#modern!reader

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1. He falls for your sassiness and how you come to him to talk shit about your day.

Huffing and flopping down onto the surprisingly large bed in the golden tent, you spread your arms dramatically across the soft sheets.

“What’s the matter, my lady wife?” He asks, smirking down at your exhausted form.

“Are all princes pompous assholes or is that dragon fuck just special?”

Your sudden outburst causes a thunderous laugh to erupt from his smiling lips. Joy at your forwardness and subject matter, very apparent on his handsome face.

“Princes are usually quite pompous, yes, although unfortunately, it seems Aerion is a special kind of pompous asshole,” he confirms, now looking into your eyes and smiling warmly at you.

“His uncles not bad though,” you comment with a cheeky smirk.

“You’re not wrong there,” he smirks back at you with a flirty twinkle in his eye.

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2. How beautiful you look in the Baratheon colours

You watch the Baratheon banner with a strange pride as you spot your faux husband making his way out for the joust.

Lyonel loves jousts, to him they are just another fun party. Cheering along with the crowd he is all laughs and fun, until his eyes land on you, and he freezes. Standing proudly on the raised seating, you look to him, as if to call him over with some enchantment. The Baratheon gold of your dress makes you look like a shining star and causes his heart to skip a beat.

In your hand he notices a piece of fabric, a golden scarf given to you on the ride to the tourney. He smirks as he remembered how you thought it silly to wear a scarf to protect your hair when riding a horse. You’d told him that if you were a ‘lady’, surely half the joy would be being able to ride freely and then have your ladies fix your hair.

The fabric hung from your fingertips like an invitation, one that he definitely couldn’t refuse.

Riding up, he stops right in front of your awaiting form.

As you lean down from your seating to tie your favour to his lance, you make sure to whisper in his ear.

“Be safe, have fun and show them what you’re made of, my love.”

While Lyonel expected something cheeky or snarky from you, it seems your genuine words make him blush even more than anything dirty or cheeky you could have said.

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3. The way you flirt with him at celebrations

Lightly stumbling through the thinning crowd, the celebration was coming to an end, but Lyonel was not willing to go to bed anytime soon.

“Why, Ser Duncan, it seems you’ve stolen my husband away from me,” your words coming out a little flirty and slurred.

Lyonels eyes light up at your teasing, and then his smile grows are you confidently sit in his lap. He would usually be cautious about touching you, especially because of the truth of your relationship, but with your forwardness and the alcohol coursing through his body, he throws caution to the wind as his hand comes down the grab at your ass.

“I-I I’m sorry, my lady,” the giant knight stutters out.

“It’s okay, sweetie, but can I steal him away?“ you ask the knight, but you’re mischievous eyes never leave Lyonels.

You don’t wait for a reply as you drag your ‘husband’ to dance, asking the band to play something slow.

“This isn’t what I usually dance to,” Lyonel smiles lovingly at you.

“Yes, but it’s a good excuse to hold a beautiful lady so close against your body isn’t it?”

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4. How soft you are with Egg

Soft cries reach your ears as you read your book, comfortable in your large bed. Placing the book down, you put on your robe and venture to investigate. Stepping out into the night, you spot Egg walking away from you. His shoulders shake as he sniffles.

“Egg,” you lightly call after him, jogging to catch up.

“M-my l-lady,” he politely welcomes.

Despite his obvious sadness, he is still polite and sweet.

“What are you doing out here, sweet boy?” You ask, crouching down to his height.

He tries his best to answer, but his words are overwhelmed by his sniffles and whimpers. You don’t force him to continue, instead you gently usher him out of the cold night and into the warm tent.

Lyonel was struck with the image in front of him, curled up in his ‘wife’s’ arms was Dunks squire. Tears stained his pale face and his body shook from crying.

Then there was you.

Your arms wrapped tightly around the small boy as you rock him. Eyes closed and your head on his, you hum a song unfamiliar to Lyonel, probably one from your world.

Lyonel never dreamt of children, but seeing you now, his heart yearns for it.

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5. Standing up for yourself

You could see the drunken knight begin to advance on you, but by the time he was a close enough distance to grab you, it was already too late to flee.

“Come dance with me!” He slurred his demand over the loud room.

“No, no thank you,” you tried your best to be polite, to pull away, you were now a lady after all.

You were sure you could manage this without raising your voice, he’s a knight after all, maybe he’s just having a bit of fun. You were calm but firm, until, he grabbed at your ass and spoke crude words drunkenly against your neck.

The crack of the powerful slap landed across his face caused the whole celebration to go quiet within an instant. If you weren’t so furious, you might have been embarrassed. Instead, you decided to play the role of the lady.

“If I see you, or any other knight,” you call to him and the crowd, eyeing the others, “grab at a woman or speak to a woman like that again, you will not have to fear the wrath of my husband, you will have to fear mine, which, believe me, is far worse,” you scold the now stunned knight.

“Fo-forgive me, my lady. I will do no such thing to any lady h-“

“No! Not just the ladies. Any woman, servants, maids, slaves, performers, any of them! Am I understood?”

“Y-yes,” the knight stuttered before stumbling away.

Lyonel was stunned by you. To see how you handled yourself with both grace and power, made his heart swell with love and desire.

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6. Your unique way of both acting like a lady and going against the grain

Most at your table seemed to see the way the lord had slapped his servant, but none seemed to react, even as the poor girl held back tears trying to clear the plates from the floor. This disgusted you and you felt the need to do something.

As you were about to rise from your chair, Lyonel grabbed your arm.

“Leave it,” he pointedly whispered in your ear.

“Just because everyone else is a coward, doesn’t mean I am,” you growled lowly back.

The sneer on your face made it clear he wouldn’t win this. Begrudgingly, Lyonel released your arm. You rose from the chair with the grace of a lady and he prepared for your raised voice, but it never came.

Turning around to face you, he was met with the heart-warming image of you crouched on the ground with the young girl. You looked the part of a lady, a mother and the warrior all in one. Grace, tenderness and bravery all radiated from you.

A warm smirk grew on his face.

“You should learn how to control your wife,” one of the fellow lords on his table scoffed.

“You should learn how to fuck yours.”

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7. How dirty you get when you’re drunk

Lyonel loved a party and at first he was nervous to push you into a big celebration. You’re new to this world and now at a tourney, he feared it might be too much for you.

While you appreciate this patience with you, you’re also at a tourney and would like to have a good time. You knew you shouldn’t have snuck off to a party like some teenager, but you’d made a new friend, Rowan, and she did a great job convincing you.

When Lyonel returned to your shared tent and you weren’t there, he began to panic. Luckily for him, one of your young handmaidens had cracked quickly and told him.

Of all you’ve done to amaze and enchant him during your time here, the site before him was certainly the most amazing and enchanting. Sweat caused your hair to stick to your face and your dress was slightly askew. You danced without a care in the world and seemed to be the life of the party. He couldn’t help but just stare at you.

His amazement only grew when you approached him and you confidently wrapped your hands around the back of his neck.

“Hey, baby,” you loudly flirt over the music, pushing yourself further against him.

“Hello, my lady. Are you having fun?” He asked with a grin, his hands now sitting on your hips.

“Yeah, missed you though. Fuck, you’re so sexy,” you compliment as your hand strokes through his beard, “bet we could have a better time back at our tent,” you continue to flirt, biting his earlobe as your hand travels down the front of his trousers.

It takes Dean a long time before he ever allows himself to be put in this position — vulnerable, open, seen. It’s not something he does. It’s not something he can do, or at least, not that easily. His life has never really been about him. Every good thing he’d ever done, every ounce of effort or care, it’s always been for someone else: Sam, Dad, the job. He’d never done anything for himself that didn’t somehow bleed into someone else. And even then, it never felt like enough.

Sam is his little brother, his responsibility. He raised him, he bled for him, he died for him. Dean had went to Hell with Sam’s name carved into every broken piece of him. Most people wouldn’t do that. But Dean Winchester isn’t most people. He’s his father's little soldier, the good son, the obedient one. There was never room for anything else. Never any space to figure out who he was outside of someone else's shadow. He didn’t belong to himself. Not when he was Sam’s guard dog. Not when he was John’s perfectly crafted weapon.

Dean hates himself — that much is obvious. He doesn’t need to say it out loud because he’s pretty sure that everyone already has that figured out, even if he wants to pretend that it isn’t true. It shows in the way he moves, the way he talks, the way he tears himself down before anyone else can get the chance to. He calls himself selfish, even though everything he’s ever done has been for the sake of everyone else. But he doesn’t see it that way. Dean never has. To him, sacrificing everything he is was just the bare minimum. That’s what he should do. Because what is he, if not useful? What is he, if not needed?

He’s so used to standing alone, to being the last line between the people he loves and the things that want to tear them apart. He'd rather it be him than anyone else — because somewhere along the way, he decided that his life just doesn't hold the same worth. Not like Sam's. Not like yours. And he hates that it hurts, but he also hates that he even thinks about wanting anything at all. Because wanting is selfish. Needing is selfish. And comfort? That’s not something Dean thinks he’d ever be allowed.

He’s touch-starved. He’s touch-starved in a way that's ingrained deep within his bones, but he’s convinced himself that this is just how it’s supposed to be. That he doesn’t get softness. Doesn’t get warmth. Doesn’t get to be held, or healed, or cared for. And if he ever lets himself want it — if he ever lets someone close enough to see how tired he is — then what does that make him? Weak? Needy? 

Yeah, it takes Dean a long while to let himself be put in this position — in your arms, safe, and loved, and for him to think that maybe he does deserve it. Even if he hasn’t earned it the way he thinks he’s supposed to. When it's so clear that all you want is to give it to him, no strings attached. It’s like coaxing a wild animal – careful, patient, and slow. You never corner Dean with affection, never overwhelm him with your gentle nature he doesn’t think he’s allowed to want. You just exist in his space, solid and steady, a quiet kind of constant that doesn’t ask for anything in return. And maybe that’s what gets to him most, that you don’t expect him to earn your kindness. You’re just there. And over time, that simple act starts to chip away at something inside him, something he didn’t even realize was still breakable.

It started with the smallest things. Your fingers brushing against his whenever you pass him something. The way you rest your hand on his arm when patching him up. They’re nothing, really — just harmless touches that you probably don’t even think about twice. But Dean does. He thinks about them more than he should. At first, he tells himself it's because he's not used to it. But the truth is, he misses it when it's gone. And that terrifies him. Because wanting something for himself? That’s not in the job description. That’s not who he’s supposed to be.

So when you get together and the cuddling starts, it’s always him as the big spoon. Of course it is. That’s who Dean is — the protector, the shield. He doesn’t let himself be held, not yet. He keeps watch even in the deepest of sleeps and in the darkest of nights, as if danger might strike at any moment. But your warmth seeps into him, like sunlight soaking into skin long starved of it. Dean’s drawn to you in a way that he hasn’t been drawn to anyone or anything before. His hand drifts to your chest, his breath soft and calm against your shoulder. It’s never deliberate, not at first, but over time it happens more often — these small, tender trespasses into comfort. And soon one day, without thinking, he simply lets himself fold right into you.

Dean revels in it more than he’ll ever admit. The way he fits so nice and easily in your arms — like he was always meant to be there. His head rests just above your heart, breathing synced with yours in the kind of rhythm that makes the world feel quiet for once. He's tucked into you so firm, your arms wrapping around him to secure him to you. As if in that moment, if something were to come through those motel doors, they would have to pry Dean from your cold dead hands. Because right now, he’s hidden from the world by the comforter that lays gingerly over him. It comes right up to his head, only his hair is visible to anyone that dare to even check. The only person that can truly see him is you. 

And Dean loves the little things that you do. Like how your fingers will trace shapes into the back of his neck, absent-minded and soft, like you’re painting calmness directly into his skin. Sometimes he wonders if you're drawing sigils or love notes, or just letting your touch wander. He doesn’t care what it is, though, just to be clear. He doesn’t care what you do. It leaves him feeling weightless, like his body is finally remembering what it feels like to be safe. That sensation, those tingles running down his spine, are enough to anchor him in the moment. And when everything else in his life has been chaos and guilt, and war — your touch is the one thing that doesn’t ask anything of him.

Which reminds him why he loves your hands. The way they move with such care, so soft it nearly breaks him into pieces. They’re nothing like his own — scarred, calloused, blood-soaked and burned by the weight of a world he never had a choice in. Your hands don’t carry the same kind of grief. They don’t know what it’s like to be dragged through Hell, to scream for years that don’t exist in time, to become the thing he swore he’d never be. He still remembers every second of it, every moment he was the one on the rack — the one being tortured, and worse, becoming the torturer.  And somehow, your hands still touch him like he’s someone worth such devotion.

That’s what gets to him the most. Your hands are from a place far far away, untouched by the things that plague his. There are no hunts or horrors quite like this life. And it’s that contrast that makes his mind wander. Because how could someone like you, with your soft hands and open heart, want someone like him? Someone who hates himself, who always puts others before himself and still believes he’s selfish for wanting anything in return. But even with all of that, even with everything screaming that he shouldn’t take it, he does. 

And you don’t mind. It surprises Dean the most how you completely and effortlessly don’t mind. He keeps waiting for the catch sometimes, for the moment when you pull away or start to expect something in return. But it never comes. Not with you. You let him hold on as tightly as he needs to, let him drape his weight across you like he’s something heavy and fragile all at once. His strong arms lock around your waist, pressing you close like he’s afraid of being pulled away. And even when his body sinks into yours like a living blanket — too warm, too much — you never pull away. If anything, you melt right into him, and he basks in that. In you.

You’d never complain. Dean doesn’t know if anything he does actually bothers you — nothing ever seems to — but that doesn’t stop him from overthinking. He worries about taking too much, about letting himself get too comfortable in a role he was never allowed to want. He questions if he’s too heavy, if he’s clinging too tightly, if maybe it’s selfish to crave softness when his whole life has been about giving it away. Sometimes, all it takes is a subtle shift from you, a stretch or a sigh, and his brain darkens with guilt. He’ll apologize under his breath, pulling back just slightly, ready to undo the comfort he let himself believe he could have. But you notice — of course you notice — and you meet it with tenderness, never rejection.

You resettle without hesitation, like you want him there, and he almost can’t handle how gently you handle him. You stroke the back of his neck with featherlight fingers, your arms curling around his broad frame as if you’re telling him to stay — that he’s safe. You press soft kisses to the crown of his head, murmuring reassurances in a voice that wraps around his heart like a warm blanket. It undoes him. Every single time. 

You might shift again, though this time it's much more gentle and slow, but Dean will barely register it. He’s just barely treading the line of that quiet space between sleep and wakefulness, just conscious enough to feel the warmth of you wrapped around him. And suddenly, a low, involuntary sound escapes him — so low that Sam who’s been long asleep couldn’t hear. It’s soft, almost like a whine, and you’re pretty sure if he were awake enough to notice, he’d probably deny it ever happened. But you do hear it, and it pulls a quiet laugh from your throat; a breathy sound laced with fondness and it tickles at Dean's brain. Though a sleepy pout tugs at your lips, even as you smile, and you lean in close to whisper a little teasing, “What’s wrong, hm?” but you already know. You know exactly what he wants, what he needs, because you’ve come to understand him in ways no one else ever has.

Your hand finds its way into his hair, still a little damp from the shower — the strands soft like clouds and a few curl slightly at the ends. Your fingers scratch lightly at his scalp, in slow and soothing consistent movements, while your other hand rests along his back; drawing slow, tender circles that feel like medicine to his aching and tension-filled body. You coo something nice, something sweet that melts into the space between you. It makes his mind go fuzzy and causes him to drift deeper. You don’t care that he’s heavy, or clingy, or quiet — you just want him to feel good. To be cared for, completely and unconditionally. And in this moment, that’s exactly what he lets you do. He doesn’t fight it. He can’t.

Your kisses are the softest sound he’s ever heard. Little clicks as your lips part from his skin, quiet and sweet and endlessly patient. Every single one makes him burrow closer, hiding his face like he could melt straight into you. He’s not embarrassed, not really — that wouldn’t be the correct word anyway — but his cheeks are warm, and he knows you’re amused by the way your chest rumbles with a quiet laugh. It makes him press in deeper, his face tucked away and eyelashes fluttering against your skin like a shy confession. And you take that as permission, because of course you do; pressing slow kisses across his cheeks, along his brow, the curve of his nose — anywhere your mouth can reach really and Dean just lets you. He can’t quite reach your lips from the angle he’s trapped himself into, he knows that, but he still tries to return the affection anyway. He’ll drowsily nudge kisses against your collarbone, or your shoulder, or anything he can manage.

And you call him such sweet things while you do it. They’re soft pet names that make him ache. Honey. Sweetheart. Words that never felt like they belonged to him before, but somehow, coming from you, feel like they do. He doesn’t know why you calling him sweetie makes his chest tight in a way that isn’t derived from panic or just something bad — but it does. But it’s also the way you say his name that gets him the most. The way it rolls off your tongue, syrupy and lovely, like something precious. You make his name sound beautiful. And Dean doesn’t know how you do it, how you take a name he’s only ever heard barked in anger or strained with urgency and turn it into something tender.

Your hand leaves his back for a moment and he misses the weight of it instantly — until he feels the soft brush of your fingers along his jaw. He sucks in a breath as you trace the edge of it with the back of your knuckle before cupping his cheek, stroking it with the pad of your thumb like he’s something delicate. He leans into it without meaning to, something quiet and needy pulling him into the warmth of your palm. You’re having fun with it, doting on him like he’s your favorite thing — and yeah, he is. He feels it in the way you touch him, in the way you look at him like he’s soft and worth loving. Dean’s never been cherished like this, not even close — and it makes him feel dizzy, overwhelmed in the best way possible. Dizzy and safe. Always safe, always with you.

It melts his heart and terrifies him at the same time. The way you treat him with so much care, so much softness, like he’s something worth keeping. And as much as he craves it, as deeply as his wretched soul aches for it, he still doesn’t believe he’ll ever actually deserve it. He tells himself he should pull away in the last conscious moments he has — but he doesn’t. He won’t. Because he let this happen. He let you in. Let the warmth of your love root itself in him until it was too deep to tear out without causing pain. Until not leaning into it hurt way worse than anything else.

Dean doesn’t know how he ended up here, wrapped up in arms that want nothing from him except for him to exist, but he gave up trying to make sense of it a long time ago. He can’t seem to make himself care about the why, though, not when you don’t seem to either. And maybe that does make him selfish because  he’s finally allowing himself to be. Sure, maybe there’s a whisper of guilt that still creeps into the corners of his mind, but you always chase it out with a kiss, or a soft word, or a tender look. And in these quiet, sacred moments, where his mind is just full of thoughts of you — he can’t think of Hell. He can’t think of all the horrors and pain and suffering. Just you. Sweet and gentle, and wonderful you. And somewhere in the deep dark of the night, Dean wonders why he was so against being selfish sooner.

Your thumb grazed easily along your phone screen. The light of dancing videos, cooking recipes, and out of context trauma dumps illuminating your face as you doom scrolled. TikTok wasn’t anything like any media you had, hell you didn’t even have proper social media till the 2000s. But it wasn’t hard to understand why so many young people were addicted to it.

One trend was reoccurring on your “for you page.” A trend where women tested their romantic partners by pretending to be strangers and flirting with them. The results were hilarious! Mostly they’d shout and scramble away from their partner, some even harshly pushing them onto the ground.

So, knowing full well Eddie barely touched social media, you decide to give it a shot.

You find him standing over his table in his office, the surface still covered in miniatures from his friend’s most recent D&D session. His long wavy hair is mostly grey, the ends of his hair managing to retain some of his youthful brown between silver strands. He was dressed casually, his arms and neck peeking out of his clothes to show off the art gallery on his skin he’d been building for decades. His tongue is poking out of his mouth as his wrinkled eyes flicker back and forth between his notes and the table, mouth framed by a modest but maintained beard.

You walk right past him, placing your phone down on a nearby coffee table with the stealth of a well trained rogue. Walking back towards him you put a gentle hand on his shoulder, “hey baby?”

Eddie’s still glued to the map he designed. He holds out a groan of acknowledgment as he moves a few more set pieces around. When he’s finally got the reins on his attention he turns around to look at you. “Yeah sweetheart?”

“Pretend I’m a random girl,” you spit out before launching yourself at Eddie.

Your hands hold his face firmly, ready for him to dash or thrash out of your hold. Leaning into him you deliberately kiss him, pecking his lips and pulling away to catch his reaction.

There’s no running, screaming, or pushing. No snide remarks, or horrified comments pretending to be offended at the hypothetical random woman. No. Instead his brows raise and eyes widen, a grin stretching his lips before his expression softens and his eyes glimmer.

His arms snake around your waist and pull you closer, “woah, hey, don’t stop there! Come ‘ere!”

“No- no Eddie-“ your voice is muffled as your lips are squished together, Eddie eagerly dipping you in his arm and kissing you with the eagerness of a kid in a candy store.

When you find your footing again you slightly push away from him with a laugh, “why’re you making out with a random girl?”

His smirk hasn’t left him as he shrugs innocently. “Cause you’re not a random girl?”

“I just said I was. I said ‘pretend I’m a random girl’ and then I kissed you,” you argue.

His expression finally drops as he quietly says “oh.” Lips pursing and eyes narrowing, his gaze migrates to the wall behind you. When he looks back at you he shrugs nonchalantly, “I didn’t hear that part.”

No, of course he didn’t hear that part, his undiagnosed ass was hyper-fixating. You let out a small huff and gently push him away, “okay well that’s what I said. Let’s try again.”

“Alright, I got it,” he insists with a casual wave of his hand. Eddie clears his throat before putting on a confident walk. He closes the narrow distance between you two with all the swagger he can muster and a playful grin you’re all too used to seeing. “Hey sweetheart, let me get you a-“

“Eddie!” You scold him.

Eddie’s palms raise in the air as he immediately tries to come to his own defense. “What? What’d I do?”

“You’re buying a random girl a drink?”

“I’m buying you a drink!”

You keel over with your hands on your knees, letting out a sound that’s halfway between a wheeze of mirth and a groan of frustration. You snap back up and try again, reeling in your dramatic reaction so he wouldn’t flake out on the video all together. “No, that’s not what I meant-“

“Is this not the role-play scenario you wanted? Pretending to be strangers and shit?” Eddie asked, completely confused.

“No. We’re still together.”

“Then  how are you a random girl?”

You clasp your hands together, taking a deep breath as you try to explain, again,  the context for this video. “How do you act when women flirt with you?”

Eddie snorts, raising a brow at you and settling his hands on his hips. “Sweetheart, women are not flirting with me anymore.”

“Okay fine-“ you sneer, waving your hands in the air to dismiss that prompt. “When women did flirt with you, what did you do?”

“Fuckin’ ignored ‘em,” Eddie stated without a second thought, swiping his hand across his chest like he was physically moving someone out of the way.

You clap your hands together before pointing at him, “okay great! Do that to me!”

Eddie stares at you for a long while, his brows furrow, deepening his crows feet, hands still poised on his hips. You get a little antsy as you know your phone is still recording and you haven’t gotten anything good from him yet.

“… no,” Eddie insists with a whining tone.

“Eddie-“ you groan in defeat.

“I’m not gonna ignore you- that’s stupid! This is stupid- what is this even about? Who is this for?” Eddie insists, annoyed and making damn sure you know it.

Now you know you’ve lost, and any hopes of going viral have been properly squished. You stomp over to your phone, snatching it up and turning it off, sliding it back into your pocket. “It’s a TikTok trend.”

He scoffs back, letting out a gruff laugh and rolling his eyes. “Of course it is. You gotta get off that app, it’s rotting your brain. Half the shit you see is fake.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” you mumble, tired of hearing Eddie’s latest speech about new aged conformity.

He snatches you up before you can walk out the door, snaking his arms around your waist. He leans back against his table while pulling you close to him, his worn face holding the same fresh affection he’s held for you for years. “You don’t need that bullshit to prove my loyalty.”

You accept his words without much reaction, used to his adoration by now. But he’s not satisfied with your neutrality, so he leans down and kisses along your neck. “I fucking adore you,” he mutters against your skin, kissing a little more deliberately on spots you’re sensitive. You ease in his arms, head tilting ever so slightly for him.

He kisses up your neck, pecking your jaw and your cheeks, before happily kissing you again. “Nothing fake about this,” he said softly but with confidence.

You offer him a small smile back, running your hands up his shoulders. “I know. You’re just terrible in front of a camera.”

He laughs back, hands dragging down your sides as you pull away, “yeah I know. I don’t get social media. Kids should just sneak out and get drunk like we used to.”

“Right, cause we turned out so great with that kind of upbringing,” you remark sarcastically, pulling out your phone again.

Eddie chuckles under his breath, turning back to look at his table. He remembers something, looking back at you from over his shoulder, “oh- did you see that video on Facebook? The bunnies jumping on the trampoline?”

You glance up at him, your attention still glued to your phone. “That’s AI.”

He straightens up, face twisting instantly, “no it’s not. It’s someone’s ring-cam footage.”

“Yeah, generated by AI. It’s fake, babe.” You state plainly.

"Darling, what is going on? What is happening? You have to talk to me I—"

"Steve please. Just. Make it quick. I can't stand here and just wait anymore. Make it quick."

"Make what quick? Y/N?"

“Just do it. Please.”

Maybe if you hadn't said anything it would've worked out. It probably would've worked itself out. It would've worked out.

Fucking pathetic.

You stared and stared at the photo of Steve and Robin and Nancy and Jonathan and Eddie and Lucas and Max and Dustin and Mike and Will and El and Hopper and Joyce and---. You couldn't bear it any longer, swiping away to the next. It was the photo of you and Robin at some concert. Your eyes were a blackish smudge from the small amount of make up you had put on, and the more you looked at the photo, the more you realized how gaunt and sick and ugly and gross and greasy you looked. Y/n remembered explicitly asking Robin not to post that photo. 

You looked pathetic in it.

Robin had moved out four months ago, leaving you to find an apartment all by yourself. It was expensive, but you had saved enough, knowing one day Robin would leave you behind, moving in with her girlfriend. Besides, you have a decent enough paying job that you could manage a one bedroom apartment and not be homeless for a few months, in case something bad happened. And yes, you were happy for Robin, for them, but your new space was just that. Space.

No photos along the walls, no posters in the bathroom. No plants or fun colored blankets. Just boxes sitting around, waiting to be unpacked by someone who was sure that nothing lasted and if you unpacked, you’d inevitably have to pack again.

A pathetic attempt at a home.

"I don't know what you want me to do Y/N. All you have done this past week has been fucking miserable. All you've done the past month has been fucking miserable. I tried to help you. I tried to step back. I tried to give you space. I tried everything I could think of, everything the internet fucking suggested. I did it all. And yet here we are, with you looking at me like this. Is that what you want me to say? Is that what you wanted to goad me into?"

Y/N had never cried in front of Steve. You barely cried in front of Robin. So in the privacy of your own home, you sobbed. Your own mind crashing down, what ifs floating around, bruising your body, your heart.

You were just there, you had just been there. Nothing happened. Everything happened. It's been a month. It's been a year. You replayed every moment in her mind, wondering why the fuck someone so self-sabotaging, so pathetic, could continue functioning as she did.

It was Robin's turn to light up your phone, pulling you away from your thoughts. As you had the past three days, you deleted the text message notification.

You just couldn’t bring yourself to text back. You knew how concerned Robin would be but it’s not like she would do anything rash anyways so. You felt too pathetic to actually make a substantial dent in yourself and your living situation so…Who even cared. 

Music. You needed music.

That might help. 

Your mother always used to play something when she was feeling overwhelmed. After hitting play on a playlist and skipping through the songs until you got to the one you wanted, you threw the phone on the bed. Your head was spinning. It made you feel sick—seasick. Like the world was rocking her back and forth.

"Nothing lasts Steve. Nothing ever lasts. I know you. I've seen you. I've seen the way you've acted these past few weeks. Like you can't stand to be around me."

"You're fucking crazy if you thin–"

"DON'T call me crazy."

“Baby, I'm sorry. That was the wrong word Y/n. I didn't mean you were--"

"I know what you think of me. I've seen the way you look at Robin when I say something. I see the way your face curls looking at me. I don't get why you won't just break up with me; Why you insist on dragging this on and on and on. Did I do something to you?”

Steve just looked at you. And for the first time in your relationship, you could not figure out what he was thinking. This was a stranger staring back at you.

The phone lit up again, this time, a phone call. You saw Robin's name, and just let it ring out. You just really weren't in the mood.

You had done your obligatory once a month outing to satisfy her best friend. Robin could wait until the next one.

The second call came soon after.

There was a brief moment where you almost answered. You held the phone in your hand, letting it ring, before turning the phone to do not disturb and returning to the music. Laying on the bed, staring at the brick and mortar wall surrounding you—closing in on you The cracks in the building stared back. Ironic that you felt more connected with this ancient shitty building than you did with everyone else in her life.

"You want to break up."

"No. No. You. You want to break up. I've seen it. You-You don't want this anymore. I see the way you look at me."

Steve had just stood there. Looking at you long and hard for a few moments.

"If this is what you want." He walked over and went to kiss your forehead, but you couldn't stand the thought of someone pretending to love you. So you stepped away.

"Okay. I...I have to go."

And that was the last time you ever saw Steve Harrington.

Y/n felt bound to this man. Like he was with you for it all. He was supposed to be with you for all of it.

And yet someone in your head was screaming that Steve couldn't stand the thought of her anymore.

And it was coming from your own head, so it had to be right...right?

____________________________________________________________

You didn’t know how late it was when you woke up again. Maybe two am? The place was deathly quiet, almost as if an echo had just died. Your phone wasn't turning on. It must've died.

The knocking started again, reminding you what woke you up in the first place.

You slowly slipped off the bed and into the kitchen. For a brief moment, you almost grabbed a frying pan, but then heard who was on the other side of the door. 

"Babe. Are you in there? Hello?? Y/n??? If you don't open the door in the next minute, I'm breaking in. You have to respond to me because your phone says you’re here even though I think it died. Y/n Hello? Hello??"

You flinched at her voice. Finally going to unchain the door and open it up to Robin and—

Robin and Steve.

You almost missed the cry of relief from his lips as Robin practically tackled you to the ground, holding you hostage in her arms.

"Oh my god why weren’t you answering your phone. And then it just stopped going through so I couldn't tell if you had blocked me or if your phone died or what the fuck was going on. Why didn't you answer me? It's been like three days. You said you wouldn't do that to me again—" Robin chattered on. But her eyes looked over her shoulder at Steve.

He looked just like you remembered, maybe a bit more grown, but still the same Steve.

Steve’s eyes were trailing across your body, your face, your eyes.

The look on his face made you want to melt into the Earth and be absorbed so no one would ever look at you like that again.

"–Y/n?" Robin pulled back, checking in on her friend now that her worrying about you being alive had come to an end. "Hey."

You looked back at her, stomach starting to simmer. There were tears brimming in the back of your throat. 

Robin’s hand on your cheek.

"I thought...you were in..."

"Steve drove me."

Your eyes dashed between Robin and Steve. He was still standing in the hallway, while Robin was trying to keep your attention.

"Babe."

You focused in on her eyes, on Robin, emotions beginning to bubble over.

"Y/n, it's okay. I'm right here, yeah? It’s okay."

You felt your head nod, squeezing Robin’s arm, trying to stabilize a sinking ship. Futile attempt.

You had never cried in front of Steve. You barely cried in front of Robin. But today was the dawning of a new day because you broke.

Somehow Robin had managed to get the both of you onto the floor. You felt as you shattered into a million little shards of glass in Robin’s arms, scattering across the world as you swore your tears tried to sink the apartment.

Gutwrenching sobs wracked your whole body as Robin held on, cradling you to her chest, whispering how sorry she was, how she wished she had checked in a bit more, how it's okay that you're not okay, how she loved you so much.

All you could do was shake your head and cry some more.

Steve had moved into the apartment and closed the door, looking around at everything. He heard you break before seeing it. You had only cried in front of him once in your entire three year relationship. He hadn't known why he parked the car and came up with Robin. He had told himself it was for her, to support Robin.

You had broken his heart.

He didn't know why, but you had. And he couldn't stand the thought of being in the same room as you again.

But when Robin had started panicking two days ago, something kicked into gear. He drove all the way here, found parking two blocks over, and booked it even though he had no idea where you were now living.

He latched the door and knelt down on the opposite side of you, looking at Robin who was trying not to lose it completely at the sight of her best friend on the verge of the end of her own story.

Steve wrapped his arms around both of you, and all three of you sat there until the world stopped spinning and the stars had burned out.

Robin slowly pulled away when you inevitably passed out from the sheer amount of exhaustion and dehydration. Steve helped get you to bed, holding you the entire time. He kissed your forehead before slowly leaving the bedroom and going back into the kitchen, headed straight for Robin.

Robin wrapped her arms around him and cried into him, with him crying right back.

"I had no idea she was so bad..." She whispered.

"No one did." Steve kicked himself mentally for not seeing it a year ago.

"But I should've. I'm her best friend."

"Rob. I should’ve too. But we've been up for over twenty hours. Let’s not play the blame game and get some sleep, yeah? Do you wanna go in there with her? I'll be out on the couch."

Robin nodded but didn't pull away just yet.

"Thank you for coming, Steve. I know this..."

Steve shook his head. "We both know I was going to come back with you the second you first mentioned she hadn't answered your texts after two days," he whispered.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You woke up a few hours later, head aching. 

Robin was laying next to you, sound asleep, not disturbed by the sun coming up through the window. 

Very, very slowly, you moved off the bed, starting to remember events of the early morning. Robin holding you while you cried…and Steve. 

Was he still here? 

Robin made a noise in the back of her throat when you finally removed all your weight from the bed, but all she did was roll over. You sighed a large sigh of relief, only to hold your breath because it made Robin shift again. 

“Y/n?” 

You turned around and looked at her. “Robs I–”

She shook her head. “Don’t you dare apologize.” 

“But I–”

“No. Don’t.” She stood up and put a hand on your shoulder. “Are you okay?” 

You nodded, but didn’t say anything else. There was not a lot you could say. 

Telling your best friend that her and your ex boyfriend showing up at your door and staying the night with her while she had a slight mental breakdown made her feel the best she has felt in over a year was not something you knew how to vocalize at the moment. 

“Will you be okay if I run to the corner and grab us some breakfast or something? I can go to Ernie's and grab your favorite if you’d like. But I don’t want to leave you that long if you don’t want—”

“Robs I’ll…I’ll be okay. Go get Ernies yeah? Three blocks there and three blocks back won't be the death of me I promise.”  

Robin didn’t look entirely too pleased at your joke, but she nodded and gave you a big hug before leaving the bedroom. You could hear her talking to him. 

Once you heard the door shut, you slowly made your way out of your bedroom and down the tiny hall into the living area. 

And there he was, sitting up on the couch, looking back at you. 

“You came.” 

He just nodded, not responding, looking at you with the most indiscernible look on his face. It infuriated you. 

“Please don’t look at me like that Steve.” 

“Like what?”

“Like that! You’re doing it right now? Like some sort of ‘better than thou pity’ bull–”

“Like I love you?” 

“—shit that…” You stopped. “That’s just cruel Steve.” 

“How is it cruel?”  He jumped up, so you were both standing across from one another. “How is it cruel, to you, when I have loved you from the moment we first met and you absolutely broke my heart last year, with no real evidence, as you called it. You kept saying you could see it in my eyes. The way I looked at you, at Robin. Those looks? That's concern. That’s love. I was worried about you. I still fucking am. Why do you think I drove Robin all the way here?”

Your head started to spin. He had to be fucking with you. There was no way he was telling the truth. He thought you were pathetic like he had before.  

“You’re doing it again. Stop it.” He grabbed your hand with enough force to startle you out of your own head, but not enough to bruise. 

“I….”

“I have always loved you. I still do. I love you so much that there is nothing else to it. I don't know who else you are listening to but I need you to hear me.” 

Steve felt as your hand trembled, as your shoulders shuttered. It was one of those rare moments where everything else went quiet. You slowly looked around at your surroundings before focusing in on Steve’s voice, his lips. 

“I need you to trust me, what I am saying, before you start listening to whatever else is going on in your head. Please.” His voice was softer now. “I am here because I wanted to make sure you’re okay. I am here because I care about you. And I am so sorry I didn’t say it sooner. I am so sorry I didn’t make it better known to you. I love you so much. And I mean it. In every word, in every syllable. I believe we were bound together by something, meant to be, whatever that might be, and if I have to fight you to get you to listen to me then jesus fuck I will do that. And if you don’t want me, then I’ll accept it. What I won't accept you saying is that I don’t want you. Because that’s not true.” 

You let his voice wash over you, roll around in your head, nothing else coming back at this moment. All was quiet. 

Steve watched you, his body screamed patience but his eyes bore into you, begging you to look back at him, to listen to him. 

Slowly, you nodded. “I–” 

Steve Harrington pulled you close and held onto you. He kissed your head and let himself engulf you. 

You wrapped your arms tightly around him, eyes watering at the thought of the self destructive nature you had developed. How stupid of you, how pathetic you couldn’t even—

“I can hear your thinking. Stop it.” He muttered into your hair, running his thumb up and down your shoulder. 

You let yourself kiss his collarbone, and closed your eyes. “Say it again.” You murmured, indulging yourself in him. 

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” 

You felt his whole body sag in relief, "I love you so much. Please, don’t ever disappear on us like that ever again. Please. We were so…We thought you might have…” 

“I’m sorry.” 

He shook his head. “Don’t apologize, just. Please don’t.”

“I’ll try. I can’t promise but–”

Steve shook his head. “Trying is already more than enough.” 

He moved one of his hands around, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, his hand on your cheek. You looked up at him, gave him a soft smile, and leaned in, softly pressing your lips to his. 

It felt like an antidote. It felt like a breath of fresh air. It felt like the curtains were being drawn back and the sun was shining once more. Your world collided with itself, and you felt back at home once more. 

You could hear the voices creep up behind you, but Steve kissing you back banished them once again. Your shoulders felt lighter, your insides felt warmer. 

They would not be so easily won over. Not everytime. They never were. But this time you felt like it might be okay. It would be okay. You could hear Steve in your head, his sweet musings falling from his lips, drowning out whoever else was in there.