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xfilescat · 6 years

Text

unbroken (steve harrington x reader)

word count: juuust shy of 2k

warnings: angst, fluff, language! i swear, you guys: in real life i’m SO prim and proper, but for some reason i curse like a frickin’ sailor when i write lmao

preview: “‘Do you think we’ll ever be able to feel like regular people again?’

‘I don’t know. But I do know one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I know that I love you, and I’ll always do everything I can to make you feel safe.’”

A/N: hi friends!!! this is just a little one-shot thingy (set some time after the end of season 2) that i randomly thought of whilst in the middle of writing something else, so i took a break and jotted this down. is jotted the past tense of jot? idk. anyway, sorry this is so short!!! also FORGIVE ME if i sound completely clueless about guns (there’s one mentioned in here) bc i’m very anti-gun (we need gun control NOW) so I don’t know anything about them. had to google “how do guns work? i’m a writer” and now the nsa is probably watching me. it’s fine! nsa, if you’re reading this, i’m literally just a clueless teenage writer. oh and enjoy my story! :) lol what if while i was writing this, the gov’t just broke down my door and took me away? that would be so

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” You’re sitting on the floor of your bedroom, your fingers shaking as you struggle to wrangle your hair into a tight french braid. You’ve got the handset of your phone jammed between your ear and your shoulder. It’s ringing, ringing, ringing. “Pick up the goddamn phone, Harrington,” you whisper through your teeth. You wait, but you hear nothing. Nothing but more fucking ringing. You finally finish your braid and tie it off, and then you grab the phone and slam it as hard as you can back onto the receiver.

Because of all of the crazy, unbelievable, and traumatizing shit you’ve been through, you and your boyfriend Steve have made each other an unbreakable promise: you call each other every night, no exceptions. No. Exceptions. Before this deal was brokered, you would both lie awake every night worried that the other was in danger, or hurt, or worse. Some might say you two were paranoid. Well, some haven’t been to hell and back. Some haven’t been attacked by literal monsters. Some haven’t watched the person they love almost die—multiple times. It’s not paranoia if the danger is real, so the nightly calls help you both sleep better. You can’t possibly go to bed in peace without hearing Steve’s voice. This is the first night in eight months that he hasn’t answered you on the first ring. So, you think to yourself, you’re going to his house right now. And you’re going to be prepared.

Irrational. Irrational. Irresponsible and irrational. That’s all you can think as you run from your bedroom to your basement, but your brain can’t seem to stop your feet from carrying you directly to your father’s safe under the stairs. You know the code. “For emergencies,” your dad had said when he gave it to you (right after the news about Will Byers’ disappearance spread through town). It’s your mother’s birthday. You’re so keyed up that it takes you four tries to get it open, but once you’re in, you grab the .45 without hesitation. It feels cold, foreign, and wrong in your hand. Good, you think. You would’ve been far more unnerved if it’d felt right.

There’s a glaring flaw in your plan: you don’t know how to shoot a gun. Shoving the pistol into the pocket of your jacket, you speed back to your bedroom (taking great care not to wake your sleeping parents), launch yourself at the phone, and hurriedly dial your best friend’s number. Her dad’s a cop and you know for a fact she’s been to the shooting range with him once or twice. She picks up instantly. “Hey Y/N, what’s up?” You take a deep breath and force a smile that you hope she’ll be able to hear through the phone.

“Heyyy, Grace! So, I’m writing a short story and I have a question for you.”

“Shoot!” You cringe at her remarkably apropos word choice.

“Can you… can you explain how to use a gun? One of my characters uses one and, uh, you know me: total perfectionist. Gotta make my work accurate!”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. You tap your foot anxiously, glancing over at the clock on your nightstand. It’s 10:06, four minutes since you last called Steve. A lot of shit can go down in four minutes. Your head starts to spin. She finally responds.

“This is for a short story?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of gun is it? In your story, I mean.”

“It’s a .45.”

She sighs heavily. “There’s a little lever thing on the grip. That’s the safety. Switch it down, aim, and pull the trigger.”

You know she’s suspicious. She doesn’t know anything about what you and the others went through, but she knows you’ve suddenly lost the ability to go anywhere by yourself, you haven’t turned off the lights in your room since last November, and you jump whenever someone shuts their locker a little too hard. She’s probably very scared, and you feel sick with guilt. You can’t think about that right now, though. All you can think about is Steve.

“Gracie, I’m fine. I’ll call you tomorrow, I promise.”

“I’ll be waiting. You know you’re a terrible liar, Y/N/N. Whatever the hell you’re doing, you better be careful.”

“I will be. Don’t worry.”

You hang up, frantically leap to your feet, and grab the first pair of shoes that you see (actually, you just grab the first two shoes you see, which is how you ended up in one black boot and one brown one). You slide open your bedroom window. It’s pitch dark and raining hard outside, so that should make the climb down the drainpipe a whole lot more interesting. Luckily, you make it to the ground with minimal injuries. You rush to your car and reach into your pocket for your— “FUCK! FUCK FUCK FUCK!” You whisper-scream as you realize your pocket contains nothing but your dad’s gun. Suddenly, you remember where your keys are: locked in the fucking car. You did it this afternoon when you got home from school and promptly forgot about it. You absolute IDIOT.

Well, you think to yourself with a humorless chuckle, desperate times call for… throwing a rock through your window. After a quick search, you lift up a sizable stone from the street and lob it as hard as you can at your passenger window. It shatters with an ear-splitting crash. You glance up at your parents’ bedroom window to make sure they didn’t hear, and breathe out in relief when you see that the light’s still off. They’re gonna kill you when they find out, but at this moment, you couldn’t care less. You reach into the car to open the door from the inside, and in your haste, you slice open your forearm on a jagged piece of glass. “God-FUCKING-damn it,” you screech, feeling faint as you watch your jacket sleeve turn dark red. Great! Just great.

Shaking your head, you quickly brush the window shards off the passenger seat, climb inside, and clamber over to the steering wheel. Jamming the keys into the ignition, you stomp on the gas and speed off down the street. Your goal is to cram the fifteen minute drive to Steve’s house into a mere five minutes. You hope that neither the blood loss nor the anxious tears in your eyes ruin that plan.

You’re there in seven minutes. You pull into the driveway and slam hard on the brakes, tires screeching as you come to a jolting halt. Immediately, you pull the gun out of your pocket, stumble out of the car, and run up to the house—oh my god, why are all the lights off?—without bothering to shut off your car’s engine or even close the door. When you reach Steve’s front door, you knock about a million times. Your mind is jumping to horrific conclusions and you’re powerless to stop it. You hold your breath when you hear movement inside. You hold your father’s pistol tighter, going over Grace’s instructions in your head just in case: turn safety off, aim, pull trigger.

Fortunately, you don’t need to use any of that information because your boyfriend opens the door a moment later, his car keys in his hand and a worried look on his face. “Steve,” you choke out, breathing a shuddering sigh of relief. He looks you up and down, eyes widening in concern when he sees the gun in your shaking hand, the blood soaking through your sleeve, and the fact that you’re drenched with rainwater. He knows you well enough to know exactly why you’re here. “Y/N, baby, oh my god, I’m so sorry I didn’t call. This storm’s knocked out all the phone lines and the power on my street. I was just about to drive over to your place.” You don’t say anything. You just drop the gun and throw your arms around him. He pulls you close without hesitation. “Are you okay?” You nod into his chest, mumbling, “I am now.”

He leans back just enough to look into your eyes, leaving his arms around your waist. “Do you wanna tell me why you’re still crying, then?”

“I’m not crying,” you sob.

He breathes a laugh, sitting down on the front step and gently pulling you down with him. You’ve started shivering, and he notices. “Stay here, I’ll be right back,” he says softly before he sprints into the house. He returns in seconds with that thick wool blanket that’s always draped over the back of his living room sofa. He knows it’s your favorite. He drapes it over your shoulders and sits back down next to you. “Please tell me what’s wrong, Y/N/N.”

He wraps his arm around you and you lean against him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I hate living like this,” you whisper. “I hate that this happened to us. I just want to go back to normal. This is—this is too hard.” He tenses. “By ‘this,’ do you mean us? Do you… not want to be together anymore?” You remember that conversation you had a few months ago about how bad Nancy messed him up, how he doubts himself as a boyfriend, how he has a debilitating fear of you not loving him. You sit up straight and tenderly place your hands on either side of his face, staring deep into his eyes. “I’ve never wanted anything more than I want to be with you, Steve. I love you so much. This isn’t about my feelings for you at all—those will never change.”

Steve nods, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “I’m sorry. I know you love me, I do, and I love you, but I just—” He starts to ramble, so you gently interrupt. “No, it’s okay! God, you’re so sweet. You don’t have anything to apologize for. I know you, I care about you so much, and I’m not going anywhere. Loving you isn’t the thing that’s hard.” You look down. “It’s—it’s living in constant fear that I’m gonna lose you.” Your voice breaks, and he pulls you back into his arms. “Hey, shh. Look at me. Nobody’s losing anybody, okay?” He pauses to kiss you again, slowly and sweetly this time. “I’m not going anywhere, either. Everything that happened, all of the bad stuff, it’s all over. Everybody’s okay. We’re all safe.” You sigh deeply, sinking into his warmth. “Do you think we’ll ever be able to feel like regular people again?”

“I don’t know. But I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I know that I love you, and I’ll always do everything I can to make you feel safe.”

You hug him tighter, and he pulls you onto his lap. You don’t know if he’s right about everything being over, but you know that you’ve never felt safer than you do right here in his arms. After a few minutes of peaceful quiet, he looks down at you. “You wanna stay over tonight? I could take a look at your arm and try to patch it up. Plus, you’re already out of your house.” You smile brightly. “Of course. But no funny business, Harrington. I’ve just had a very rough night.” He sighs in mock-disappointment. “Well, shit! There go my plans.” You giggle, resting your head on his shoulder once more. Another comfortable silence ensues before he speaks up again. “You’re wearing two different shoes.”

“I know.”

“Your car’s still running. And did you… did you smash the window?”

“I know. And yes.”

“You’re gonna have to explain that to me later. Is that how you hurt yourself?”

“I will. And yes.”

“You’re crazy. I love you. Also, you missed a whole section of your hair when you were braiding it.”

“Alright, watch it, Harrington.”

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington reader insert #steve harrington #stranger things #stranger things reader insert #st #reader insert #x reader

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