kelp

24!

[morganbritton132]

Steve is the only person Max doesn’t completely pull away from .

She knows he has his own complicated feelings about Billy that he doesn't talk about. For the longest time after the fight, he wouldn't even say Billy's name so she knows he won't ask.

And he doesn't.

They talk. They never really say much of anything and most of their interacts are tied into employee/customer roles across the counter at Family Videos, but they talk.

She rents a movie. Steve pretends to charge her for it. It's never much more than that but... it's something.

It's the only interaction that she has that isn't filled with this unspoken pity. There isn't this silent expectation that she'll snap back into normal. There's no held-breath anticipation that she'll talk about it, about him.

She doesn't know how to do that so - so she can't talk to Lucas, or Nancy, or write back to El. She can't even talk to her mom.

It's just Steve and his dumb attempt to get her to rent the muppet movie again because -

"I’m telling you, Mayfield. Popcorn, extra butter, Kermit, and bam. That's a good Friday night."

"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."

"Everybody has a good time with Kermit. Ask Robin."

"Shut up," Robin calls from the back.

Steve smiles at the obvious inside joke, "She loves Kermit."

"Shut up!"

And for once - for the first time in a while - Max smiled too.

[morganbritton132]

You know that picture of Robert Downey Jr being gentle with his child and Chris Hemsworth holding his kid up by their leg?

That's how Hopper treats Kid Steve and Kid Eddie in my Creature and the Weird Kid posts.

[morganbritton132]

Hopper with Steve (5yo): It there's anything going on that you don't like, you can tell me and I'll take care of it

Hopper with Eddie (6yo): If you put another live animal in my vehicle, I am going to drive you six miles into the woods and leave you there.

Eddie: I'd come back

Hopper: I know

Steve: Mr Hopper, I know something I don't like

Hopper: What is it?

Steve: I don't want you to leave my weird friend in the woods 'cause he'll die.

Hopper: I meant stuff you don't like at your house, Steve

Steve: Oh

Steve: Broccoli

Eddie: I don't like broccoli either!

[morganbritton132]

(Like ten minutes after this)

"I see you got a parent today."

"Yep," Steve nods, watching Hopper pull a chair out and sit down with his lunch across from him. "I’m with my dad. He's over there."

"Why is he all the way over there and you're over here?"

"Coach Benny said I can sit here 'til someone needs the table so you can't tell me to leave."

"I wasn't planning on it."

"Good."

Hopper lets the silence linger. He busies his hands with sweeting his tea and waits. He's learned that this kid tends to say more when he's not asked.

"I’m mad at my dad," Steve eventually says. "He's a butthead...don't tell him I said that."

"I won't."

"Did you know that there's a man on the roof at my house?" Steve asks. "He's fixin' it 'cause it rains in the attic so he's allowed to be there. That's why I’m with Dad 'cause I can't be friends with the roof man even though I wouldn't get on the roof. Again. Mama went to the sal-lawn and Dad and me were supposed to go to the zoo but we can't 'cause stupid Greg."

"Who's Greg?"

"I dunno," Steve shrugs. "He's over there."

There's no subtle way to look behind you so Hopper doesn't try.

He twists in his chair and - "That's Greg Samuels."

"My dad is his lawyer or something."

Hopper frowns.

He knows Greg. They were on the football team together in high school. He owns a construction company out of Birdseye. Why the hell would he need a criminal defense attorney?

Hopper doesn't have time to dwell on it.

"I don't like Greg 'cause there are seals at the zoo and I wanna see 'em," Steve says. "I talked to a lady on the phone 'cause - I wasn't bothering her or nothing. The zoo said I can call sometimes, jus' not a whole lot 'cause they gotta take care of the animals."

"Anyways, she said that seals wave at you," He continues. "She said they can clap their flippers and they eat fish, and they bark. Like a dog, Mr Hopper. So cool!"

"But Dad said we gotta see them a different time," He says, excitement seeping out of his voice. "It's okay 'cause Dad works a lot. He's really busy and he works really hard so he can buy me stuff and - it's okay."

"We'll go when Dad's not busy," He reassures himself. "The seals don't drive so they won't go no where."

"What about the monkeys?" Hopper asks. "Can they drive?"

"Hm," He thinks about it. "They can't drive 'cause they don't got a license, Mr Hopper. They just monkey around like me."

Hopper nods.

"You know," He says. "I’m pretty sure the eighth grade class takes a trip to the zoo at the end of the school year."

"I won't have to wait that long 'cause me and Dad are gonna go together."

"Okay, Steve."

"He promised."

"Okay."

[morganbritton132]

"Dad."

Steve watches his father on the other side of the booth at Benny's Burgers. He watches him scan the newspaper in front of him, flipping it to read the other side, and Steve tries again, "Dad... Dad! Daaaaaaaaaa-"

"Christ, Steven," Richard Harrington swears, looking up at his five year old. "What?"

"Can I ask you a question? It's important."

"What is it?"

"Do you think seals wish they had people arms?"

Richard gives him a blank stare.

He goes back to his newspaper.

"Dad? Did you hear me?" Steve asks. "Do you think-"

"No, Steve," He sighs. "It's a pointless question so no, I don't think about nor have I ever considered if seals wish they had arms. I doubt they're capable of that level of cognitive thought."

"Do you wish you had flippers instead of hands?"

He sighs. Louder.

"Steve," Richard says with the patience of a lawyer questioning a difficult witness. "Figure out what you want for lunch and keep quiet."

"Oh. Okay," Steve says. "I want french fries."

"Noted."

Steve picks up a crayon and colors on the paper placemat. His father goes back to reading until-

"Do you think the seals will wave at us when we see them 'cause seals can wave with their flippers and-"

"We're not going to the zoo."

"What?" Steve frowns. "But - but you promised!"

"There was a change in plans. I have to meet someone here today. I already told you this. You need to pay attention."

"N-no, you didn't! I'd a'member 'cause it'd hurt my heart 'cause you - you said we'd really go this time and - and - you're a liar!"

"Quiet down," Richard hisses. "We will go another time but not if you throw a tantrum. You're better than that."

Steve drops his head on his crossed arms and all but whines, "I want to go now."

"I know," He sighs, drops a hand onto his son's head and ruffling his hair. "Sometimes things come up and we have to reschedule. It's no big deal. I need you to behave when Greg gets here. Steve, you got that?"

"I got it."

"Good," He says. "If you're good, you can get a new toy."

Steve stays like that for a while.

His head pillowed on his arms, his eyes filled to the brim with tears, anger in his heart, and then he sucks it up. He lifts his head.

"I’m mad at you," He declares. "I don't wanna have Steve and Dad day no more and-"

"Any more."

"-I don't wanna talk to you anymore. I want my mama 'cause she's not a liar. I’m goin' home."

"No, you're not."

Steve huffs.

He crosses his arms and he pouts before declaring, "I’m goin' over there and you can't stop me."

"That's fine."

"I hope a seal never waves at you."

[graywrenhart]

TRUCE

pairing: steve harrington x female!reader

summary: When your ex-friends-with-benefits proves he's incapable of keeping his mouth shut even while jerking off alone in his tent, you're forced to intervene. God, do you have to do everything yourself?

tags: MDNI, [SMUT] [ex-friends-with-benefits to lovers] [camp counselors][summer rivalry] [heavy mutual pining] [angst] [steve & reader are both college age] [fourth of july] [semi-public sex] [handjob] [tent sex] [trying to be quiet and failing miserably] [discussions of canon stranger things events] [oral sex f receiving] [talking about trauma/therapy] [fingering] [steve calls reader sweetheart, brat, bitch (once) and baby] [one thigh spank] [unprotected creampie] 5k words

a/n: saw this post from @s3xytosomeone and got inspired. let’s all just pretend i actually posted this on the 4th, okay? okay thanks!!!!

There are noises coming from Steve’s tent.  

You lie completely still under your own tent’s ceiling, breath caught in your chest. 

There it is again. Another soft grunt, but this one is deeper, almost desperate.

You’ve heard these sounds before. Your mouth goes dry as the reality of what he’s doing settles in your gut, a sharp ache building low between your hips. 

Thank God you’re all the way out instead of back at camp where your middle school-age campers are tucked away, sleeping in their cabins on the hill.

At Camp Woodwick, the last night of their month-long summer session always ends on the Fourth of July. Which is tonight. And on the last night, the counselors don’t have a curfew, so the whole lot of you can pitch tents down by the lake and watch the fireworks show. 

It was fun for awhile, but after a handful of lackluster campfire stories and couple burnt marshmallows, Steve announced he was going to bed. The guys complained, begging him to light some fireworks with them, but he said he was going to turn in anyway. 

Right after his eyes caught yours. 

You excused yourself shortly after him, not even really sure why. And as you changed into your sleep shorts and a t-shirt, and settled into your sleeping bag, you blamed your sour mood on the heat and the bugs.

Assuring yourself that it had nothing to do with the fact that you and Steve Harrington have been at each other’s throats for weeks.

Tonight is is counselor’s night out! It’s supposed to be a fun end-of-the-summer bash for all the adults who were paid a few grand to babysit. It’s the night everyone looks forward to the most. 

You should be having fun—being young. Whatever that means. 

At some point between the whole saving-the-world-and-barely-escaping-with-your-life-thing, you became somewhat of a stranger to that idea. Your life had been, for lack of a better term, flipped upside down. 

Steve groans again. Hot embers flare to life in your core, stirred up by the sound of his thready voice. So low and breathless. 

He has to shut up. What is he thinking, jerking off like this with people nearby?

Granted, your tents are the furthest away from everyone else’s, and no one has really gone to bed yet. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal. But between the sticky humid air clinging to your skin, and the sharp whistles from exploding fireworks, when Steve moans softly again you finally just…snap. 

Ripping the blankets off yourself, you rustle around your tent for your flashlight, grumbling and muttering in the dark.

God, you have to do everything yourself, don’t you? 

You wince as your tent opens with a loud zip that punctuates the darkness surrounding you. Peeking over your shoulder, you can see the smoke from the campfire in the distance, curling up towards the stars. A few of your fellow counselors are still lounging around the fire, but most of them are small shadows dotting the lake’s edge. 

Steve pitched his orange tent under a tree. 

Stupid. 

Doesn’t he know that the roots will mess the tent stakes up? You’re surprised he could even get them in the ground. Honestly, it will probably fall down on him tonight. 

You hope it does. 

His tent is dark and quiet, but you march over anyway, flashlight raised so the beam falls straight on him when you turn it on. 

You yank on his tent’s zipper. It gives easily. A muffled curse comes from inside, and you click on the flashlight to reveal Steve lying on his side, bare chest rising and falling as he squints into the bright beam.

“God, you never could stay quiet, could you?” You say, bullying your way through the tent flap and zipping it back up behind you. 

Steve scrambles to throw his sleeping bag over himself, but it does practically nothing to hide his raging boner underneath. 

“What the fuck do you want?” He snaps, glaring up at you. 

Despite yourself, your eyes catch on a delicious bicep, and his muscled shoulder in the shine of your flashlight. That chest hair has taunted you all summer long. It’s been torturous pretending you didn’t know what it felt like against your bare breasts, against your back...

You clear your throat. “I just thought I’d let you know the whole camp can hear you jerking off.”

“What? I’m not—Jesus.” His big hand drags down his face, even as he pulls the sleeping bag up higher. “Get out.”

Whoops, there you go again, getting distracted by his hands. 

Maybe you should close your eyes, or turn around—something—because looking at him stretched out in the dark like this is making you think wicked things.

Your lips twist in a mocking smirk, and you gesture down to the sleeping bag. “Oh, c’mon, Steve. Why are you so embarrassed? It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.” 

Lots of times, actually. 

Through the years, you’d been there for everything—watched him get captured, tortured, and sacrificed for others. But after it was all over, and the dust settled, you fell into each other a different way. 

Because it wasn’t the days plagued with Demogorgons, evil Russians, or even Vecna that were the worst.

It was the days that followed.

The hollow darkness you experienced as the world kept moving on, oblivious to the memories that plagued you both. You had to learn how to live normally again, and something about that was both relieving and excruciatingly lonely at the same time.

The nightmares had a way of sticking to you like blood you couldn’t get off no matter how many times you scrubbed yourself raw in the shower. 

It was in those shaky, sweaty, middle-of-the-night fever dreams that you and Steve found solace in each other. Because when it all became a bit too much, you could dig your nails into someone else’s skin, feel a slick, hot mouth against yours—ground yourself in something intrinsically human just to prove that after everything, you still are.

But all that came to a screeching halt last summer. 

“Okay,” Steve sighs, shifting a little and squinting up at you. “Let’s say that I was. You wanted to come over and…cockblock me? From myself? And turn that thing off unless you want everyone to see two silhouettes in here.”

You click the flashlight off immediately, plunging you both into darkness. 

Maybe you should rescind your previous statement. Because now, without being able to see him, his proximity is somehow affecting you even more. 

You can hear his soft breaths, smell the lake water on his skin. And underneath it all, the familiar sounds and scents of him that opens a gaping hole of nostalgia in the pit of your stomach. 

You try to laugh, but it comes out cold. “You think I give a fuck if you’re rubbing one out, Harrington? No. I came over here because you’re fucking whimpering and moaning—”

“—I was not whimpering.” 

“—and you’re incapable of keeping quiet—yes, you were, and I was getting sick of hearing it. So, either do it quieter, or find someone to cover your fucking mouth.”

As you were talking, your vision adjusted to the darkness. Which is a very bad thing, because now you can see him again. Specifically the outline of his mussed hair as he lifts his chin to meet your gaze. 

“You offering?”

Your breath catches.

You should say no. You should tell him to go fuck himself—literally— and leave right now. He can let the whole camp hear him for all you care. 

But instead, you hesitate. 

Now, Steve is smart. Smarter than he gives himself credit for, that’s for sure. And there are certain patterns he’s picked up on with you over the years. Like, when you pause like that, the answer is almost always a yes. 

Which is why the second you go quiet, and the distant laughter of the other counselors fills the space between you, he’s already batting the sleeping bag off his lap. 

“I knew it,” he says. The fabric slips off him just as a firework bursts overhead, and your eyes drag over his body. The lean, tan muscle from all his time outside this summer, down to his long, hard cock jerking against his happy trail. “You’re so busy acting like you hate me, wanting to play this game where we bitch at each other all summer, and now you’re making up excuses to come into my tent—”

“Oh, trust me,” you scoff, tearing your eyes away to meet his again. “It’s not an excuse.”

“No?” he says softly, leaning back on one arm and gesturing at his body with the other. “Then, prove it.”

“Fine, but I’m only staying to keep you quiet,” you warn him, pinning him with a harsh look. 

“Sure. Whatever,” Steve rasps, watching as you drop to your knees beside him. 

Your fingers curl into his sleeping bag beside his shoulder, but you’re careful not to touch him. 

He wishes you would. 

You gesture impatiently at him, your hand a shadowy blur in the dark. “Go ahead and get it over with. I’m not sitting here all night. God.”

Steve rushes to obey, and when wraps his hand around his cock again, the rush is so intense it’s almost painful. The way you’re sitting there just watching him is making his head feel fuzzy, and his dick swell.

And look at you—pretending to not be affected in the slightest watching the flushed head poke out of his fist over and over as he jerks off in front of you. God, you turn him on so fucking much. 

Steve heaves a stuttering breath, and his head drops back onto the ground as the pleasure pools in his gut. He thinks he’s doing a good job being quiet. But he can’t smother the moan that escapes him the second your warm hand brushes his shoulder.

“Steve,” you hiss, warning lacing your voice. 

“Shut me up, then. Goddamn.” He groans, his cock twitching in his palm. “What are you even here for? I could do this myself—” At that moment, your hand finds his chest and, well, your fingers might as well be a defibrillator. His hips jerk, mouth dropping open in pleasure. “—oh, fuck yeah.”

Your touch is heaven. His eyelids threaten to shut as your fingers brush through his chest hair, over his ribs— so sure, and steady, soothing and warm. Like his flesh and bone is a map you know by heart. 

He’s panting, desperate not to make a sound and give you a reason to take your hand away while your palm trails lower.

He raises his chin to catch a glimpse of your profile as the fireworks crack in the sky, raining down in bright fizzling pops that he feels in his chest. 

Honestly, he should’ve known this is how the summer would end with you. 

He’s known it, and yet, he’s run from it. 

Because the last time he had you…God, he’s been such an idiot. 

Last summer, when you came home from college for break, he’d been sitting on your doorstep. A silent understanding passed between you two, and then you’d grabbed his hand and taken him up to your room.

Afterwards, you were laying under him, sweaty and warm, eyes glowing with…with something that made his heart tug painfully. And suddenly, it all got to be too much. 

He’d been craving you all semester. As if you were a long drag from a cigarette. And that gnawing ache didn’t surface with anyone else. Only you. 

His chest swelled up tight, and the bridge of his nose started to burn, and he realized… he was scared. 

Terrified, actually. 

Because what if the both of you reaching out for each other was nothing but a trained response, like Pavlov’s dogs or some shit? What if you had built this trauma bond…thing? He wasn’t entirely sure what that even meant, but he knew that no one could know him so intrinsically, so deeply, so invasively and still want him anyway. 

So, Steve proceeded to do the stupidest thing possible by dropping a kiss to your forehead, pulling his clothes back on, and walking out the door. 

He told himself it was for the best. Months after, even though he thought of you constantly, and still woke up slicked in sweat, hands flying to his wounds in the dark, he never called you. 

But when you showed up at Camp Woodwick, looking to earn some cash over the summer, same as him, all the walls he’d built up between him and his past came crashing down. 

So, he pushed you away. For weeks. It was worse than he thought it would be, though. Because when he pushed, you pushed back harder. 

His head swims with the knowledge that after a whole year without you, you’re here. You’re the same. Familiar. The smell of your hair, down to the soft breaths escaping to ur lips. 

He’s still hard as a rock, but his hand isn’t cutting it. Not when what he really wants is right here in front of him.

Steve curses under his breath. “You wanna help me out, sweetheart? Give me that mouth?”

“W-what?” You snort. “You can hardly be quiet with your own hand, Harrington. You think you’re going to survive that?”

“Please? Just lick it. Just the tip.”

“Stop begging. Also, be qu—“

“Right. Right, I’ll be quiet,” Steve grumbles. “Just—if you’re gonna fucking march in here and tell me to do it faster, then the least you could do is help me out.” Another firework squeals, then pops, showering you in gold as you blink down at him.

Boisterous laughs drift over the water, and your eyes flick up instinctively to meet the tent wall before your bottom lip disappears between your teeth. His stomach flips in anticipation. He knows that look. 

“C’mon,” he urges, fighting back a smirk. “You know how I like it, baby.”

Shit. 

Steve knows that pet name has always been your weakness. You’re not sure exactly why. Maybe it’s because it reminded you that on the outside, you were just friends. But in bed…you were his.

You shouldn’t fall for a cheap trick like that. Look at him, biting the corner of his mouth like he’s trying not to smirk. Cocky bastard. 

But, even so, you make the mistake of glancing down his body.

His hand slips away in a silent invitation, revealing his heavy cock jutting out from his soft tummy and you lose the war.

Rocks dig into your knees under the tent floor but you hardly pay them any mind, your clit already throbbing in anticipation of touching him. 

“Fine. But only because it’s faster.” You say.

Your hand curls around him, reveling in the hot, velvety feel of him in your palm. A sound slips from his throat, sudden and unbidden. 

You jerk your head up, and he can’t see your face clearly in the dark, but he knows your body language. The message is solidified when you bring your other hand up to rake through the hair on his chest, digging into his pec in warning. 

Steve’s hand lands on yours, and the warmth seeping through his fingers doesn’t just make your pussy clench, it also makes your nose burn. 

You turn your attention back to stroking him, ignoring the tightness in your lungs. Ignoring the way you’re practically holding hands across his chest.

“God, you’ve been kind of a bitch to me all summer,” Steve grunts, thrusting up into your touch. “You know that?”

You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see you. “Steve, you can’t call me a bitch at the same time you’re fucking my hand. Either we’re fighting or we’re fucking. Pick one. Jesus.”

“I don’t know.” His head falls back against the ground with a heavy thud. “We’re pretty good at both, apparently. God, your hand feel so g—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss.

“Sorry! Sorry.”

Another firework shrieks into the sky, exploding in a loud pop, and showering you both in a flash of red. It lights up Steve’s body, illuminating the scars along his side. Long jagged things, carved deep under his ribs.

You can’t help but remember the panic that seized you when the Demobats descended on him. You’ll never forget the sickening horror that coursed through your body when you looked over to see him pale and shaking, dripping in blood. 

You swallow hard. Then, as if pulled by some invisible string, you lower your head and brush your mouth against his skin. His core muscles flex at the soft glide of your tongue on his belly, but he tenses as your lips trace his scar line.

“Don’t—” he rasps. Suddenly, his hand flies down and tugs your chin away. 

“What?” You whisper against his skin, a little teasing. But when you flick your eyes up to his, he looks away, raking a hand through his hair. Your hand slows around his cock and you frown. A thread of anxiety coils in your gut. 

“What?” you repeat. “I was there, too, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.” He lets out a short laugh, but the warmth is gone from his voice. “I just—really don’t want to be reminded of that right now.”

You pull back, hands falling away from him instantly. 

Another bottle rocket screams, punctuating the heavy beat of silence that follows. Steve notices the shift in you, the way your body locks up in hesitation. 

Sighing heavily, he raises his palms to his face and digs them into his eyes. 

“Sorry, I’m—that was fucked up. I’m sorry.”

You sit back on your heels, suddenly unsure, and your eyes drop to the ground. 

He combs through his hair again roughly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. I was just…there’s a kid here that reminds me of a little Eddie, and the scars—”

You smile softly. “Reed, right? I’ve been thinking the same thing all summer.”

“Every time I see those scars, I think about the bats, and then I think about losing Eddie, and then with you here—” He gestures towards you and he trails off. 

You don’t need him to finish the thought, though. You can see it in the way his chest heaves, and the slight crack in his voice. 

With a sigh, you settle down onto the ground beside him. He shuffles wordlessly, giving you room to lay on the other half of his sleeping bag. 

“It’s okay, Steve. This is how it always was for us. Just—two people trying to get through it, you know? To feel something again.” 

“Oh yeah? Is that all were?” His voice is deeper now. Huskier. It makes a lump build in your throat. “Was that all it was for you?”

You watch the light show fall across the tent ceiling together, muted little orbs glowing through the fabric. 

“No,” you say softly. “But everything hits me at once sometimes, too, you know. And when that happens...fuck, I just need you. And that feeling…” The words fizzle out and fall like the embers in the sky, and your hand reaches up to clutch at your chest—like it would be easier just to rip out your heart and show him.

Steve hesitates, swallowing hard. “It’s not…bad, right? That feeling?” 

“No, Steve. It’s not bad.” 

A quiet moment passes, then he blows out a breath. “At college, they have these therapists. Robin dragged me to a session once, so I went.” You turn your head to look at him, but he keeps his eyes above. “I was scared, like, what if they didn’t believe me, you know? And, well, I’m not sure if Dr. Treya really believes me, but that doesn’t seem to matter much. She treats it all like it’s true, anyway.”

There’s a loud squeal of a bottle rocket, then laughter somewhere in the distance. 

“I’m sorry we fought the last few weeks,” you whisper. “I was angry. But mostly just hurt. By last summer.”

Steve sits up a little at that, his strong arm bracing his torso as he looks down at you. “And you had every right to be,” he says. “I was a coward for leaving like I did. I got scared, I think. But, I’m getting better. At least, Robin says I am.”

You chuckle. “I’m sure she’s right.”

“But I am sorry, too. For that, and for…just for everything.”

You gaze up at him, and the urge to cup his face and bring his lips down to yours grips you by the spine. But Steve lays back down next to you before you can say anything. 

“I’m proud of you for going to see a counselor,” you say into the dark after a long moment. “Does it help?”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “But I wish there was something I could do, too, you know? Other than just talk about it.” 

He takes the world upon his shoulders, this boy.

He deserves to know that, at the end of the day, someone has him. Someone wants him. Not just for what he can give, but for who he is. He’s been pushing you away because you had that for him, and he didn’t know how to accept it. Until recently. 

You see that now. 

His bare arm is so warm against yours. You follow it down with your fingers until you find his hand, threading your fingers through his. 

“Steve, you’ve already done so much. For everyone.”

His hand practically swallows yours. Long fingers, with blunt tips. They just remind you of all the ways he’s used them to pull orgasms from your body, one after the other.

All he does is give, give, give. Even when you give him hell all summer, fuck, he gives that right back. 

Your hair whispers against the sleeping bag as you turn to look at him. His brown eyes meet yours, and his soft exhale ghosts across your cheek.

You search his face for permission, because he already knows what you’re asking. When his expression softens, just enough, you don’t hesitate. Hooking your leg around his waist, you roll on top of him and sit up. 

“Let me take care of you,” you say.

He sucks in a breath at the sight of you rising above him, his hand coming to land hot and heavy on your thigh. 

Scooting backwards, you lower your mouth to his torso. He hisses, his other hand flying to tangle in your hair. His cock has softened slightly against his hip, but you can fix that with your mouth in no time. 

His chest heaves with a shaky breath. “Wait, no. No, baby.” 

You suck a soft love bite on his hip before raising your eyes to his. “You don’t want it anymore?”

“No—shit, of course I want it, but—” He snorts, but his hand finds yours and he tries to pull you up. “If we’re going to do this, I want to do it for real. Not to distract each other. Not like we used to. Can…can you do that?”

You nod once. Then again. “Yes. Yes, of course, Steve. I wasn’t—I was just—” your heart slams into your throat. “I still love you.”

A slow, sweet smile spreads across Steve’s face. Your cheeks flush, and you try to squirm away, but Steve squeezes your thigh, urging you to find his eyes again. And when you do, you see that familiar heat is back. 

“Good,” he says. “Now we can get down to the real question of what the fuck do you think you’re doing barging into my tent when I’m masturbating, you little brat?”

Heat licks up your spine, and you bite back a grin. “I told you! You were being loud.”

“Yeah, sure, now tell me the real reason.”

“That is the real reason!”

“Don’t lie to me.” 

You open your mouth to argue, but his hands clamp down on your hips before you can, and in one smooth motion, he flips you so you’re on your back. Your heart slams against your ribs as he pulls you down under him, his chest rising and falling against yours. 

“Just admit it,” he says, a cocky grin twisting his lips right over yours. “You wanted me to lick that pretty pussy for you, didn’t you?”

Your panties dampen instantly, pulsing in anticipation of feeling his mouth on you after so long. 

You might have been at each other’s throats for weeks, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t like it. You saw it in his eyes by the campfire and by every rough two-hand touch football game. Every time your face went red and you mouthed off at him he’d just smile and lift his eyebrows as if to say, ‘is that all you got?’ Maybe crook two fingers at you with a cocky tilt of his head, urging you to ‘give me more.’ 

Well, you could definitely give him more. 

“I don’t know, Harrington,” you sigh, tilt your head against the tent floor in mock confusion. “I hardly remember what getting head from you is like.”

His grin turns wicked. Then suddenly, he’s moving—greedy hands tugging at your shorts. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, voice dripping in that mocking tone that always makes you wet. “I thought maybe you’d want me to do that thing my tongue that always—” A whimper escapes your throat and he breaks off mid-sentence with an openmouthed laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He crawls down your body, taking your shorts and underwear with him, and you gasp when something hard and hot brushes your thigh. Glad to see he’s sporting that erection again. You feel a fleeting disappointment at the fact you haven’t gotten to suck him off yet, but it’s probably better this way, to be honest. 

It’s literally impossible to make Steve Harrington be quiet while getting a blowjob—

Without warning, he plunges two fingers deep into your slick channel. Your breath stutters, hips bucking into his palm on instinct. He groans out loud, but you’re too blissed out by the stretch that you can’t even get onto him for it. 

Lungs seizing, heart pounding, you squirm on the slippery fabric of his sleeping bag, trying to get even closer. Your nipples harden against your T-shirt, begging for his touch. For more of him.

You peek down your body just in time to see his head disappear between your thighs, and then his mouth is on you. God, his tongue is so warm and wet against your clit, and his skillful fingers stroke you just right. In and out, then curling into the spongey spot inside that has your mouth dropping open. 

“Missed those sounds you make,” he says, voice muffled against your pussy. 

Shit. 

You hadn’t even realized you were making noise. You dig your knee into his side in retaliation and he chuckles, squirming away before diving in again.

He licks messy, broad strokes, tasting you on purpose, getting you all over his tongue. When you grind up into his face he grabs you by the hips and moves with you, following your every wriggle and writhe. 

Yep, his mouth still makes the world feel dull, reducing your hearing to the whoosh of your heartbeat in your ears as everything else just fades away into mind numbing bliss—

“Shut up,” Steve says, pulls back from you with a wicked grin. His face is covered in your arousal, glinting in the firework light, and the sight makes you clench around his fingers. “Seriously, shut up if you don’t want them to hear you.” 

“Wha—Steve!” You whine, canting your hips up into his mouth again as he lowers himself back down to you. “H-help.”

He shrugs. “I’m not the one who gives a shit if they hear.”

The vibrations of his voice against your clit rips a moan from your throat, unbidden, and your lips cinch together. Your hand flies to your hip, finding his fingers there. You try to pull his hand up but he shakes off your touch, holding onto your waist and puling you roughly against his tongue. 

You whine in protest, and go to pull on his hand again, but that’s a mistake. 

He brings his palm down to your inner thigh with a sharp smack that has your back arching off the ground, your eyes narrowing in warning. 

“Cover your own mouth, sweetheart, fuck,” he chuckles, giving your clit a soothing series of licks. “I’m busy.”

“Fuck you,” you whisper, but it quickly turns into a needy whine when he sucks the swollen nub into his mouth. 

Steve continues to stretch you out on his fingers, murmuring dirty things into your pussy as he does. How sweet you taste. How tightly you’re squeezing his fingers. But you barely hear any of it. 

You’re so wet—both from his mouth and your arousal—that your inner thighs slick together when you try to squeeze them. He yanks your legs apart again, and you’re powerless to stop him because the pads of his fingers are dragging out tendrils of pleasure from your spine you haven’t felt in a year. 

Thankfully, the fireworks seem to be reaching a peak outside— loud bangs and pops going off every few seconds help drown out the sounds of your needy pussy and blissed-out sighs. Because frankly, you don’t have the brain power to think about anything except how desperately you need him inside you. 

You whimper again accidentally. “Steve—” 

“Okay, baby,” he replies instantly, knowing what you need by the tone in your voice alone. His fingers slip out and he rises up over you, your knees falling open eagerly as he lines himself up.

When he notches the tip of his cock at your entrance, your cunt greedily sucks him in. He gasps, hips bucking forward instinctively, and neither one of you are able to stop the mixed groans that ensue from finally, finally being connected like this again after so long. 

Big hands scramble for a hold on your waist, blunt nails pinching your skin as he drags himself back, then forth, slamming up into you with a depth that makes you sob.

“Still fuckin’ made for me,” he groans. “Goddamnit.”

You’re panting, arms wrapped around his shoulders, biting the skin of your forearm to keep from moaning as his hips roll slow and deliberate. 

“Good girl,” he praises, and you shudder, feeling the ache grow sharper. “Staying so quiet, look at you. You can’t ask me to be silent when you come around me, okay? Fuck—that’s like being tortured all over again.”

You shoot him a withering look even as you writhe underneath him. “That’s not funny.”

He laughs, and his silhouette shifts over you, his cock driving deeper and hitting that spot inside you that makes you see sparks that aren’t there. “Sorry, sweetheart. I just—oh yeah, grind that clit into me. That’s it.”

 Your hands rake through his hair, desperately trying to hold onto something. But the force behind his thrusts causes you to pull on the strands, and, well, that was a mistake. 

His teeth sink into the skin of your shoulder in order to stay somewhat quiet, and oh—fuck. How could you have forgotten what pulling his hair does to him? Stars burst behind your eyes as the fireworks crackle overhead, and the tension between your hips coils tighter. 

“Fuck—Steve,” you gush. “Please.”

“What do you need?” He rasps against your throat, sucking and biting. “I’m all yours.”

Little tremors course though your legs as your orgasm builds, the swollen head of his cock nudging those spots deep inside that ache for him. 

Only him.

“You need me to kiss you?” he says, breath hot in your ear. “Need me to shut you up?”

You nod frantically. 

“Go on, ask me for it.”

You whimper, too far gone to play the game anymore. “Kiss me, Stevie. Please, please—” 

“Fuck,” Steve groans at the nickname he hasn’t heard in so long, and instantly lowers his mouth to yours. 

The first brush of his lips against yours makes you want to cry. 

“Missed you, baby,” he says, then kisses you deeper, his tongue dipping into your mouth and swirling with yours. “So much. Missed kissing you. Missed talking with you.” He hesitates, pulling back slightly before planting one soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Missed loving you. But I guess I never really stopped, did I?”

Your eyes connect for one heartbreaking, devestatingly sweet second before you pull him back down, pouring your love for him into the gentle, yet desperate stroke of your tongue against his. 

Feeling you kiss him like that snaps something deep inside him. 

Your inner muscles clamps down around him as his thrusts turn messy and hard, and his hands run over your shoulders, your breasts, your hips, pulling your body back down to meet his every thrust. 

The pleasure builds to an insurmountable level as he rips your shirt up to capture your nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and making you want to scream. 

You flatten your palm over your lips, whimpering through the gaps in your fingers over and over, squeezing your eyes shut as Steve pushes you higher and higher until finally—you’re falling. 

Your teeth bite into your fingers hard to muffle your moans as your pussy clenches down like a vice on Steve’s cock rhythmically, your orgasm rushing through you. 

He lets out a choked sound above you, and with the way his chest falls in a sequence of familiar pants, you know he’s close. Through the pleasured haze, your other hand flies to cover his mouth just in time for his orgasm to hit. 

“Mmhmm, mhhhmm.” Steve whines loudly, as his body tenses, and his cock twitches inside you. And you have no choice but to shove your fingers inside his lips, forcing him to suck on them as he reaches his peak. His eyes roll back as he bullies his cock against your cervix, painting your walls with his come, even as his tongue strokes your knuckles tenderly and reverently.

It takes awhile for the both of you to come back down to earth, but eventually, you let your fingers fall from his mouth and he laughs breathlessly, dipping to give you one last slow kiss before slipping out of you. 

He fumbles around for his T-shirt in the darkness and then cleans you up with care, which makes your heart twist. Once he’s done, he settles on his side, and pulls you into him, your back pressed to his chest. You burrow into him, his arm settling around you, and it’s amazing how quickly your lashes start to fall, wrapped up in this familiar comfort. 

“So…truce?” Steve whispers into the crook of your shoulder. You laugh softly.

Even under a hazardously leaning tent, and a sky littered with mini explosions, the world seems a little less dark right now. The past, a little less heavy. 

Maybe it’s because neither of you are running away from it, anymore. But rather, facing it. Together.

And because you know, without a shadow of a doubt, Steve Harrington’s heartbeat will always be in your future.

“Truce.”

a/n: the tent definitely collapses on top of them five minutes later, by the way. also, my idea originally was not nearly as angsty, but don’t you just love it when characters highjack your story? god, the fics always turn out so much better that way.

steve masterlist | cutie banner by @cursed-carmine

[beentainted]

pairing: clark kent x reader

summary: four times clark kent almost said he loved you, and the one he actually did.

warnings: fluff; language; clark being a simp; smut; unprotected sex (*sigh* please don't do that); riding; clark has a massive cock; alcohol consumption (you get wasted); fainting; poorly proofread (we die like real men).

word count: 5.8k (i had a lot to say)

note: can't believe i created this monster in the span of 36 hours while also managing to balance my job and college. that has to be a superpower. anyways i'm literally begging you to like it :,)

All it took for Clark Kent to finally ask you out on your first date was for you to get stood up on a date with another guy.

Huh. Who would've thought.

It had been weeks—no, months of pining between you and Clark, to the point where everyone in the Daily Planet would just roll their eyes everytime you got within 3 feet of each other.

One-sided pining would be a better definition. In fact, the only one pining was you, since Clark didn't seem to have a clue about your massive crush on him. He was too distracted by his own massive crush on you to do anything but gladly take each drop of attention you gave him and pray to God he didn't look like an absolute idiot while doing it (he did).

Everytime you talked directly to him, everytime you smiled at him from your desk—God, everytime you as much as looked at him. It was all it would take for his heart to nearly break through his ribcage and crawl straight to you.

"Careful, Smallvile." With a small chuckle when he almost walked straight into a wall because you waved him goodbye on your way out of the office.

"Nice work, Kent." On a random morning after the fresh realising of yet another of his interviews with Superman. Though he didn't miss the slight narrow of your eyes, a layer of suspicion lying beneath the look of approval.

"Are you blushing, Kansas?" With a grin threatening to split your face in half when you witnessed his cheeks turn to a deep shade of maroon after complimenting the color of his new tie.

Every small interaction, every word that rolled off the tip of your tongue when you were near him screamed FLIRT. It was like an instinct. And of course everyone else could notice it except for the dumbass you were interested in.

You had to physically restrain yourself not to walk over that giant dork, take both of his shoulders and shake until he got some sense into that pretty head of his. One particular afternoon, your fingers almost snapped the pen you were holding while you huffed an exasperated: "That's it, I'm asking him out."

Lois had to yank you back to your chair by your elbow, rolling her eyes. "No you're not. He'll come to it eventually. Just give him some time... Alright, extra time."

It wasn't until a random monday in the Daily Planet's break room.

The smell of freshly made coffee hanged in the early morning air, golden rays of sunlight seeping through the windows. Of course the only two people to arrive at the office at this hour would be farm boy and unhealthily-worakaholic-driven-by-caffeine-and-despair girl.

You smile at Clark. He smiles back, then proceeds to accidently pour some of the coffee in his mug—the one that had a poorly printed but cute drawing of Baby Yoda and read Yoda Best Journalist—, barely missing his own slacks. You smile harder.

"So... do tell me, Smallvile," You tease, like it was so usual to happen whenever you were near him. Anything to get that flustered expression on his face. "How was your weekend?"

"Uh, you know..." He starts, shrugging. "Just some writing research, a Star Wars marathon... the usual."

God, he was such a nerd. Cute.

It took you a few seconds to notice the slightly hesitant expression on his face, like he was waiting for you to say something. You figure he had asked you about your weekend too. You must've been smiling too dumbly at him to hear it.

"Oh, don't ask me about it." You exhale deeply. "I mean, if there's anything worse than getting stood up on a date by a guy that spells tangerine wrong, please, enlighten me. Maybe that'll make me pity myself less."

You try to make yourself look busy—and less miserable—by reaching to a mug on a high shelf. Too high of a shelf. You struggle to wrap your fingers around the ceramic, stretching your arm as high as you can.

You smell him first. Mint toothpaste and caffeine and something else you couldn't quite put your mind on. Then came the slight press of his chest against your back—still respectful, but able to rise goosebumps on your skin nonetheless.

He grabs the mug you had been struggling to reach like it was nothing. Just another day living inside his ridiculously giantic 6'5 frame.

"What an idiot."

Your head snaps up in surprise. Partly because it takes you an embarrassing amount of time to remember what he was even talking about, but also because of the tone in his voice. One that you had never heard coming from him before. Clark was always so gentle and has never been anything but polite to you or anyone else you know. But now... now his grip on the mug has his knuckles turning white and his jaw was closed so tight you were surprised you didn't hear his teeth shatter.

"He has no clue what he's missing." Clark continues through gritted teeth. "Like there aren't hundreds of guys out there who would give anything for the chance to go on a date with you—Gosh, I would like to take you out on date, you know, sometime. If you were ever interested in that, of course..."

You chuckle, though it came humorless and sharp. Clark couldn't be that dense. He had to be playing with you. It had to be some joke—because there was no way he wasn't doing it on purpose.

"Sure, Kent." You reply sharply, then turn around to leave, not bothering to take the coffee he had thoughtfully already poured for you.

Because how dare he say shit like that. How dare him look at you and say there were hundreds of men that would like to go out with you when the only reason you had even agreed to go out with that moron—only to get stood up by said moron—was to at least make an effort to get Clark fucking Kent out of your head. How dare him say he was one of those men when he still couldn't even bring himself to ask you to—

You turn around, very slowly. It was enough to still catch the frown on his face and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Wait a minute..." You point a finger at him like it was some accusation. "Did you just ask me out?"

"Uh, I—" His eyes widen, darting between the finger you have pointed at his chest then back to your face, like he doesn't know what could be the wrong answer. "I guess so."

It sounds more like a question than anything.

"And you were just gonna let me walk away like that?"

Clark scratches the back of his neck. "... I guess so."

"Jesus Christ, Kent," You half-sigh, half-chuckle, a simile already tugging at the corner of your lips as realization creeps in. "You really are adorable."

He barely had time to recompose from his confused state before you grabbed him by the back of his neck, pulled him down to place a loud kiss on his cheek and told him you were free on friday night.

"Oh my God, Clark, just... stop talking. I think I literally have wine in my nose right now."

Clark smiles so wide it makes his cheeks hurt. A very frequent occurrence for almost the whole night.

He could say the same for you, too. Actually, more than one time, you had to straight up cut him off mid sentence and beg for him to stop talking because you couldn't stop laughing.

Like a few minutes ago when he somehow got comfortable enough to start telling you about the one time he got his head stuck on a gap between his fence because some idiot middle school classmate made him fully believe in a "if your head fits somewhere, the the rest of your body does, too" discourse. He learned that, even if it could be true, of course he was too big for that.

Clark was midway through detailed commentary about Ma Kent's poor attempts to free him from the universe teaching him a lesson when you, mid-laugh, desperately gestured for him to stop. Though not before you could prevent the sound that escaped through your fit of laughter, similar to a snort. Your eyes widened and you covered your mouth with your hand, though Clark had already heard it. He thought it was adorable.

He hadn't expected your first date to be like this. He expected having to bring up awkward topics just to prevent you from falling in uncomfortable silence—he had even googled random facts to mention when you eventually had nothing else to talk about.

He didn't expect the way you felt so comfortable around him. The way your eyes glimmered in interest for every word that came out of his mouth. The way you didn't hold back your laughter, not once—you couldn't even if you tried to. Freedom suited you.

Clark wondered if that would be the closest he would ever experience to being drunk. The sound of your laughter, the look on your face while you laughed. The way your head tilted backwards, cheeks flushed and puffed by the lift of your lips, the crinkles that formed by the corner of your eyes—like you had grown your own personal glow that hanged around your body like a halo. And, above all, the fact that he was the reason for that. That was enough to make him lightheaded. Dizzy, even.

I love you.

It was so vivid, his voice sounding so loud and sure inside his own head that it was almost as if he had heard himself actually say it out loud.

Clark chokes on his water. Not the easily and manageable kind of coughing, the kind where there's splashes across the table and uncontrollable coughing. The kind where there's tears gathering in his eyes and he can't tell whether it's because of his struggle to breathe or the force of realization hitting him.

I love you?! What the hay, dude? Calm down.

He had felt it once before. That day back in the Daily Planet's break room where he had to gather every ounce of self-assurance in his body to mumble out the words to ask you out. When you just stared back at him like he had just made some joke, then turned around to leave and he swore he heard something crack inside his chest. But it still didn't get even close to the strength of it now.

"Oh my God, Clark, are you okay?"

And the look of concern in your face only makes it worse. It's much worse. So much that he feels his palms sweat and a sharp ting of fear creep up his spine.

When Clark finally gathers the strenght to compose himself, straightening his back—which you had been tapping uncontrollably in failed attempts of helping him spit out whatever had been stuck in his air passage—and taking a deep breath, he looks so panicked it only took one look at his expression—and the reassurance that he was just fine—for you to burst out laughing again.

And when you do, he doesn't say anything—he just laughs with you. He doesn't tell you that the reason to the absolute shock in his eyes is because he just realized that yes—he might just be falling in love with you. And if not that, than it was safe to say that he was at least halfway through it.

"You just committed the worst of crimes." You manage to say through the big smile forming on your face.

Clark's chest rumbles against your back with a low grumble, the sound vibrating right through you. The end credits to How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days rolls in the tv across your living room.

"You just slept through my favorite movie."

Clark huffs out a quiet laugh, still half-asleep. He shifts behind you and the arm around your waist instinctively pulls you closer to him. "Hm—I'm sorry, baby. Was tired. We can watch it again if you want."

The large hand wrapped protectively around your breast shifts, and you're already grinning because you can perfectly picture the blush creeping onto Clark's face when he realizes where his hands wandered in his sleep. You've been waiting for this moment for the past thirty minutes.

But maybe you had made the wrong judgement. Because Clark's hand doesn't leave your breast. In fact, it scoots closer, squeezes it. You shiver. He smiles against your neck.

You're still trying to compose yourself, your mouth slightly open in surprise, when a slight and unpretentious shift of his hips makes you freeze. You gasp. Out loud.

Clark's entire body stiffens. He clears his throat. Pulls his arms away from you.

Because the bulge you just felt nudging against your ass through the fabric of your shorts was the outline of Clark's cock. Right there. Pressing against you and half-hard.

Clark slowly starts to expand the gap between your bodies, to the point not a single part of him is touching you anymore, and it makes your stomach sink in disappointment. "I'm sorry—"

"Don't be." You retort. A little too fast.

"No, I—I really am." Clark continues, and you swear you hear his voice break. "I swear I wasn't thinking of anything."

You shift, turning around to face him—only to find a frightened look on his face. Clark swallows so hard it's visible. His mouth opens and then closes again while trying to come up with the right words to an apology you don't need.

"It's just that—I just woke up and—"

Sometimes he thinks so much you swear it makes your head ache. So you grab him by the collar of his shirt and smash your lips against his.

You can tell the kiss takes him off guard. There's a long beat before Clark's lips hesitantly start to move against yours, but when you lift one leg and hook it around his hip, pulling him closer—his entire body relaxes against you, as if he physically needed the reassurance that you wanted him.

Everything after that becomes a blur.

His hands are everywhere—they roam your waist, the whole expanse of your back, then back down to grip your hip—eventually, they land on your ass, and you melt into the kiss, practically moaning against his mouth.

Suddenly, you're on top of him. Your legs spread against both sides of his hips to straddle his lap. He starts to gather more confidence, his fingers digging deeply into the flesh of your ass.

Suddenly, he's pulling your shirt over your head. You're not wearing a bra.

Suddenly, Clark's eyes lock to your chest and the look that forms on his face is as if he has seen God himself.

"God, they're perfect." He breathes, then spares you a quick, nervous glance, wordlessly asking for permission. You nod, and he dives right in.

Clark's mouth ataches to every expanse of skin between and around your breasts, his hands kneading the flesh his lips are too occupied to give the proper attention. When he finally wraps his lips around one nipple, a stretched groan forming from deep in his throat. Clark's tongue swirls around the hardened bud, and you're not sure, but you swear you see his eyes roll to the back of his head.

His hand dips lower, finds the hem of your loose shorts, pulls it to the side along with your panties. His middle finger gathers the wetness pooling there, and you shudder. Clark moans.

"You're perfect, baby. You're so perfect for me."

Soon he's shirtless too. All warm skin and broad shoulders and impossibly hard chest. Your shorts and panties follow, as well as his sweatpants. You have no clue where your clothes land after you blindly toss them aside. As soon as they're out of the way, you practically jump back into his lap.

Your hands roam every inch of skin they can reach, from the back of his neck to around his chest, then grabbing his biceps—and when that becomes not enough, you pull away from him just enough to drag the waistband of his boxers down his legs. He gets the hint, kicking them aside.

You gather up strength to look down from his piercing, burning hot gaze, eyes trailing down to his chest, to his abdomen, then—

"Alright, there's no way that monstruosity is gonna fit inside me."

Your eyes are threaten to bulge out of your skull at the full sight of him, not a single layer of fabric to mask the length of his shaft. It's big. Standing high and proud against his lower abdomen, thick head already glistening with pre-cum.

The rise and fall of his chest when he exhales a shaky breath is what pulls you out of your trance. You look up at Clark to find his eyebrows furrowed, blue eyes staring up at you with hesitation and self-doubt pooling inside.

"Clark, baby, it was a joke." But then you add, because you can't ignore the sweat gathering in your palms and the icy sensation pooling in your stomach: "I mean, kind of."

Clark's shoulders shake a little, and you genuinely can't tell if he's suppressing a laugh or if it's purely out of nervousness. Well, that would make it two of you.

"Just..." You start again, then reach between your bodies. Clark hisses through his teeth when your fingers wrap around the base of his cock to allign himself to your entrance. "Be gentle."

Clark looks up at you like you just asked him if the sky could be blue. But there's also something else there. Something in his eyes that tells you he would do anything if only you asked him. Something that tells you he was willing to pull out his own heart from his chest and hand it to you.

"Of course I will, love." He replies, simply. "Always."

You take a long, deep breath. Then slowly start to sink down his shaft, lips parting in a silent gasp when the tip sinks inside.

It's your fault, really. Your fault for being way too greedy and impatient to have him inside you before even letting him properly prep you. Though you suppose he shares the same eagerness, because something tells you he wouldn't be letting you do that if he wasn't in a such desperate state himself.

You realease a little squeal while lowering yourself, his girth spreading you open. Clark soothes throught every inch, fingers drawing circles on the small of your back so softly they just barely graze your skin. Air is knocked of your lungs when the stretch starts to become too much, too deep, too—

Clark's finger taps the skin of your back, motioning for you to stop. You didn't even realize your eyes were closed before you have to peak one open to check the man currently laying beneath you.

"Breathe, baby. Don't rush." His voice is soft, but there's a hint of sterness to it that tells you it's more a command than anything else, like he's scolding you for trying to take more than you can handle."We'll take our time, okay?"

You nod, making sure to breathe in and out through your mouth. A slight string of relief courses through your body when air reaches your lungs again, and it allowd your muscles to relax a little. You resume your movements, walls spreading to accommodate the size of him.

"You don't have to go all the—"

But you're already there, taking all of him inside you in one last sink of your hips, thighs now fully able to rest against his.

"Clark, oh my God—"

You feel full. So impossibly filled to the brim you're sure you never experienced anything like this before. Your chest rises and falls quickly as you fight to get air into your lungs, a choked whine building in your throat.

"I know, baby, I know." Clark moans, and his expression contorts into something between blinding pleasure and slight pain. "Feels too good."

After a few moments of petrified bliss, you start to move. Slowly first. Just a slow, tentative roll of your hips, testing the waters and still trying to get used to the feeling of having him buried so insanely deep inside you. The delicious stretch of his shaft in your cunt when you move is enough to make you whimper, hands coming up to clutch his chest.

The words of praise rolling off Clark's tongue is what gets you going, thighs trembling with the effort of holding your own weight when you start to move up and down his cock. He mumbles how you look so pretty like this. How you're doing so well for him. You barely feel concious enough it, but it's surely there. Hands dragging up and down your sides, caressing you, coaxing you to pick up your own pace. Not once rushing your movements.

But then his hips buckle into you, a hesitant, barely there movement—like it's purely involuntary. The high pitched sound that escapes your lips when he reaches that spot inside you—a spot no one, not even your past lovers, not even yourself, has ever been able to reach—is enough to reassure him to do it again.

And again.

And again.

Your head falls back, mouth hanging open. A babbling, incoherent string of thankyouthankyouthankyou's tumble from your lips and your cheeks heat with embarrassment. You don't know what you're thanking. God, you're not sure you still know your own name. You think you might be drooling a little.

"Oh my God, Clark, I think I'm already—"

"That's okay, baby." Clark breathes out. "Look at me."

You feel him lightly tap the side of your face, and you think it's because it's been a few seconds and you still didn't respond him. You can't tell anymore. But somehow, you bring yourself to slowly open your eyes.

"There she is. There's my girl. Thought I lost you for a second."

You don't slow your hips, the rolls of your hips now bordering on wildness while you chase the sensation of a pool of heat gathering inside your belly. Clark holds your gaze, and you notice his lips are curving into a small, but surely smug smile. That bastard.

But then he speaks again, and his voice is so soft you wonder if you imagined the cockiness in his expression only a few seconds ago.

"It's okay. Let go for me."

You start to lose senses. Your vision turns white and your legs threaten to fail you, but Clark's right there to catch you. He grips your waist and steadies the rythm of your hips, slowly rocking you back and forth on his cock—but it's the look on his face that does it for you.

He's focused, eyebrows knitting together and bottom lip catching between his teeth. Like he isn't doing it for himself. Like he's too busy trying to make you feel good. Too concentrated in the task of bringing you to the edge to even bring himself to think about his own pleasure yet.

You blindly lurch yourself forward to what—you were still about find out—would only be your first orgasm of the night.

Drink night with you, Jimmy and Lois was always a terrible idea.

Only a few drinks in, and Jimmy already seemed he was in dare with himself to gather the number to every girl in the pub, and everytime Clark dared to spare a glance at Lois, she'd have that look in her face that said she was only a few drinks away from throwing up.

Let's not even get started about you, though. It was the first time Clark ever witnessed your drunk self. Fine, you got a little tipsy after one or two glasses of wine in your first date, but he realized that wine drunk was nothing compared to 5-shots-of-vodka-and-3-rounds-of-sex-on-the-beaches drunk.

Clark came to that realization somewhere between the many of your very enthusiastic performances on the pub's karaoke. Probably during the Juno by Sabrina Carpenter one—which you made sure to direct every lyric to the mortified, 6'5 foot tall man sitting absolutely dumfounded while you unashamedly pointed at him through some specific lines.

Clark didn't even want to picture how he looked in that moment. Probably like a live tomato, if the burning in his cheeks had been any indication. But he couldn't say the implication of you what you were singing to didn't make his stomach churn with... excitement. He would make sure to bring it up as soon as you were in your right state of mind again.

When it finally was time for him to take you home, Lois had to forcefully pull away the microphone clutched in your hand, yelling a humored "have fun with that one" to Clark.

It was a comical scene. The way he dramatically hoisted you up in his arms—he didn't trust your own feet in that moment—and turned to carry you out of the pub, all while you still screamed the lyrics to Total Eclipse of the Heart.

You're still humming the tune of it now, while he carried you safely up the stairs to your apartment, your heels hanging from his fingers by their straps.

"Alright, hold on tight, trouble." Clark says when he finally reaches your door, then waits until you have your arms securely wrapped around his neck to switch your weight to one arm while the other fumbles in his pocket.

"Wow—you're like, really strong, Clark." You muse, slurring slightly. Clark smiles softly at the impressed expression on your face. "Did anyone ever tell you that?"

He chuckles. If you found that impressive, he could only imagine if you found out he could stop a whole train with his bare hands. Though you wouldn't. Not yet.

"Hey, I tought I had lost that!" You point at the keys Clark's using to unlock your door, looking genuinely confused. The incredible fast pace in which you could change subjects while drunk was alarming.

You clearly had already forgotten the particular part of the night where you anxiously pulled Clark's arm and confesed "Clark, I lost my keys!", to which he responded with an amused "I have your keys, sweetheart". You just shrugged him off, then ran back to Lois' side to sing along to whatever pop hit she was already blaring on the microphone.

A few minutes later, when Clark had already made sure you got your teeth brushed, changed you into an oversized shirt and tucked you under a warm blanket, he can't help but sigh contentedly to the sight of you snuggling against his shoulder. Your lips refused to stop rambling, slurring something about the size of his hands, which you're holding up against your own palms.

In that simple moment, with your face half buried between the crook of his neck and the soft sound of your voice vibrating against his skin, Clark's chest is suddenly filled with so much love he feels pressure wrapping like a tight fist around his heart, almost forcing the words out of his mouth.

Shut up, idiot. He thinks to himself. She's not even going to remember it tomorrow.

"I mean, what did they feed you in that farm? That can't be a normal size for anyone." Clark manages to hear you say above his internal monologue, but he's only half paying attention.

"Is that so, sweatheart?"

"Of course! Even your... well, I'm not saying the word, but you know what I'm talking about. Clark, that's huge. Which is not bad at all—actually, it's very convenient. Now that I'm thinking about it, I think it's great, now that I'm getting used to it."

You suddenly sit up straight on the bed, turning to face him with a serious expression on your face.

"You know what? Clark, take off your clothes. I need to prove a point."

Clark raises his eyebrows almost all the way up to his hairline. "Sweetheart, I'm not having sex with you right now."

"What? Why?" You let your hands fall exasperatedly against your sides, like you actually believed he'd agree with that. It takes everything in him not to laugh the way your bottom lip juts out in a disappointed pout.

"Because you're drunk." Clark states, like it's oh so obvious. "Almost passed out, actually,"

You roll your eyes dramatically. "Alright, now you're being ridiculous. I'm not that drunk."

He sighs, then holds out both hands in front of your face. "Babe, how many fingers am I holding up?"

The tone in his voice makes you think regardless if you get the right answer or not, he's still not going back in his decision. You make an effort nonetheless, eyebrows furrowing and closing one eye in an attempt to see clearly through the blurry haze your vision has become.

"Huh... twelve?"

It's half past 6pm on a friday, and you're still hunched in the edge of your seat at the Daily Planet, staring at your computer like you're trying to burn the words on the screen into your eyelids.

Except for you and Clark, there's not a single soul still left in the office—though you suspect the only reason he's still there is to keep an eye on you. Quick, nervous glances are sent towards you every once in a while, but he knows better than to try convincing you to stop for the day.

You've been stuck in this specific article for pretty much the whole day, and it's just getting on your nerves. Not only that, but the questionable amount of coffee you've ingested in the past six hours might be affecting your cognitive thinking, because you refuse to leave until you've got it figured out.

It was one of your biggest flaws, for sure. The way you could completely shut off your brain for the rest world when it decided to hyperfixate on a specific task.

You're only half aware of the fact that the last time you granted yourself the privilege of giving your legs a stretch was at least three hours ago, and that the grumble caused by your empty stomach can probably be heard from across the room.

You vaguely remember two or three snacks being carefully placed on your desk throughout the afternoon, only halting the frenetic typing to send Clark quick 'thank you' smile. But you were quick to throw the packages inside your drawer as soon as he wasn't looking, too focused to allow yourself to have a lunch break.

It's only when you find yourself staring dumbfounded at the screen after realizing you just mispelled the word vacation, that you start to think maybe you really needed to give your neurons a rest.

Alright, time for a break.

You rise from your seat, groaning as you stretch your arms above your head. You grumble when the light coming from the lamp on the ceiling suddenly feels a little too bright, and your skin prickles in a strange, funny way. The tingle rises to the back of your head, and white spots starm forming behind your eyelids.

Uh oh.

Everything goes blank.

It was a quick black out, really. It couldn't have passed more than 2 minutes by the time you're slowly gathering conciousness again. Though you supposed that was enough time for you to wake up sitting up on the floor, gentle hands adjusting your position so your back pressed against the wall.

Clark is crouching in front of you, soft hands resting against both sides of your face. You think you see his lips form the shape of your name, but it still doesn't quite reach your ears.

"Oh, hello. Good morning." You joke as soon as the ringing in your ears starts softening and becomes much more bearable.

Clark blinks once. Twice. Then drops his hands from your face and lowers his head between them, elbows resting on his knees. His shoulders shake with a deep, trembling breath.

You give him a moment to calm himself before looking back up to you. When he does, you notice his fingers not so subtly rub his eyes.

"Clark, are you crying?"

"For fuck's sake—you scared me." You barely have time to register the fact it might the first and only time you ever hear Clark swear. He's already talking again. "You're so incredibly stubborn, and so incredibly oblivious to your own basic needs that your body needs to reach the point of exhaustion for you to give it some rest."

Your mind spirals with the fast speed in which the words spill from his mouth. You stare at him, jaw slacking. Usually, you're always the one talking his ears off, not the other way around.

You don't think you've ever seen Clark speak so much in the span of a few seconds. Your brain fails to register some words, some of them blurring together into incoherent ramble.

"And it just makes me so frustrated—so incredibly frustrated because I care for you and I love you so much I don't even know what to do with myself."

And when he says it—it's so sudden and sure and honest that it makes you confused for a few seconds.

"Clark? What—"

"That's enough for today." He interrupts, already rising to his feet and reaching across your desk to turn off your computer. You don't think he realizes what he just said to you.

Clark starts gathering your things, picking random utensils that are messily scattered across your table. You call his name again, but he doesn't turn, still too busy tossing your belongings inside your bag.

"I'm taking you home, and I don't want to hear you complain about—"

"Clark."

He turns at you then, head snapping towards the urgency in your tone. You're still a little confused and sitting on the ground like a grounded child, but now you finally have his attention.

"I love you too."

It knocks all the air of your lungs then, almost like a physical blow—the way Clark smiles at you. It's the brightest, widest grin you've ever witnessed him . For a moment, it seems he forgets the reason he was even arguing with you. Clark's beaming at you, dimples and all.

Your head still feels a little dizzy and your legs are jelly, but you smile back, heart swelling with so much love you're afraid it won't fit inside your chest—but you're so blindly, sickening in love with this man you can't bring yourself to have a care in the world.

All it took for Clark Kent to finally say he loved you was some low blood pressure and your questionable built neuronal system.

Huh. Who would've thought.

[coquettefrancaise]

i've got a crush on you

by Ella Fitzgerald

pairing: shy!Clark Kent x reader ~ 2.2k

warnings: mild cussing, Clark being foolishly in love with reader

summary: oblivious to your coworker, Clark Kent's, obvious feelings towards you, you spiral in self-pity when he brings you flowers and you chalk it up to him being a good friend

"Where is he?" Jimmy moaned, reclining limply in his chair as if he were on the verge of expiring. You rolled your eyes.

"Why don't you go and get yourself coffee for once? Clark is nearly late every morning and this act of yours is getting old." Replied Lois distractedly, fingers typing swiftly over her keyboard. You had always admired her ability to multi-task.

"I agree," you chimed in, laughing when Jimmy sent you a scowl. Just last week he had lamented about how he had too many women clambering after him and he had 'no time' for his hobbies.

He sat up, pointing an accusing finger at you. "You're supposed to be on my side. Lois can hold her own just fine."

You only shrugged, a corner of your mouth kicked up in a soft smirk. While, yes, Jimmy was oftentimes dramatic as hell, you enjoyed it. It made sitting at your desk for nearly twelve hours a day entertaining. Well...that and the fact that you sat across from one of the most attractive men you'd ever laid eyes on.

Thick raven hair usually mussed from running around Metropolis, warm blue eyes, muscles for days, and astonishing manners that would make your grandmother swoon...yeah, he was a rarity among his species. And yet, he didn't even recognize his own beauty. There had been times that you would witness new, bold interns attempting to make passes at him and he would only blush and mutter nonsense until they walked away, confused.

You had been admiring Clark Kent for three years now, subjected to be in close proximity and do nothing but make up fake scenarios in your head that would probably never come true. It didn't help your crush that he would bring you coffee every morning and a shy smile with it. Oh brother. You were in deep.

"You should call him up and tell him to get his tight ass over here," Jimmy said to you, breaking you from your reverie.

"Hmm?"

Jimmy tossed a wadded paper ball and you narrowly dodged it. "I said," he gave you a pointed look, "that you should tell your boyfriend to hurry up."

The laugh that tore from your throat was loud and completely unintentional. The room fell silent, fingers clacking at computers halted and eyes voices quieted. You clamped a hand over your mouth. "I'm so sorry," you muffled, embarrassed at your boisterous display.

Thankfully everyone went back to their business, a few of your coworkers grousing about how they weren't paid enough or wished they had taken that other job. Jimmy and Lois were the only ones watching you now, all amused smiles and twinkling eyes. You glared at them. "What?"

"You don't know?" Lois inquired, a hint of laughter in her tone. What was so funny?"

"What don't I know?" you demanded softly.

Jimmy began, "That Clark has like the biggest, fattest cru—"

"So sorry I'm late," interrupted a baritone voice from across the room. You were quick to look towards the sound and the man it belonged to. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach and you tamped down the smile that pulled at your lips.

Clark wore his usual slacks and white-button up, jacket draped over one large forearm and a cup-holder of coffee in his hand. In his other hand was a—your stomach dropped. Flowers. For some lucky girl, you supposed.

He rushed towards the three of you, panting softly. "I had another interview with Superman this morning," he explained, handing his caffeinated goods to Jimmy and Lois, "and I think this next story is going to be very insightful. He's a funny guy." Clark smiled crookedly and it made the circuits in your brain malfunction.

He then stopped in front of you, giving you your cup. "Your hair looks pretty today," he complimented softly, a soft tinge of pink on his cheeks.

He turned away to go to his desk, no doubt, before stopping and looking back at you. "Umm, these are for you." He softly laid the small bouquet of roses next to your computer. "The street vendor badgered me to purchase them and he told me that there must be some special wom—umm, well I looked at them and they reminded me of that one shirt you wore last week, you know the sweater, and...yeah. I thought you'd like them? Beautiful flowers for a beautiful girl, right?"

You nodded absently, unable to take your eyes off of the ruby-red petals. Clark cleared his throat awkwardly and swept away to his own corner.

It took you five minutes of rifling through your thoughts, computing what in the hell just happened, when you finally came to your senses. Everyone was minding their own business now and you were sitting there like an idiot. Had Clark truly brought these for you? They reminded him of your sweater? He remembered your sweater?

Clark is always nice to me, you reminded yourself. He was nice to everyone. Just because he brought you a gift today didn't mean he wasn't going to bring Lois one tomorrow or Jimmy something the next day. That was the kind of person Clark Kent was. The epitome of human kindness.

"Psst," you started. When did Jimmy sidle up to you?

He subtly nodded to Clark who was reviewing his hand-written notes, one long-fingered hand buried in his hair. Then, in a low enough voice for only you to hear, Jimmy said, "He thinks you hate the flowers."

You furrowed your brow. You had said thank you, didn't you? "I didn't say anything?"

"If you call you sitting there looking flabbergasted and Clark twiddling his thumbs nervously, then yes, you did say something."

You pinched the bridge of your nose. He probably did feel like an idiot then, giving a sweet gesture to his coworker who didn't even have the brain capacity to thank him.

You shooed Jimmy back to his space, growing peeved at his delighted expression. You were going to set him up with a dozen clingy girls this weekend.

Rallying your courage, you called out to Clark who abruptly turned up from his papers. He looked...hopeful?

"Thank you for the roses," you offered a smile, "they are, indeed, similar in color to my sweater."

He chuckled softly, the visible tightness ebbing from his broad shoulders. Seriously, who had shoulders like those? "You're welcome, I double checked that they were free of any thorns."

"That was very thoughtful of you." Very, very thoughtful.

You held eyes for a moment, the space between you charged with an intoxicating tension. Clark opened his mouth to say something, anything, when Perry appeared, calling Clark to meet with him for a moment. Whatever had been building between you both shattered at the disturbance.

As they walked towards Perry's office, you couldn't help but admire Clark's confident stride. Despite being freakishly tall and built like a damn tank, he was agile on his feet, aware of his space. With your ogling, you were able to watch the shifting of his back muscles. How much weight could he press, you wondered? Probably three or four times your own. You shivered in delight.

Throughout the next hour, your attention wandered back to the roses and you would stroke the soft petals or bring it to your nose to inhale the sweet scent. In your romanticizing and goo-goo eyeing, it must have slipped your mind that you were allergic to them. It wasn't until you registered the unnatural wateriness of your eyes and uncomfortable itch in your throat that you realized something was off.

You rummaged through your purse, intent on finding Benadryl or something you kept on hand for seasonal allergies. Alas, you found nothing but an old receipt from the grocery store and takeout menu for the newest Thai restaurant that opened up across from your apartment. Shit.

"Hey Lois, do you have any—achoo! Any Bendryl?"

Lois sent you an apologetic glance. "I don't but there might be some in the break room?"

You took her advice and went searching through the medicine cabinets in there and found the pink carton. "Yes!" you opened it up and gaped. Some jackass had used it all and put the empty box back.

You considered going on your break early to pick some up but decided against it, seeing as you lost a bet to Jimmy who, in turn, wanted you to pay for his lunch. Screw Jimmy and his unhealthy obsession with Taco Bell.

You ambled back to your desk to find that Clark was back from his impromptu meeting. You dabbed at your eyes with a crumpled tissue, hoping he wouldn't see how miserable you were feeling. It would only make you feel worse having him know that the flowers he gave you triggered your allergies.

You discreetly sniffled into your elbow but weren't so fortunate in remaining unknown because Clark looked up, once again, from his work, a look of concern creasing his forehead. "You alright?"

"Mhm," you avoided catching his eyes, knowing he would be able to see the tears at your waterline. And if he did, you would just tell him that you saw a sad animal video.

To your relief, he didn't say anything, instead opting to study you as if you were a puzzle he was curious in putting together. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat.

Then, "She's allergic to your flowers."

You shot a glare at Lois who still had her back turned to you both, editing the words on her screen. How was she able to intrude on a personal conversation while putting together a story? It baffled you.

Clark's gaze volleyed between your face and the flowers next to your hand. "I can put it away if that would help." He reached out to take them but you stopped him with your hand on his. He pulled back immediately, as if burned.

You shook your head, sneezing again into your sleeve. Man, this was depressing. But you liked—wanted—the roses. "No, no. I'm fine. My immune system is just being a baby."

He watched you pityingly. "Can I at least get you something to help? Tea or medicine? Anything?"

A big hug from you...or maybe a kiss? you thought, but said, instead, "I'm fine, really. But thank you." You said the last part quickly, not wanting to seem ungrateful. Again.

Clark looked uneasy for the next few minutes before he shot out of his chair, causing you to jump. He staggered out of his area, which surprised you because he was usually more coordinated, and excused himself to the bathroom. You blinked and went back to work, wiping your eyes and nose periodically.

When he came back, a few minutes later, he was carrying a plastic bag. He took out the content and you couldn't believe your eyes.

"Don't tell me you just bought me medicine..."

He shrugged indifferently, as if he hadn't gone out of his way to go to the nearest drugstore, which was a couple of blocks away, only to buy you Benadryl. Some deep, untouched corner of your heart wrenched at his thought and consideration.

"I'm the idiot who brought you flowers, not knowing it would make you sick." He explained, handing you a pill.

You frowned softly. Of course. You should have realized. Apparently, when you had liked someone as much as you liked Clark, all rational thoughts went out the window. Any decent person would do what he did. Right?

You took the pill with a large swallow of water from a cup Clark provided. "It'll take some time to kick in," you clarified as he watched you intently.

He only nodded. "I—" he shook his head.

"You want to apologize for nearly killing me?" you took a gander at teasingly.

Clark's eyes pulled wide, his cheeks flaming a bright red. "No! Never! If I had known you were—"

"Clark," you laughed softly, "I'm only pulling your leg."

A whoosh of air fell from his lips. "You shouldn't do that. I'm already beating myself up enough as it is."

"Why?"

A pregnant pause and then, "Because I-I like you."

Every thought fled from your mind. Of all the things you thought he would say, that wasn't one. Maybe, 'I don't like any of my friends being sick' or 'Perry would hate having to get someone to replace you'. And yet he just admitted that he liked you. "Like a friend?" you inquired softly, everyone else in the room disappearing. Now, it was only you and Clark, the only two people in the Daily Planet, in Metropolis, in the world.

He smiled, that dimple pulling at the corner of his mouth. "More than a friend."

You thought you would have panicked at this point. Locked yourself in the copy room for a good few hours to nitpick at this conversation. Instead, you felt light. Happy.

"I like you too. More than a friend." You found yourself saying back, returning his grin.

Who knew how much time passed as you watched each other? It wasn't until someone prodded your shoulder and Jimmy's voice said, "Time for lunch. On you."

You rolled your eyes, picked up your purse and logged out of your computer. Clark held out a hand and you took it, feeling a sense of completion as your fingers intertwined. Lois and Jimmy looked anything but surprised.

And, as all four of you walked out of the building, Jimmy declared, in that self-important tone of his, "I told you Clark had the biggest, fattest crush on you."

author's note: that was just a little drabble and i didn't know how to close it so...ta-da! anywayyyy, i want to write some more for Clark so be on the lookout for those ☺

[catbayunthestoryteller]

Tolerate Clark, Ignore Superman

Pairing: Clark Kent x f!reader

You had been sharpening your red pen for him all week.

Not literally (though you wouldn’t put it past yourself) but figuratively, in the form of a carefully cultivated readiness to slice through whatever saccharine small-town fluff Clark Kent turned in next. You had a reputation in the Daily Planet newsroom: no patience for lazy writing, sloppy sourcing, or sentimental filler. Perry trusted you to be ruthless, and you prided yourself on earning that trust.

Then Clark Kent had walked into your office with your favorite coffee in hand.

Not the generic burnt swill from the break room, either. The real stuff, from that café halfway across town where the barista knew exactly how to foam the milk to your taste. And while you were still trying to process how he knew, he’d crouched down and fixed the computer issue you’d been cursing at for two days without even being asked. And then, before you could retreat into your armor, he’d paid for your lunch the next day. And walked you home the next evening, insisting the streets were “a little dodgy after dark.”

The man smiled like he didn’t have a clue what effect he had. As for you, you weren’t a monster. You couldn’t, in good conscience, shred him to ribbons when he was that sweet.

You still critiqued him, of course: concise, dry, objective notes. No sugar-coating, but no knives either. If anything, you suspected he appreciated it. Every time you handed him marked-up copy, he’d nod and thank you like you’d just given him a gift instead of homework.

The weeks went on like that. Clark hovering around the edges of your day like sunlight through an open window, warm and patient.

Then the monster attack happened.

One second you were making sure the front-page headline wasn’t in all caps (Perry loved all caps; you didn’t), and the next, the building shook hard enough to send your pen rolling off the desk. A voice, not human, roared from somewhere outside, the sound rattling in your ribs. Perry’s orders came fast and loud: Evacuate. Now.

The street outside was chaos. Glass rained down from a nearby building, and people screamed and surged toward safety. You stumbled over a fallen signpost, and before you could hit the ground, someone caught you.

Arms like steel wrapped around you, and the wind rushed past your ears before you realized you were flying.

Superman.

Up close, he was almost blinding, impossibly composed despite the carnage below, his blue eyes cutting through the panic like calm in human form. “You’re safe,” he said, voice low and steady.

He smiled at you, in a way that felt oddly…familiar. There was something in it that almost bordered on flirting, an ease, a softness you didn’t expect from the city’s invincible savior.

But you barely registered it.

“Where’s Clark?” you asked before he could say another word.

Superman blinked. “Clark?”

“He was in the newsroom. Did you see him?” You craned your neck, scanning the street below as if you might spot him through the smoke.

For the first time, you saw him thrown off-balance. People usually swooned over Superman: gasped, stammered, asked for autographs. But here you were, looking at him like he was just a cloud in the sky.

When your feet hit solid ground again, you barely thanked him before pushing past, calling Clark’s name.

You saw him after five minutes. Hair rumpled, tie askew, glasses slightly crooked as he jogged toward you through the dispersing crowd. He looked winded, adjusting his cuffs like he’d just sprinted for blocks.

You were on him in an instant. “Are you okay?” Your hands skimmed over his sleeves, his chest, his shoulders, checking for injury before you realized you were still touching him. Heat flared up your neck, and you pulled back, trying to look casual. “I mean...you’re fine? No broken bones?”

“I’m fine,” he said softly, and the smile he gave you could have lit the entire block if the power never came back.

Then, leaning down slightly, he added with a playful glint in his eye, “Were you worried about me?”

You blushed so hard you could feel it in your ears. “That’s not...I mean...”

He laughed, the sound so warm you almost forgot about the debris and sirens still wailing in the distance. And then, before you could catch your breath, he kissed you. Not once, but over and over, your cheeks, your forehead, the corner of your mouth, like he couldn’t decide which part of you to love first.

When he finally pulled back, his expression was somewhere between dazed and delighted, like he’d just solved the greatest mystery in the world.

“You like me,” he murmured, as if he still couldn’t quite believe it.

You couldn't find it in yourself to deny it.

You’d been dating Clark for a couple of months now, and if anyone asked, you’d say it was going alarmingly well. Alarmingly, because the man was…well, impossible. He cooked. He carried your groceries like they weighed nothing. He read your edits without defensiveness. And lately, Superman kept showing up wherever you happened to be, not in any “you’re in trouble” sense, but with that same easy charm Clark had.

If you thought about it too long, you’d notice Superman had started flirting with you. Lightly, in passing, a smile here, a comment there. Sometimes he’d compliment your scarf, or tell you he was glad to see you safe, in a tone that made you feel warm right down to your toes.

It was odd, but you figured it was just his way. Clark, meanwhile, never looked jealous. If anything, he always seemed faintly amused when you mentioned Superman.

The night before the morning you found out his secret identity started with champagne. And wine. And, ill-advisedly, whiskey.

You’d closed a big story, the kind Perry actually praised instead of grunting at, and your colleagues had insisted on celebrating. By the time you were standing on the curb outside the bar, squinting at your phone to remember your own address, you remember Clark calling you. After that…not much.

You woke to light like a knife and a desert in your mouth. Your skull throbbed. You rolled over, and stopped breathing.

Superman lay asleep on the other side of your bed.

Shirt gone, hair sleep-ruffled, one arm draped over the blanket like he’d been guarding you. A calm, gorgeous thunderstorm taking a nap in your apartment.

Your stomach fell through the mattress. “Oh my God,” you whispered, then louder, “Oh my God...”

You sat up so fast the world blackened at the edges. Panic punched through the hangover. Your brain stitched together the worst possible story: you’d gotten blackout drunk, done something catastrophic, and cheated on Clark with Superman. Did you stumble home and got yourself in danger and he had to save you? Tears hit before you could stop them: loud, helpless, ugly sobbing.

He jolted awake, blinking at you, squinting without…glasses. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Voice low, warm, unmistakably gentle.

“What’s wrong? Superman is in my bed!” you wailed. “I cheated on Clark! I don’t even remember it, I’m a terrible person...”

His face did the oddest thing: bafflement, then dawning horror, then a mortified wince. “Oh no. Oh, sweetheart, wait—hold on.” He patted around the nightstand like he’d lost his keys, found something, and slid it on in one smooth, desperate motion.

Glasses.

It was ridiculous how immediate the shift felt. The shoulders relaxed. The mouth softened into your favorite lopsided smile. Same man, different gravity. Slightly different face?

“Hi,” he said, sheepish and tender all at once. “It’s me.”

You hiccupped mid-sob. “…Clark?”

“Clark,” he promised. He scooted closer, palms up like he was approaching a spooked kitten. “You didn’t cheat on me. I brought you home, you face-planted, I made sure you were okay, and then...” He gestured vaguely to his bare chest. “I took my shirt off because you were overheated, but then you hogged all the blankets anyway, and I, uh, fell asleep. Without my…hypno-glasses.”

“Hypno-glasses,” you repeated, dumbfounded and dubious.

“They are very persuasive,” he said solemnly, which made a helpless, wet laugh escape you despite yourself. He took advantage and eased you gently against his chest, one hand rubbing steady circles between your shoulder blades. “I was going to tell you properly. I’ve been trying to ease you into the idea, you know, with the...”

“Flirting,” you said into his skin. “As Superman.”

He went still, then gave a guilty hum. “Lightly. I thought if it felt familiar, it might not be scary when I told you the truth.”

You pulled back enough to squint at him. “So the scarf compliments, the ‘glad you’re safe’ in that voice, the heroic hovering, all part of a rollout plan?”

“In my defense,” he said, ears going pink behind the frames, “I’m very bad at not flirting with you.”

For a long beat, you just looked at him. At the glasses. At the dopey, hopeful smile he couldn’t quite tamp down. Your throat squeezed, but this time it was with relief, not panic.

“I didn’t sleep with Superman,” you said, needing to hear it out loud.

“You slept next to me,” he said. “Your Clark. Always.”

Your eyes teared again, but the shaking had eased. “I woke up and thought I’d wrecked the best thing in my life.”

He kissed your forehead, then your temple, then the salt at the corner of your eye. “You didn’t. I’m sorry I let you wake up scared.”

“You owe me breakfast,” you murmured, soft, sniffling. “And an explanation. And maybe a flowchart.”

“Already on it.” He slid off the bed with infuriatingly steady balance, found a T-shirt, and padded to the kitchen like he’d lived here for years. “Water first,” he called. “Then toast. Then flowchart.”

He returned with a glass and painkillers, propped you up on pillows, and held the water while you swallowed. He pressed a cool washcloth to your forehead, still fussing, still coddling, as if making up for every awful minute you’d panicked.

“Okay,” you said when the room stopped spinning. “Ground rules. No taking the hypno-glasses off in my bed until you’ve told me you’re about to take the hypno-glasses off.”

He grinned, unabashed. “Noted.”

“And you have to stop flirting with me as Superman if you’re going to keep pretending we’re strangers in public. It’s confusing.”

He winced. “Fair. I’ll…dial it back.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A little.”

“A little,” he agreed, instantly.

Silence stretched, warm and ridiculous. You studied him, the curl that never behaved, the nervous thumb smoothing the bridge of his frames, the affection he didn’t even try to hide.

“You’re not mad?” he asked, so quietly you felt it more than heard it.

“I was terrified,” you admitted. “Now I’m…shy.” Your cheeks heated. “Do you know how embarrassing it is to ignore Superman and swoon over Clark?”

His smile went incandescent. “Best news I’ve ever heard.”

You rolled your eyes, but the sound you made was very close to a fond little sigh. He leaned in, slow and careful, and kissed you like he was returning something precious you’d dropped, your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth, peppering you until you laughed and shoved at his shoulder.

“Stop,” you said, not meaning it at all.

“Never,” he said, meaning it completely.

He tucked you under his arm, glasses on, heart steady under your cheek. In the soft, bright hush of your messy morning, you let the truth settle: there was no cheating, no disaster. Just your boyfriend, disastrously sweet, catastrophically earnest, and a little too good at saving you from everything, including your own spiraling mind.

“Clark?” you mumbled, eyes slipping closed again.

“Mm?”

“I really like you,” you said, shy but sure.

The dopey smile landed in his voice. “I know.” And he kissed your hair, once, twice, three times, like a promise.

[inkdrinkerworld]

fawn fawn I love your Clark Kent!! What about him and shy!reader having their first sleepover and clark is a clingy sleeper and doesn’t want her to move/wake up without him???

hehe thank you so much for reading! and you know what? clark would absolutely not be a morning person given all his superman work

You wake up in a mess of your legs tangled with Clark’s. It's your second night at his place, and sleeping next to him has become your favourite thing ever.

Clark runs incredibly hot, and on cold nights in Metropolis, it’s better than any duvet. 

You don’t have anything planned for the day, but you’ve already slept in three hours more than you usually would, and you’re in need of a hot cup of coffee. 

When you try shifting so you’re facing Clark, he whines and tightens his arms around you. 

“Honey,” his voice is all rasp first thing in the morning like this and you can’t say you hate it. 

“It’s time to wake up, Clark.” you whisper, combing your fingers through his hair and down the back of his neck. 

“No,” he mumbles, turning so he can lay his head on your chest.

You giggle, scratching at the base of his neck and watching, delighted, as a crop of goosebumps erupt under your touch. 

“We can’t stay here all day. It’s a really sunny day, we can go have a picnic or go visit Maggie at the market.” Maggie is Clark’s favourite lady at the market because she makes the best jams; his words, but the sentiment is shared between you. 

“Mmm,” he whines, pulling the sheets over his head.

You had never expected this from Clark. For him not to be a morning person or for him to be so unwilling to let you out of his bed. Though the last part had been a secret hope. 

“Baby,” you ruffle his hair where he rests, “C’mon darling. Let’s wake up and get some coffee and have a slice of the coffee cake you made yesterday.”

Clark whines again,  “No. I just want to lay with you.” 

You stretch and reach for your phone, tapping the screen to find that it’s nearly ten o’clock. “It’s already late, baby, c’mon. Let me see your face.”

He can’t deny you that, and pulls his head out from under the sheets, blue eyes a little bleary as he looks up at you. 

Clark looks pretty first thing in the morning, hair a little scruffed up from sleep and where your hand had been running through it. “Hi,” you murmur and he softens even more. 

“You’re not being very nice to me.” he grumbles, kissing your cheek and laying down again. “Five more minutes?”

You roll your eyes, “It’s already past ten, let’s get a move on.” 

Clark whines, rolling off you and sighing. “Give me a kiss then, since you insist on waking up.”

You pepper his face with kisses making him smile, he’s only pretending to be upset anyways. “What about my lips?” 

You laugh then, cupping his cheeks while Clark smiles up at you with his perfect dimples. You kiss him twice on the lips and when you pull away, he’s flat on his back with the most content smile you’ve ever seen on his face. 

“Better?” you ask, stroking his face as you hover over him. 

He nods, “Yes, honey. Give me five minutes and I’ll go make us some coffee.” 

You kiss his chin and lay right next to him, “Never thought you’d not be a morning person.”

He chuckles, turning his face to rub his nose along your jaw. “I just like laying with you, honey. What’s so wrong about that?”

You and Clark end up laying for another half hour before he’s finally ready to get out of bed, and even then, you don’t really leave the bed because Clark brings the coffee and cake right up to bed for you to have.

[etheireimagined]

thank u twitter for this idea

[djosnoopy]

thinking about the fourth of july with steve and your four girls.

the day would of course be spent at steve’s parents house. the harrington’s have always thrown a big bbq for the 4th for as long as steve can remember.

the girls are excited to get to spend the day in the pool and you’re more than excited to get to see steve traipsing around in his swim shorts and no shirt because july in indiana is truly no joke.

there’d be music playing and the smell of sunscreen and charcoal fills the the air as you sit under one of shaded lounge chairs with your youngest. your other 3 girls are of course in the pool, squealing and laughing as steve throws them in the air. you try not to stare at how his back muscles ripple under the sun as he lifts your girls with ease.

he wore fatherhood so well (your four girls are clear enough proof)

he catches you staring multiple times, sending you a wink each time in response, and it’s times like this as you see him being an exemplary father that you consider giving him a fifth.

eventually the ogling has to stop and you put your youngest down for a nap just as steve’s dad lets everyone know the burgers and hot dogs are done.

steve and your second oldest have a watermelon eating contest which ends in sticky faces and the sweet sweet sound of your girls innocent laughter as they watch their dad be silly.

the girls whine about steve’s adamant 30 minute rule of waiting to get back in the pool after eating and he always has to pull out the “i was a lifeguard in high school. was on the swim team. i know what im talking about girls.”

(he ends up letting them get in 10 minutes later)

golden hour has barely set in and the girls are set on doing sparklers even though it’s still daylight (and will be for some time becuase it’s summertime in indiana and it doesn’t get dark until 10) and so steve of course because he’s the dad he is will light sparklers with his girls at 7pm. helping them trace their name into the sky with it and even lighting his own and drawing a heart for you.

because even after all these years and four kids together he’s still sickenly in love with you it’s a little insane. and everyday he thanks his lucky stars to have you as his wife and the mother of his kids and at the end of the day his best friend :)

eventually people begin to filter out of the harrington residence. the music dies down a little and a sense calmness rushes into the backyard. the girls are helping steve’s mom with something very important in the kitchen and steve’s sitting next to you on one of the loungers, baby on his chest, sunglasses perched atop his head holding his hair back out of his face. you can hear the faint sounds of kids a block over playing outside, the sounds of cicadas and crickets as the sun begins to set, someone letting off fireworks prematurely a couple blocks over.

a little before 10 you all pile into steve’s truck and head to the ball field to watch fireworks. steve’s parents keep your youngest thankfully, but your other three girls are buzzing with excitement (even if it is way past their bedtime) as steve backs the truck up to face the field and grabs the blankets to put into the bed of the truck.

you’re all cuddled up in the bed of steve’s pickup even with the heat of the day still lingering because your girls are clingers just like their father. and when the fireworks start you can’t help but stare lovingly at your girls, familiar big doe eyes staring up at the array of colors in the sky. like it’s the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen.

you feel steve grab your hand at one point and how he even has a free one you aren’t sure, but you let him lace his fingers with yours and lean your head on his shoulder as your girls sit on your laps. ooh’s and ahhh’s and mom! dad! did you see that one? look at that one! are all that your girls can seem to vocalize but it’s more than enough for both you and steve. you know they’re having a good time and that’s all you two could ever ask for.

by the time the fireworks are over and you drive back to steve’s parents to get your youngest and then back home all of your girls are passed out. the swimming and general excitement from the day tiring them out. steve of course insists on carrying them inside because he’s not going to be able to pick them up like this forever and so he wants to do it as often as he can now while he still can. so you take the baby and your second youngest while steve takes your two oldest and it makes your chest ache in such a heart warming way to know that both of you have your whole worlds in your arms right now.

steve of course still insists on doing his nightly routine of telling the girls he loves them and tucking them in even if they still are out cold.

by the time both of you climb into bed you’re truly knackered, but not tired enough to not let him know how much you love him and how good of a father he is.

steve preens under your compliments and will everytime you tell him, but he always makes sure you receive your praise too. because you were the one who allowed him to become a father and he’s never seen someone take on motherhood like you and he thinks you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

and if baby number five is conceived that night well then so be it….

[hawke-gosling]

He's my idiot tho

[coolest-fangirl-ever]

Holland march is like an insecure girlfriend in the BEST WAY.

You bet he’s asking you some bullshit like “baby would you still love me if I was a worm?” And ur like “hey holland wtf” and he’s like “omg so you wouldn’t omg so you hate me :(“

And this is how he looks at you bc you’ve just crushed his dreams.

And then fricken holly chimes in and is like “tsk tsk tsk you fell for the oldest one in the book”

Can you tell I just watched nice guys.

Wow those guys were nice

[marstheflower16]

Busy thinking about Lars and his non-religious partner who would occasionally attend church for Lars

(This is coming from an ex-Mormon btw)

You aren’t religious. Plain and simple, you left that life style the moment you were old enough and in doing so you finally felt free!

So it was a bit ironic you found yourself in a church pew on the occasional Sunday but this was different this was by choice.

Your boyfriend Lars Lindstorm was a religious man always making sure to always attend every Sunday. On the rare occasion you would join him.

You would sit beside him holding his hand and silently taking in the words the pastor was preaching, or well you tried to. You often would zone out completely or even fall asleep on Lars shoulder (what it’s really on a weekend! You can’t be blames)

You would make polite conversations with the other members or give friendly smiles as Lars rushed you guys out to get home.

Sometimes going even felt…nice. Not in a religious stand point hell no, but you liked the people who went, they had always been very sweet to you and Lars and welcoming to you in a way that wasn’t pushy like most churches.

You especially enjoyed going and this was basically the only reason you went was because it made Lars happy. Sure he was perfectly ok to go all by himself he had been doing it for years before meeting you. But now he loved your company, he loved having someone sitting beside him.

Lars knows all about your stance on religion and your reasons for it and it has never really been a source of contention in your relationship.

It’s because of this that he truly values you showing up just for him. Shows him just how loved he is and how he feels like the luckiest man in the world to have you as a partner.

[loveshotzz]

wow, i found this deep in my 2022 files

[spider-mann]

JOE KEERY as GATOR TILLMAN

Fargo Season 5

[ali-gators]

horrid reflection

Gator Tillman x reader

summary: Gator’s getting older. And when he looks in the mirror all he sees in the reflection is Roy and his past staring back at him.

warnings: grumpy!gator, sweet!reader, memories of abuse (not graphic just shouting), fluff, gentle!gator

note: i am SO proud of this! as of now, this is probably my favourite out of the fics i’ve written. i hope you all love it too! please protect this grumpy cowboy </3

taglist: @oneddjo

Life was quiet. Quiet in a way that made you appreciate waking up every morning, a way that made you savour every breath. Over the years, Gator grew to love the quiet. All his life, he was surrounded by fear and noise.

But now?

He’s surrounded by you and your love. It had been heaven on earth for him, being able to finally leave his past in the dirt and devote himself to being a better man.

But it wasn’t always easy. And his past didn’t always stay buried deep in his memories.

It was a cold Minnesota morning, the frost sneaking in through the draft. He’d gotten used to it since he moved here to get closer to Dot. He wanted to help her, to redeem himself after his years of wrongdoings, and that’s when he met you.

Luckily, the cold wasn’t so bad when you were draped over him, covers somehow ending up on the floor and a drop of drool leaking from the side of your mouth.

Inhale… exhale…

God, he could stay here for years. Just like this.

With almost painful precision, Gator shifted you back onto the mattress and carefully stepped out of bed, back achy with age. Pushing 40 now, he’s grown used to the random cracks and aches his body creates. Practically dancing to avoid the creaky floor boards, he made his way to the bathroom, running a calloused hand over his face.

His gaze reaches the mirror, staring at what he sees. Crows feet by his eyes. Lines of age and experiences strewn across his face like contour lines on a map. A couple of stubborn grey hairs, and to Gator’s dispair, hints of something unmistakably Roy.

Yeah. No.

Horrid reflection.

Elbows braced on the sink, he buries his face in his hands.

And all of a sudden he’s back on that goddamn farm.

~*~*~*~*~

“You good fer nothin’ lizard. What’s gotten into you, boy?” Roy’s disapproving voice booms through the house. Gator was thrilled when his daddy finally gave him a job: track down and catch a robber who’s been sneaking round Stark County for weeks.

And he tried. Oh god did he try. But you can never help a bad day.

First, his car wouldn’t start. And once Roy came over to look, it started first try. Embarrassing.

Then, he hit a pot-hole and chucked coffee all over the fresh leather seats of his police cruiser.

It can’t get worse right? Oh it can. And it did.

Pulling up to the robber’s location, he placed a firm hand on his holster, stepped out of the car with all the confidence of an overzealous kid and projected his voice through the door.

“Hey! Stark county sheriffs department, open up!”

The smirk on his face was wiped off clean when the door opened and a gun was shoved in his face.

It went horribly. And the robber got away.

Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to send a fresh out of high school kid out to catch a felon.

Alas, here he was. Once again getting berated by his own father.

Roy was red with anger, shouting and ranting as Gator stood there and just took it. Years of this, years. And he was used to it, this was just how his daddy was when he got angry.

He can only hope he grows up to be like his momma.

~*~*~*~*~

“Baby?”

Your soft morning voice and gentle hand on his back jolts Gator out of the memory, causing him to flinch and take a wide step back.

“Oh, im sorry.” Brow furrowed, you take a step back. Over your relationship you’d learnt every in and out of Gator’s character, you know he needs space. “Do you need any-?”

Two strong arms curl around you, pulling you in to your other half’s firm chest. Hugging him back with a hold that could heal any wound, you whisper in his ear.

“Y’know hon, i had a dream ‘bout you last night.”

A weak attempt to cheer him up, but you can only hope.

He replies with a gruff hum and a gentle kiss to your shoulder.

“We went to the beach. I think it’s a sign.” You smile softly and move to cup his cheeks, his face scratchy with stubble.

“I look like Roy.”

You frown and use your thumbs to gently rub his jaw.

“What do you-?”

“I look like my dad. I look just like him.”

Gator steps back, huffs, and rubs his face.

“I’m old and grumpy and all i see in the mirror is a ‘hard man for hard times’. God.” He laughs, but there’s not an ounce of humour in there.

“Gator… hon, no. You’re not old. And yeah, you’re a little grumpy,” you smile softly, “but you’re not Roy. You’re Gator. You look like Gator and talk like Gator and you know what’s even better?”

“What.” His gaze is locked onto the floor.

“You’re my husband.”

That made him look back at you.

“You’re my wonderful, strong, handsome husband.” You hold his hand, giving him support.

“I love you Gator. You’re nothing like Roy.”

He hugs you again, tighter than you ever thought possible.

“Damn woman… I love you more.” Gator grumbles, but there’s only love in his voice.

And when he finally drags his eye line back to the mirror, he doesn’t see his father’s horrid reflection. He just sees Gator Tillman. Your husband. Yours.