˗ˏˋ ★ 𝕷𝖊𝖊 ★ ˎˊ˗

“what movie do you want to watch?” the nights that bob was home and neither of you had to wake up early, you almost always watched a movie.

you looked down at your food, and responded curtly with your favorite movie. your eyes flicked over to bob, and he was smiling as he ate. “what?” you asked, pausing for a second. “what?” you repeated.

“nothing,” bob responded. “i love that movie. and i love that you love it.” he looked up at you, his smile wide.

“we can watch something else, if you want to.” it was a semi-honest suggestion. if he wanted to watch something else, you could; even though you really did not want to watch another movie.

bob turned to you again, and stated that he’d rather watch your favorite movie over anything else. “why would i want to watch anything else? i’m with you, that’s what matters.”

after dinner, you queued up the movie on the tv, and pulled out your favorite blanket. it was wide enough to fit both you and bob quite snuggly. bob had already sat on the couch when you turned back around. he posted the spot next to him, so you placed yourself next to him and nuzzled into his side.

as the movie played on, bobby looked over and saw you silently mouthing the words as they played on screen.

-

bobby waltzed into the kitchen languidly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. there you were, sitting at the kitchen counter. he could see that you were eating something, but couldn’t quite make out what

“good morning, honey,” he said, the gravelly nature of his morning voice slipping into his tone. he walked up to you and placed a kiss on your cheek. it was then that he saw what you were eating, and it was what he had expected you to be eating.

he always made sure that the fridge had enough of what you needed to make what you liked, however many times you wanted to make it.

he looked over your form once, then spoke again as he turned to open the fridge. “i’m going grocery shopping after dinner, about 9 pm. the grocery store should be mostly cleared out by then, if you want to come with me.” he looked over the contents of the fridge, and took note of what was missing.

he hummed quietly, and told you what it looked like you were running low on. he took out the notepad used for the grocery list and jotted down what you both would need to get later so that you could eat what you liked.

bob read off the list to you, making sure he had everything. “yes, that sounds right,” you responded. bob tore out the page from the notepad and stuck it to the fridge with a magnet, so he’d remember to take it with him later.

-

the both if you were lounging in bed, procrastinating going to sleep. you were doomscrolling through your phone, going through tiktok. every now and then you’d repeat one of the sounds that played.

you didn’t really catch on that you were doing it as often as you were, it just came as second nature to you. someone would say something (or in this case, tiktok would), and you would repeat it. you also would repeat lines and phrases in everyday conversation.

bob sat next to you and smiled. he waited for a moment, and you did it again. you repeated something someone in the video you were watching said. “i love that you do that,” he said.

“hmm?” you hummed as a question.

he cleared his throat once. “you repeat things a lot. i like it. i’ve kind of started to do it myself actually.”

you thought fit a moment. you knew that you liked to repeat things, quite a few things in your vernacular were sayings or phrases that you grabbed from movies or tv shows. not even to mention in conversation when you’d echo what someone would say after they said it.

“really? i had someone say it’s annoying once,” you distinctly remembered when someone had asked you why you did it, but you honestly didn’t have a response for them.

bob looked at you, his brow pinched together. “that’s stupid. i’m sorry.” he paused for a moment. “it doesn’t hurt anyone, so why does it even matter?”

you shrugged, “it doesn’t, in the grand scheme of things.” he smiled at him, and looked into his eyes for a second before deciding to look at the sweater he was wearing.

-

routines were comforting to you. and since you moved with bob, it took a second before you could relax with what your new schedule looked like, now that bob was intrinsically involved in it. it wasn’t negative, but just uncomfortable.

after a few months you really settled in to what your days looked like with bob, and you really really liked it. your morning routine was your favorite: it was calming and set up the day perfectly.

you’d wake up, drink a coffee, get dressed, and have breakfast all before brushing your teeth. the best part of brushing your teeth was that bob stood next to you on your right as you did so. the double sink you had was perfect for the two of you getting ready and unready at the same time.

this morning, bobby took a little longer to eat his breakfast than you did. so, you waited patiently while he finished his eggs and toast. after swallowing a bite, he spoke. “what are you waiting for?” it wasn’t an antagonistic question, just genuine curiosity.

you shrugged, “i like brushing my teeth with you, so i’ll just wait.”

bobby smiled. “okay,” he said through a grin. when he finished eating and cleaning up after himself, he stood next to you and gestured toward the bathroom.

you stood and happily followed him to the en suite, and took your place on his left in front of the sinks.

-

the movie night you were currently having with some of bobby’s friends was going well, but if you were being honest his friends were a little perplexing. it was hard to explain why, but maybe you just didn’t know them enough to get an accurate read of them.

natasha had said something you didn’t quite understand, and you sat in your confusion for a long while. bobby had noticed that you were sitting in thought for a moment, so he nudged you lightly with his elbow. “what’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

you tried to wave it off, but he asked one more time. “it’s not a big deal, it’s just that something she said didn’t really make sense to me,” he monitored for you to continue. “it’s just that, when you eat cake you can technically still have it. either it’s in your stomach, or maybe you didn’t eat the whole thing.”

“oh, okay. that just means that someone can’t have two mutually exclusive benefits. she just meant that seresin couldn’t be an asshole and still expect to get that girl to let him come home with her.” you nodded at his explanation.

“how would he think that getting drunk and being all loud to her would help him get lucky?” you asked rhetorically, to phones this time.

“exactly! that’s what i was trying to tell him! he’s such a dick sometimes, i swear to god.” phoenix talked on about the bar the group had gone to last friday, and you felt bobby slip his hand into yours.

-

you had a bad day at work. your boss kept overloading you with assignments, your cubicle neighbor would not stop talking on the phone, and the coffee machine was out for the day. after being sufficiently stressed for most of the day, you were looking forward to going home and sitting in the near-silence with bobby.

you set your stuff down and took your shoes off as you came inside, and felt your eyes bubble with tears. you took a deep breath, but that didn’t stop anything. you slouched into the couch and let yourself go. you had been masking all day, pretending that everything was a-okay. but in reality, you were just biding your time until you weren’t so ridiculously overwhelmed.

bob walked into the living room, and panic filled him as he saw you cry. he knelt in front of you, but didn’t touch you yet. he didn’t know if that would add to your distress or comfort you quite yet. “are you okay?” he asked softly.

you shook your head. “work really sucked today, bobby.” it had take. you longer to finish, so you left about forty five minutes after you had intended to.

he glanced over your form, and took note if you rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands. “can i do anything to help?” he said in the same, soft, comforting tone.

you nodded. “can you sit next to me for a little bit?”

!!most of these are going to be fluff unless otherwise marked!! (can you tell what i like to read LOL) go show these writers some love <3

Right Where You Left Me by dindjarindiaries

Summary: Din reunites with you many years after your whirlwind romance for a mission you begrudgingly accept to help him with.

The Arrangement by thefrogdalorian

Summary: You entered into an arrangement with Mando find some physical relief from the monotony of hyperspace as you travel through the galaxy together as a formidable team of bounty hunters. When you did so, there were three clear rules: that it would not impact your professional relationship, that there were no strings attached and most importantly of all: that Mando would never, ever remove his helmet. When you carelessly let your emotions get the better of you and undermine those rules, you fear you have lost the man who means everything to you and discover that you miss much more than merely the physical encounters… smut (18+!)

No Really I Can by happy-beeeps

Summary: You're a schoolteacher, and you've developed a little bit of a crush on the new dad in class.

Stormy Skies by deakyjoe

Summary: Din breaks you out of an Imperial prison (loosely based on chapter 15)

Without Logic, or Reasoning by marvelwitchergilmore

Summary: Din Djarin x Fem!Reader -> In truth, he didn't know why he saved her. Just that something in him, without any logic or reasoning, told him to do so. And it might have been the best thing in the world.

Trustfall by court-jobi

Summary: Most jobs' occupational hazards may include some warnings for heavy machinery: not 3rd degree roadburn and blaster shots to the face. Just your luck, that's what happens in your line of work.... While your partner-in-not-quite-crime Din Djarin has quite a bit of on-the-job experience with patching himself up after his skirmishes, tending to yourself after a shitshow like this is new territory. Some things are just too tender to see from behind the helmet-- and need the naked eye. Sounds like he really needs to trust you if he's going to give you help with this one...

kar’taylir by the-archxr

Summary: the four times Din Djarin almost says it, and the one time he does. alternatively, the four times you almost say it, and the one time you do.

A Lucky Shot by crumbledcastle28

Summary: “You felt your hands beginning to shake in unwanted frustration. His breaths continued to stay labored as he slouched over himself, pressing his palm against his bleeding side. ‘What happened?’ you spat. He breathed deeply once. Twice. The strain in his lungs made your anger waver just so. ‘A lucky shot.’ ‘“A lucky shot,”’ you mimicked, lowering your voice to mock him. “I never get tired of your understatements.’

First and Last by imaginesfordifferentfandoms

Summary: Home is not where you are from, it is where you belong. Some of us travel the whole world to find it. Others find it in a person.

Luminous by darklordofthesimp

Summary: Din's been called many things throughout his life, 'handsome' has never been one of them.

Beautiful by crumbledcastle28

Summary: translating for a Tusken Raider leaves Mando with no other option than to be vulnerable.

More Kids? When? by echos-newlegs

Summary: uh- idk Din getting handsy and wanting baby suggestive (18+!)

Liability by imaginedisish

Summary: After being cast out of Jedi training by Luke, you’re sent to work for Mando. Nothing goes as Luke planned, and one extremely cold night with only one bed to share changes everything for you and the Mandalorian. 

Caressed by Firelight by chaostheoryy

Summary: After following Bo-Katan’s guidance to the charred forests of Corvus and encountering a mysterious Jedi, Din Djarin must face his greatest challenge yet: coming to terms with his own emotions. Luckily for him, he doesn’t have to face his fears alone.

sweet by liltangerineart

Summary: I wish you would write a fic where Din is sick and reader tries to take care of him (but maybe he's reluctant to accept help?)

tension amongst candles by liltangerineart

Summary: I wish you would write a fic where, at some point in Dins King of Mandalore future, him and reader end up dancing together at some formal event. It’s something you’ve always low key dreamed of doing with your person so Din pulls out all the romantic stops for this waltz.. im picturing ✨tension amongst candles✨😂

Silent Voice by writeforfandoms

Summary: All you need to know is this is a plus size reader and there was only one bed. That's it, that's the plot.

Those Eyes by beyondspaceandstars

Summary: A little, sweet night pillow talk with Din. Short and sweet! Based off the prompt: "person a: ‘You know, I really like your eyes.’"

Knitted by beyondspaceandstars

Summary: Din notices you've begun keeping something from him, constantly hiding away at night. Finally deciding to confront you, you give him the most adorable surprise.

Take It Off by dindjarindiaries

Summary: Your new ally extends his hospitality a little too far—and now Din’s determined to remind you of what he alone can provide you with. (18+!)

Until the Stars Burn Out by chaostheoryy

Summary: As Din’s only consistent travel companion and right hand man, you’ve come to know the Mandalorian better than anyone in the galaxy. When you’re gunned down during the battle of Mos Espa and find yourself crawling back to consciousness from a dangerous dance with death, you’ll soon find out that maybe you mean just as much to him as he does to you.

i could only hope by 221bshrlocked

Summary: I decided to just write something comforting instead of not writing at all. This is 100% self-indulgent because only this man could comfort me in these times.

see your face by cowboy-turtle

Summary: February Fluff Prompt #17: “The things I would do just to see your face right now.”

The Heiress by marvelouslytrekking

Summary: While trying to locate more Mandalorians, Mando, you and the child find yourself in a bad situation before getting an unexpected rescue. After things settled down, some. feelings get revealed. (This follows the events of Season 2 episode 3 pretty closely)

REPAIRS by whirlybirbs

Summary: you and din are tasked with repairing the main vaporator for the palace. you both get distracted. suggestive themes - no smut (18+!)

Promise by lordabovehelpme

Summary: The mandalorian comes home to an empty ship. 

Moments in the dark by talesofesther

Summary: Din and Y/N got stuck on a planet for another day, which gives them both some spare time to realize the growth of their feelings.

Healing Touch by sabersandsnipers

Summary: wrote this after watching the latest episode of TBOBF and realized I just want to follow Din around and be his nurse. I’m a sucker.

Purpose by dindjarindiaries

Summary: As the daughter of an Imperial senator, the Mandalorian’s hired as your bodyguard—but with the twisted ideals of your father putting you at risk, he becomes so much more than that.

BURNS by whirlybirbs

Summary: you’re burnt by the krayt dragon. back in mos pelgo, din patches you up. set after episode one of season two! contains spoilers!

REUNION by whirlybirbs

Summary: din comes back to tatooine, and you both have tender confessions to share after nearly a year apart suggestive themes - no smut (18+!)

Newcomer by lordabovehelpme

Summary: Everyone knows everyone in your village, but when a beskar covered newcomer starts to show up in the market, you can’t deny the spark of curiosity. But the last thing you need is to be on a Mandalorians radar.

Strangers in the Night by maharani-radha-writes

Summary: Din Djarin becomes the ruler of Mandalore, and is encouraged to take a wife to further his strategic alliances. He’s not particularly sold on the idea. 

please tell me you feel this too by aerynwrites

Summary: Dude I’m a sucker for ‘Having to patch up the person I’ve been pining after for months because he got himself hurt. with all the tender caresses and soft words, and butterflies from having to touch them. All the shivers and gasps from feeling someone taking care of him for the first time in so long. Just awkwardly seeing so much of someone’s body that you haven’t seen before that you just love so much. And then eventually he can’t take it and just grabs your hand

Touch by aerynwrites

Summary: Being in a relationship is hard sometimes, that’s something that you knew going into this. However, you quickly found out that being in a relationship with a Mandalorian is even harder. suggestive themes - no smut (18+!)

Stars by unbound-space-trash

Summary: the mandalorian comes back from a hunt, but you’re not quite ready to go from being cooped up on the ship planetside, to being cooped up on the ship in space

figure it out by dameronology

Summary: din djarin doesn’t usually get jealous. not until he met you, at least

Stuck with Me by marvelouslytrekking

Summary: Everyone gets a soul mark, an intricate mark that matches the one that their soulmates has. You are exited at the idea that travel with Mando may lead to finding yours, but what if along the way you stop really caring about finding the soulmate?

FLUFFTOBER DAY 21-KNUCKLE KISSES by themand0lorian

Summary: The Mand'alor--your new husband--proves that not all royalty is bad.

FLUFFTOBER DAY 10-TICKLISH by themand0lorian

Summary: Din isn't used to touch, and it takes you an embarrassingly long time to realize it.

Courting by writerlyhabits

Summary: You and Din and the Child are staying with his covert for the time being. You contribute to the tribe as a medic or a mechanic or whatever, doesn’t really matter. The point is that you have caught the eye of another Mando. You’re pretty, and handy, and love the Child; I.e. perfect Mando Riduur material. This Mando is trying to court you, and you are absolutely clueless. You know nothing about Mandalorian courting rituals, so when this other Mando gifts you a handcrafted knife, you think nothing of it, and thank him for it. Din, however, loses his shit. You might not be *together* yet, but you are still HIS. Under HIS protection, apart of HIS clan. That’s it, that’s the request. Have fun.

You Must Have a Concussion by beyondspaceandstars

Summary: After a hunt goes haywire, Din comes back to you injured. While a dazed mess, he reveals something particularly interesting as you’re patching him up.

Renegade by beyondspaceandstars

Summary: You're a shopkeeper in a remote corner of the galaxy just trying to get by. For some reason, every now and then a certain Mandalorian pops into town. He comes and goes as he pleases until one day you finally get the courage to confront him on his drifter habits. Unexpected confessions spill out.

Inside and Out by mandospace

Summary: Hello!! I was wondering if I could request something? I was wondering if you could possibly do like a touch starved Din? I would so love it! Whenever you are able and inspired to write of course! ❤️ thank youuuu!

Like a Garden by f0rever15elf

Summary: In a galaxy where soulmates are real, flower tattoos bloom on the skin that corresponds to scars on your soulmate’s body. You’re covered in them, with no idea who your soulmate might be until one day a stoic Mandalorian whisks you away to see the stars. 

Found by flightlessangelwings

Summary: “Go to the planet Kanti. The guardian of the Jedi temple there may be able to help you.” Ahsoka’s words echoed in the Mandalorian’s head as he sat in his pilot's chair. Over his shoulder, he heard the child’s babbles and coos and he looked over to find the little one completely enamored with the shiny ball. Mando stared at him in silence for several moments before he called his name softly.

Family by flightlessangelwings

Summary: The cantina seemed to freeze when the Mandalorian walked in, followed by you and the child. It was nothing new, he was used to the stares whenever he entered a room, so he brushed it off. It always made you nervous, however, and you held a breath as you clutched the child close to you until everyone turned back to their tables and life started back up inside the cantina again.

mistletoe kiss by the-scandalorian

Summary: Okay so i can't stop thinking about the mistletoe kiss prompt with din…like whatever planet they're on has the same tradition. Ur there at the holiday time and see couples/people kissing all over the place and din aches to see you all lit up as you take in the sparkling lights and cheer and he's never quite been willing to risk it all as he is right now, every time you pass a sprig of space mistletoe that's even the slightest bit out of view of people. Anyway when you get back to the ship he suddenly take out a sprig and holds it above you and ur like ??? Oho, now you want to be cheerful 😏😏 suggestive themes - no smut (18+!)

Trust is a Luxury by pascalpanic

Summary: I have an idea for a request, if you're ok with it of course. Cooking in the Crest and our recent baby talk about Grogu has made me even SOFTER for the little guy. So what if reader meets Din and Grogu and she is instantly enamored with yodito and coos and dotes on him. Grogu really likes reader too and they become the bestest of pals. And Din is like hmm this could work in my favor 🤔because he needs someone to watch Grogu and he happens to really be attracted to her too. Not just in looks but she's so good with the baby, compassionate, attentive and she's bossy too hehe.

As Long as I’m With You by apocalypticwafflekitten

Summary: Of course Din couldn’t have known when he hired the guy. There’s no way that he would do something this awful to you on purpose, and you certainly hadn’t done anything to earn this level of spite. At least not from Mando.

Keldabe by lordabovehelpme

Summary: A kind old lady informs you that not everything you do with Mando you know about.

Riduurok by dindjarindiaries

Summary: This is the story of how you fall in love with the Mandalorian bounty hunter, Din Djarin.

Everything I Wanted by dindjarindiaries

Summary: You’re trapped inside a Din x Omera love triangle, struggling to get to your lover who’s entranced with your new host.

My Purpose by stardust-kenobi

Summary: You're captured by the Empire, held for questioning concerning the location of the child. Under Moff Gideon's supervision, you endure harsh punishment. You knew that Din would never leave you behind. The moment you heard blasters firing rapidly outside your holding cell, you knew he'd come back for you.

just enough by starsvck

Summary: if mando can lift his helmet to get a drink of soup then surely he can do the same when he finally kisses you, right?

What Do You Call Me? by magicrowiswritingstuff

Summary: You try to note down and learn all the words Din speaks in Mando’a but there are a few whose meanings you just can’t figure out on your own. So, you have no other option than to ask him what the names he is calling you actually mean.

Bloom by dindjarindiaries

Summary: With your relationship now in full blossom, a flustered Din takes you on your first date, where he does everything he can to tell you how you make him feel.

nicknames by ohheyitsokay

Summary: the things we call each other are an intimate look into how we regard them

snow by remmysbounty

Summary: For your lil drabble (love the idea!): Can you please write something angsty but with a happy ending for Din? The word I chose is ❄️snow❄️

it feels good (oh, to be alone with you) by soft-din

Summary: After Din buys you a flower at a market, you can’t help but want to get him alone. 

coming home. by everyhowlmarksthedead

Summary: AU where din took the throne to rule mandalore. after a hunting, he comes back home.

Save You by flightlessangelwings

Summary: It was nothing new for you to follow the Mandalorian headfirst into danger. It was part of life as his partner, and though you had many scars and bruises from your chosen life, you had no complaints. You grew to care greatly for the bounty hunter and when the little green child joined, you quickly became attached to him as well. And you knew that Mando did too, though he was more reserved with his emotions and feelings. 

Mureyca by dindjarindiaries

Summary: The story of the different ways in which you share a kiss with the Mandalorian.

Hold Me in Hyperspace by dindjarindiaries

Summary: After a long hunt, you think Mando just wants some rest—but really, he just wants you.

Just Fine by dindjarindiaries

Summary: Din comforts you after you suffer through a tumultuous nightmare.

In My Head by dindjarindiaries

Summary: The thought of Din plagues your mind—and it won’t be long until it’s forced onto your lips. suggestive themes - no smut (18+!)

Brown Eyes by jawabear

Summary: After the events on Morak, Din gets to thinking about the direction of his relationship with the girl he loves

Cozy in the Cockpit by dindjarindiaries

Summary:  After the Crest suffers through an intense chase and crash, you and Din must figure out how to survive on a freezing planet—your low odds causing your mutual feelings to come to the surface. 

bring you in cold by santigarcia

Summary:  You fall in the ice and Din has to keep you warm with his body heat ;) 

Always kiss me goodnight by fromthedeskoftheraven

Summary:  Pining, kissing, oh no there’s only one bed,  helmetless Din (but it’s dark), baby Yoda is an adorable tiny terror

i see you by manndo

Summary: you just wanted to tell the child a bedtime story, and apparently, you had something you needed to get off your chest. but you weren’t aware you had an audience besides the child.

The Reason by kikis-writing-world

Summary: You can’t sleep as you near Moff Gideon’s ship, but neither can Din. He wants to tell you about what happened on Morak.

Series!

Stupid For You by pedropascallme Summary: “‘What do you think, kid? Do I sound like your dad?’” Poker Face pt.2 Summary: And maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he hadn’t been thinking about how his words had made you feel, how you had blushed in his presence during every interaction since then. Truly, why would he? Acolyte pt.3 Summary: The quiet of the cockpit did nothing to satiate your curiosity, and you desperately tried to think of something to say, even if to nobody but yourself.

Reluctant Protector pt.2 by stardustdreams-andcaffeine

Summary: After being abandoned as a child, you grew up working for one of the most prolific crime lords in the galaxy in order to survive. It all comes crashing down as a split second decision has the Mandalorian hunting you. As it turns out, your hunter might be the only one who can save you. After all, the lines between predator and prey have always been blurred.

Touch by magicrowiswritingstuff

Summary: It seems so unfair that he is able to touch you and send shivers down your spine when you're not. Embrace pt.2 Summary: The first time you slept next to the Mandalorian definitely wasn’t that comfortable. The second time would have been a lot better … if you could have fallen asleep in his embrace. suggestive themes - no smut (18+!) Whisper pt.3 Summary: Both of you longed for one another, wishing to have leaned into each other that night but there seemed to always be something holding you back. However, after months of faint touches one of you could no longer contain these whispered desires. suggestive themes - no smut (18+!)

Proposition by alpineglowx

Summary: You’ve been pining after the Mandalorian for months, and a quiet night under the stars might just be the night that changes everything. Placid pt.2 Summary: Weeks after the kiss, Din has slowly become withdrawn, and you begin to wonder just how long it will all last. Promise pt.3 Summary: With your feelings out in the open, everything seems perfect between you and Din. Yet… You still long for the day you can see him face to face.

Heartbeat pt.2 pt.3 by unbound-space-trash

Because if it were real, then… that would be something.

And you don’t do “something.” You don’t like “something.”

Because “something” has weight. Teeth. Expectations.

And Steve? Well.

Steve is—

He’s lonely.

That’s what this is.

No, seriously. That’s the whole thing.

You didn’t clock it at first. Thought maybe he was just hot and bored. Smooth in that lazy, practiced way that makes everything feel like a dare. He flirts like he’s handing out candy. Smiles like it’s a reflex.  

But it’s not boredom.

Steve Harrington is lonely.

The kind of lonely that clings to skin like summer sweat.

The kind that seeps in slow—after years of being everybody’s something and then, suddenly, nobody’s anything.

The kind that turns touch into a transaction. That turns you into a distraction.

He speaks in half-jokes and full smiles. Loose shoulders, quick grins. Charm so polished it starts to sound like an echo—hollow, if you know what to listen for.

But when he touches you—god, when he touches you—

It’s like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he’s scared he won’t get another chance.

And somehow, that’s what keeps bringing you back.

Not the sex. Though—yeah, okay. The sex is good. Annoyingly good.

The kind that makes you forget your name. That has you laughing one second and gasping the next. The kind where he holds your hand through it and whispers ridiculous, tender shit into your neck. Nonsense, really. Things no one should find hot, and yet… you do.

But that’s not why you stay.

It’s not the sex.

It’s what happens after.

It’s the way he presses a hand to your lower back when you shift beneath the covers, like he’s making sure you’re still there. It’s the way he gets up first, hair a mess, pulling on flannel pajama pants that hang low on his hips while he makes you scrambled eggs.  

Burnt edges. Drenched in pepper.

You wrinkle your nose and grumble about having breakfast at 2 PM.  

He slides the plate toward you with a smug little, “You’ll eat what I give you and you'll like it.”

You always grin.

“You’re lucky I’m easy,” you tell him, mouth full.

He shrugs, sips his coffee (three sugars, no shame), and says, “Yeah. I am.”

You think that’s a joke. Maybe. Hopefully.

You don’t ask.

You don’t ask a lot of things.

Like why he waits to kiss you until your hands are under his shirt. Or why he pulls you in like he wants to keep you there, and then lets you go as soon as the sun comes up. Why his eyes go distant when he thinks you’re not looking.

You tell yourself he just needs the connection. That you’re just a body. A placeholder. A habit.

But he gets so quiet sometimes. After.

That strange, suspended kind of quiet, when the sweat’s dried and the room’s gone still. When his arm is still slung over your waist and his gaze is locked on the ceiling like it's got answers he doesn’t.

Not asleep. Never asleep.

Just still.   

Like he’s bracing for impact.

Once—just once—you asked, “You good?”

And he said, “Yeah.”

But he said it in that voice. The soft one. The one he uses when he’s lying.

You could’ve pressed. But you didn’t.

Because this isn’t a real thing.

It’s just comfort.

Borrowed heat. Mutual use. Skin and breath and the occasional earth-shattering orgasm.

That’s it.

Until one night, he says something.

And it changes everything.

…

Steve Harrington is a leaner.

You noticed that before anything ever happened between you.

Before the late nights. Before toothbrushes and t-shirts that weren’t yours. Back when he was just a name, a familiar face at parties with warm drinks and bad music. The guy with the hair and the reputation.

One night, you ended up on the same couch.

By accident. Well, mostly.

You’d had one too many drinks and slumped into the cushions like your bones had melted. Someone handed you a bottle of water and asked, “You okay?”

That someone was Steve.

He didn’t say much else. Just sat next to you, a respectful distance away, not even close enough for your knees to brush.

You said something dumb. He laughed. Asked a follow-up question.

And that’s when you noticed it.

The lean.

Steve Harrington leans like it’s instinct. Like gravity doesn’t pull him down, it pulls him toward. Like his body craves closeness and he never learned how to resist it.  

But then when your hand brushed his thigh while reaching for a bowl of chips—

He froze.

Just for a second. A flicker. A sharp inhale. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of thing.

But you didn’t miss it.

You noticed.   

…

It started stupid. You tell yourself that a lot.

Especially when you’re staring at yourself in his bathroom, brushing your teeth with the toothbrush he bought you, trying to figure out what the hell you’re doing.

It was stupid. An accident, really.

He called one night. Said, "I can’t sleep."

You said, "That sucks."

Then: "Can I come over?"

And: "Sure."

Just sex. That was the deal. No strings, no expectations.

There were rules, in the beginning.

No cuddling. No staying over.

No kissing unless clothes were already off.

That one lasted exactly one round.

Because on the second night, he kissed you first. Before either of you had taken off a single layer. Like kissing was the point, not the sex.

And afterward? He held you. Just an arm across your waist, skin warm, breath steady. Like you were his favorite teddy bear. Or a security blanket that talks back.

And he didn’t ask you to stay, but when you fell asleep there, he was already awake by the time you opened your eyes. Lying there. Watching you.

Like he hadn’t slept at all.

It was fine. Totally fine.

“Just friends,” you’d said.

And he nodded. “Yeah. Totally.”

But his fingers were laced through yours when he said it.   

…

Sometimes he says things you don’t know how to hear.

Like that weekend after finals. Both of you a little drunk. Loose-limbed and grinning for no reason. Buzzed on cheap beer and end-of-term freedom, on the promise of summer stretching out like a dare. You were parked outside your place, engine off, windows fogging in the humidity. Music low, the kind of old-school ballad Steve pretends to hate but knows every word to.

You kissed him over the console of his Beemer. Messy, open-mouthed, like the world was ending and tongues were currency—a last-ditch effort to spend everything before it was too late. He laughed into your mouth, and you felt it everywhere.

Then, soft and slurred:

“Missed you this week.”

You smiled. Didn’t answer.

He kissed your neck like he could hide into it.

You didn’t ask what he meant. Didn’t ask if he meant your mouth or your body or just the convenience of you.

You just climbed into his lap.

Straddled him.

Ground down on him like you were trying to forget how soft he’d sounded. How scared.

And he let you.

Because Steve Harrington always lets you.

…

Tonight, it’s raining.

You show up at his door soaked to the bone, hoodie dripping, pajama pants clinging to your legs. There’s water in your eyelashes, in your socks, probably in your dignity.

Steve opens the door like he’s been waiting. Like he knew.

“Jesus, get in here,” he mutters, tugging you inside by the wrist. “You’re soaked.”

He peels off your jacket, pushes your hood down. His knuckles brush your cheek.  

His hands feel warm. Or maybe cold. You can’t tell anymore with him.

…

He makes soup.

Chicken noodle, way too much pepper.

You sit on the counter in dry clothes that smell like him while he stirs in silence; barefoot, bedhead, wearing sleep pants and an old Hawkins basketball tee with a hole in the collar.   

He hands you the bowl and watches you blow on the steam.

Then he puts on a movie neither of you ends up watching.

He sits close, arms touching from shoulder to elbow.

It’s nothing.

Except, with Steve, nothing always feels like everything.

Because he doesn’t move away.

He leans.

…

Touch-starved doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Steve Harrington is affection-starved. Love-starved. He’s been handing his heart out to people for years and getting scraps in return.

He was the king of a kingdom that left him stranded in his own tower.

Now, he wields proximity like armor. Like glue. Stick close, so maybe they won’t leave.

You sit next to him, he leans. You stand near him, his fingers brush yours. You yawn, and suddenly he’s cradling your head, smoothing your hair like you’re going through something traumatic.

You’re not.

You’re yawning.

And it would be funny, if it wasn’t all so completely, irreparably fucked.

…

The rain's louder now.

Not quite a storm, but loud enough that it fills the room with its own kind of hush. Soft and constant, like white noise between thoughts.

Steve leans back against the couch, head tilted, throat exposed. The light from the TV paints him in soft blues and grays.

You look at him too long. Then say, quietly:

“You don’t let people touch you much.”

He blinks. “What?”

“I mean, you do,” you say, glancing at his hands. “But not really.”

He lets out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Okay, detective. What’s that mean?”

You shift, pulling your knees up.  

“It means…” you pause. “That you act like it’s natural. Like touching’s easy for you. But it’s not.”

His eyes drift away. His throat bobs.

Then, a low chuckle. Pained and impressed in the same breath. “Jesus. You should be a therapist or something.”

“So I’m right?”

He goes quiet for a bit. Just tugs the blanket higher over your knees.

“People think I’m good at it,” he says eventually. “Being… I don’t know, flirty.”

“You are,” you say, like it's a fact. And it is.

He laughs, soft and empty. “Yeah. Well. I’ve had a lot of practice.” 

He starts picking at a loose thread. Doesn’t look at you.

“But that’s all it is. Practice. I think… I think I just got good at pretending.”

A pause.

“My parents weren’t really... around. You know? And when they were, it was all rules. Appearances. Be polite. Be perfect. Don’t embarrass the family.”  

You stare at your lap. “That sucks.”

He stiffens a little. “I’m not saying it for pity.”

“I know,” you bump your knee against his. “And don’t worry, you’re not getting any.”

He snorts, soft and real.

But then his hand stirs in his lap, tightening around the blanket, white-knuckled. It’s subtle. A detail most people wouldn’t notice.

But you do.

You always notice.

So you reach out. Slip your fingers between his like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Laced together, palm to palm, thumb brushing over the tense tendons in his wrist.

He freezes. Just for a second.

Then his hand twitches. Loosens. Curls back around yours.

He holds on.

…  

Steve Harrington has always been golden.

Golden boy. Golden skin. Golden smile. The kind of person who walks into a room and soaks up all the oxygen without even trying. The kind people fall for in flashes, bright and fast and dizzying.

They love parts of him. The hair, the grin, the effortless charm. The storybook confidence that makes everyone else fade to grayscale. But if they looked closer—and most don’t—they might notice a flicker of something else. Something dimmer. Something tired.

You notice.

You always notice.

You see the way his smile stutters, the half-second where it slips before he wrestles it back into place. The way he shrugs off compliments like they sting. Laughs off praise like it doesn't fester in his chest long after it’s said. Like he doesn’t believe a word of it, even when it’s true.

He’s used to it, you think. Being loved for the surface. Wanted for being golden.

Never seen for what’s underneath.

But that’s not the Steve you want.

You want this Steve—sleepy-eyed, soft-voiced, weirdly-good-at-playing-with-your-hair Steve.

The one in faded sweatpants and mismatched socks, slurping soup too loudly and pretending your knee against his isn’t the most intimate thing that’s happened to him all week. 

The one who sings along to bad radio ballads in the car and gets quiet when you ask him about childhood birthdays. The one who never learned how to ask for love—only how to give too much of it away.

You want the mess. The ache. The scared little boy behind the golden grin.

You want to know what song he hums when he’s doing his laundry. What memory makes him smile when no one’s watching.  

The parts of him that aren’t polished, the cracks that run through the gold. The ones he tucks away because he's convinced no one could ever love them.

You want the parts he hides.

…

You don’t remember how your shirt came off.

One minute you were doubled over laughing—some dumb line from the movie, something even dumber from Steve—and then he’s just there.

Mouth hot on your neck. Hands everywhere. Greedy and reverent in the same stroke, in the way only Steve Harrington can be.

He kisses down your throat, mumbling something against your skin. Something that sounds like, “You’re so beautiful,” voice so full it cracks a little.

Your fingers sink into his hair.

“Steve,” you breathe. “You’re shaking.”  

He lifts his head. Eyes wide and round and glassy.

“I just…” He swallows. “Wanna make you feel good. Let me?”

You nod, throat tight.

You’d let him do anything.

…

He eats you out like he missed you.

Like this is the only way he knows how to say it.

You’re sprawled across his couch, thighs over his shoulders, his arms hooked under your hips. Holding you open as he devours you. Sloppy, desperate, like he missed this, missed you, even though you were here just two nights ago. He groans into you like this is worship, and maybe it is. Maybe it always has been.

“Fuck,” he moans, voice wrecked. “You taste so good. So wet for me.”

Your fingers twist harder in his hair. He moans at that too; loves it when you tug him closer.

"Steve—"

“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles, mouth full. “I got you.”

You arch into him, thighs clamped tight around his head.

“I—fuck, I’m gonna—"  

He groans like he’s the one coming. Eats you through it, grinding his hips into the carpet, riding it out with you. Stays through the twitching and the aftershocks, still licking, like he can’t bear to stop, can’t bear to let you go.

And even when you’re spent, legs trembling, chest heaving, he doesn’t move away.

Kisses your thighs. Your stomach. Your breasts.

Soft, wet little marks. Greedy, but not in the way that takes. In the way that keeps.

You breathe through the haze, arm flung over your eyes because it stings too much sometimes, looking at him.

“You wanna fuck me now?”

…

He fucks you like a confession.  

Slow. Deep. Forehead to forehead. Breathing into your mouth. Nose bumping with each stroke, his breath hitching every time you moan.

Like he’s making love, even though that’s not what this is.

The room is quiet except for the slick sounds of skin on skin, and the soft hush of your name as he passes it from his lips over to yours.

“So good,” he breathes. “So fucking perfect.”

You curl your fingers around the back of his neck, pull him closer.

“I think about you all the time,” he whispers, hips rolling into you. “All the time. Can't—can’t stop.”

You tense, just slightly. Barely a hitch in your breath.

He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, and just barrels forward anyway, words spilling faster than he can catch them. He’s shaking again.

“Can’t get you out of my head. Fuck, you’re all I think about, I—”

And then—

He says it.

The thing.

The one thing you can’t undo.  

“I love you.”

…

Everything stills.

Steve stills. You still. 

He pulls back, blinking fast. Searching your face, fingers twitching against your waist.

You can’t breathe. 

“Steve…”

You say it like it hurts. Like it’s an apology. Like you didn’t mean to hear it, and he didn’t mean to say it.

He sees it, whatever’s written on your face. Sees it and folds in on himself.

His mouth twists, words souring on his tongue.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean—”

You kiss him before he can finish.

Messy. Desperate. Mouth open, teeth clashing. Like you’re trying to shove the words back down his throat. Like if you just kiss him hard enough, they’ll sink back into him and never make it out.

He kisses you back, fast and clumsy. Picks up his pace again, thrusts turning erratic, rhythm gone. He comes like that—hands gripping too tight, teeth in your shoulder, breathing like he’s drowning.

He doesn’t say it again.  

Not out loud.

…

You told him once, weeks ago—maybe during the eighth or ninth time, when things were still light enough to float. You were lying in his bed, naked on blue linen, post-coital and quiet. You were staring at the ceiling. He was tracing circles on your arm.

“I’ve never said it,” you murmured.

He turned, frowning. “What do you mean, never?”

“Like… out loud. To anyone.”

“Not even to, like, a boyfriend?”

You snorted. Gave him a look. He just frowned deeper.

“I mean, it’s just words, right?” you shrugged. “Doesn’t really mean shit. Not unless you show it.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded, like he was filing it away.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I guess.”   

…

The scariest part isn’t that he said it.

It’s how little changes after.

He pulls out. Kisses your forehead. Disappears for a towel, water, wipes, the whole post-sex routine. He wraps you in a blanket, like always.

He sits on the edge of the couch, shirtless and quiet. Still catching his breath.

But he won’t look at you.

You’re staring at the ceiling now. Body still buzzing, your mind a blur. Your chest feels raw, like you’ve swallowed glass and it’s still cutting on the way down.

Finally, you speak.

“You’re an idiot.”

His head turns, brows knit. “What?”

You sit up a little. “You’re an idiot. You can’t just say that mid-fuck and expect me not to spiral.”

He laughs, caught off guard. It’s soft. A little broken.

“I didn’t mean to,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… came out.”

“Yeah. I noticed.”

He starts fidgeting with the blanket again.

“I can take it back, if you want.”

You pause.  

A long, slow beat.

Then you shake your head.

“No. Don’t.”

…

He’s sitting on the bed when you come out of the shower.

Hair damp, skin flushed from the heat, a line of steam following you out the bathroom. You’re toweling off the ends of your hair, not really expecting conversation. He’s quiet—bent forward, elbows on his knees, bare foot tapping a slow rhythm into the floorboards.  

Then, without looking up, he says:

“Do you want to stay over?”

You almost drop the towel. Frozen mid-motion, terrycloth bunched in your hands.

It’s not the first time he’s asked that. Not really.

There was one night, early on, when you came over to his place, still a little nervous about the whole thing. He’d made you come three times, then followed you out of bed, shirtless and flushed, and said:

“You could, uh… stay. If you want. It’s late. I don’t—sleep great. And I just…” He’d swallowed it. “Forget it. Never mind.”  

You’d made it exactly two steps before turning around.  

But that was then.

Now, five months in, you’ve never needed the words. Your toothbrush is in his medicine cabinet. Your hoodie is slung over the back of his desk chair. You spend most nights here anyway—falling asleep during half-watched movies and waking up tangled in limbs you no longer bother to count.

So the fact that he asks—now, of all nights—makes you pause.

“Sure,” You say quietly, then walk past him to grab the lotion off his nightstand like it's nothing.  

He doesn’t smile, not really. But his shoulders soften. His eyes go from holding tension to holding you.

He looks tired. Relieved in a way that makes your chest ache.

You slip under the covers, the way you always do. He follows. And for a beat, everything feels normal. Familiar. Easy.

He’s warm. He always is.

Your body knows the choreography—roll away, let him pull you in, slot your legs together until he’s all but spooning you. But tonight, for reasons you can’t name, you end up facing him instead. On your side. Eyes open. Nose to nose.

Close enough to feel the soft rise of his chest. To smell his shampoo. The expensive one you always make fun of, the one you pretend not to use.

Close enough to catch the exhale when he speaks.

“Can I—?” he stops.

You wait.

He licks his lips, gaze darting down to the space between you.

“Can I hold your hand?”

Your stomach drops, fluttering like a trapped bird.

Because what kind of person asks to hold your hand after they’ve had their hands everywhere else?

And why does that make you feel more vulnerable than anything he’s ever done?

You say, “Sure,” because you don’t know what else to say.

And then you do it. You reach out, he meets you halfway—fingers slotting between yours like they were made to be there.

His thumb skates slowly over your knuckles. His hand is warm, a little rough in places. Callused in a way that reminds you he’s probably fought for things—for people—before. Real things. Hard things. Love-shaped things.

Eventually, he shifts closer. Not pulling you into him. Just… aligning. Until your knees touch. Until your breaths sync.

He’s so close you can count the gold flecks in his eyes. 

Then, quietly:

“I meant it. What I said.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because something in your chest lurches and twists and stretches like it’s never been moved before. Like it’s being made into something new. 

“I know,” you say eventually, voice soft as worn cotton.

He swallows. Starts again, then stops. There’s a crack in his voice when he says:

“You don’t have to say it back. I know it’s not fair. That I said it like that. I just—” He looks down. Shrinks in on himself a little. “I couldn’t not.”

You reach out before he can spiral. Fingers to his jaw, steady and slow.

He flinches instinctively, then stills beneath your touch.

And god, he looks so young like this. Eyes glassy. Lips bitten raw. Desperate crease between his brows like he’s bracing for impact.

“Steve,” you whisper, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “I’m not mad.”

He searches your face like it might change mid-sentence.

“I just… I need time. That’s all.”

He nods. Once. Then again.

“Okay,” he says, and it sounds like breathing for the first time in days. “Okay.”

He squeezes your hand, like a question.

You squeeze back, like an answer.

…

You don’t plan it.

There’s no perfect moment. No grand confession. No string quartet swelling in the background, or a slow-motion kiss in the rain.

There’s just a Tuesday.

Or maybe a Wednesday.

One of those in-between days that doesn’t really exist. Gray sky. Light drizzle. Everything muted and quiet, just a little smudged around the edges.

When you open your door, Steve’s already there.

Curled into the corner of your couch in fuzzy socks, eating dry cereal out of the box and watching a rerun of something he’s already seen three times. His hair’s damp. Probably showered at your place again because its closer to the gym, or maybe he just likes your shampoo better than his.

You don’t even ask anymore.

He grins when he sees you. Tosses a Cheerio in his mouth and says, “How was hell?”

You toe off your shoes and shrug. “Corporate’s an absolute dream. Only cried twice in the break room today.”

He opens his arms without a word. “C’mere.”

You go.

He pulls you in without pretense, folding you into his chest like he’s been waiting all day just to do it. You melt into it, cheek pressed to his collarbone. He smells like your body wash. It does something to your ribs. Cracks them open. Lets the light in.

You sit like that for a while. Not talking. Not needing to.

Eventually, he gently nudges you off him.

“I’m making tea,” he says. “Don’t move.”

You do, of course. You follow him.

He's humming something tuneless, drumming his fingers on the counter while the kettle boils. And when it whistles, he moves automatically, like he’s done it a hundred times. Two mugs. Two tea bags. Your chipped dinosaur mug and his plain blue one. He insists it’s “just a mug” even though he always reaches for it first.

He doesn’t have to ask. He knows. Honey in both. Lemon in yours. He moves with the kind of ease that only comes from repetition. From caring.

He hands it to you without looking. You take it with both hands, the warmth of the ceramic bleeding into your palms.

And for some reason, that’s what does it.

Not the cuddling. Not the hand-holding. Not the sex, or the sleepovers, or the toothbrush he bought without asking

Just—this.

This moment. This man. This stupid kitchen and this cup of tea made exactly how you like it.

It hits you like a low tide: gentle, inevitable, impossible to ignore.

You’re still holding the mug when you say it. Still standing in the half-lit kitchen in your sad little apartment with the flickering stove light and the perpetually leaking faucet and the love of your life stirring a teabag like it’s the most serious task in the universe.

Soft. Barely above the whistle of the kettle.

“I love you.”

His spoon stops mid-stir.

He doesn’t move for a second. Doesn’t look up.

You think maybe he didn’t hear you. Maybe you should repeat it. Louder. Clearer.

But then—he smiles. 

Not the charming one. Not the grin he uses when for baristas or strangers or people who don’t know any better.

This one’s smaller. Like it snuck up on him.

He sets the spoon down carefully.

“Yeah?” he asks, still not turning around.

You nod.  

Then, braver: “Yeah.”

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it in his lungs since February.

And without looking at you—like looking might make it collapse—he just says:

“Okay.”

Then, a beat later, with a kind of awe:

“I love you too.”

You step closer. Lean your head against his back, arms circling his waist just to feel him. He goes still under your touch, the way he does when something matters a little too much.

Then he relaxes. Covers your hands with his. Holds you there.

And the thing is, nothing else changes.

You still drink your tea. Still argue over who gets the remote. Still end up half-asleep on the couch with pretzel crumbs all over the upholstery and Steve mumbling nonsense into your shoulder.

But later, when he takes you to bed, he says it again.

Not in the heat of it. Not as a plea. Just a soft, quiet:

“I love you.”

You don’t panic.

You don’t question it.

You just say it back. Steadier, this time.

“I love you.”

He grins against your mouth. “About time.”

You roll your eyes.

He kisses your nose.

…

“I just—I’m sorry, but I really think this one tastes the same as the other one.”

Steve’s in an argument with the beekeeper lady at the farmer’s market. About honey.

She gasps like he’s insulted her bloodline, then launches into a spiel about how wildflower honey tastes completely different from clover honey—something about the blossoms and the weather and the bees' mood.

You, standing ten feet away with an armful of Honeycrisps, don’t even try to save him. You just lean against a crate of pumpkins and watch the disaster unfold.  

This is your Saturday now.

Groceries and small-town drama. Coffee stops and joint laundry loads and dumb little errands that somehow feel like sacred rituals because he’s there.

He jogs back to you a minute later, holding a jar of orange blossom honey.

He's grinning like an idiot. “She loved me.”

“She called you ‘boy.’”

“Exactly. Affectionate.”

You bump his hip. “You’re a menace.”

“And you love that about me.”

You glance at him, lips twitching.

You do.

You really do.

…

It’s been eight months.

Eight months of toothbrushes side-by-side. Of his socks in your drawer and your hair ties in his bathroom.

Of grocery lists that say things like “Steve’s weird granola” and “that cinnamon roll candle" you've been dying to try.

Of falling asleep on the couch and waking up in bed because he carried you. Of him saying “morning, baby" in that morning-after voice then smirking when yours is too hoarse to respond.

Of fights that don’t break things, just bend them. Of learning how to disagree without flinching. How to apologize without pride.

Of knowing it’s safe now. Not perfect, not painless, but safe.

…

One night, he’s reading beside you in bed.

Trying to, at least.

The book’s open in his lap, but he’s clearly dozing off mid-paragraph. Lips parted, breath steady.

You’re on your side, just watching him.

You don’t let yourself stare too often, but he’s so soft like this. Soft in a way he only is at home. With you.

There’s a scar on his collarbone you’ve never asked about.

You probably could. He’d tell you.

You think you will, someday.

But right now, you're happy just tracing it with your fingertip. He stirs, nuzzling your shoulder like he’s chasing warmth in his sleep.

And then, half-conscious, he murmurs:

“You’re it for me.”

You go still. Heart in your throat.

And then—just as simply, just as truthfully—you say:

“You are too.”

He hums at that. Smiles against your skin.

Wraps an arm around your waist and lets the world fade out.

…

In the morning, you’ll make him coffee the way he likes it: three sugars, no cream, no shame.

He’ll kiss your shoulder while you pour it, thank you with a sleepy voice and wandering hands.

You’ll sit on the couch, eat burnt toast, and laugh at some dumb segment on the morning news.

He’ll offer to fix your car. Again.

You’ll roll your eyes and say no. Again.

He’ll grin.

He'll drive you to work.

And just like that, the day will begin.  

Like it did today.

Like it will tomorrow.

Like it will every day after.

a/n: when I tell you I took a super long nap yesterday and then stayed awake the whole night... this is what came crawling out of my brain at 4 am... wrote this in like 3 hrs so i'm sorry if this is all over the place 🥲

i always love hearing your thoughts abt my silly little stories! feel free to reblog/comment/come find me in my inbox :)

update: this fic sort of has a sequel now! from steve's pov this time :)))

This past week, he's been coming in and asking for you each time. The other day, he came in for a paper cut. You try to ignore the teasing looks your co-workers give you every time Bob leaves.

You tell Bob to take a seat, and you'll check him out. "May I ask what you were doing?"

"O-oh, nothing serious. Just a silly little accident," Bob quickly says.

"Mhm." You feel around to make sure he doesn't have a bump on his head. "Keep this up, and they'll have to change to your callsign," you tease as you take a step back.

Bob watches as you finish writing up his report. "So, uh... I'll see you this weekend at Phoenix's party?"

"I'll be there. And I know we're not supposed to tell each other who we got for Secret Santa, but I'm struggling here."

Bob smiles. "Who did you get?"

You make a face. "Hangman. Just my luck. I have no idea what to get him."

"You could get him a gag gift for his truck," Bob suggests.

"Oh! I like that. Thanks, Bob, you're the best." Then you do something that totally throws Bob off and sends his heart racing. You lean in and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "See ya, at the party!"

Bob is still in a slight daze when he runs into Rooster.

"Where have you been, Bob?" he asks.

"The infirmary," Bob says without thinking.

Bradley smirks. "Again, Bob, you're hopeless, man. And why do you keep touching your cheek?"

"N-No reason."

"Uh-huh. Hey, since you're friendly with y/n, could you help me out? I got her for Secret Santa, and I'm not sure what to get her. I think she's into-"

"Switch with me."

Bradley blinks, taken aback at Bob's outburst. "No."

"Th-wait, what? What do you mean, no? You just said you don't know what to get her."

Bradley crosses his arms. "I never said that. You didn't let me finish. I said-"

"Rooster, c'mon, please. Just switch with me. I have the perfect present to get her."

"Then give it to her on Christmas."

Bob doesn't know why Rooster is fighting him on this. "Why won't you switch with me?"

"It's against the rules."

Bob rolls his eyes. "As if you care about breaking the rules."

"What's this really about?"

Bob sighs and finally tells Rooster why he wants Rooster to switch with him.

"Aw! That's so adorable. She'll love it," Bradley says.

"So, you'll switch with him?"

Bradley pretends to mull it over. "Fine. I'll switch with you. But on one condition."

"What?"

"That this gift will get you a date so you can stop faking injuries to see her."

It's the night of Natasha's Secret Santa party, and Bob is a bundle of nerves. Secretly, he's been working on your gift for months now, but the rest of the dagger squad doesn't need to know that. They'll just tease him even more about his crush on you. If it all goes to plan, he might end up with a date with you at the end of the night. Bob is one of the first ones to arrive at Nat's place, and he's surprised to see you there as well.

"Don't you look handsome," you say, and Bob can feel his ears getting warm. Bob is wearing a knitted Christmas sweater that his mom sent him.

"Not as pretty as you," Bob replies. You grin, grab his hand, and lead him over to Nat's Christmas tree.

"So I ended up taking your advice and got something for Hangman's truck," you tell him.

"I'm sure he'll love it."

Shortly later, the rest of the dagger squad shows up, and Bradley gives Bob a not-so-subtle wink as he puts his present underneath the tree. Bob prays that Bradley didn't get Reuben anything stupid or embarrassing. Throughout the night, you and Bob stay close to each other, and he can't help but feel a slight tingle go up his arm every time you lean into him.

The time finally comes to do Secret Santa, and Bob feels his heart beating faster as each name is called, and of course, yours would be last. Bob holds his breath as he watches Javy pass over your present.

"Wow, look how neatly wrapped it is. Gee, I wonder who did that," Mickey drawls, and Bob hopes you don't pick up on that comment.

You smile. "Whoever wrapped it did it with love and care."

"Yeah, love, for sure," Bradley mutters into his cup.

After all the presents are passed out, there's a slight ruckus as everyone opens up their gifts.

"Okay, which one of you gave me fuzzy dice and hot pink fuzzy seat covers? Was it you, Rooster?" Jake accuses as he tosses the dice at Bradley.

"I didn't, but I wish I did," Bradley replies, laughing, as he swings the dice around.

"I think they match your eyes, Hangman," Reuben adds.

"Well, whoever got me this LEGO Millennium Falcon knows me too well," Javy says.

"We all know you too well, dumbass," Mickey teases.

"Whoa, check out what y/n got," Reuben cuts in. He's sitting on your other side and spots the cut teapot nestled against some tissue paper that's in your favorite color.

You carefully lift it up and take a closer look. "It looks handmade." You look around the room, trying to figure out who would have the time or patience to do something like this for you. Or better yet, knows you well enough to know you're obsessed with tea. And you're sitting between the two people you have a feeling it's from.

You don't want to get your hopes up because your heart is screaming that it's Bob. But you did take a pottery class with Reuben and his sister. Being childhood friends with Reuben's little sister means he's known you the longest out of the dagger squad.

"Whoever gave you that must really like you," Natasha says, grinning when she spots Bob's red ears.

Bob feels like he can finally breathe now that his gift is in your hands. He's hoping to get you away from everyone else so he can show you the second part of the gift that's inside the teapot.

"Let's do white elephant," Jake loudly declares.

"Dude, the gifts are already opened," Bradley reminds.

"I dunno. It could be fun," Natasha suddenly says, and everyone is surprised she's siding with Jake; even Jake is taken aback. "I mean that teapot is pretty cute," she jokes.

Bob shoots her a warning look. "You don't even drink tea," he mutters.

Then Mickey also agrees that it's a good idea, even though he got soccer tickets. Bob is convinced everyone is against him. The one person who doesn't say anything is you, and Bob spots as you clutch the teapot closer to your chest.

And so the game of white elephant starts. The things that are getting passed around a lot are your teapot, Bob's headphones, and Mickey's soccer tickets. Somehow, you end up with Natasha's new rock climbing gear, and she has your teapot. Bob relaxes a little because it's Natasha, and he knows she'll give it back to you before the end of the night.

"Okay, so can we know who everyone got as Secret Santa?" Mickey asks.

"No, that ruins the holiday fun," Javy replies.

"All I wanna know is who got me?" Jake questions, since no one wanted his fuzzy dice and seat covers.

"It was me," you admit.

"You," Jake replies, aghast, "okay, but who gave you the idea?"

"Take a wild guess."

"I still think it's Rooster who gave you the idea."

Natasha pulls Bob into the kitchen when Mickey suggests a game of Twister for some reason.

"Will you please tell her already?" she asks, pushing the box that has the teapot inside into Bob's hands.

Now that it's in his hands, Bob's nerves are acting up again. "Uh-"

"No, none of that. Don't overthink, you've got this," she encourages, giving him a pat on the back as she pushes him out of the kitchen. Bob wanders back into the living room and sees you're no longer there.

"She's on the patio," Bradley says to Bob. Bob quietly slips out the sliding doors and spots you sitting on a bench.

"Hey," he quietly says, sitting down next to you.

You immediately spot the box in his hands. "Is that?"

"Yeah, here, it's for you." He hands it to you and watches as you open it, a smile spreading across your face.

"Thank you. I love it."

Bob isn't sure if you know it's him who made that teapot for you. "Uh... there might be more on the inside."

You eye him before taking off the top. Inside the teapot is a tin and a cassette tape. You carefully take off the lid, and your nose is hit with the smell of chamomile, lemon, and something else you can't put your finger on, but it smells calming.

Bob anxiously rubs the back of his neck. "Um, it's supposed to help you sleep, or that's what they said at the workshop."

"What?"

"Yeah, I kinda made it-well, not literally make, but I put it all together," he slightly rambles.

"Let me guess. You made the mixtape as well?"

"Yeah, there's a coded message for you."

You smile. "Are you going to make me wait to hear the message?"

Bob nervously looks away. "I dunno, it might be easier that way."

"Why's that?"

"Might hurt less if you say no over the phone," he mumbles, looking down.

You slide a little closer to him. "I can't see myself saying no to the guy I'm crushing on."

Bob's head shoots back up. "You're crushin' on me?"

"Only, a lot."

Bob smiles. "Well, if you couldn't tell from the gift. I'm crushing on you. too."

"I think I figured that out when you came to the infirmary for a paper cut."

"I dunno what you're talking about. A paper cut is a serious injury," Bob jokes.

Without realizing it, the two of you are drifting closer together. You feel him reach up and brush some hair from your face. His hand slides down to the back of your neck.

"True, I guess I wouldn't want you bleeding out or anything," you murmur, your eyes falling to his lips, and he's leaning in.

Your lips barely brush his when the sliding door slams open.

"Hey-oh shit! Sorry, my bad. Reuben is looking for you, y/n," Mickey says before slamming the door shut. Even though you two are outside, you can already hear him yelling at the rest of the group about what he just saw.

Bob lets out a sigh before kissing the corner of your mouth. "I guess we should get back in there before Reuben beats my ass." He starts to get up when you stop him.

"Reuben can wait," you say before tugging him back down and pulling him in for a proper kiss.

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On your fifth ever date with Peter Parker he took you out for Chinese food. He walked the 20 minutes to meet you at your apartment and then another 20 minutes to the restaurant and didn't complain once.

"All this walking," you said shyly, looking down at your place setting, "you must be so tired."

There was something mischievous in his eyes when he said, "I get around quick, bub."

"I still feel bad. You could've just met me here."

"And have my best girl walking alone at night? I don't think so."

You felt you face heat further and averted from his playful look. When he asked what you wanted you said, "I'll have what you're having."

"You don't like what I'm having."

You tried not to smile at the fact that he'd remembered. "Anything else, then."

He pestered you for something specific. You ignored him, stretching your hand out between you both to stroke the skin of his knuckles with your fingertips. You could've sworn they looked very red and a little bruised beforehand, but now they seemed perfectly fine. Must've been the lighting.

He stopped his suggestions to quirk a smile at your small actions, turning his hand upside down to offer it to you. You accepted. He twined your fingers together and squeezed them tightly, as if in confirmation.

The very tops of his ears were turning pink. He cleared his throat and turned back to the laminated menu in his hands, peppy as he listed things he thought you'd like.

"I'll have anything," you said again.

He looked at your face, at your joined hands and then quickly at your face again. "Fine, but if you don't like it you know who to blame."

"You?"

When the food came out it looked amazing. It smelled even better, and you were only marginally disappointed when Peter let go of your hand to start eating because you wanted two hands for your own meal too.

Why dates happened in restaurants, you had no idea. It had always felt so awkward to eat in front of other people, especially when you were trying to make that other person like you romantically. Peter didn't get this memo, as he ate like the food was going to run away. You wished you had it in yourself to be disgusted, but he was still polite enough and so earnest that you were pretty sure everything he did at this point would endear you to him.

He shoved prawn crackers on the edge of your plate pointedly and smiled to himself when you ate them. You weren't sure he even knew himself that he was smiling.

When you finished he would hear about going halfsies. You grinned like a maniac behind your hand when he said, "Pretty girls don't pay."

"That's not very feminist of you," you told him, brushing yourself down for crumbs. He'd already shrugged his jacket on and leaped up to help you into your own.

"I'm super feminist. How about you pay for the next one?"

You rolled your eyes: that's what he'd said last time.

"You can call me pretty without paying for dinner," you told him bravely, letting him lead you by the hand out of the warm, fragrant restaurant and into the cold clutches of the New York streets.

It wasn't raining now, though the streets evidenced a wet spell through the day, shining black from the headlights and streetlamps.

"Okay, pretty girl. I'll hold you to it," he said. He pulled you into his side as closely as you could get and you began down the sidewalk to your home.

Ever the gentleman, Peter made small talk whilst somehow finding ways to throw you little compliments and flirts throughout. By the time you reached your apartment you were warm in the chest and believed yourself half in love with him if you hadn't already been before.

The final straw had been when you came to a pause outside your apartment building. He'd taken both your hands, rubbed his thumb carefully over your knuckles and seemed so intently dedicated to them you'd felt butterflies in every part of your body.

"I love spending time with you…" he said, voice unusually shy. "Thank you for coming out with me tonight."

It was the way he kissed you, chaste and sweet, bringing his hand up to the side of your face - specifically that, was the final straw.

You pressed your hand over his and tried to catch his gaze. He was looking distractedly at your mouth.

"Peter," you said, voice lilting, his name like lyric in your mouth. "Do you want to come upstairs?"

He beamed and kissed the corner of your mouth. "Whatever you want."

"I'm trying to tell you- I want you."

You held your breath, almost afraid of his reaction to your blatant flirting. It was more outgoing than you usually were, and in your right mind you never would've said it. You were content and full-bellied, love drunk and feeling it in your veins. Peter was so nice and pretty and magnetic, and he liked you. So you forgave yourself for the vulnerability and invited him in and only felt mildly sick in the elevator after he said yes with a quirked up smile.

Peter seemed like the kind of guy to ruin you passionately where you stood, whereas you were so shy you couldn't order yourself a coffee without stuttering. You knew he took this into account and was softer, more careful with his pursuits, and figured he would never have made this move, so you'd made it for him.

In your apartment he was calm. He looked around at your things curiously as you fought with the zipper on your coat. He glanced over his shoulder from the living room at you still in the doorway, expression softening, drifting back to you to help you out of your coat. He hung it up on the hook next to his, visibly perturbed at your shaky hands.

He rubbed his hands down your arms. "Don't be nervous. We won't do anything you don't want to do. We can sit on the couch all night."

You nodded and kissed the line of his jaw. "I asked you up here, Parker."

His hands found the skin under your ears. He held you in place, head turned up, to gaze into your eyes. "You're beautiful, you know?"

You broke out of his hold, fleeing to the living room to escape his seduction for a moment. "You're such a womaniser."

"The insults are coming out of you on scooters tonight," he remarked, settling down on the couch next to you, though he faced you where you faced the small TV. His fingers found your skin again, flesh of his palm on your cheek. He pressed the very tips of his index and middle finger to the corner of your eye and stroked gentle semi circles. "You have nice eyes."

You closed them in response.

"Hey,"  he said, laughing through the word, "open up."

"No," you denied him, scrunching your eyes even further shut.

"That's too bad," he said, lips at your ear now, words quiet.

He shifted your head to bare your neck, and you stilled in anticipation of his mouth. Then, open mouthed, he scandalised your neck, hot featherlight things that ended at the collar of your shirt.

"Peter," you said, giggling madly as his free hand fiddled with the button at your neck.

"What, baby?" he asked, distracted.

"Will you kiss me?"

He happily fulfilled your request, catching your lips with his own. You grinned into his kiss, ticklish as his hand found your thigh and held it like you were something precious.

Your stomach slowly dissolved from butterflies into a dull ache. You couldn't help it as your eyebrows pulled together.

Peter retracted his hands immediately. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." You pushed in for another kiss.

He reciprocated, startled. His hands were tentative to return to your skin, so you took his hand and pressed it to your leg where it had been before.

Another roll of sickness. You grimaced, breaking the kiss to lean your head on Peter's shoulder. You looked down at his lap with your eyes wide.

"What’s the matter?"

You felt an overwhelming sense of nausea and knew at that moment you would throw up. You clambered out of his grips and barreled for the bathroom doorway, almost slamming the door shut. You locked it without thinking and then you were emptying your stomach, a horror on white porcelain.

"Hey, Y/N. Y/N! Are you alright?"

"Yeah!" you said, and then heaved again. You could hear him fiddling with the door. When it didn't open he knocked against the wood.

"What's wrong?"

"I- threw up."

"I could hear as much. Are you okay? Was it…"

"I think it was the food," you said miserably, blinking stressed tears from your eyes. You sat roughly on the ground, hands on the toilet seat, swallowing in attempts to ease your nausea.

It didn't work. You chucked up again.

The door handle rattled more. "Let me in," Peter said, his usual easygoing drawl tinged with worry.

Was he crazy? He wasn't even officially your boyfriend and he thought you'd let him see you in this state? No way.

"Maybe," you swallowed, pressed your forehead to your hand, "you should go home."

"Babe, be serious. Let me in!" his pleading was half serious. You smiled despite yourself at his antics. "Let me hold your hair back. It'll be romantic!"

"Nothing about this is romantic," you said unhappily, though you could've used his hands. You spit bile into the dirty water and felt another bout of sickness. You struggled to your feet to flush the toilet.

"You're being very obtuse right now," Peter said.

"Obtuse!"

"Unkind," he amended.

"Go home, Peter."

"No, I don't think I will. Let me in though?"

You heaved again. Not much came up besides spit.

The door handle wiggled again. "Peter, go home, please. I'll call you when I'm not disgusting."

"You're not disgusting! You're literally sick!"

Of course that was the bit he would focus on. "Please, I'm begging you to go home."

"Can't I just wait out here? I'm not going until I know you're alright."

You heaved. He took this as an answer, and you heard his footsteps retreat into the kitchen. You were too focused on the toilet bowl to listen in on what he was getting upto.

You felt deservedly depressed. This was the opposite of sexy. You'd been looking forward to intimacy with Peter tonight. Now the thing getting ruined was your relationship instead of your underwear.

You pushed the hair out of your sweaty forehead and thanked God that at least you were only chucking up. It could've been worse, you realised, laughing under your breath.

A sound from the doorway, Peter had forced a post it note through the gap. You peered at it wearily. A second joined the first.

What's funny? :0 said the first.

i miss u open the door pls :3 said the second.

You laughed wetly. "Pete, you can just talk to me."

u wont listen to me :(

"What? Peter-" you were interrupted by the sound of him ripping a post it note off.

let me in!!!

"No, I don't want you to see me."

Angry scribbling ensued.

have u considered i don't care what u want?? i am selfish let me in the bathroom

"Peter… if you see me like this you won't like me anymore, I promise you."

I promise you I will! unlock the door pretty girl

You felt so sick and miserable and he was so nice and he liked you and it was a lot. You felt tears come to your eyes, pressing your hand over your mouth to sob. It wasn't a completely unhappy sob, more an overwhelmed keen.

"Please go home," you said.

You heard sighing from the other side of the door, and then Peter getting to his feet. You sighed in relief that he was finally leaving and you could be grim in piece when the door handle was rattling again, a quick snapping sound and then the door was opening.

"Was that always broken?" Peter asked, the copper door handle in his hand.

You looked at him with unbridled horror. He held his hands up in surrender.

"I'm sorry! It was loose, I swear!"

You covered your face with both hands.

Peter walked toward you, leaning down to put both of his hands on your head. He pressed your hair down gently. "Hey, why are you so upset, huh? You want some water?"

"I really don't want you to see me like this," you whispered, your traitorous body relaxing under his touch. You knew the room smelled of sick.

"Unlucky for you, I want to see you all the time. Told you I was selfish."

You moaned and pressed your face into his legs, wrapping your arms around him. "This isn't how I imagined tonight going."

"Yeah? And what did you imagine?" he asked. You knew he was smirking.

"Have you ever seen Silence of the Lambs?"