let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
roma★
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@theartofmadeline
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YOU ARE THE REASON
todays bird
Keni
Cosmic Funnies
Origami Around
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
One Nice Bug Per Day
RMH
Not today Justin
Color Me Curious
Fai_Ryy
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@earth2starkey
⌞ LUNA’S NAVIGATION ⌝
luna. twenty-three. she/her. hufflepuff. taurus. bookworm. swiftie. steve harrington’s biggest fan. mattheo riddle apologist. 9w1. isfp.
inbox & requests → closed !
please do not copy, translate or repost my work on any other website without my permission. if you are inspired by a specific concept, i just ask if you please give credit in the alt tags or description, thank you!
cutie lace divider by: @uzmacchiato
masterlist. rules. luna’s recs.
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my $100 jumping around on stage…
chat i miss him :(((
₊˚⊹ where you fit | steve harrington x reader
summary: you learned a long time ago how to take up less space. steve harrington promised you would never have to do that with him. when he breaks that promise, even by accident, the fallout is quiet and unbearable. robin buckley, who is not paid enough for this, eventually forces him to stop being an idiot and go get his girl.
tags/warnings: post s4 no spoilers, hurt/comfort, emotional angst, abandonment fears, miscommunication, idiots in love, steve harrington being painfully in love, reader has a soft heart, robin buckley saves the day, brief crying, comfort ending
wc: ~6k
cutie lace divider by: @uzmacchiato
Steve notices the smell before anything else.
Heat trapped in carpet fibers. Dust warmed by the sun. The faint, lingering sweetness of the shampoo you always forget at his place, clinging to the air like evidence you spent all of your time there.
It hits him all at once and settles low in his chest. The fan hums from the corner of his room, rattling the posters taped crookedly to the walls, pushing around warm air that sticks to his skin. Outside, cicadas buzz relentlessly, loud and unbothered, a constant pulse beneath the quiet tension slowly tightening around his ribs.
You stand near the foot of his bed, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re holding each word up to the light before deciding whether it’s safe or not to let it go.
The desk lamp casts the room in amber, softening everything it touches; the edges of the furniture, the shadows, you. It makes this feel like a place where nothing bad should happen, like this room should be safe.
“You’ve been distant,” you say to him gently, voice quiet as you speak. “I can feel it.”
Steve leans back against the dresser, the wood pressing into his spine. His shirt clings to him with sweat and he smells like soap, summer and the faint metallic tang of grease from the car he worked on earlier. He crosses his arms, a habit he falls into when he does not know where to put his hands.
“I’ve just had a lot on my mind,” he says with a nonchalant shrug.
“You always do,” you reply, soft but steady. “But lately you disappear into it.”
His jaw tightens. He hates that you can tell, hates that you see straight through him- even when he is trying to hold everything together with sheer force of will.
“I’m allowed to think,” he snaps before he can stop himself. “Not everything has to be a conversation.”
Your shoulders tense at that. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but he sees it anyway.
“I don’t need everything,” you say. “I just need to know you’re still here.”
That should have stopped him. It usually does.
He loves how openly you want him. Loves that you never pretend to need less than you do. Loves how easily you reach for reassurance now, even after a past that taught you to fold yourself smaller to survive. He knows where that instinct came from, and he knows the cost it once had. How long it took for you to unlearn it.
Fear makes him careless though.
“You’re always checking,” he says, frustration rising before he can swallow any of it down. “Always needing to know where I’m at, what I’m feeling, if I’m okay.”
You blink, lips parting slightly, like the words caught you off guard.
“It gets exhausting,” he adds, the truth twisted sharp by his panic. “I can’t even breathe without you asking if I’m alright.”
The cassette clicks loudly as it reaches the end of the tape, cutting the music off mid note. The fan hums and the cicadas continue to scream. The air thickens until it feels hard to breathe.
Steve sees it the second it lands.
The way your posture folds inward, instinctive and familiar, like your body remembers this feeling even if you wish it wouldn’t. Like something old has been woken up inside you.
You don’t argue. You just swallow hard, eyes shining, lashes clumping together as tears gather despite your effort to stop them.
“I didn’t mean it like that, you just—” Steve says quickly, almost as if the panic began creeping in.
But then he exhales, the stubbornness digging in, fear winning over instinct.
“You don’t have to be so much all the time.”
The word settles between you, and it held weight. History. Teeth.
Your eyes glass over completely now, hazel gone distant and wet. Steve feels sick watching you try to hold yourself together, like you’re bracing for something you recognize too well.
You nod once, slow and careful.
“Okay,” you whisper, your voice breaking right down the middle.
You turn away, grabbing your shoes, then his hoodie from the back of the chair. You pull it over your head, drowning in the fabric, sleeves swallowing your hands. It smells like him, and it’s equal parts comforting and cruel.
You pause at the door, just for a second, like you’re waiting for him to say something. Anything. Like you’re giving him one last chance to stop you before you disappear completely.
Steve thinks about crossing the room and pulling you back. About saying anything to undo what he has just done.
But he doesn’t move.
The door closes softly behind you.
The house feels hollow immediately.
The next morning, the quiet is wrong.
Steve stands in his kitchen with a piece of burnt toast in his hand and the radio murmuring low on the counter. Sunlight spills through the window at the wrong angle, too harsh and too bright. The air smells stale, like it’s been holding its breath.
You usually sit on the counter while he eats, legs swinging, stealing bites off his plate. You usually leave your mug in the sink even when you swear you will wash it.
The counter is empty.
He tells himself you just need a day.
By the second day, the absence presses in on him, heavy and unrelenting.
Your toothbrush is still in his bathroom. Your shampoo still fogs the mirror after his shower. The hoodie you took is gone, and that absence hurts more than he expects.
He replays the fight while he drives. While he showers. While he lies awake staring at the ceiling fan.
You do not have to be so much.
Each time, the words rot a little more.
He thinks about the way you love. Openly and without apology. He thinks about how brave it was for you to relearn that after someone taught you love was conditional.
And how easily he crushed it.
By the third day, you stop showing up entirely.
Not at Family Video. Not at the diner where you always wait for him after shifts. Not at the radio station, where you usually sit cross legged on the floor, flipping through magazines while Dustin rambles and Lucas debates song choices with Robin.
Max doesn’t ask where you are, but she notices. Mike notices too. El asks once, quietly.
Steve has no answers.
Robin notices most of all, and one day she leans across the counter, squinting at the door for the sixth time that hour.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Where is she?”
Steve keeps his eyes on the tapes he is stacking. “She’s busy.”
Robin hums. “That’s funny. Because she has never been busy when you’re on shift. Ever.”
He shrugs, jaw tight. “Maybe she just wanted space.”
Robin watches him carefully now. He’s been pacing between songs, snapping at callers, rubbing at his chest like something hurts there.
“She didn’t stop by yesterday,” Robin says. “And she always eats lunch here.”
Steve swallows.
By the fourth day, the guilt becomes unbearable.
It settles in his chest, heavy and unmoving. He smells you everywhere. In his car, in his room, in the space beside him in bed that stays cold.
Robin corners him when he has worn a path into the floor.
“No,” she says. “You do not get to keep doing this. Spill.”
He breaks.
Tells her everything. The fight. The word he used. The way your body folded in on itself like it had done this before.
Robin’s face softens, then hardens.
“You knew better,” she says quietly, thinking of all the nights you’d spent crying to her over the phone, heartbroken by guys who never deserved you.
“I know,” Steve whispers. “I love that she needs me. I love being the place she comes to.”
“Then go prove it, ‘cause right now she thinks she was wrong for trusting you.”
That does it.
Your room smells like clean laundry and salt.
You’re curled on your bed, knees tucked tight to your chest, Steve’s hoodie wrapped around you like armor. Your arms are crossed over yourself, shoulders rounded like you’re trying to take up less space in the world.
The knock at your door is tentative.
You don’t answer.
Another knock.
“Baby,” Steve’s voice says, quiet and wrecked and muffled through the door. “Please.”
You open the door slowly.
He stands there holding a small bouquet of your favorite flowers, the ones you once said reminded you of late summer evenings. His hair is messy and his eyes are red, his chest rising and falling unevenly as he stands in front of you.
The moment he sees you, something inside him caves in.
You look smaller, more tired. You’re wrapped up in his hoodie, arms tight around yourself like you’re afraid to reach out.
“Oh,” he breathes. “Honey.”
You say nothing.
Steve steps closer, careful, giving you space even as the ache in his chest twists tighter. He sets the flowers down on the entryway door and places his hands over the fabric of his hoodie’s sleeves. His hands linger for a moment, brushing against your arms like he’s memorizing your shape. Then he starts talking immediately, words spilling out like he’s afraid the solve will swallow him whole.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I was scared and overwhelmed and instead of being honest with you, I took it out on you. I said things I never should’ve said, things I don’t mean.”
You nod faintly, eyes fixed on the floor.
He crouches down slightly to your level, pressing his forehead to yours. “You don’t have to take up less space with me,” he whispers. “You fit right here. You’ve always fit.”
Tears continue to slip freely down your cheeks as he speaks. You lean into him, forehead resting against his, and he wraps you up immediately, holding you like he’s been waiting for this moment since the last time you spoke—and in all honesty, he was. His chest presses against yours, his heartbeat steady and grounding. His hands drift over your back, slow and soft, like he’s tracing the outline of every worry you’ve ever carried and promising to hold them for you.
“I love how much you care,” he continues, voice breaking. “I love that you want to be close to me. I love that you choose me. I hate that I made you feel like that was too much. Like you were too much. You’re not, you’re everything to me.”
You hesitate before speaking, voice barely an octave above a whisper. “I didn’t want to say the wrong thing.”
His heart breaks clean in two.
“You could never say the wrong thing to me,” he says softly. “Not like that. Not ever.”
He pulls his head back to see you better, his pleading gaze taking in your broken one. Reaching a gentle hand up, he brushes a strand of hair from your face and leans down to press a kiss to your temple, then the curve of your cheek. His lios lingering a moment, he sighs into you, a long, shaky exhale that carries every word he doesn’t speak.
“I broke my promise,” he whispers. “I told you that you would never have to make yourself smaller with me. I broke it. I’m so sorry.”
Your tears are quiet and unstoppable as they continue to slip free.
You lean into him again, this time forehead pressing into his chest. His strong arms slip back around you, holding you like he has been starving for it.
“I’m here,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m never leaving, as long as you’ll have me. I’m sorry it took me this long to come say that.”
He holds you until the tears slow and then he makes you your favorite tea tea, letting the steam curl around the room in lazy spirals. He sets it carefully on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed, giving you some space but still close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. You curl into his side, small and tentative, letting your head rest against his chest without a word, an arm holding you in close to him. Your own arms are folded around yourself, like you’re afraid of asking for too much, but he doesn’t comment on it. He just lets you be. He lets you exist exactly as you are, small and fragile and exhausted, and it’s all he wants to hold.
You sip the tea quietly, the mug warm in your hands. The room smells like him—his soap, a tinge of sweat, the faint tang of summer air clinging to him—and it’s enough to anchor you back to this moment, back to safety, back to him.
When you finally lie down, he moves slowly, deliberately, as if he could break you with a single careless motion. He slides under the blanket beside you and draws you close to him. Your knees brush then, and it feels impossibly intimate, ordinary and profound all at once. He adjusts his side to fit yours, letting your head rest on his shoulder while your arm drapes over his chest.
“‘M here, sweet girl,” he whispers, his voice low and steady, a tether to the present. “I’m not leaving. Not now, not ever.”
You breathe him in, the scent of him comforting and familiar. Warm cotton, the safety of home. Slowly and carefully, the tension in your body begins to ease with every pressing moment.
Your hand finds his shirt, afraid at first. He freezes for the barest moment, as if he’s scared you’ll pull away, but then he softens, pressing a little closer and letting you fully anchor yourself to him. The motion is gentle but deliberate, full of apologies and the ache he has carried for days.
“You can need me,” he murmurs, voice gentle but full of a promise he’s said out loud before the incident. Before he hurt you. “I want you to.”
Your eyes finally lift to meet his. In his brown irises, you see the weight of everything he feels—the guilt, the love, the desperate need to hold you close to him—and it makes your heart ache in equal measures.
“I missed you,” you whisper, still small and raw, like you’re scared to speak any louder. As if it’ll break the fragile bubble surrounding the two of you.
“I missed you every second,” he replies, pressing one slow, chaste kiss to your forehead, then the top of your head as you curl closer into him, letting the warmth of his body fill the spaces where fear and doubt had been festering for days. His arms wrap around you a little tighter, pressing you into him as if he can hold the ache in his chest at bay by holding you instead. He hums quietly against your hair, and it’s enough to make your eyelids heavy, to let you finally relax.
The blanket is tucked snugly around the both of you, your fingers threaded through his, and he gives a single, grounding squeeze. He rocks you ever so slightly, a subtle motion meant to calm, meant to soothe, meant to show you that you’re safe.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his cheek resting lightly against the top of your head. “All of you. Every part, baby.”
You exhale slowly, letting your body melt into him. The weight of days, of tension, of fear, slips away and is replaced by the simple certainty that he will not let you go again. And you finally fall asleep tucked against his chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, the warmth of his body around you, and the softness of his touch lingering everywhere you can feel it.
This time, he doesn’t let go.
djo concert in 2 weeks i’m unwell
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BRINITY IN FIVEEEEE
hello! hope you are doing well!
hiiii thank you :’) i’m doing good!! i hope you’re doing well too <3
miss you dearly. i hope everything has been well <3
you’re so sweet :(( i’m doing good, just sooo busy!!! miss you allll sm though
oh hey guys i’m alive
♡ gold rush ♡
pairing: steve harrington x female henderson reader
summary: no matter how much you loved steve, he had too many eyes on him to ever notice yours. so what happens when someone finally makes a move?
word count: 4.4k
warnings/tags: (mutual) pining, insecure reader, making out, dustin cameo, female OC, family video steve, jealous reader, petnames galore
a/n: hiiiiii!!! this is my first ever fic on here! i couldn't stop listening to gold rush by taylor swift the other day, and i knew someone needed to make a fic about him to it. i really hope you all enjoy ! <3
Being in love with Steve Harrington was a double-edged sword.
One edge was the thrill.
The excitement that came with seeing his smile directed your way. The uncontrollable flutter in your stomach. The flush in your cheeks when the light fell on him just right—his hair falling effortlessly. His eyes that called to you, twinkling like ripples in the ocean.
But the other edge was a razor-thin tightrope.
A thousand papercuts coinciding with seeing girls practically line themselves at his door. The burning in your chest that came with his history. The blade against your throat when his eyes fell on Nancy.
No amount of armor protected you from the way he smiled at her. That smile that you daydreamed was meant for you. The enticing gleam in his eyes that you longed to jump into.
But he wasn't yours.
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hi besties, what do you guys want next?
also comment whether you want a steve harrington one or joe keery <3
tooth rotting fluff
angst to fluff
₊˚⊹ on break with you | steve harrington x reader
summary: steve can’t function the second you walk into family video. robin’s over it, steve isn’t.
tags/warnings: pure fluff, established relationship, steve harrington in love, soft boy steve, break room, robin being over it, puppy dog steve, domestic vibes, forehead drops, gentle touches, mutual pining but already dating, no use of y/n, just sweetness start to finish
wc: ~1k
cutie lace divider by: @uzmacchiato
Steve is useless the moment you walk into Family Video.
He tries to hide it, because he’s supposed to be restocking returns and because Robin is also watching him like a hawk, but the bell above the door rings and his head snaps up so fast he almost drops the entire stack of tapes in his hands.
You smile at him. Just a small, easy smile and it’s the kind that’s reserved for him, but you probably do without even thinking.
Steve’s brain short circuits to say the least.
He does this thing where he freezes completely, like someone hit a pause button. His mouth opens a little, his shoulders soften and his entire face gets this bright, boyish light in it that Robin calls his puppy dog look.
She notices immediately. “Oh look,” she mutters, “there goes all of his braincells.”
Steve elbows her in the ribs, but it’s weak at best, because you are walking toward the counter and he cannot focus on anything except the way you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
You lean against the counter, beaming up at the freckled boy. “Hi, handsome.”
Steve beams. Actually beams. It’s embarrassing how fast it happens. “Hi, sweetheart. What are you doing here? Not that you can’t be here. You can always be here. I like when you are here. A lot.”
You laugh softly. “I’m just on my lunch break. Thought I’d come see my favorite guy.”
Robin drops her head onto the desk with a loud thud. “Wow, thanks for the reminder that I exist too,” she mutters, voice muffled against the wood.
You grin, leaning slightly toward her. “Oh, Rob, don’t worry. You’re my favorite too.“
Favorite guy. He replays it in his head twice. Maybe three times.
He tries to act casual. It does not work. “Yeah? Your favorite guy, huh.”
You tap the counter with your fingertip. “Always.”
Steve feels this ridiculous bloom of warmth in his chest, the same one he gets every time you look at him like he is something bright. It makes him want to climb over the counter and kiss you until Robin kicks him out.
He clears his throat instead. “I have ten minutes before I have to put the horror section back. Want to come to the break room?”
Robin lifts her head. “The break room is a closet at best, with a chair that squeaks. Romance is dead.”
Steve points at her. “Ignore her.”
You laugh at the quick exchange before nodding anyway and following Steve to the back, the tiny room with the bad fluorescent light and the coat hook that always falls off the wall. There is only one chair. Steve sits on an upside-down milk crate instead and gestures for you to take the chair.
You sit. He scoots closer, knees bumping yours. Then closer, so he can rest his hands on your thighs. Then a little closer, because clearly he has no self control around you.
He looks at you like you hung the moon.
“So,” you say, smiling at his ridiculous proximity. “Miss me or something?”
Steve laughs quietly. Then he leans forward and drops his forehead to your knees, arms wrapped around your waist like you are the only thing keeping him upright.
“You have no idea,” he mumbles.
You run your fingers through his hair and his whole body relaxes instantly, like he has been waiting for your touch all day. His thumbs stroke absently at your hips, almost like he does’t know he’s even doing it.
He tilts his head up to look at you. “You look so pretty today. Like I should ‘legally not be allowed to look at you’ pretty.”
You bite your smile. “Steve.”
“I’m being serious,” he says, hands tightening around your waist. “You walk in and the whole store looks different. Better. Warmer.”
“You’re obsessed with me,” you tease.
He does not deny it, just nods with a lazy shrug. “Yeah. I am.”
He rests his chin on your leg, eyes soft. “I think about you all the time. When I’m shelving tapes. When I’m sweeping. When customers are yelling at me about late fees. You’re just.. there. In my head, it makes everything easier.”
Your fingers drift along his cheek and he leans into the touch like he has been starved for it.
There is a soft knock on the doorframe and Robin stands there with a bag of chips in her hand and the flattest expression known to mankind. “I’m taking my break. If the two of you are gonna be disgusting in the corner, at least keep it PG.”
Steve flips her off without turning around. You laugh, and Steve looks at you again, all heart-eyes and devotion.
“Come over for dinner tonight,” he says. Voice warm. “I’ll make that pasta you like, ‘n we can watch a movie.”
You brush his hair back. “I’d love that.”
He sighs happily, like just hearing that fixed something in him.
The break room is dingy and the light is terrible and Robin is crunching chips loudly in the doorway, but Steve looks at you like he is sitting in the best place in the world.
Because you are there.
And that is all it takes for him to be completely, utterly gone for you.
Happy 1 year to the crux
₊˚⊹ weather the noise | steve harrington x reader
summary: a storm rattles the windows and steve’s nerves. you’re the only one who notices him go still, the only one he lets pull him out of the memories thunder drags up.
tags/warnings: hurt/comfort, thunderstorm anxiety, post-vecna trauma, soft domestic steve harrington, established relationship, emotional vulnerability, gentle reassurance, caretaking, grounding techniques, forehead touches, “come here, honey”, angst with a soft ending, holding each other in the dark, no use of y/n
wc: ~1.3k
cutie lace divider by: @uzmacchiato
The storm rolls in fast.
One minute you and your group are piled into Steve’s living room, pizza boxes splayed open on the coffee table, Robin complaining loudly about her shift. And then the next minute there’s a flash of lightning that paints the windows white and a roll of thunder shakes the house like something big just landed ontop of the roof.
Everyone jumps, but only one person goes still.
Steve.
You notice it before anyone else does. His laugh cuts off mid-breath, his shoulders immediately tense. His eyes flick to the windows like he expects something to climb out of the dark and throw itself against the glass.
Dustin starts rambling about how thunder is just pressure waves, Lucas just rolls his eyes and nods along while Max steals the last breadstick and Mike tells her he wanted that breadstick. Chaos as usual.
But Steve sinks just a little into himself.
You reach over and let your hand brush his knee, light enough that it’s nonchalant, but his eyes flick to you.
You adored his smile, the way it could light up a room and make your chest ache with warmth,but because you adored it so much, you knew it wasn’t real. Too quick, too bright, too practiced. It was a mask, carefully placed over whatever he was feeling and somehow that made your heart twist even more.
He whispers, “I’m fine.”
He’s not, not even close. But you don’t push him in front of everyone.
Another rumble cracks through the sky, and this time it’s louder and closer, and it sounded like a creature growling from the sky.
Steve flinches again. Barelt, this time but you still catch it. You always catch it.
Robin looks over from the floor where she’s sorting M&M’s by color and watches him for a second, eyes thoughtful. You could tell she knows something is off, but she doesn’t poke him, just glances at you a brief moment to meet your gaze.
You squeeze his knee once. “Bathroom?” you ask quietly.
He nods like he’s grateful to have an excuse, hand squeezing the on his kneecap.
You quietly slip away behind him, unnoticed by the rest of the chaos brigade, and follow him down the hall to his room. The door shuts with a soft click and the storm noise dulls a little.
Steve runs a hand through his hair and lets out a slow breath.
You step closer, eyes soft. “Talk to me, baby.”
He tries for a laugh, something light, but it falls apart before it even leaves his throat.
“It’s stupid,” he mutters, shrugging halfheartedly. “It’s just weather.”
You shake your head, tilting it slightly to the side as you gaze up at him. “It’s not stupid.”
He takes another breath, deeper this time, and it wavers at the end. His voice is soft enough that you almost don’t hear it.
“Thunder just.. sounds like it. Like the stuff from last year. The—roaring and the cracking anda—“He stops, his jaw tightening. “It puts my head in a bad place.”
Your heart aches a little and not because he’s weak. Because he tries so damn hard to pretend he isn’t hurting when he is.
“Come here,” you murmur.
He hesitates for one second, then steps into you like gravity pulls him. His forehead drops to your shoulder and his hands hover awkwardly at your sides, like he’s unsure if he has permission to hold on.
You slide your arms around him first and he melts instantly.
“I hate that it gets to me,” he whispers into your neck. “Everyone else is fine. Everyone else moved on.”
“No one moved on,” you say. “They just hide it differently. You’re allowed to feel things, honey.”
A sharp crack of thunder shakes the room , making Steve’s breath stutter. You tighten your hold on him and he presses closer. His fingers dig gently into your shirt, just enough to anchor himself.
He speaks again, his usual confident voice small. “I know they’re all here and I know we’re safe, but my brain keeps waiting for something else to happen.”
“That’s why I’m here,” you whisper, running your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “To remind you that you are safe.”
He leans into the touch like it untangles something in his chest.
You guide him to sit on the edge of the bed. He drops down, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. You kneel in front of him and rest your palms on his thighs.
“Breathe with me.”
He does, slowly. In and out. His shoulders ease, inch by inch, muscle by muscle.
The next thunderclap is less sharp.
He looks at you. Really looks. Brown eyes soft, tired, but unbelievably full.
“I love you,” he says suddenly, like the words burst out before he can think.
Your stomach flips in the softest, sweetest way. “I love you too.”
He cups your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he’s memorizing the shape of you, and then he leans forward until your foreheads touch.
“You always see it,” he whispers. “Even when I’m trying so hard to hide it.”
“Because I know you,” you say gently. “All the way through.”
He breathes out, shaky but lighter. “Stay with me while they’re here?”
“Always.”
You crawl up onto the bed beside him and sit with your back against the headboard. Steve follows, leaning into you, resting his head on your shoulder. You tangle your fingers with his and your thumb traces lazy shapes over the back of his hand.
Another quiet rumble rolls through the sky, but Steve doesn’t flinch this time. He watches your hand moving against his skin like it’s the only thing that matters.
He murmurs, voice warm and soft, “I think I’m okay now.”
You smile. “Good.”
Below you, the living room erupts with Dustin yelling about stolen pizza slices. Robin shouts back. Someone knocks something over.
Steve huffs a soft laugh. “If anything’s breaking in this house, it’s probably one of them.”
You kiss the top of his head. “And you’re safe from all of it.”
He curls closer, fingers still linked with yours, breathing steady and even as the storm moves across the sky and the world outside fades into quiet.
With you beside him, he never feels afraid for long. He never feels alone.
And he never will.
OMG I FORGOT TO TELL YOU GUYS I WON THE TICKETMASTER WAR :’))))
IM SEEING DJO IN JULY!!!!!
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hi besties<3
i miss you guys so much, this semester is almostttt over!! my requests are still closed, but i can’t wait to get to some of those :’) i didn’t forget about you guys, i promise!
in the meantime, i have a couple short fics coming soon :’)
- luna x
₊˚⊹ until the ache fades | steve harrington x reader
summary: you come home to a dark apartment and a hurting steve. he lets you take care of him, even when it scares him to need someone this much.
tags/warnings: hurt/comfort, migraine, soft domestic steve harrington, established relationship, emotional vulnerability, caretaking, gentle touch, angst with a soft landing, reassurance, cuddling, comforting in the dark, fluff woven through the hurt, “let me help you” energy, no use of y/n,
wc: ~1.3k
a/n: this is for all of my fellow migraine girlies!
cutie lace divider by: @uzmacchiato
The apartment is quiet when you push the door open. Too quiet for a place your boyfriend, Steve Harrington, lives in. Normally he gets home first, and normally there’s a lamp on in the entryway or music humming from the little speaker he pretends he doesn’t dance to. Normally he calls out, “Hey, honey, I’m in here,” before you get your shoes off.
Today there’s nothing.
You toe off your work shoes and pause, fingers still splayed loosely on the laces of your coat. The air feels muted and heavy, as if the whole place is holding its breath. You try not to let your mind jump to the worst thoughts, but there’s a stretched moment where you imagine an empty apartment and a note on the counter saying he left for groceries or a shift or something that explains why everything feels so still.
“Babe?” You call out softly, half hopeful, half bracing.
Silence.
You wander into the kitchen, expecting to find a mug on the counter or at least some sign he has eaten. But the place is untouched. His keys are on the hook though, you see them immediately. That little shark keychain Robin bought him swings slightly, as if he had just hung them a few minutes ago.
Your heart prickles. If he’s home, why is everything so dark?
You move through the living room, slower now, like the air is thick. The curtains are drawn, the couch pillows are undisturbed. You reach the hallway and notice something new. The door to your bedroom is almost shut. Not all the way, but pulled mostly closed, just enough that the usual slice of afternoon light does not spill through.
You push it gently with your fingertips. The hinge creaks too loudly in the quiet, and you wince.
The room is dark. Pitch dark, save for the thin glow underneath the curtains. Your eyes take a moment to adjust, but you spot the shape of him immediately. Steve lies on his back across the bed, one arm thrown over his face, palm curved over his eyes. His other hand clutches at the comforter like he needs an anchor. He is very still, except for the slow rise and fall of his chest.
You do not say his name yet. You walk closer, steps soft, and ease yourself onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dips slightly under your weight, and Steve flinches like the movement jostles his brain.
His voice is strained and barely audible. “Hi, honey.”
Your heart caves in. “Oh, baby. What happened?”
He pulls in a breath that trembles at the end. “Head. Started hurting. Went to lie down. S’just got worse.”
You move closer, carefully, until you are sitting beside his hip. You touch his wrist where it covers his eyes. Just a light brush, but he makes a small sound in his throat, somewhere between relief and hurt.
“How long?” you ask.
“An hour,” he whispers. “Maybe. I tried to get up but.. it feels like my skull’s too small.”
A migraine, you know this tone. You know this way his breath comes too shallow, too quiet, like even speaking is too loud inside his head.
Your voice softens until it is nothing but warmth. “Let me help you.”
He swallows and his throat works in a tight little movement. “You just got home- don’t have to.”
But you do. You always will. He still does not understand how easy it is for you to love him. How instinctive and how steady.
You slide your hand slowly down his arm until you can thread your fingers with his. You lift his hand gently away from his eyes, only enough that you can see him. His lashes are clumped together, his brow is tight and his eyes squint even in the dim room.
“Oh, sweetheart,” you whisper, “you’re hurting so much.”
He hums, his lips barely moving. “Feels stupid.”
“Why would it feel stupid?”
“Being taken care of,” he murmurs. “I can deal with stuff. I just.. couldn’t get it to stop this time.”
You brush your thumb over his cheekbone. “Let me take care of you now.”
He nods once, barely more than a flutter of movement.
You stand and cross the room carefully, keeping the lights off. You make your way from room to room to retrieve two painkillers, a cold water bottle from the fridge and a soft washcloth that you’d run under cool water. You return and set everything down on the nightstand with gentle precision.
“Sit up for me, honey,” you whisper.
He tries but the attempt is weak, so you slide an arm behind his shoulders and help him rise slowly, inch by inch. His breath stutters at the motion and he squeezes your thigh for balance.
You hold the pill to his lips and guide the bottle to his hands. He swallows and lets out a shaky exhale.
“Good job,” you murmur, smoothing his hair back. His eyes flutter. He likes the praise far more than he will ever admit.
You help him lie back down, but turn him onto his side this time. You rest the cool cloth over his forehead and press your fingertips lightly into the tense lines at the base of his skull. You massage gently, small circles, slow pressure, your touch almost weightless.
He melts. Fully melts. The kind of melting that only happens with you, the kind he cannot fake or fight.
His voice is a thin whisper. “Feels nice.”
You smile even though he cannot see. “I know it does.”
“Stay with me,” he adds, almost childlike. “Please.”
“Always,” you answer.
You slip behind him and curve your body along his. You do not press too close, knowing pressure might hurt, but you let your hand rest on his hip, your fingers over the soft cotton of his t-shirt. His shoulders relax by degrees, tiny increments you feel through your palm.
A few minutes pass, quiet and gentle. His breathing settles into a slow rhythm. The pain has not gone yet, you can tell by the way his toes curl now and then, and the way his jaw twitches. But the sharp edge of it has dulled enough that he can relax against you.
He turns his head a little, just enough that his nose brushes the pillow, his voice much softer now. “Didn’t want you to see me like this, I look pathetic.”
“You look like someone I love,” you answer. “And someone who deserves care when he feels like this.”
He swallows and his throat moves against the pillowcase. “You make it better just by being here.”
You kiss the back of his shoulder, slow and careful. “Good, ‘cause I’m not going anywhere.”
Your hand moves a little on his hip, just enough to comfort him. He threads his fingers through yours, hesitant at first, then firmer, like he needs the tether. His breath evens out again.
After a long while he whispers, “Thank you for coming home.”
You nuzzle into his hair. “Where else would I be?”
He lets out a tiny laugh that sounds like a sigh. “I love you. You know that, right?”
You squeeze his hand lightly. “I know, and I love you more.”
The migraine is still there, but softer now, more manageable. Wrapped in your presence, cushioned by your voice, held carefully in the quiet dark. He is not used to letting anyone take care of him, but with you it feels safe. It feels easy.
It feels like home.
And he falls asleep like that, fingers hooked with yours, your breath in his hair, your warmth pressed behind him, the darkness no longer heavy but peaceful, because you are there.
