiving Lewis so easily? You don’t have to, you know. Not for my sake or anyone else’s.”

You sigh. “I know. And believe me, I’m not thrilled about the whole getting hit by a car thing. But Nico, you should have seen his face when he realized it was me. He was devastated.”

“He should be,” Nico grumbles.

“I’m not saying there won’t be consequences,” you continue. “But I don’t believe for a second he meant to hurt me. And holding onto anger isn’t going to help me heal any faster.”

Nico studies your face for a long moment. “When did you get so wise, little sister?”

You grin. “I’ve always been the smart one in the family. You were just too busy crashing karts to notice.”

Nico laughs, then sobers. “I was so scared, Y/N. When they called and said you were in the hospital ... all I could think was that I couldn’t lose you.”

You squeeze his hand. “Hey, you’re not getting rid of me that easily. It’ll take more than Lewis Hamilton’s terrible parking skills to take out a Rosberg.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Nico says, but he’s smiling.

Lewis returns then, arms laden with bags. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I got a bit of everything. Sandwiches, fruit, some pasta salad ... oh, and chocolate. Lots of chocolate.”

You beam at him. “My hero.”

Nico rolls his eyes, but there’s less hostility in it now. “Is this really the time for sweets?”

Lewis grins sheepishly. “Hey, chocolate has healing properties. I read that somewhere.”

“Sounds like solid medical advice to me,” you chime in, already reaching for a candy bar.

As Lewis unpacks the food, a tentative peace settles over the room. It’s fragile, built on shared concern for you rather than any real reconciliation between the two men. But it’s a start.

You watch them, noting how they unconsciously mirror each other’s movements as they fuss over arranging the food on your tray. For all their differences, for all the bad blood between them, there’s still an underlying connection there. Years of friendship and rivalry can’t be erased so easily.

“You know,” you say around a mouthful of sandwich, “this whole arch-enemies thing you two have going on is getting a bit old.”

They both look at you, startled.

“I mean, come on,” you continue. “You were best friends for years. You’ve known each other longer than most marriages last. Is it really worth throwing all that away over some stupid trophies?”

Nico frowns. “Y/N, it’s more complicated than that-”

“Is it, though?” You interrupt. “Because from where I’m sitting — or laying, I guess — it seems pretty simple. You both love racing. You’re both insanely competitive. And yeah, sometimes that caused friction. But at the end of the day, who else understands what you have been through better than each other?”

Lewis and Nico exchange uncomfortable glances.

“I’m not saying you have to be best buddies again,” you add. “But maybe ... I don’t know. Maybe you could try not actively hating each other? For my sake, if nothing else. I’m going to need both of you while I recover and I really don’t want to deal with World War III breaking out in my hospital room.”

There’s a long moment of silence. Finally, Lewis speaks up.

“She’s right,” he says quietly. “Nico, I know things have been ... difficult between us. And I know this situation hasn’t helped. But Y/N’s important to both of us. Can we at least try to be civil? For her?”

Nico hesitates, then nods slowly. “I suppose we can try. But Lewis, I swear, if anything like this ever happens again-”

“It won’t,” Lewis says firmly. “I promise you, Nico. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right.”

You beam at them both. “See? Was that so hard? Now, who’s going to help me eat all this food? Doctor’s orders, you know. Got to keep my strength up.”

As they both reach for the tray, playfully battling over who gets to hand you what, you can’t help but smile. It’s not perfect, not by a long shot. But it’s a beginning.

And really, you think as you watch the two most important men in your life grudgingly share a bag of crisps, sometimes beginnings are the best part of any story.

***

f1-fanatic-2024

[Image: Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg exiting a hospital, walking side by side]

OMG IS THIS REAL??? Brocedes spotted together??? What year is it???

#what is happening #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #brocedes

---

brocedes-no1-stan

[reblogging f1-fanatic-2024’s post]

I’m sorry, but are we just going to ignore the fact that they’re leaving a HOSPITAL??? Is everyone okay???

#concerned #hope everyone’s alright #but also lowkey excited

---

vintage-f1-vibes

Okay but why does this feel like a glitch in the matrix? Haven’t seen these two willingly in the same frame since like 2016 😭

#blast from the past #what year is it #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

---

racing-queen-93

[reblogging f1-fanatic-2024’s post]

BROCEDES RISE!!! 🙌🙌🙌

My 2014 heart is SOARING right now. Never thought I’d see the day. BRB, gonna go cry in a corner.

#i’m not crying you’re crying #brocedes #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #f1

---

silverarrows4ever

[Image set: Multiple angles of Lewis and Nico leaving the hospital, including one where they appear to be mid-conversation]

New Brocedes content in 2024? Maybe miracles do happen 😭

But seriously, hope everything’s okay. Weird to see them at a hospital.

#concerned but hopeful #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #f1 #brocedes

---

formula1-history-nerd

[reblogging silverarrows4ever’s post]

Okay, but can we talk about how neither of them has aged a day??? What kind of vampire magic-

#aging like fine wine #drop the skincare routine boys #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

---

racingdaydreams

Me: I’m over Brocedes, that ship has sailed

Also me seeing these pics: 🥺👉👈

#i’m weak okay #f1 #brocedes #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

---

fastcarsgovroomvroom

[reblogging f1-fanatic-2024’s post]

Everyone freaking out about Brocedes and I’m just wondering why they’re at a hospital??? Hope everyone’s okay!

#f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

---

f1-drama-central

BREAKING: Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg spotted leaving Princess Grace Hospital together. Sources say they arrived separately but left at the same time, engaging in what appeared to be civil conversation. More updates as the story develops!

#breaking news #what’s the tea #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

---

retro-racing-vibes

[reblogging f1-drama-central’s post]

2014 me is SCREAMING right now. 2024 me is cautiously optimistic but also kind of worried because ... hospital?

#conflicted feelings #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #brocedes

---

formulaonefanatic

[Image: Close-up of Lewis and Nico talking, both with serious expressions]

Whatever brought them together, it looks serious. Hoping everyone’s okay. But also ... is it wrong that I’m a little excited to see them talking again?

#concerned but intrigued #brocedes #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

***

f1-gossip-central

[Image set: Lewis, Nico, and Y/N on Lewis’ yacht. Another photo of Lewis kissing Y/N with Nico cringing in the background]

WHAT IS HAPPENING??? Lewis and Nico on the same boat??? Lewis kissing Nico’s sister??? I need answers!!!

#what timeline is this #i’m shook #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg

---

brocedes-ride-or-die

[reblogging f1-gossip-central’s post]

EXCUSE ME??? Lewis and Y/N??? When did this happen??? How did I miss this??? 😱😱😱

#new ship alert #what is happening #f1 #lewis hamilton #y/n rosberg

---

vintage-f1-drama

Okay but Nico’s face in that last pic is sending me 💀💀💀 Big protective brother energy

#siblings be like #f1 #nico rosberg #lewis hamilton #y/n rosberg

---

formulaoneobsessed

[Image: Close-up of Lewis kissing Y/N]

New F1 power couple alert? 👀 But also, how is Nico okay with this?

#f1 #lewis hamilton #y/n rosberg #nico rosberg

---

racingheartstrings

[reblogging formulaoneobsessed’s post]

I can’t decide if this is the best or worst plot twist of the 2024 season 😂

Either way, I’m here for the drama!

#pass the popcorn #f1 #lewis hamilton #y/n rosberg #nico rosberg

---

silverarrowsforever

[Image set: Lewis and Nico chatting on the yacht, looking relaxed]

Can we talk about how this is the most relaxed we’ve seen these two together in YEARS??? Whatever’s happening, it seems to be healing old wounds and I’m here for it 🙌

#f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #brocedes

---

f1-fanfiction-addict

Me: furiously rewriting all my Brocedes fics to include Y/N

The plot twist we never saw coming 😅

#f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg #fanfiction problems

---

speed-queen-101

[reblogging f1-gossip-central’s post]

Y’all are focused on the Lewis and Y/N kiss but can we appreciate how GOOD everyone looks??? That Monaco sun is doing wonders 😍

#glow up #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg

---

formula1-history-buff

Imagine telling someone in 2016 that in 2024, Lewis would be dating Nico’s sister and they’d all be hanging out on Lewis’ yacht. They’d think you were crazy!

#how times change #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg

---

racingdaydreams

[Image: Nico’s cringing face as Lewis kisses Y/N]

Tag yourself, I’m Nico 😂

#third wheel vibes #f1 #nico rosberg #lewis hamilton #y/n rosberg

---

fastcarsgovroomvroom

[reblogging racingdaydreams’ post]

Petition for a reality show following this trio because I would watch the HECK out of that

#make it happen netflix #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg

---

f1-drama-queen

THEORY TIME: What if the hospital visit from last week was for Y/N??? And that’s what brought Lewis and Nico back together??? 🤔

#conspiracy theory #but makes sense #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg

---

brocedes-forever

[Image set: Lewis and Nico laughing together on the yacht]

My Brocedes heart is THRIVING right now. Yeah, the Lewis and Y/N thing is cute, but look at these two 😭❤️

#f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #brocedes #friendship goals