☾𖤓

save a dragon, ride a targaryen

[dreammfyre]

‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎ dreamfyre. multifandom. send my blues out to the sea. ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎ writing about the pitt atm, hotd on hold.

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤlast work. fic directory. requests open .ᐟ

[dreammfyre]

dream a little of me ☪︎ daeron targaryen

♱ some children are simple born with tragedy in their blood ♱

summary: being married to prince daeron targaryen wasn't easy, not just because of his lifestyle—you knew he liked to drink, the good life. but the hardest part was dealing with the curse that had haunted him since birth, the dreams that kept him awake.

warnings: daeron x wife!reader, married couple, soft!au, daeron loves his wife. english is not my first language so please be kinddd.

Even before you got married, you knew Daeron Targaryen was a dreamer.

He'd told you himself one night when you found him wandering around one of the towers of the Red Keep. He was staggering, and you could smell barley in his breath, but his eyes were tired yet bright every time he saw you. You asked him if he would ever stop drinkin', not expecting a serious answer. Even thought he hadn't paid attention to you, that he was too drunk to say anything coherent, so you were just gonna guide him back to his chambers and forget that encounter ever happened.

"I just wanna stop."

You chuckled, shaking your head with a little smile. At first, you just didn't get it.

"Sure." You replied ironically, carrying his heavy body toward the stairs, struggling not to fall on the dirty stones of the floor. "You can start by not going to the tavern."

This time it was his turn to laugh. An exaggerated laugh that confused you.

"It's the only way not to be tormented, darling.”

"What are you talking about?" you finally asked.

"The nightmares."

That was the first time you heard about his torment. Daeron hated being a dreamer, he didn't understand how he hadn't gone mad yet, blaming it on cheap wine, beer, or any drink that got him drunk enough not to remember. He couldn't answer when you asked him since when, he had simply been born with that curse. At first, he avoided the conversation, preferring to talk about trivial and boring things, other people's gossip, things he had heard. He changed the topic without hiding it. He knew you wouldn't believe him. Gods, who would believe that his dreams were coming true? It sounded like a fairy tale, a magical fantasy he had invented to justify his alcoholism.

The first few months of marriage were... complicated. Daeron avoided sharing a bed with you at all costs, not because he didn't want to be with you—on the contrary, if one thing had been clear from the first night, it was that the desire between both of you knew no shyness or limits. You had consummated the marriage more than once, enough to silence any rumors, and neither of you had any reason to complain. The maids quickly learned to lower their voices when passing by the door because the sounds escaping from that chamber left no room for doubt.

Daeron had a wild style, messy sheets, impatient hands, taking you anywhere without shame and with a boldness worthy of a Targaryen prince. He had waited so many months to touch you that he was no longer willing to control himself, and now that the union was blessed by the Gods, he did not intend to deny himself anything.

But there was something else.

Something he liked much more than getting drunk in the early hours of the morning, much more than sweet wine, much more than the voluptuous bodies of the women at the Flea Bottom who knew his tastes perfectly well.

Every time you settled on top of him and trapped between your legs, he couldn't pull away, nor did he want to. He had grown accustomed to your taste, to the heat that enveloped him when you descended upon him, to the way you whispered his name desperately. Your fingers tangling in his long hair, pulling just enough to force him to look at you, had an effect he never quite fully understood. A trigger he didn't know, didn't understand, but he had long since stopped believing in the impossible.

Gradually, he stopped escaping to the taverns. The nights that used to end in some dirty corner of town, empty and broken jars. He preferred to seek you out. Sometimes between your legs, sometimes under your weight, sometimes over him with the same desire as always. But even in desire something had changed, it was no longer simple debauchery.

Before getting married, you made a deal: you had each other's consent to live your lives as you wished, neither of you would be a cage for the other. You promised each other freedom, space to continue being who you were before the union, without complaints or reproaches. Daeron accepted that agreement with the arrogant confidence of someone who believes that nothing could ever tie him to a woman. But without realizing it, he began to spend more time at the Red Keep, looking for you at noon with the excuse of sharing a meal, and at dusk with any insignificant pretext. He discovered that he preferred the sound of your voice to tavern songs, that the casual touch of your hand as you walked down the hallways was more intoxicating than any wine.

Until jealousy kicked in.

Daeron watched from a distance, jaw clenched, as knights boldly approached you even knowing you were married. The worst part wasn't their audacity, but your smile in return: that slight curve of your lips and flirtatious glance that seemed like harmless fun. Every time you did it, he felt a violent tug in his chest, and an irrational part of him wanted to rip his heart out right then and there just to get your attention.

He had heard about love a couple of times. Nothing that seemed particularly profound to him. Maekar, of course, was not a trusted source on such matters; when he tried to explain anything related to feelings, the words got tangled on his tongue and he ended up stammering, frustrated by his own clumsiness. Although he remembered hearing that the Targaryens never fell in love because they did not feel like other folks.

You slept peacefully beside your husband in the warm Westerosi night. The sheets still retained the warmth of your bodies and clung softly to your damp skin, while your long hair spread out untidily on the silk-covered pillow. You had your back to him, breathing softly and calmly like someone who had no worries other than to continue sleeping. Daeron, on the other hand, did not know such peace.

He rolled over and over, muttering incoherent words even to himself, unable to stay still, his forehead beaded with sweat, his heart pounding against his ribs. Even asleep, he seemed to be fighting something invisible.

The images in his mind emerged violently. A black dragon roared amid a bloodbath, the air thick with iron and ash, its enormous wings flapping before it fell defeated. Deafening, distorted applause could be heard, and he looked at his own hands, finding between his fingers the cold hilt of a Valyrian steel sword. The symbol of House Targaryen glowed on the blade like an omen. The colors were overwhelmingly intense, the sounds mingling until they became unbearable, a whirlwind of fire, cheers, and death that dragged him along.

Until, as always, he woke up.

Daeron opened his eyes with a gasp, his body still tense and his throat dry. The room remained in darkness, barely illuminated by the pale light from outside. More than once, he looked around, as if he needed to make sure that the walls were still in place, that there was no blood on the floor, and that the sword was not resting in his hand.

Then he saw your calm silhouette, the familiar curve of your back under the sheets, the slight movement of your chest as you breathed. That image ended up being the only thing that managed to anchor him.

Careful not to wake you, he slowly sat up and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress gave way under his weight as he tried to catch his breath. He thought about the wine, the sweet warmth sliding down his throat, dulling his memories. He looked toward the balcony, the curtains swaying in the night breeze and the pale moonlight casting long shadows on the stone. He wiped the sweat from his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand, forcing himself to regain control.

Then he heard you.

A small sound, barely a sleepy grunt that he knew all too well. You stirred between the sheets and slowly opened your eyes just enough to realise that it had happened again.

"Go back to sleep," Daeron murmured hoarsely, his voice still thick with interrupted sleep. He didn't turn all the way around. The light was dim, barely enough to see the tense line of his shoulders and the silhouette of his profile.

You squinted to focus your eyes, rising awkwardly.

"Again?" you asked quietly, your movements heavy. You sat up clumsily, hair falling over your face. You moved on your knees until you were directly behind him.

"It doesn't matter." He tried to calm you down, always doing the same thing. When he managed to keep you from waking up, he would leave the room and return at dawn as if nothing had happened. It was his way of keeping you away from that dark part that haunted him, that part of him that tortured him. "I just need a drink..."

"No, wait." You slid your hands down his bare back. His skin was still warm under your fingers, feeling his muscles tense at the first touch. You rested your forehead between his shoulder blades and breathed against his skin, leaving a soft kiss in the center of his back. "Stay."

Your hands descended to his bare abdomen, wrapping around him from behind. Your chest pressed against his back, your thick legs brushing against his sides. Your dry lips found the curve of his shoulder and then his neck, kissing him with a sweetness that contrasted with the intensity that usually dominated both of you.

Daeron's hands instinctively sought yours, intertwining your fingers, pulling them closer to him. He turned his face just enough to brush your cheek with his.

"I don't want to wake you."

"I'm awake now."

Your mouth returned to his neck, slower this time. Your husband finally turned toward you, his hands firmly on your waist, pulling you until you were sitting on his thighs. He rested his forehead against your chest for a moment, clinging to your figure.

"What did you see?" you asked softly, wrapping your body around him.

"It doesn't matter."

His response was automatic and defensive. He tried to look away, but you wouldn't let him because your hand slowly moved up to his face and you took his jaw between your fingers, forcing him to look at you. Your thumb rested under his lower lip, pressing lightly as your nails brushed the tense line of his jaw.

"Daeron..."

Daeron held your gaze just to admire your beauty. Even in the dim light, your eyes shone with an intensity that disarmed him.

"I don't remember," he finally replied, although both of you knew that wasn't entirely true. Your arms never let go of him. You remained seated on his lap, the weight of your body resting naturally on his, your legs on either side of his hips. Daeron didn't want to break that closeness. "Can you go back to sleep?" he asked, sliding his hands around your waist in a gesture that made your skin tingle. "You have a lot to do, and when you don't rest, you get grumpy."

A small laugh escaped you. You still found it funny how he tried to adopt that authoritative tone, when in reality he was the one who ended up giving in first.

"Stay," you asked with that irresistible sweetness that you knew worked every time. You leaned in just close enough for him to feel your breath brush against his mouth. "I hate waking up and not finding you here."

The prince covered your hand with his and squeezed it slowly. His fingers felt warm and large compared to yours.

"I don't like you seeing me like this," he finally confessed. The words came out heavier than he intended. "I… can't fix this."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it did feel heavy. The night breeze blew in from the balcony and gently moved the curtains, bringing with it the scent of roses and cinnamon from the unlit candles. He hated that sickly sweet perfume, but he never told you that. He preferred to put up with it for you, like so many other little things he would never mention out loud.

"There are many things I don't like about you," you replied, biting your lower lip, and the slight arch of his eyebrows made you smile. "But having you with me is not one of them."

His skin prickled even though the frosts of Westeros were still months away. A few strands of your hair fell messily across your face, so Daeron raised his hand delicately and brushed them away carefully, his knuckles grazing your temple.

"Why are you still here?" he asked suddenly. The question seemed to have burned his tongue for months before finally daring to escape. "I'm a fucking nightmare. I know that better than anyone."

You frowned at the contempt in Daeron's self-centered voice. You lifted your face, sitting up enough to look him in the eye, adjusting yourself on your legs.

"Why do you say that?"

Daeron let out a short exhale, almost a dry laugh.

"Come on, don't pretend." His fingers descended again to your waist to hold you up. "Living with me is impossible. I know from experience."

"Oh, believe me. It's impossible." You replied with a smile. Your fingers played distractedly with the hem of his shirt. "Do you want to know why I'm still with you?"

His attention was absolute, almost solemn. His eyes descended slightly toward your mouth before returning to your eyes, his fingers sinking more decisively into your skin. Suddenly, he held you tightly and, in one fluid motion, lifted you just enough to position his body beneath yours. His hips rose slightly, changing the pressure between you, and he lowered you back onto him with precision.

Fitting perfectly.

"Nothing intrigues me more."

His eyes followed your every move as you leaned toward him slowly. The tip of your nose brushed against his, and his breathing changed slightly.

"For your family's fortune, of course." You whispered with complete seriousness... for a second, because then you couldn't help but burst out laughing.

The sound filled the room, breaking the tension with a delightful ease that was all too characteristic of you. Daeron looked at you incredulously before a genuine laugh escaped his chest, a sound that almost no one had the privilege of hearing.

"You're evil," he scolded, pointing his finger at you, and his other hand quickly descended to your hip and, in a blatantly playful gesture, gave your butt a firm squeeze.

"We'll discuss that later," you replied, leaving your place.

You lay down on the bed again, settling yourself between the sheets and leaving the coldness of your absence on your husband's body. The dim light outlined your silhouette as you rested your head on the pillow and looked up at him with a mixture of innocence and provocation that made him hesitate every time.

"Are you joining me?"

This time Daeron did not hesitate to follow you. He settled down beside you with his full weight, sinking into the mattress that was still burning inside. He had plenty of room for himself, enough to stretch out without touching you, but no, the prince wanted his skin to brush against yours, that human contact that made him feel alive because it felt real. He put his arm around your waist and gently pulled you closer, until his head was level with your chest and your legs met and entwined with an almost unconscious naturalness.

The distance between you became minimal. You began to slowly stroke his long hair, over and over again, and he caught your other hand in his, playing with your fingers, running his fingers over the long nails that you always adorned with the jewelry he himself had given you. Then his hand moved down to your bare thigh and settled on your hip with the confidence of someone who had already explored all those places.

"I always remember," he said at last, and this time he dared to look up at you. There was something vulnerable in his eyes, something he rarely allowed to be seen. "I remember everything. But... I never know what it means until it happens."

You nod, even though you actually have many questions you could have asked, you could have sought answers, but you chose to keep it to yourself. Daeron was waiting for you to say something, hoping that your words would fix what was wrong with him, that exact piece that seemed to be missing. However, instead of a speech, you rested your palm on his cheek, right on the scar that ran across his skin.

"Don't torment yourself," you whispered as your thumb traced the mark. "Not tonight."

Something in him surrendered. Daeron was unable to resist you, much less when you looked at him that way, the way your fingers touched him without fear, breaking down any walls. He leaned forward and captured your mouth with a restrained intensity, not violent but urgent, as if kissing you was the only way he could silence the noise. His hand moved up to your jaw, holding you gently as he deepened the kiss, and an involuntary sigh escaped your lips.

Daeron touched you just to confirm that you were still there, with him.

Gradually, your body responded to his, awakening under the recognition of those hands that knew how to find you.

"Don't go." He pulled away just enough to look at you. His forehead brushed against yours, his breath still mingling with yours, warm and agitated. "Never."

You didn't know if it was a plea born of fear or a clumsily worded promise. There was something in his eyes that was too raw to be mere desire; something that had nothing to do with the passion that still vibrated between your bodies, but with an older, quieter need. Your body responded before your mind, leaning toward him instinctively, closing that tiny distance as if letting it exist were a threat.

“Never.”

You could still taste his lips on yours, deep, lingering, you couldn't explain it. There was something dangerous about the ease with which you gave him those promises, how natural it felt to offer him your unconditional devotion. Your hand moved up to the back of his neck and you pulled him back toward you, a gesture of confirmation that you shared for a few intense seconds.

Daeron exhaled against your mouth as his fingers tightened slightly around your waist. He didn't smile, but his gaze lost that constant edge, that alertness that seemed to accompany him even in the most intimate moments. He stood there, looking at you as if trying to memorize the exact way you simply existed beside him.

He didn't kiss you again. This time he descended slowly, his forehead brushing yours and then the line of your jaw, tracing a sensitive path to your neck. His nose slid across your skin, breathing you in, until it found the warm hollow between your shoulder and throat. There he settled without asking permission.

His mouth rested against your skin, his lips gently caressing you in just the right spot. The warmth of his breath seeped beneath your skin and a shiver ran through your entire body. His fingers curved around your waist with a different kind of firmness and the palm of his hand spread across your back, broad and protective, and the weight of his body fit precisely against yours. Daeron, a big man, clumsy when it came to the crown, accustomed to keeping his own secrets and drinking carelessly, and yet there, against your neck, he seemed to have finally found something that no woman had ever given him.

He took a deep breath. Once. Then another. You even wondered if he was still awake in your arms. His beard brushed your skin as he settled himself more comfortably, and your hand returned to his hair almost reflexively, sinking your fingers into the strands.

"I don't know how you do this." He murmured against your skin, and the vibration of his voice traveled down your neck to your chest. His fingers drew distracted circles on your hip, slow and steady.

"Do what?"

You could feel the weight of his breath. The irregular beating of his heart and the way his body was finally beginning to surrender.

Surrender to you.

"Shut it down. Everything."

[gameofthronesdaily]

JACAERYS VELARYON + Vermax in Season 3 of House of the Dragon

[wesandresons]

SUPRIYA GANESH as SAMIRA MOHAN THE PITT 1.15 "9:00 PM”

[hyacinthlbridgerton]

Olivia Cooke as CHERRY LAINE THE GIRLFRIEND | Episode 2

[dreammfyre]

red ⋆˙⟡ steven conklin

❀ remembering him comes in flashbacks and echoes tell myself it's time now, gotta let go ❀

summary: returning to cousins feels different this time. it's belly's bachelorette party, and she asked you to be her maid of honour. the day is filled with partying and alcohol, where you can finally hang out with your siblings. you think everything is finally okay, until steven arrives with denise. you were together for three years until the distance became too much and you had to break up for the sake of both of you. It seemed like the right choice, the most mature one. you even convinced yourself that you didn't love him, but that night, several secrets came to light.

warnings: fisher!reader, based on the seventh episode of the third season, alcohol and drug consumption, english is not my first language, so please be kind.

Conrad and you are cleaning up the kitchen.

Apparently, Jeremiah's friends don't know how to behave and have left the house a mess wherever they go. You were about to scold Jeremiah, but Conrad convinced you to save it for later, so you just quietly put the beer cans in the rubbish bag. Well, it's his bachelor party, a special occasion for your brother, but he wasn't going to escape your scolding tomorrow. Conrad is more benevolent, convincing you that at least they're having a good time. You can hear laughter from the entrance, and the smell of weed in your hair bothers you.

"Are you staying here?"

"I'm going to cut some cake just in case they're hungry," you say, looking for the knife in the drawer, but Conrad knows it's just an excuse not to go out to the garden. He laughs at your stubbornness and gently pushes your shoulder before disappearing towards the pool, in the direction of the shouting and laughter. Neither of you is really enjoying the party; you're the responsible adults making sure no one breaks any more things in the house.

You tidied up the dishes, leaving the counter clean. They played music, so you unconsciously moved your body from side to side to the rhythm, softly humming the lyrics.

You have to be patient with Belly and Jeremiah. Taylor already warned you that in a little while you would have to rehearse the dance—which you hardly remember and know you're going to make a fool of yourself—then you have to get ready to go out and you have no idea what dress to wear.

It was going to be a very long day.

You were distracted, planning the day's activities in your head, so you didn't notice when Steven Conklin entered the house and announced his arrival. You looked up when you heard his voice in the same room, taking you by surprise. You were so startled that you almost cut your finger when you recognised his voice.

"Fuck.” You look at your hand, searching for any injuries. You quickly hide your accident as if nothing had happened, with a smile that hurts your cheeks. "Hello."

But Steven isn't alone. A beautiful woman next to him smiles shyly at you, as if she knows exactly who you are. They both look... perfect together.

"Are you okay?" Steven approaches you, concerned that you might be hurt. His sudden closeness startles you and your body tenses in response. He takes your wrist to check for cuts.

"It's nothing," you say kindly. Noticing Denise's discomfort, Steven literally jumped out of Denise's side to come to you. "It was just silly."

Conklin returned with Denise, realising that the atmosphere was becoming charged with an uncomfortable silence between you.

"It's good you came," you say, looking at him, though you immediately correct yourself with an awkwardness that gives you away. "It's good you both came, of course."

You're a bloody mirror, her smile is just as awkward as yours and you know it from the way she looks at you. You can't help but hesitate between Denise and Steven, the way they share a knowing glance that makes you feel out of place. Damn, she's beautiful, that incredible hair, her green eyes that seem to study you.

"Oh, sorry." Steven rubs the bridge of his nose, feeling stupid for forgetting. "Uh... you remember Denise, right?"

"Yeah, we haven't officially met." You extend your hand and Denise responds to your gesture a little clumsily. "Nice to meet you. I'm the groom's sister and maid of honour."

And, of course, the ex-girlfriend of the guy she's flirting with.

"I've heard about you." She smiles at you, still holding your hand. "I'm Denise Russo."

You nod so many times that you forget why, until you let go of her hand. They say something to each other that you can't hear and laugh together. You have to look away and act as if you weren't there, your stomach tightens as does your throat, it's as if that place had never been occupied by you, as if you had never existed. The way he looks at her breaks you into pieces you thought had been repaired. Denise gives him a slight push on the shoulder.

"The guys are in the pool." Those are the only words that come out of your mouth. Breaking the silence that felt like an eternity between the three of you, it's a polite way of inviting them to leave you alone.

"I'll catch up with you in a minute," Conklin whispers kindly. Denise nods goodbye to you, but you don't respond, still stunned. You didn't expect to see your ex with the girl he's dating. Especially since she's everything you never managed to be for Steven.

The two of you are left in the kitchen. Steven presses his lips together, trying to smile. You are unable to maintain eye contact, so you return to your task of cutting the raspberry cake you bought at the shop. You feel his heavy gaze. He doesn't know whether to approach you, and you don't know if you want him to. It's difficult to act like friends again after having been madly in love with him for more than three years.

"How are you?" he asks from across the kitchen. His voice is lost in the laughter coming from the patio, but you can hear him perfectly.

The memory hits you like a bolt of lightning, a betrayal of your own subconscious. Strong, unexpected, an echo in your mind that doesn't ask your permission to appear; his voice triggers a memory of Steven grabbing you by the waist to sit you down on this exact kitchen counter and kissing you with your legs wrapped around him.

You close your eyes tightly. Wondering if it's a better idea to bury the knife in your neck and get out of this situation once and for all.

"Fine," you reply calmly. "And you?"

Nod first, buying seconds to choose the right words.

"Fine." Steven feels like an idiot when he's in front of you, much more so than before. He doesn't understand how it could have taken him so long to say just one word. He's afraid to admit that you still have the same effect on him, even though you're not together. "I'm glad to see you again."

Those words leave you frozen, it's the way he says them, more like a confession locked in his chest that he can no longer keep to himself. Your breathing quickens, you feel your cheeks getting warmer and you're embarrassed that he notices, so you act like you're drying some dishes so you don't have to face him.

"So she's Denise." Steven nods, though the smile has faded from his face. He notices the distance you've put between you, and it feels... strange. "I'm happy for you both."

A nervous laugh comes out of Conklin. You recognise it immediately, as well as when he runs his fingers through his hair, trying not to look nervous.

"Oh, no. We're not dating," he clarifies too quickly, as if it were his responsibility to explain it to you.

His response surprises you, and you raise an eyebrow slightly, but force yourself to remain composed. Take a breath and let out a soft, polite laugh, as if his words had not affected you at all.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Steven." Your voice is soft, like your gaze, yet you are making an effort not to slur your words because your throat is tight.

You both feel that sense of discomfort in the air, an inexplicable sadness, the laughter between you has turned into long silences and calculated phrases. The distance between your bodies is proof of this, the flirtatious glances, the uncontrollable laughter, the way he used to hug you from behind while you cooked, as if his caresses and kisses on your skin never existed. Everything, everything was lost, now you seem like two strangers who accidentally crossed paths.

"I didn't bring her to make you feel bad.”

"Oh, it's fine, don't worry." You put the tray down on the table. "It's all right. Besides, I think you make a lovely couple." Your voice suddenly drops, although inside the sentence feels like a punch in the stomach that leaves you breathless. You say it so naturally that you surprise yourself, as if you had rehearsed in front of the mirror for hours.

He frowns slightly, shaking his head. "You don't have to do that."

Your words begin to falter. But you have to do it; it's the only way to force yourself to let him go.

"We're friends, aren't we?" you remind him, even though the word feels weird. "That's what we said. So... I'm happy for you."

A silence settles between him and you, making everything feel false. You never imagined saying something like that, and he never thought he would hear you say it. Steven nods slowly, but he doesn't seem convinced; rather, he looks like someone repeating a lie to himself to convince that it's true.

"Well... thank you." His voice is low, and although he tried to sound relaxed, he feels heavy, almost disgusted with your attitude.

You stare at the cake again, cutting a perfect slice for anyone but yourself, because your hands are trembling slightly.

"No problem." You whisper, but you're alone in the kitchen because Steven has left.

After hours of struggling to decide on a dress, Anika was your saviour with that beautiful purple silk dress with delicate ribbons on the straps. The only problem was that it was a little too tight around the chest, but in Taylor's opinion, that was the best part because it lifted your breasts.

"I can't breathe," you say in front of the mirror, standing in black heels.

"It's worth it," Taylor encourages you. "Look at that waist."

"And those boobs," adds Belly, sitting on the corner of your bed, watching you almost mesmerised by the way your body is shaped. You turn to look at her with an expression that makes her feel like a pervert. "Sorry!"

You look at yourself in the reflection again, turning your body slightly to try to see all possible angles and convince yourself that you don't look like a slut. You surprise yourself; it doesn't look bad at all, although you have to be careful with your movements if you want to keep everything in place. Taylor combs your hair a little, but all the girls decide that it's best to leave it loose with soft waves at the ends.

Hours later, they were walking through the streets of the city. The nightlife in Cousins is one of your favourite things about this place: the summer breeze, the people laughing, the bright lights and the atmosphere. Belly and Jeremiah were walking ahead, arm in arm, laughing. Next to the future bride and groom were Denise and Steven, walking shoulder to shoulder, their arms brushing against each other when anyone came close. He was explaining everything about the places they were passing.

Conrad and you were at the back of the group.

Your brother walked with his hands in his pockets, both of you too quiet to be yourselves. As children, your mother had to tell you to be silent so she could have a moment of peace, but now it seems that neither of you wanted to be there.

"Everything okay?" His question takes you by surprise; you thought you'd both stay quiet until you got to the bar.

You nod, but sigh. Conrad presses his lips together and looks at you. Sometimes you forget how well he knows you.

"Does it bother you that he came?" He puts his arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer to him, as if he could protect you that way.

You know he's referring to Steven.

"Of course not. It's his sister's wedding and we're friends." You justify too quickly, trying to convince Conrad that you have everything under control. "It's no big deal."

He raises both eyebrows, surprised by your determination to move on after everything Steven meant to you.

"Wow, you've gotten over it."

You don't agree, nor do you disagree. You just look ahead. Denise laughs at something Steven whispered in her ear. She's wearing a beautiful red dress that shows off her figure, and her hair makes her look like the most unattainable girl. You watch them silently from behind, accompanied by your brother, who notices your discomfort even though you tried all afternoon to hide it.

"There's nothing I can do about it," you finally say, like an accepted defeat that hurts to verbalise. Because Denise is much better for Steven than you ever tried to be, they're on the same wavelength, they just make sense. "He seems happy."

Conrad Fisher remained silent, first kissing your forehead, then giving you a strange look that you couldn't interpret at the time. It was genuine compassion, because you didn't know it, but your brother understood you better than anyone else, as if both of you were condemned to watch from afar the person you loved most and simply contemplate their happiness, even though it wasn't by your side.

He hugged you tighter.

And that little conversation with Conrad made you feel... worse. A little more miserable, perhaps that was why you decided to accept all the drinks they offered you. Tequila shots that felt endless, vodka, and a THC gummy that Taylor kept in her bag for before going to the club. You laughed at everything and the girls were also a little drunk. For a moment, you thought you were fine, but you had just forgotten for a moment that Steven was with Denise at another bar with the boys.

You were so dizzy that your steps were a little clumsy, so you clung to Anika's steady arm, which kept you from falling to the ground in the middle of the street. You don't remember how you got to the dance floor, or that Taylor invited Denise to join the group of girls to go dancing. Although deep down you don't really feel like dancing after Taylor scolded you throughout the choreography for being distracted and losing the rhythm of the steps.

You enter the club and can hear the music as soon as you set foot inside. You walk behind Belly until you reach the dance floor.

"Come here!" Belly takes both your hands and forces you to dance with her. You both laugh when your steps are equally basic, and you wobble a little at the same time, which instead of worrying you, makes you laugh out loud.

"I'm very drunk... and a little high," you admit with a mischievous smile.

"Me too!" Belly exclaims excitedly. Then she hugs you tightly. "I love you so much, thank you for coming to my wedding."

You've had so much to drink that you could have cried right then and there.

The place isn't crowded, so you can see Denise dancing alone away from the group. You think twice, take a deep breath so you don't look so uncoordinated, and leave Belly in the care of Anika and Taylor to keep an eye on her.

"I'm impressed," you say, but you don't feel any pressure as you approach her. On the contrary, she smiles at you as soon as you get close.

"Why? Because of how I dance?" she jokes, trying to keep the conversation friendly.

"Because you went out with us. You abandoned the boys."

You hear the song playing in the background and recognise it within seconds. Girl, So Confusing by Charli XCX, a perfect irony for this conversation.

"Oh, no." Denisse grimaces with displeasure when she realises the impression she had given you. "You thought I got on better with boys, didn't you?"

"Basically."

You both laugh at the same time.

"Seriously, no. But I'm always surrounded by idiots." Although she immediately corrects herself. "Except for Jeremiah and Steven, of course."

You shake your head.

"No, they're idiots too." And you should have stopped talking right there, but you had alcohol in your system and you're not thinking things through very well at this hour. "Trust me, I know, one is my brother and I dated the other."

Shit.

It felt like the elephant in the room, and you brought it up yourself without meaning to. Now you have to fix it.

"To be honest, I'm intrigued to know more about you." She points her finger at you, though not in an accusatory way. "I wonder who this girl is who can make Steven Conklin lose his head."

The smile fades from your face. You don't know if she's serious or just joking. If she wants to be your friend or prefers to keep a safe distance. You feel a cold sweat rising down your back, and you even feel like vomiting.

"That's not true," you reply uncomfortably. It was not your intention to talk about him at all.

"It's true. It's like you have power over him. You're like a... queen. Yes, a powerful queen."

Then you ask her the question you've been holding back.

"Do you like Steven?" You say it so quickly that you're not sure if you actually said it out loud or if it just stayed in your head. Denisse quickly shakes her head, almost like a nervous reflex. "It's okay. You can tell me."

"No, I mean, we're too similar. You know, we'd drive each other crazy." Maybe that's the answer. Steven and you were always very different, and that led to chaos from which you still can't recover. "Besides, he would never see me that way."

"Why?" It seems strange to you that she would think that. Denise is a beautiful, intelligent woman with character, humour, and many other qualities.

But you don't know that Steven has told Denise wonderful things about you. From the way you met and he fell in love with you, your romantic dates, and all the times he asked her for help buying you the perfect gift for your birthday or anniversary, it could take him weeks to make a choice, and in the end, he would buy you both things. Because the look in his eyes when he mentions your name is unique in him, and she is sure that he would never be able to achieve something like that.

She responds as if she's struggling to find the courage to confess it to you.

"Because I'm not like you."

You feel your throat go dry, and the seconds pass too slowly around you. Your gaze softens, you don't know what to say, your heart is beating fast and your palms are sweating cold. You look at the floor for a few seconds, trying to compose yourself from your own thoughts, finding the courage to make a decision that you know you will regret.

"You know what? You're the kind of girl I always thought he'd end up with." It feels like a stab straight to the heart when those words come out of your mouth. You don't understand why, but your chest hurts and your throat closes up, making it difficult to speak.

"Really?" Denise frowns, unsure of your support.

"Yes." You nod. "He likes you."

"How do you know?" There's disbelief in her voice.

When you thought you couldn't hurt yourself more or screw up any worse, you kept talking. Because in your head, this is the only way to let go of everything you once were, letting him be happy with a girl who deserves him and treats him better than you ever could have.

"Because I know Steven. And you like him, right?" Denise nods a little more confidently. "You should call him."

"Are you sure?" she asks one last time.

No, obviously not.

"I just want him to be happy.” It's the first time since you opened your mouth that you've said something true. And there's nothing more convincing than the absolute truth, so that's what finally convinces Denise that you're being sincere with her. “That’s all.”

You don't know how long you've been dancing alone. The drug makes everything easier to handle, your limbs feel weightless, your steps are light, your body moves to the beat of the music filling the room. You don't want to know anything about anyone, not the wedding, not Steven, nothing. You just lose yourself in that song you're humming with your eyes closed. You just want to forget, so you order one last cocktail at the bar and drink it in record time.

"Hey, everything okay here?" Anika asks, clearly concerned about you.

"I'm fine," you say, but it sounds like an automated response from your system. You take her by the shoulders to look her in the eyes. "Everything's fine."

Is everything alright? You have no idea. It's too complex a question right now.

You return to the dance floor as if it were the safest place in the world. You lose yourself in the crowd, moving your body, spinning around, enjoying the melody, singing with a feeling that only the amount of alcohol that intoxicates you can achieve. The neon lights made the place feel like a fragmented dream. You moved through the crowd as if you weren't yourself, as if you were someone else: freer, more carefree. The alcohol ran through your veins like liquid fire, and the THC mixed with it, making you feel almost weightless. Your body swayed to the rhythm of the music, your head thrown back, your eyes closed, as if the dance floor were the only place in the world where you could forget.

And yet, forgetting was never that easy.

A flash of green and purple lights hit your face, and in that blink, you saw him: Steven lying with you on the damp sand on the beach at dawn, laughing with his head buried in your neck. The laughter mingled with the beat of the music, and you felt a sharp pain in your chest. You brought a hand to your forehead, pausing for a second, as if that would erase the image.

Another memory, this time more cruel: him, holding you by the waist on his graduation day, kissing you so hungrily that the air seemed to run out. The song changed, the bass exploded from the speakers, and your breath caught in your throat. You grabbed your hair, pressing your fingers against your scalp.

"Stop, stop," you whispered to yourself, trying to lose yourself in the crowd again.

But memories were treacherous. With every step, every turn, he came back. The touch of his hands on your back, his deep voice whispering how beautiful you look. And the alcohol, instead of erasing it, made it clearer. Until you remember that you let him go, and you can't forgive yourself for that.

Suddenly, someone took your arm. The force was just right: firm enough to keep you from falling, without violence, but enough to shake you out of your trance. You opened your eyes, startled, and saw him.

Steven.

"What did you do?" he asked you, his voice breaking, but you could see the anger in his eyes.

"Steven... is that you?" You frown, his name a whisper lost in the noise of the room, and you close your eyes tightly, firmly believing that the drugs caused you to hallucinate.

But when you opened them, he was still standing in front of you, so close that the club lights painted his skin in impossible shades: red, green, violet. You looked up at him, your cheeks flushed from the heat and alcohol, your hair falling messily over your sweaty face. Your eyes sparkled with that mixture of defiance and vulnerability that always disarmed him. And Steven... Steven felt fragile, as if the simple fact of having you so close stripped him of his defences.

You stared at him, still dizzy from the alcohol and the music vibrating beneath your feet. His hand on your arm was still too real, too intense. You swallow, your throat dry, and without thinking, the first thing that crosses your mind comes out.

"Denise is looking for you."

Steven's expression changed in a second. His eyes sparkled in the light, but it wasn't with tenderness, but with something deeper, more painful.

"I know. You can't decide who I should be with. You have no right," he replied in a low, serious tone that was barely audible over the music, but which pierced you like a knife.

The closeness was unbearable. He took a step towards you, closing the distance, and you felt the warmth of his body, the familiar scent of his perfume invading your nose, unleashing more uncontrollable memories. Everything you were trying to bury came back like a punch in the stomach.

You lifted your chin, refusing to back down.

"I'm not deciding anything," you said, with a half-smile that was meant to be carefree, even though your hands were shaking. "She likes you and you like her, you even brought her here. It's no secret."

Steven laughed, but it was that nervous laugh you knew all too well, the one that hid what he didn't want to say.

"You always do that. Pretend that nothing cares when. . ."

"I care about you," you interrupt abruptly.

His expression softened, and it was something bigger than him, a feeling that became unbearable to keep inside his body. So he just gave in.

He leaned in a little closer, just enough for your breath to collide with his. Your lips were too close, his eyes dropped for just a moment to your mouth, and you knew: no matter how hard you tried to convince yourselves otherwise, there was still something impossible to erase.

Steven didn't move. He decided not to take a step back because he could have walked away, left you on the dance floor and gone back to Denise, who invited him to spend the night in her room... but he didn't. His fingers tightened a little more around your arm, as if he feared that if he let go, he would lose you again.

Your eyes met in that chaos of lights and smoke, and there was no escape. You completely forgot about the wedding, your brothers, Belly, everything.

"Why...?" he began, his voice breaking, and then he swallowed as if it hurt. His pupils dilated as he looked at you, lowering once more to your lips, and then he tilted his head just a few centimetres closer, almost touching you. "Why do you make it so difficult?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Forgetting you." You feel his lips touching you with every word.

Your breath caught, your heart hammering against your ribs. There was no mockery in his tone, no anger. It was pure confession, painful, as if each word had escaped from his chest without permission.

The heat of his body enveloped you. You could feel the touch of his moist breath, his firm fingers on your skin, the electricity growing to an unbearable point. You wanted to say something, anything, but the lump in your throat wouldn't let you.

"Steven..." you whispered, barely audible, as if just saying his name was painful.

He moved closer, so close that the weight of his forehead brushed against yours. You closed your eyes for a moment, dizzy, not from the alcohol, but from that closeness you knew all too well, which still inhabited every fibre of your body.

It was too fine a line to hold any longer. When his lips brushed yours, it was like a release of energy that ran down your spine. A fire that had been burning underground for years and had finally found oxygen. There was no logic, no doubts. There was hunger, tenderness and a painful relief at finding each other again.

The touch was tentative at first, innocent, as if you were testing the waters until you surrendered to him. Your hands instinctively moved up to his chest, seeking something to hold on to as the world around you spun out of control. You could feel his heart beating fast against your palm, as if it wanted to leap out of his body to reach you.

Steven, on the other hand, held you by the nape of your neck with desperate firmness, pulling you closer, as if he were afraid you would pull away like the last time he kissed you.

The taste of alcohol in your mouth mingled with his, and you bit his lower lip, pulling on it just as he liked, as if by reflex. With that gesture, his attempts to move forward, to build something with Denise, collapsed like a sandcastle against the sea.

Your lips moved with his with a restrained urgency, almost clumsy with need, but each collision was a reminder: they were still there, they could still recognise each other even after everything.

He slid one hand down to your waist, pulling you close to him until there was no space between you, feeling you against him. The music boomed around them, but he didn't care if anyone saw him at that moment and asked for explanations, because the only thing Steven could see, feel, and desire was you.

Your lips still burned from the kiss, and your hands were still resting on Steven's chest, trying to understand what had happened. But then you spotted Belly and Taylor walking towards the exit, their faces tense, the bride-to-be wiping away tears, looking anything but well.

"What's wrong?" asked Steven, his voice low, still tinged with that vulnerability that made him seem so defenceless.

"We have to go."

The sand felt heavy under your feet, but the sea breeze brought with it a chill that made your skin crawl. You walked a few steps along the shore, hugging yourself, with the sound of the waves crashing like a hammer in your head, trying to escape your own bad decisions as if that were possible. You could still feel his warm lips on yours and his taste lingering in your mouth, your cheeks still burning.

"Why did you do it?" His voice came from behind you, harsh, as if he himself was surprised by the tone with which he asked.

He always found you.

You turned on your heels, your heart beating fast in your chest. Steven was there, dimly lit by the full moon, his hands in his pockets as if trying to restrain himself, but his eyes—those eyes you knew better than your own—could not hide his insecurities.

"I don't understand why you kissed me, Steven," you said in the firmest voice you could muster, scolding him for it, as if you had some right to complain. Even though you were breaking inside, the words came out as a reproach, as a challenge.

He laughed, but it was a bitter laugh, laden with nerves.

"You're really asking me that? Is that what matters to you? After you told Denise you were happy for us. That we're a cute couple? You and I both know that's a lie!"

His voice rose slightly, just enough to pierce your chest and make you understand how upset he is with you. You closed your eyes for a moment, the wind ruffling your hair, and wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, as if you could stop yourself from breaking.

"I just want what's best for you." The words finally came out. Your voice tired of arguing, your body exhausted, and your mind begging for a break from so much torment. "We're friends now, Steven. And friends want what's best."

He shook his head, as if he didn't believe you.

"Friends? Are you really going to keep going with that?" His laughter returned, but this time it was harsher. "Do you think what happened was between friends? I felt it, just like you did. You can't hide that."

Your breathing became shorter and heavier. You looked up, the moon reflected in his pupils, and felt the air between you grow thicker. An invisible roller coaster: every word, every silence threw them up, only to plunge them into the free fall of what they didn't want to admit.

"Steven..." Your voice broke, barely audible amid the wild waves of the sea. A desperation born from the depths of your soul. "If we keep this up, we're going to hurt each other."

"We're already hurting each other!" he replied, his voice trembling, betraying him. A shocking intensity you had never heard before. "This shit—being friends—is a lie that's killing us both. Something we made up to make ourselves feel less guilty."

"Then let's not be friends!" you shout, raising your arms. Tears begin to well up in your eyes as you speak. "Keeping on talking isn't helping us."

The sea roared behind you, but the only thing louder than the waves was his voice.

"You're lying to yourself," he said, lowering his voice slightly, as if he didn't want to scare you. "I know because I know you. I know when you're putting on a mask and doing the same thing you did last time."

"You have no idea what you're talking about." You point your finger at him.

"You push me away. Because that's the only thing you know how to do when something scares you."

Your arms tightened around you even more, trying to protect yourself from the hurt caused by his accusations. A gust of wind blew your hair across your face and you had to brush it away with your hands, as if that gesture could hide the tremor in your lips.

"This doesn't make sense. We've been here before," you murmured, swallowing hard, "it's going to end the same way last time.

He shook his head, taking another step closer.

"We're not those children from the past.”

The sentence hit you like a blow. You looked up at him with glassy eyes, your throat burning.

"I'm going to break your heart," you confessed, your voice breaking, as if it hurt to say it.

The silence was unbearable for a moment. But Steven did not hesitate to show himself at his most vulnerable in front of you.

"It would be worth it."

His words pierced you with a certainty that disarmed you, and yet you managed to remain standing. The sea became a distant murmur. The moon barely illuminated the curve of his lips, the determination in his eyes.

"I don't want to hurt you," you managed to say, your voice trembling as much as your hands. "I would never forgive myself."

Steven took another step, and for a second you thought he was going to take you in his arms the way he always did, but he stopped short, as if he were still giving you a chance to run away.

"Do you know what bothers me most about all this?" His voice was low, restrained, but there was a sharp edge to every word. "That you have the audacity to tell Denise that we should be together. As if you could decide for me what I feel."

The air grew heavier. You hugged yourself even tighter, the sea breeze seeping through your dress, as if trying to push you back.

"It's the right thing to do..." You tried to stay calm, even though your voice trembled. "You should be with the person you love. I shouldn't be an obstacle to that.”

He let out a dry laugh, without a trace of humour, and shook his head vigorously, running his hand through his hair in a desperate gesture.

"Do you really think I don't know what I want?"

Your eyes filled with tears, but you didn't look away.

"I just want what's best for you! Am I really so bad for wanting that?"

"You're the best for me!", he finally exploded, raising his voice with a raw desperation that pierced you completely. The fury in his tone did not come from anger, but from pain. From the helplessness and contained despair that you did not understand him. "I still love you. And... shit, I know this is going to sound awful, but I can't be with anyone else because I look for you everywhere."

The silence of the beach was broken by that confession, and you felt your legs tremble. It was as if the waves had receded just to leave you alone at last.

Steven was breathing heavily, his fists at his sides, as if every word had been torn from the depths of his chest.

"I want be with you," he repeated, more quietly this time, almost pleading. "Not with Denise. With you."

The echo of his words still hung in the air, digging into your chest like an anchor, leaving you breathless. It was too much. Too much for your mind, for your broken heart, for your body that no longer responded logically and missed him every day. You miss his voice on the phone every day, you miss his hugs, his messages, sleeping next to him, when he touched you, the way he kissed you with tenderness and desire, having him next to you, his laughter, his jokes.

The trembling in your hands became unbearable, and before reason could stop you, you crossed the space between you and kissed him.

It was a kiss charged with everything they had been holding back since you left him in that room, never to return. A desperate release, a relief so deep it almost hurt. Steven responded without hesitation, as if he had been waiting for this moment his whole time: his hands slid around your waist, pulling you towards him with force, digging his fingers into your skin, as if he feared you might escape again. You placed one hand on his warm cheek and the other in his hair, standing on tiptoe to reach him.

The taste of alcohol still lingered in your mouth like a bad memory, but he accepted it without complaint as long as he had you with him. He leaned in closer, sinking into you with a devotion that made your knees threaten to give way.

When he finally moved away just a few inches, breathing against your skin, Steven brought one hand to your chin and held it gently but firmly, forcing you to look at him, this time seriously. His other arm was still around your waist, pulling you close to his body.

His voice came out hoarse as he ran his finger over your sensitive lips.

"Never, do you hear me? It never crossed my mind to be with another girl."

𐙚⋆°. MASTERLIST

[dreammfyre]

After Steven and Taylor broke up, Steven finally realized his feelings for the reader and it’s like cute fluff moment of them together and Taylor can been seen disappointed (Based on ss 3)

steven!s3 is my favorite so i loveeeeee this

[dreammfyre]

all too well ⋆. 𐙚 steven conklin

❀ and you call me up again just to break me like a promise so casually cruel in the name of being honest ❀

part one, part two, part three.

summary: during the fourth of july celebrateation, things get out of hand when Steven comes home with his girlfriend, but alcohol makes you talk too much.

warnings: fisher!reader, Steven Conklin x fem!reader, season one, Steven is a stupid (again). english is not my first language, so please be kind.

author note: okay i admit that almost cried writing the last two scenes, especially when spotify decided to play all too well and the subway (in that order) so I suffered through every paragraph. enjoy this chapter, let's cry together, don't leave me alone in this.

The Fourth of July at Cousins is a sacred tradition for you. Your mother decorates every corner of the house, sparing no expense, and your father comes to the house. The kids cook and set off fireworks. You woke up early to help Conrad clean up until Susannah called you over to the dock to pose for your portrait.

"Good luck." Your brother smiles mischievously at you, knowing that you don't like this activity. Standing still for hours, answering somewhat uncomfortable questions, and being scolded dozens of times just for moving a few inches.

"Lucky bastard.”

The morning was busy. You helped your mother decorate the cake, and this year you did your best to arrange each piece of fruit in its place. You don't know why, but this time you stayed close to her the whole time. Even though she offered to let you go to the beach with Jeremiah to have fun, you preferred to do task after task to help her with the party, as if you were magnetically drawn to her, following her everywhere. Arranging the tables, the food, the glasses, the drinks, the balloons, and so many other things that you lost track of time, even when your father arrived after swearing that he wasn't going to come this year.

But Adam's presence wasn't what made you most uncomfortable; it was Susannah's reaction, who definitely didn't want him here.

You followed her into the kitchen carrying a tray of sandwiches in heavy silence until you were both alone.

"Mom." You called out to her, setting the tray on the table and approaching her. You could see the concern in your eyes, so real that it made her heart ache. "Are you okay? Do you want to go up to your room?"

Susannah placed a hand on your cheek, but something about this day is different. You can feel it with every step you take.

"I'm fine, sweetheart." She smiles at you so warmly that you believe her. "Go to the beach with your brothers."

You shake your head in disgust. You want to be with her, but you understand that your place is not with the adults and their boring topics. Your brothers, along with Belly and Steven, are enjoying the sun on the sand, but this time you prefer to help out in the kitchen.

"No, how boring." You pout.

Susannah laughs at your stubbornness.

"Go have some fun." She fixes your hair and the straps of your dress, just like she did when you were five years old. "You've been my assistant all day, you deserve a vacation."

The truth isyour mother didn't want you in the middle of all the tension between her and Adam. You deserve a good memory of this day, and for that to happen, you had to distance yourself, so before you could open your mouth to complain and make up some excuse to lock yourself in your room, she kissed you on the cheek and pushed you out the door as if it weren't your house.

You didn't even try to argue about it.

You walked along the pier with your eyes downcast, unable to feel the spirit of the holidays in your body, not this year. But apparently you're the only one, because when you get to the beach, you find them all sitting in a big circle, laughing loudly, their laughter audible from meters away, holding glasses of red margaritas, courtesy of Victoria, the new—and worryingly young—girlfriend of Belly and Steven's father.

"Hey! Where have you been?" Jeremiah raises his arms excitedly when he sees you. "I was starting to miss you."

"I thought you were going to stay with the adults all afternoon," says Conrad, hugging his girlfriend.

Good heavens, it seems everyone is with their summer partners. Conrad is with Nicole, Belly is sitting next to Cam, who greets you with a friendly smile and is the only one who stands up to say hello. Finally, Steven seems to be enjoying the company of Shayla, whom he hugs around the shoulders, and you have to put on your best face because you have no other choice. You avoid making eye contact with him, so you settle down next to Jeremiah, who greets you with a tight hug despite the heat.

"Margarita?" Belly offers you a drink with an exaggerated smile on her face. You don't understand her attitude until you realize she's had a few glasses.

"No, my sister doesn't drink," Conrad interrupts, overly confident in his words.

"Since when?" Jeremiah asks, confused, then looks at you. "She didn't seem like that at Nicole's party."

The boys laugh, except Conrad.

"Come on. She's an adult. If she wants to drink and does so responsibly, there's no problem." Shayla's voice makes your stomach tighten, but she looks at you with such a cute smile that you blush. "Don't let the boys tell you what you can do, sweetie."

You nod awkwardly. You can't compete with that. Steven kisses her cheek in front of you, and you understand why he chooses her over you. Come on, she's beautiful, elegant, classy, has a sense of fashion, character, and is so confident that you envy her in a good way. She's the princess of Cousins, she has so much money she could buy you. Come on, the guy who wins her heart would hit the jackpot.

And that guy is Steven.

The worst part? She's so sweet to you, you can't bring yourself to hate her. She smiles at you tenderly, she wants to be your friend because you're important to Steven. Laurel and Susannah adored her instantly, she hasn't stopped telling you how pretty you look in that dress and how much she loves your shoes. She arrived at the party in an expensive suit that made you feel a little ridiculous compared to your choice. She greeted you with a big hug as if you were lifelong friends—that was the first time you had ever spoken to her—and she walked around the courtyard holding Steven's hand, smiling beautifully, while he couldn't take his eyes off her.

You just had to settle for watching from a safe distance. Trying to be polite, it wasn't her fault, on the contrary, it made you feel worse about yourself.

"I'll have one," you reply to Belly, who shouts with excitement. You can't help but laugh; it was the first time you'd seen her drunk. "How many have you had?"

"It doesn't matter," she replies casually, but your protective instinct kicks in.

They're right in front of you while the drinking game is going on. You take a sip from your glass, tasting a pleasant sweetness with a hint of bitterness at the end. The atmosphere is slowly relaxing, and you take a generous swig that fills your mouth with alcohol. Jeremiah discreetly taps you on the arm, asking if you're okay. You nod, acting as festive as possible, but you're not comfortable there. It's obvious. Steven hugs Shayla and pulls her close to his body. He doesn't look at you or talk to you, so you prefer to keep drinking without realizing that your glass is almost empty at that point.

"Can you give me more?" you ask Cam, because Belly is too busy playing.

Cam doesn't refuse.

"Are you okay?" he asks, noticing your silence, as if he's genuinely concerned. He fills your glass from the pitcher, careful not to spill anything on the sand, while Steven glances at you sideways as he tries to put the coin in the glass.

"Why?" you ask, acting as if you hadn't been staring at your feet most of the time and had hopefully spoken three times.

"I don't know. I thought something was wrong," he says shyly, not wanting to risk meddling in something that's none of his business.

"Oh... no, I'm fine." Your cheeks make an effort to smile as best they can, but from Cameron's expression, it seems you weren't very convincing. You respond so quickly that you don't have time to say another word when he hands you your drink. "Thanks, Cam Cameron.”

After endless hours under the sun, the girls decided to take shelter under the pier where the good vibe continued, this time without the boys who decided to go look for fireworks for sunset. You're sitting on one of the wooden benches, and the girls—Belly, Shayla, and Nicole—are talking so much that you've lost track of the conversation, but laughing along with them makes it easy to hide. You admit that they're funny, and they treat you very well.

The sky begins to turn into sunset, but the sun has not yet disappeared. You look out at the sea, losing yourself in the few orange and pink rays that blend into the water. The music from the backyard drifts softly in the distance. You can see your mother from afar talking with the other adults, and you can't help but keep an eye on Susannah.

You're on your fourth drink—vodka and something fruity in a crystal glass—and it's relaxed you enough to feel... light. Calm. Almost. The truth is, you have no idea how you feel, but the alcohol has helped you get through this day.

But then Shayla laughs and says Steven's name, and suddenly, that calmness vanishes from your body.

"Steven came with me to buy my dress this morning, you have no idea how hard it was to decide on just one. We loved them all!" she says, rolling her eyes affectionately. "In the end, I didn't buy any. It was a disaster."

It's not your intention to shudder when you imagine that scene in your head—him watching her model expensive white dresses and Steven tirelessly repeating how beautiful Shayla looked in each outfit—but you do it anyway. It's as if your body remembers something your mind is trying hard to bury.

Shayla continues talking excitedly, oblivious to everything, especially your torment.

"But he's so sweet, no guy has ever treated me like that." Nicole tilts her head and puts her hand to her chest with an expression of tenderness that makes you wonder if this is the same Steven Conklin you know. "And so handsome, right?" She laughs again.

You swallow hard and your throat hurts, wondering what kind of karma you're paying for right now.

You take a sip of your drink, not sure when it started tasting so good. However, you haven't eaten anything since breakfast, so the alcohol is doing its job in your body.

Although you're not the only victim of the extremely delicious margaritas, because Belly gets up to get another drink, she was undoubtedly the one who drank the most out of the whole group, and you can tell by the incoherent things she sometimes says. Her steps are a little clumsier, so you follow her with your eyes in case she falls to the floor and has another fit of laughter.

You remain silent the entire time while Shayla talks about how wonderful her boyfriend is. You nod as if your head is heavy—it is—and something in your chest tightens with every word, every smile, every anecdote she tells them.

Steven is out there. Laughing. Probably talking about Shayla and how perfect she is as a girlfriend, probably.

And she has the right to talk about him like that. To touch him. To brag about their perfect relationship. To kiss him in front of everyone without any remorse, much less hiding behind a door or begging not to be seen. And you... you don't have any of that, as if you don't deserve it. Just the memory of his lips on yours. You only have: this is the last time, which burns inside you because you know it's not true.

Because Shayla can introduce herself as his girlfriend and hold his hand. But you have to keep your distance, act distant, and smile.

You grip your glass tighter, trying not to let the pain show on your face. And you don't know if it's the alcohol that's making you extremely sensitive, but you want to cry.

You've been quiet for so long, staring at your glass, that the girls are worried about your prolonged silence. Belly next to you dances to a song that only plays in her head, she's more cheerful than ever, and you find yourself smiling a little at the way she rests her head on your shoulder and constantly repeats that she loves you. So Shayla swings her legs a little, her drink tilts toward her lap as she turns to you with that sweet curiosity that makes you nervous.

"What about you?" she asks, raising her eyebrows. "Do you have a boyfriend or girlfriend?"

You blink slowly, as if your brain has decided to shut down at that moment and you have to manage on your own.

"Me? No," you reply too quickly.

Nicole perks up beside you, leaning forward with interest in your answer.

"But you like someone, right?" she jokes, playful and warm, nudging you in the side. "Come on, you're an amazing girl, I'm sure you have more than one person after you."

Of course you do. And he's a jerk.

And that's when it happens.

Like a flash. Like a muscle memory that takes you by surprise. You don't mean to remember it, but suddenly it's there: the ghost of Steven's lips on yours, rough, hot, and frenetic, the weight of his body pressing you against the door, his hands gripping your skin as if he needed you to keep living. That dark look in his eyes that sends shivers down your spine. That heat just below your stomach.

It comes back so fast that you almost choke.

You smile, a fake, forced smile, and drink the rest of your glass in one fiery gulp.

"I have to go," you say quickly, standing up so fast that you feel dizzy and take a few small steps in your heels, smoothing your skirt with trembling hands. "I'm so sorry, girls, it's just... I forgot that I promised my mother I would help her with something."

You don't wait for their responses, but they just look at each other curiously.

The only thought that keeps repeating itself in your head is a stab to your heart; all of this is your fault. Yes, it's easier to blame Steven, but you'd be lying if you didn't return every kiss with the same intensity or if you didn't desire him as if he belonged to you. How naive.

You walk—quickly, unsteadily, being careful not to look clumsy so as not to arouse anyone's concern—towards the house, which seems like an endless journey. You pass by the adults and your father calls your name, but you can't keep pretending, so you keep going towards the interior. Your heart is pounding, your skin is flushed, and you don't know if it's from the alcohol or the weight of what you're running from.

Maybe both.

"Honey!" Your mother calls you; her sixth sense never fails. "Just a moment."

"I'm going to the bathroom, Mom. I'm sorry." You say the first thing that comes to mind to get away from her, avoiding looking her in the face because your eyes reflect your feelings like glass. You slip away inside the house just as Susannah gently touches your shoulder.

You enter the house quietly, knowing that everyone is outside enjoying the party. Soon your mother will bring out the cake you made together, and you won't be there to join her. You climb the stairs, feeling dizzy with every step. You know you're drunk when you almost trip on the sixth step, so you finally take off your high heels, leaving them lying in the middle of the staircase. You don't care if they scold you later.

The vodka in your system makes everything feel distant, as if you were moving underwater.

You walk down the hall straight to your room, and when you are a few steps away from opening the door, you hear footsteps approaching so quickly that you are startled for a second.

Steven runs up the stairs to catch up with you. He realized you had left too early and couldn't help but run after you, leaving the boys in the middle of what they were doing. Maybe you're too drunk and need help, a glass of water or something to eat, or maybe you're sick. You haven't been feeling very well these last few days. He can't help but let his worry for you control his actions. He knows that things aren't right with you, but he still decided to come talk to you.

He must have followed you when you were talking to Susannah. His hand is resting on the railing and his chest is rising and falling faster than normal from running. He seems surprised to have caught up with you so quickly, or perhaps he's surprised you didn't disappear before he arrived.

"Hey, hi," he says softly, trying to read your face. "Are you okay? Do you need anything?"

At first, you're paralyzed, unsure if he's really standing in front of you. At first, the words hardly come out of your mouth. You're tired of his presence confusing you, so you just let out a short, dry laugh. The kind that isn't really a laugh.

"What's going on, Steven?" you ask, your voice higher pitched than you intended. You take a step forward, as he does. "Are you worried that I told your girlfriend something?"

He shudders, very slightly, and his body tenses in confusion, feeling attacked by the person he loves most.

"What? No..." He shakes his head, frowning, his words stumbling and trailing off. "She didn't... that's not what..."

He stutters, uncomfortable and caught off guard. But it's too late now; your disappointed look at not receiving an answer makes him feel worse. He doesn't know what to say to you, he doesn't know what you want him to say. The way you look at him has already had an effect.

He lowers his gaze slightly to your face, this time not in a romantic or confused way, and now you can see it: the way his eyes scan your face, focusing on your flushed cheeks, the excessive shine in your eyes, the corners of your lips red from the drink.

"Are you... drunk?" he asks, not accusing you, just... concerned. "Oh, of course you are."

You nod your head bitterly. Looking away.

"What does it matter?" you reply aggressively. You hate his protective older brother attitude; you're tired of it, of switching roles.

He doesn't respond.

At least, not with words.

Instead, he just stares at you. He really looks at you, and whatever he was going to say gets stuck in his throat. Damn, he has to fight his strongest instinct to take your face in his hands. It's impossible to be alone with you and not want to hold you closer, forgetting his perfect performance as Shayla's loving boyfriend, because she will never be you. But this time, for the first time, there is something in your eyes that he has never seen before.

Sadness.

And not the kind that shows openly. It's silent. Raw. It lies just beneath the surface, like a bruise. The worst part is that he knows it's his fault, he knows he shouldn't have fallen into the temptation of kissing you that night, but he's so stupid and stubborn that he finds it hard to admit it. He knew the consequences wouldn't just fall on him, they would hurt you too, and that was the last thing he wanted because he's spent more than ten years trying to protect you from boys, without realizing that he would be the one who ended up hurting you the most.

And it hits him in the chest.

Hard.

Suddenly, Steven feels like the villain in a story he didn't know he was in. He says nothing, just stands there, too still, too quiet.

So you keep going, because if you stop, you'll collapse.

"You can't look at me like that," you murmur, your voice lower now, but no less sharp. "As if I were something fragile you have to worry about. As if I weren't the one you attract and push away when it suits you."

He frowns, as if he wants to argue, but he doesn't. He can't.

"It's always on your terms. When you want, when you choose”, you continue, shaking your head, your eyes burning with something more than alcohol. You point your finger at him, accusing him. "You kiss me like it's real, like you've been waiting to do it... and then you act like nothing happened. Like I'm supposed to forget about it. As if I could."

You laugh, a soft, bitter laugh, as you take a step back and lean your hand against the wall behind you to steady yourself.

"So don't act like you care now. If you cared, you wouldn't make me feel like I'm the only one who remembers."

Steven swallows hard, his Adam's apple moving. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely more than an embarrassed whisper.

"I remember."

That stops you. You blink, unsure if you heard correctly.

Then he looks at you, intently, his eyes wide and sincere, as if he were saying it for the first time, even to himself.

"I remember everything."

You stare at him for a long time, your chest burning, but you are unable to react with the irrational anger you want to convey. On the contrary, you seem much more vulnerable than Steven has ever seen you since he has known you. Your eyes sting from the accumulated tears, you try to blink them away, but it's no use, they're already there, about to fall.

You shake your head slowly. Once. Twice.

"No, you have no idea," you whisper, moving further away from him. Steven's face reflects a different feeling, as if your words had touched on something sensitive. But you don't stop. You can't, because if you do, this will drag you down into the ruin of being a secret. "Now you say that, but you keep acting like it doesn't mean anything. Like I don't mean anything." Your voice breaks on the last word, and you hate yourself for it. "I don't know what we're doing, but this, us, it's not right."

You take a shaky step back. You don't want to do it, but you move further away from his body, as if he were something dangerous, something you need to get away from. And maybe he is. Maybe he's the one who has hurt you the most, and the worst part is that you let him.

"Please..." you begin, your voice on the verge of breaking, "please, don't ever kiss me again."

His lips part, as if he wants to say something, anything, so as not to leave things like this with you, but he can't, and you stop him with one last look, one that takes his breath away.

"I loved you, Steven."

And he wants to die right there, because he still loves you. You have no idea how much.

You stay there a moment longer, watching his eyes widen as he hears how much time has passed, how it takes his breath away. Waiting one last time to see if he dares to say anything, if he asks you to stay, if he apologizes or anything else. Steven wants to tell you that you're not just someone from the moment, that you've been the girl of his life, that he can't stop thinking about you, that you bring him calm, that he's given you his best kisses, his most delicate caresses because that's what you deserve. But all you get is the same silence full of uncertainty that you're already tired of.

So you turn around and walk away.

You don't look back. Much less do you hear him call your name one last time because you've already closed your bedroom door.

He hears the door latch and yet Steven Conklin doesn't move.

At least, at first. He stands there, in the hallway, his whole body paralyzed, listening to the distant laughter of the other guests who have no idea what just happened, except for his heart, which is beating so hard in his chest that he swears it's echoing.

Your words cling to the air like smoke and destroy him from within. Is this what a broken heart feels like? Well, he kind of brought it on himself.

He blinks, as if he could somehow erase it, as if perhaps he had imagined the tears in your eyes or the way your voice broke when you asked him never to kiss you again.

But he didn't. He saw everything. He felt everything.

And now you were gone.

That wasn't all; you also asked him to please never come near you again.

He runs his hand over his face, ruffles his hair with his fingers, and breathes heavily. He has completely forgotten about the Fourth of July celebration, that his girlfriend is away, that Conrad and Jeremiah are still waiting for him, and that his mother is looking for him to serve dinner. His cheek still burns slightly where you scratched him a few days ago, like a mark left on his skin beyond an accident, physical proof that you once touched each other.

God, what has he done?

He leans against the wall, tilting his head toward the ceiling as if that would give him answers. It doesn't.

He hadn't followed you upstairs to fight. He just... saw you leave the pier, saw that your steps weren't very steady, that your eyes weren't looking at anyone. He thought you looked upset and wanted to make sure you were okay. That's all.

At least, that's what he told himself.

Steven exhales sharply through his nose, clenching his jaw in resignation in a matter of seconds, but he also wants to cry because of his cowardice. Guilt builds up in his throat, bitter and solid. Because maybe you're right. Maybe he ruined everything.

Shit, of course he did. Now he has to live with the consequences of his actions.

The party ended hours ago, and you can feel the absence in the silence.

The laughter had faded into silence, the last guests had said goodbye to the rest, and the music had stopped playing hours ago. You feel terrible; you didn't cut the cake with your mother, nor did you say goodbye to your father when he left. You hadn't moved from your bed, your cheek pressed against the pillow, hugging the stuffed animal Conrad gave you when you turned nine. Jeremiah knocked on your door a couple of times, worried about your absence, wanting to know how you were. Since you locked yourself in your room, he hadn't seen you again and he missed his sister. You didn't want to see anyone, you didn't want to talk. You couldn't even cry anymore; you had cried enough to get through the rest of the summer.

It was dark outside now. The kind of quiet, peaceful nighttime silence that only occurs in a place as magical as Cousins.

The fireworks had started again. Far away, muffled by the walls of the house. Explosions of color that you used to go out to watch every year with a smile on your face, accompanied by your older siblings, a celebration that you couldn't see now, and didn't really want to see. You could hear them, feel their faint vibration. But they might as well have been a world away.

And then something, a feeling, or perhaps just a need, gently pushed you.

It wasn't strong. It wasn't desperate. Just the overwhelming need for a quiet, safe place.

You got up, barefoot, the hem of your dress wrinkled from lying in bed for so long. Your limbs felt heavy. Your eyes were swollen from crying for so long. If Conrad or Jeremiah ever found out, they could start planning Steven Conklin's funeral right now. Your hair was a little tangled from the pillow. You didn't bother to get dressed to walk around the house. You didn't care if anyone saw you.

You crossed the hallway like a ghost, your heart beating slowly and silently.

And then you opened her door.

Susannah, your mother, was there, curled up on her side, reading something, with the soft light from the bedside lamp spilling around her and her new glasses. She looked up instantly, having heard footsteps approaching and being sure it was you, and her expression changed in a second. From calm to concerned, and then to something deeper. Something warm and instinctive.

Her eyes took you in completely. The sadness, the pain, the exhaustion.

And she asked no questions.

It wasn't necessary when it came to Conrad, Jeremiah and you.

Because when she saw you like that, with your hair down, your face pale, standing like a little girl who had been through a storm, her heart knew exactly what to do.

You didn't say anything. You just crossed the room slowly and, without hesitation or asking permission, climbed onto her bed and immediately felt her scent and warmth surround you, comfort you, and take care of you.

She opened her arms even before you reached her. And when you rested your head on her chest and let her hug you, you felt it: that thing that only your mother's love can give you. That invisible blanket of security that you thought would always be there for you. Knowing that you could break down and still be loved completely.

She gently stroked your hair with her fingers, as she used to do when you were a child.

"My sweet girl," she whispered. "Don't worry, I'm here."

Her hand cradled the back of your neck, and her touch said it all without words. You closed your eyes; Susannah knows perfectly well that your heart is broken. You relax against her slender body, her fingers gently stroking your hair, your breathing becoming heavy. You can hear the fireworks and remember that you should be with your siblings. However, you prefer to stay with your mother, hugging her tightly, telling her everything as if she had all the answers you seek, even though you know that's impossible.

In the midst of that peace, you start to cry.

"I'm stupid, Mom." You sob so hard that you break your mother's heart. "I ruined everything."

Susannah hugs you tighter, she doesn't scold you or ask for explanations. No one knows you better than she does. She has noticed the looks you and Steven share, those silences when you cross paths, but not only that. She has seen the smiles he brings out in you, the way he looks at you when you talk about the things you like, how Steven always remembers the details you like, the times you defend him from the jokes of others. She has never seen you act that way with a boy before, and it's not a relationship that started this summer. Maybe you were too young to realize it, but you've been in love for years. You were just too young to understand love in all its forms.

Susannah isn't going to ask you any questions about it.

"Everything will be fine," she tells you. Your mother is capable of giving you everything, but there's nothing she can do in this case except be there for you. "Everything happens for a reason, sweetheart."

You nod. That makes you feel better.

"I'm sorry I couldn't spend this holiday with you." She sobs even harder than before.

"Don't worry, honey, you're with me now." She kisses your cheek and wipes away a tear running down your face. You will always be her baby. "Remember that we will always be together at the end of the day."

𐙚⋆°. MASTERLIST

tagglist: @esposamultifandom

[dreammfyre]

late night talking ⋆˙⟡ steven conklin

❀ if you're feelin' down i just wanna make you happier, baby, wish i was around ❀

summary: having a long-distance relationship isn't easy, with each of you at your own university thousands of miles apart, but steven and you are working hard to make it work. you miss each other every day, but the idea that you'll move in together after graduation is exciting. not every day is a dream, and sometimes you only communicate by text message, but when you don't answer all day, your boyfriend knows that something is not right with you.

warnings: steven conklin x f!reader, stable relationship, based on season three, university stress (i know how it feels), long-distance relationship. english is not my first language, so please be kind.

author note: first i’m sorryyyy but i can't stop writing to steven in stable relationships. i feel like he's an incredible boyfriend (let's ignore the cheating; my man would never do that!!) with plans for the future with his girlfriend idk, so just let me be.

The fluorescent light from Steven's desk lamp illuminated the edge of his laptop, casting long shadows over some half-written notes and the forgotten cup of cold coffee he had refilled three times and never finished. He types a couple of numbers after doing the calculations, but he's not quite sure what he's doing at the moment. He has to deliver the report by tomorrow because Adam Fisher has decided that he's the only one capable of meet his expectations. Steven was the only one left in the office, the top buttons of his shirt unbuttoned, his hair more messy than usual, everyone else having gone home to rest and silence surrounding him. He could see the city lights coming on through the window, a reminder of how many hours he had been sitting in front of the changing statistics.

Adam never gave this kind of task to interns, but to his surprise, he was chosen to take on this project.

Despite the importance of the job, Steven couldn't concentrate.

"Shit." He sighed, breathing deeply and closing his eyes, exhaustion taking its toll.

He leaned back in the chair, holding the phone in his hand. When he unlocked it with his face, immediately saw the seven unanswered messages he had sent you and two missed calls he had left that same day.

No response.

You didn't even read the messages.

Steven knows you're not like that. Especially not with him. Unless something went wrong and he's worried about it, which is why he's been more focused on his phone than work, distracted all day waiting to hearing from you.

Steven:

You can talk to me anytime if you need anything.

He takes a moment to decide whether to send the last message.

Steven:

I miss you.

He stares at the screen, hoping for a response, but there is no change. He puts down his phone, rubs his hands across his face, and is about to start typing again, more to distract himself than anything else, when his phone suddenly lights up and begins to vibrate.

It is your name and a photo of the two of you in the background.

He answered in less than a second. "Hi, honey." His voice is high-pitched with concern, but he's relieved to hear from you, and it shows in his smile. "Finally. You were already scaring me."

There was a pause. Static. Heavy breathing on your side. Then your voice came through, soft and trembling:

"Steven?"

"Yes? I'm here. What's wrong?"

Another breath, this time weaker, faster.

"I didn't know who else to call."

That's when he heard you clearly: the tension in your voice shook him, the instability of your breathing. The way you tried to say his name, but could barely manage it.

His whole body tensed, and his previous concern paled in comparison to what he felt now.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt? Where are you?"

"In the apartment," you say, your voice trembling. "It's just... I don't know what to do."

Your voice broke as you uttered the last word, and Steven's expression softened as he stopped whatever he was doing. If he had to sleep for two hours to deliver the damn report, he would do it, but he wasn't going to hung up on you. There was a creaking sound, as if you were pacing back and forth or curling up somewhere, probably your bed, which was a mess.

Steven stood up and the papers fell from his lap to the floor.

"Hey, calm down. You're fine, believe me. Just talk to me." He approached the window, clutching the phone tightly. "Can you breathe for me? Right now. Breathe in through your nose, slowly. Like we practiced, remember?"

Silence. Then a sharp inhalation, too fast that it hurts when the air enters your lungs.

"I can't." You whisper shamefully, feeling like a mess. You can't even breathe properly; you're useless.

Steven closed his eyes and pressed his palm against the glass. Fuck the distance.

"It's okay. Don't worry. Try again. I'm here, I won't leave you, I promise."

Another breath. Still shaky, but a little more stable and rhythmic.

"Good. Very good, sweetheart."

Finally, you can string more than two words together without feeling like you can't breathe, your chest still hurts, your hands are cold. "I feel like everything is falling apart, Steven. I can't think straight. I can't sleep well. I'm behind on three assignments, I missed the lab this morning to give an exam, I forgot to eat, and... fuck, I don't even know what I'm doing anymore."

Your boyfriend's heart sank when he heard you like that, and he felt even worse that he couldn't be there for you. Damn it, those were the things he hated about being in a long-distance relationship, limiting interactions to calls and messages. Steven could hear the panic building up in your voice, as if you had been holding it in for days and it had finally overflowed now, in the loneliness of your apartment.

"You're overwhelmed," he said quietly, calmly, reassuring you with every word. "You've pushed yourself too hard, and now your body is pulling the emergency brake. That's all. It's not weakness, okay? You're not a failure, you're not doing anything wrong."

You didn't respond. There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

“I was finishing a biology project and the stupid computer shut down and didn't save anything I had done,” you whispered. “I was so close to smash it on the floor.”

Steven stayed silent, giving you space.

“I’ve been going and going—assignments, midterms, group projects, labs, everything. Every second of every day is scheduled. And I was doing fine. I was fine. But now it felt like—like I can't do anything right. I don't even know where to start.”

He closed his eyes, gripping the phone tighter.

“It felt like no matter how hard I worked, I was still drowning. And I kept thinking, if I mess this up, that’s it. The chance to prove I belong here.”

Your voice dropped into something almost ashamed. “I’m scared, Steven. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I’m not sleeping. I’m messing up easy things. I forgot to call my mom back. I forgot to answer your calls all day. I’ve never done that. Ever. And I feel like I’m failing and no one sees it yet but they will.”

Steven took a slow breathe and sat up in the desk chair, the dim light from his office lamp casting soft shadows over his papers. Holy crap, he was just going to have to clean up all that mess before driving home.

“Do you remember…” he began carefully, voice low, “that time when I was completely falling apart? When I thought I wasn’t going to make it through finals?”

“Yeah…”

“I couldn’t sleep for days,” he said. “I was barely eating, everything felt like it was collapsing. I couldn’t see past it. I thought the world was ending for me.”

There was a quiet sniff on you end of the line. Still listening.

“You were the one who pulled me out of it. You sat on my bedroom floor, remember that? In your stupid fuzzy socks and your fancy Stanford hoodie, looking at me like I wasn’t insane. And you told me I could do it. That I was just a college student, not a failure. That it was going to pass.”

A tiny, shaky laugh escaped for you — wet and half-broken.

“I remember,” you whispered.

“I remember too,” he said. “And now it’s you. You’re the college student drowning in deadlines and pressure and expectations and fear. And I know it feels like everything is too much right now. But it’s not going to swallow you.”

Another breath.

“Okay?” he said softly.

You didn't answer immediately, but you nodded, forgetting the fact that your boyfriend can't see you. And that's a good thing, because you look like a mess with dirty hair, yesterday's makeup, dry lips, and dark circles under your eyes. Steven is sure you're trying not to cry; you've always been very sensitive, and he loves that about you. Until suddenly, slowly, you spoke again.

"I miss you... I miss you so fucking much," you murmur with a broken heart, like a confession you've been carrying around with you over time. "Sometimes I need you and you're not here, and I don't know what to do with that."

Steven closed his eyes, his heart tugging hard in his chest. He has nothing more to say to you, and that hurts him. You have no idea how much he wants to take his car and drive all the hours that separate you to hug his girlfriend for five minutes, kiss you, be with you, just feel you close enough to forget.

"I need you too," Steven finally says. "Every damn day."

Silence again—not heavy this time, just full. You both know how it feels; it's something that's hard to deal with, and it's moments like these that are the most challenging.

“Tell me what I can do,” he said. “Right now. Tell me how to make it feel a little less awful.”

Then you speak, voice barely there, “I haven’t… eaten today.”

Steven sat up straighter. “What?”

“I just… forgot. I had class, then spent the whole afternoon in the library preparing a presentation, and then I started studying and… it’s not like I meant to.” Your voice cracked on the last part, like you were ashamed to admit it.

Steven exhaled slowly through his nose, trying not to let the worry slip too much into his tone.

“Babe.”

“I know…”

“Okay. Alright. That’s it. I’m sending you food.”

“Steven…”

“Nope. Not up for discussion,” he interrupts you, but with a small smile because of the way you say his name. “You get to pick. Whatever you want — comfort food, real food, dessert first, I don’t care. Just say it, and it’ll be at your door in thirty minutes.”

On the other end of the line, you let out a small laugh it takes a weight off your shoulders and lets you breathe easier. You feel your cheeks flush, a genuine smile on your lips, and a warmth in your body that seemed so distant at first. It's things like these that remind you why you accepted this crazy long-distance relationship, because you know you'll never find anyone like him, who treats you like the most important person in the world, who remembers all the details about you, and who you miss so intensely that you would walk as far as necessary just to be with him.

“You always spoil me.”

Steven smiled, soft and full of something he didn’t even try to hide. “I like spoiling you. You know that.”

“Okay. Maybe… Thai food?”

“Done.” He was already opening the app on his laptop, you can hear him typing quickly. “You’re getting pad thai, spring rolls, and mango sticky rice. Don’t argue. And please, please eat everything.”

“C’mon…”

“I’m serious. You’re gonna eat. You’re gonna stay on the phone with me until it gets there. And then you’re gonna sit your brilliant, overworked ass down and take a break. Got it?”

“I didn’t want you to worry. You already had enough on your work.”

“Let me take care of you this time.”

𐙚⋆°. MASTERLIST

[dreammfyre]

dreamfire. multifandom. writing about tsitp atm, hotd on hold so please don't send any more requests for that, english's not my first language so any mistake is not intended.

requests open !

⊹ ࣪ ˖ rivermind, age-gap, cheating!langdon

⊹ ࣪ ˖ too sweet, soft!langdon x resident!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ oxytocine, ex-friends with benefits

⊹ ࣪ ˖ time out, soft!au

⊹ ࣪ ˖ boy, so confusing, enemies-coworkers

⊹ ࣪ ˖ riptide, married!au

⊹ ࣪ ˖ headcanons, pt. one (fluff), part two (smut).

⊹ ࣪ ˖ hayloft, married!au

⊹ ࣪ ˖ down bad, smut, age gap, divorced!langdon

none yet !

⊹ ࣪ ˖ wedding celebration, au, targarcest.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ the heir's favorite, dom!jace, targarcest.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ targaryen dynasty, targarcest.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ dragon rider, virgin!reader, targcest.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ box of memories, fluff, domestic life (au).

⊹ ࣪ ˖ dress, smut, first time together (au).

⊹ ࣪ ˖ something real, smut, ex boyfriend.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ you belong with me, serie, speak now, first love.

season one: part one, part two, part three.

season two: none yet !

⊹ ࣪ ˖ state of grace, fluff, stable relationship.

[grotesquevi]

YO LA SIGUIENTE CÓRRANSE

WHEN I THINK OF MY BEST FRIEND IN THIS ENTIRE WORLD I THINK ABOUT LITERALLY US:

i think about a ride or die, i think about my wife right there, my long lost soulmate and the very bane of my existence, i think about your grumpy ass and how i'd literally die for you without a single QUESTION,,,, you don't get it people but i think about how icarus fly to the sun cuz I'D FLY FOR THIS BITCH AND BURN IF SHE ASKS ME, ahora que quedo claro en ingles amika, cuando pienso en ti pienso en discord, nuestras charlas enormes hasta las 5 de la mañana, pienso en tu perrita, en tus miles de cambios de carrera, pienso en nuestra epoca donde nos mandamos 50939 audios por que no sabemos conversar normalmente, en los rollos amorosos y los 5495 fics que saco apenas converso contigo por que no me aguanto: ninguna wea, pienso en que DOOMJUNKIE ES UN MODO DE VIDA Y ESTAS PERRAS NO CACHAN NAAAAAAAAA

[dreammfyre]

I LOVE MY LESBIAN BESTIE IN ALL UNIVERSESSSSS #LGBTQ ALLY

[dreammfyre]

state of grace ⋆.˚ steven conklin

𖤓 we are alone with our changing minds. we fall in love 'til it hurts or bleeds, or fades in time 𖤓

summary: studying in another state had taken you away from your boyfriend, but steven always found a way to visit you, driving an hour to see you. he spent weekends in your room, spoiling you whenever you had exams, knowing how much they stressed you out. one night, you received the most terrifying call of your life: steven had been in a car accident. so you're going to visit him at his house for the first time since he left the hospital.

warnings: steven conklin x f!reader, stable relationship, based on the third episode of the final season, fluff steven (my personal fav), english is not my first language, so please be kind.

When you arrived in Pennsylvania after driving for almost seven hours, the Conklin house was silent. For a moment, you hesitated to knock on the door because it seemed like no one was home, but Laurel was writing in the living room and came out to greet you. When she opened the door and saw you there, she couldn't hide her surprise at your unexpected visit. Your mother-in-law hugs you so tightly that you think she's going to leave you breathless. She takes your face in her hands, noticing the tiredness in your eyes, but she's grateful that you've come so far to see Steven.

"I'm glad to see you, dear." She kisses you on the cheek. "He's upstairs. He didn't tell me you were coming."

"He doesn't know."

Steven was in his room, covered by two comforters and a blanket as if it were snowing outside. His laptop was resting on his stomach, typing numbers, refreshing statistics every two minutes, and making calculations with the data he already had in order to predict the best move, which had him completely focused. His mother tried to take the computer away from him; the doctor recommended limited screen time, but Steven Conklin was unable to stop thinking about work.

He hated this.

Not the rest—he could handle a few days of inactivity and continue working from the comfort of his bed in pyjamas. But he couldn't stand the hourly check-ins. The rule was "no phone, no video games, no work." It was like being eleven again, but without the chickenpox. Belly and his mother hovered over him constantly. He loves them, but those women follow him around all day, every hour.

Then came the knock.

Steven groaned from under his mountain of blankets. “Mom, I’m fine.” He shouts angrily.

There was a pause.

"Calm down, I didn't come to take your temperature." Laurel replied through the door, ever calm, ever composed—but with that edge of insistence he knew too well. “But you have a visitor.”

Steven frowned, not wanting to receive anyone else; he had enough to put up with his own family. He sat up a bit with pain, frowning, adjusting the laptop so it didn’t crash to the floor.

“What? Who—” But before he could finish, the door open. “Mom—don’t—” he started, tugging the blanket up defensively like she’d just walked in on something catastrophic.

Laurel just gave him a knowing look. “Steven, relax.”

Then you stepped aside and there you were.

Standing in the doorway, one hand behind your back, the other holding a small bouquet of grocery-store flowers—slightly squished, a little uneven, but charming in the way only something thoughtful and last-minute can be. Your eyes found his instantly, and softened.

You looked almost unsure of yourself—like maybe you’d interrupted something, like maybe you shouldn’t be there after all. But the moment you saw him—hair a little messy, face pale but alive under all those blankets—your expression melted into something so full of relief, it made his chest tighten.

Steven blinked. “You—what—what are you doing here?” he asked, shocked. “Aren’t you supposed to be drowning in flashcards right now?”

You lifted the flowers slightly, like you’d just remembered they were in your hand. “Yeah, but my boyfriend decided it was a good idea to drive like an imbecile and get into an accident.”

“Maybe you have a point.”

Laurel smiled quietly between you both, then stepped back out into the hallway.

“Okay, guys, I’ll let you two talk,” she said gently, pulling the door mostly shut behind her. “Try not to dislocate anything.”

Steven watched you for a second longer, like he was still processing you being there.

And then—tentatively—he smiled.

“You brought me flowers?”

“They’re technically ‘get well soon,’” you said, stepping closer. “But I’m rebranding them as ‘I missed you.’ Or something like that…”

“You know, those are also what people bring to funerals.”

You lowered the bouquet slowly. “Steven.”

“What?” he shrugged, trying for playful but landing somewhere around morbidly charming. “They are.”

You didn’t laugh, just looked at him, jaw tight, eyes suddenly a little shinier than before.

“Don’t joke about that,” you said quietly, but firmly. “It’s not funny, idiot.”

He hesitated, watching you for a moment, then gestured to the bed with a sheepish grin. “Come here. No more jokes. I promise.”

“Why are you swaddled like a newborn?” You asked, walking to the bed.

He groaned. “My mom thinks the extra layers will ‘speed up circulation.’ I tried to rebel. She added another blanket.” He sat up a bit more, trying to make room as you toed off your shoes. “Wait—really, what are you doing here? I don’t want you falling behind because of me.”

“I already studied for four hours yesterday. I needed a break,” you said, crawling up onto the bed and slipping under the blanket beside him like you’d done it a hundred times. “And you looked like you needed rescuing.”

Steven let himself relax into the warmth of your tired body, your arm gently looping around him.

“…I missed you,” he murmured, pressing his nose into your hair. “Even though it’s only been, like, five days? I’m soft like that now. Congratulations, you broke me.”

You smiled against his collarbone, fingers lightly tracing over the soft fabric of his white T-shirt.

“You were already soft. I just brought it out.”

You shifted closer, slipping under the covers like you belonged there—which, to Steven, absolutely did. Your thigh brushed against his as you settled beside him, moving slowly, carefully, aware of the bruises he wasn’t talking about and the stiffness he was pretending wasn’t there. The mattress dipped with your weight, and the familiar warmth of your presence seemed to soften everything around him.

Steven winced as he tried to adjust, his ribs sending a dull, protesting ache through his side. He bit down a groan but you noticed anyway.

“Hey,” you said gently, hand on his chest. “Don’t move too much.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, shifting just enough to curve his body toward you. “Just—need to get comfortable.”

You gave him a look, soft but knowing, and then he felt it: your hand sliding across his stomach and resting just above his hip. Your touch was always warm, always steady. He exhaled slowly, as if that alone untied the knot in his chest.

Steven buried his face into the crown of his girlfriend head, his nose brushing her hair, and there it was—caramel and coffe. Soft and familiar, that sweet scent did something to him. Made his shoulders drop, made his heartbeat stop trying so hard to act tough.

“You smell really good,” he mumbled into your hair, voice half-asleep, half-in-love.

“Mm. You smell like soup chicken and hospital.”

He laughed, low and breathy, the sound vibrating against your cheek. “Sexy.”

You tilted your head up slightly, just enough for your forehead to rest beneath his jaw, and he instinctively curled his arm around your back, his fingers splayed across the soft cotton of your shirt. His other hand, still a little clumsy from the soreness, found your face in the quiet. He let his knuckles brush your cheek, then gently tucked a strand of hair behind ear, letting his thumb linger at your temple.

“You good?” he asked quietly, looking at you—really looking. Forgetting that it was he who was hit by a car and was in a coma.

You nodded against his chest, then leaned in to press your lips gently against his jaw.

The warmth between you had settled into a kind of stillness—quiet, safe, but not entirely calm. You hadn’t spoken in a few minutes, not since curling into his side. Steven thought maybe you’d drifted off, lulled by the rhythm of his breathing and the long drive you had to make to get to Pennsylvania.

But then you lifted your head.

Your hand found his chest and stayed there. His eyes follow your fingers brushing faintly over the fabric of his shirt.

“Does it still hurt?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Steven glanced down at you, his arm still around your back. “A little,” he admitted knowing that if it had been his mother who asked him that question, he would most likely have lied. “Mostly when I move.”

Your hand stilled. You was quiet again, but not sleepy. There was something deeper in the silence now—heavier. When looked up at him, your gaze locked with his, and he felt it in the pit of his stomach before you even said a word.

“I should’ve stayed longer at the hospital,” you said quietly, your voice steady but threaded with guilt. “I sat with you for fucking long hours, but you still hadn’t woken up. They told me to go home. I thought I’d come back the next day and see you… sitting up, cracking jokes.”

Steven’s brow softened. He didn’t speak—just looked at his girl, listening.

Your fingers drifted from his chest to his side, tracing patterns absentmindedly over the blanket. “But when I left, I—I couldn’t breathe right. I kept thinking, what if you woke up and I wasn’t there? What if something happened and I wasn’t there to say goodbye?”

Steven’s hand moved to your jaw, tilting your face up toward him gently. Your eyes shimmered—not with tears, you swore wouldn't cry in front of him, but with that depth of feeling he’d only seen a handful of times. The kind that scared him a little because he knew exactly how much space he took up in your crazy world.

“I was so scared,” you whispered. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you, about us. And I kept trying to imagine my life without you and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t.”

“Baby, you don't have to do that.”

“I would’ve never forgiven myself if something had happened,” you said. “I mean it, Steven. Never.”

He didn’t know what to say. His throat tightened. So instead, he reached for your hand, slipping his fingers between yours, holding on.

“You’re not allowed to scare me like that again, Steven Conklin” you said, finally looking back up at him. “I’m serious. You’re not allowed.”

“I didn’t exactly plan it,” he said gently, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Funny,” you said, her voice low. “But you’re not getting into a car again.”

Steven tucked his arm tighter around you, despite the twinge of pain in his side. His free hand came up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek slowly, trying to smooth out the sadness and scary he saw there.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “I’m okay. And I’m not going anywhere. You need more than a crash to get rid of me, understand?”

You nodded against him with a tired smile, and he kissed your lips because after everything, it was the only thing that felt right. Your head rested against his again, your foreheads touching gently, breaths falling in sync.

Steven tilted his head just slightly, enough to brush the tip of his nose along yours. You lifted your eyes, and he was already looking at you—eyes soft, full of something deeper than usual.

And then he leaned in.

Just a few inches.

But that small movement pulled at his side, and a sharp stab of pain cracked through his ribs.

“Shit—” he hissed through his teeth, pulling back with a wince, his jaw clenched.

You sat up slightly, instantly alert. “Steven—hey—don’t move like that, you idiot.”

He closed his eyes, breathing through the pain. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” you said, checking his expression like he was about to pass out. “You literally made a noise like someone stabbed you.”

“I have been stabbed. Internally. By a seatbelt,” he muttered, eyes fluttering open with a half-smile. “But that’s not the point.”

You gave him a look, the kind that said you’re lucky I love you. “What’s the point, then?”

“That I want to kiss you,” he said simply. “And I don’t care if it hurts a little. It’s worth it.”

You softened. Still worried, but you couldn’t help the way your fingers moved again, sweeping a curl away from his forehead.

“Steven…”

“C’mon, have mercy,” he said, eyes locked on yours, lips tugging into something half-pleading, half-playful. “On a poor, broken boy who almost died and just wants one kiss from his hot girlfriend.”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head like he was impossible. Which he was. And you loved him for it.

So you leaned in this time—slowly, carefully—and kissed him.

His hand curled gently at the back of your neck, fingertips brushing your skin. He didn’t move too much, didn’t need to. Just let the kiss happen, gently brushing your lips against his, a sigh escaped Steven’s mouth and a shiver ran down your spine.

“There,” you whispered. “Mercy granted.”

Steven grinned.

“Totally worth the whole accident.”

The quiet between you stretched, thick with warmth, breath, skin. Your lips lingered just a little longer than before against his jaw, then trailed up to his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Steven smile, catching your lips with his in a kiss that started slow and careful. But then his hand slid from your arm to your waist, fingers flexing slightly as he pulled your body closer, your muscles tensed when his tongue entered your mouth.

Your body molded easily against his, and for a second, the room, the accident, the ache in his side—all of it disappeared.

His hand dipped lower, tracing the curve of your hip, resting there. The air between you shifted, and his breathing picked up just slightly—not from pain this time, but from want.

And then you pulled back, your hand flat on his chest, steady but not cold.

“Steven,” you said softly. “No.”

He blinked, dazed. “No?”

“You need to rest,” you said, brushing your thumb along his collarbone, your tone firm. “If you keep trying to pull me on top of you, you’re going to pop a rib. And believe me, I am not spending the night in the ER again.”

He pouted—not just with his lips but his whole face. “You say that like it’s not the best possible way to go. Death by girlfriend.”

“Steven.”

“Alright, alright,” he sighed dramatically, flopping his head back on the pillow. “But this is actual cruelty. Do you know how long I’ve been in this bed? And now that I finally have you here, hot as hell and beautiful and literally in my arms, I have to—rest?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

He groaned like a child being grounded, but tightened his arms around you anyway, hugging close, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Unfair,” he mumbled into you skin. “But I still get to hold you, right?” he said, a little muffled. “You’re not actually going to leave?”

“Not going anywhere.”

He sighed, finally settling, his whole body melting into yours with reluctant contentment. “Fine. Just holding you.”

You smiled.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.”

“Speak for yourself,” he muttered, pressing one last kiss to your neck. “I’m a broken man.”

They lay there in a tangle of limbs and blankets, Steven finally resigned to just holding her—though the pout still hadn’t fully left his face. His fingers rested lazily at your waist, thumb moving back and forth in slow, absent circles.

“You okay?” You asked softly, glancing up at him.

He gave your a long, exaggerated sigh. “Define ‘okay.’”

“You’re alive.“

“I’m sexually repressed,” he muttered.

You laughed again, turning in his arms just enough to see his face. “You’re healing, you hormonal disaster.”

“I can do both,” he argued, then added, “Probably.”

“Definitely cannot.”

He groaned again, flopping onto his back, staring at the ceiling like the universe had betrayed him. “This isn’t fair. I nearly died. I should be getting sympathy kisses and post-traumatic sex.”

“You’re getting pajamas, ibuprofen, and shut up.” You sat up slightly, brushing your hair from your face. “But…” your tone softened. “If you behave, I might throw in something better.”

He showed interest in the proposal. “Better?”

A sly smile crept across your lips. “I’ll go out and bring back milkshakes and burgers.”

Steven looked at you like just offered him something really incredible. “From that place with the toasted buns?”

“The very same.”

“And crinkle fries?”

“Obviously.”

Steven narrowed his eyes. “This sounds like a bribe.”

You leaned down, brushing her lips against his in a soft kiss—just enough to make him chase after it when she pulled back.

“It is,” she said sweetly. “To keep your hands where they are and let your ribs knit back together like a responsible patient in recovery.”

Steven let out a low, defeated whimper. “So I get cheeseburgers instead of sex.”

“That’s a pretty good deal for me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Double fries?”

“Only if you stop trying to seduce me with your deathbed charm.”

Steven threw his head back with a dramatic groan. “You’re a cruel woman.”

“And you’ love me,” she said, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Be good. I’ll be back in twenty.”

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But I want extra pickles. And a chocolate shake with whipped cream.”

“Obviously,” you said, already slipping off the bed. “I’m not a monster.”

𐙚⋆°. MASTERLIST

[dreammfyre]

dress ✮⋆˙ kang dae-ho

⚝ only bought this dress so you could take it off you made your mark on me, golden tattoo ⚝

summary: you're dating a sweet and sensitive guy, but you don't want to ruin things between you and fall into the same mistakes of the past. until you invite him to your apartment for the first time, dae-ho doesn't want to disappoint you, but he can't resist that short dress anymore.

warnings: MDNI, female!reader, alternative universe (no games), mutual consent, first time together, he is a gentleman. english is not my first language, so please be kind.

It's your fifth date with Dae-ho.

Not the first one you struggled to accept because you didn't feel ready to try date a man, nor the second one where he made you laugh so much that you forgot your problems at work, nor the "let's see what happens" one. The fifth.

Number five is different. Not because of what you did—you just went to a restaurant he chose because he thought you would like it, then you went for a walk around the city holding hands—but because of what has been forming between you during that time, which cannot be measured in days or calendars, but rather in the way he looks at your lips when you speak and smiles at you, as if everything you say is the most interesting thing in the world.

He's always been like that since you met, and you like that. Too concerned. Comfortable. Sweet in a way that's not overwhelming. He makes you feel pretty without having to say it out loud (although sometimes he does say it anyway, and you melt a little, blushing). He listens to you. He doesn't interrupt. His jokes are so bad they're funny. And when he touches you, he thinks twice before making you uncomfortable.

After spending hours together, they are standing in front of your apartment door again. It's the part you already know by heart: they walk you to the door, say goodbye with a kiss, tell you to get some rest. Always so correct. So... considerate.

And you appreciate it. Really. But this time, the feeling is different.

Maybe it's because he caressed your thigh under the table at dinner. Maybe because he brushed your hand for two seconds longer than usual. Or maybe simply because you want it, even though you still find it hard to admit it out loud.

"Thank you for tonight," he says, in that voice that always sounds like he's talking only to you.

"Thanks for the invitation," you reply quietly, looking up.

He looks into your eyes and his breathing begins to quicken, until his hand gently caresses your cheek, then he leans in to kiss you. That's the best moment of every date, and each time you kiss is better than the last. He still remembers the first time; he was clumsy and sweating too much, but now he enjoys your touch. The kiss is neither urgent nor clumsy. Just longer than the others. More... intense. As if saying goodbye weighs more today.

When he pulls away, he looks at you with that half-smile that drives you crazy, as if he doesn't know that he has just set you on fire inside with a single hand on your waist.

He takes a step back. The usual one. The one that announces he's going to take the elevator and that it's the hardest part of every time they see each other because he would give everything he has to spend a little more time with you.

And you—damn you—stop him for the first time.

"Hey."

He turns to look at you. He blinks. He looks at you with concern. Are you going to say that they shouldn't see each other again? It can't be. Did he do something wrong?

"Yes?" His voice trembles a little, but he hides it well enough not to seem worried. "Everything okay?"

You take a breath and nod immediately. Dae-ho has his hands in his pants pockets, but he's still nervous. And you say it. Your voice trembles a little, but it doesn't matter.

"Do you want to... hang out?"

A silence falls between the two of you, and for a second you regret asking. Just half a second. Long enough to feel your heart pounding in your ribs.

He tilts his head slightly, as if he didn't quite understand. And you repeat it, more quietly, but more confidently:

"You can come in. If you want to… of course." You laugh nervously.

Dae-ho nods awkwardly as if they share the same feeling in their bodies, his hands begin to sweat and his mouth goes dry. He can see the uncertainty in your eyes, so he hastens to respond.

"Y-yes. Of course."

You search for the key in your purse, feeling his gaze on you, which makes you a little nervous. It takes you a while to find the keys, and you smile at him, asking for patience. Finally, you manage to find them after turning the lock a couple of times, and he comes in. Your apartment isn't messy... well, not too much. There's a black jacket thrown over the back of the armchair, a couple of books piled on the table that should be on the bookcase in the living room, a cup with a little cold tea forgotten near the edge. The room smells of soft vanilla, and the lamp in the corner gives off a warm, cozy light, though not as perfect as you'd like right now.

Damn, that's embarrassing.

"Sorry for the mess. I didn't know I'd have company tonight," you murmur apologetically, quickly bending down to straighten a cushion and hide the cup in the kitchen without making the urgency too obvious.

"It doesn't matter..." he says, smiling, although his voice sounds a little lower than usual. "It looks much better than mine." He tries to make a joke to break the tension in the room, but fails.

There is a pause. The air seems to stand still between you, so you take off your jacket and hang it behind the door next to your purse.

"I'm going to the bathroom for a moment, okay? Feel free to make yourself comfy, go ahead." You add, with a fleeting smile that is more to reassure yourself than him.

He nods repeatedly, trying hard to look confident, and sits on the edge of the sofa, careful not to ruin anything in your apartment. He plays with his fingers, looking around, as if he doesn't know what to do with his hands or his existence.

The bathroom door closes behind you, and for a moment, the sound of the latch is louder than your breathing. You can breathe easily without his eyes on you.

You lean against the sink. Look in the mirror.

Your reflection stares back at you anxiously. You're not sorry... but you're nervous. Very nervous. The kind of nerves that tighten your chest and make you doubt yourself, even when your feelings for him are real. Your heart is beating so fast that you can hardly hear yourself think.

You wash your hands. Then, on impulse, you brush your teeth to freshen your breath. You take the blush from your makeup bag and dab it lightly on your cheeks, just enough to look alive. You run a brush through your hair. You turn yourself around. You look at your dress from every possible angle. It's your favorite for occasions when you want to feel attractive, and it seems to be working. You adjust it at the waist. Tighten a loose strap over your shoulder.

You take a step back to see yourself as a whole. You don't look perfect, but you look like yourself. And you hope that's enough.

Before leaving, you open the bathroom drawer and look inside, rummaging through a couple of things you have stored there.

Yes. Two condoms at the bottom. Still there. Just in case, not sure what's about to happen between you.

You swallow hard and take a deep breath.

Meanwhile, in the living room of your apartment, Dae-ho walks around the table in circles, unable to stand still. Slowly. Silently.

He runs a hand through his hair, stops in front of the bookshelf, then returns to the sofa. He doesn't sit down. Then he does. He gets up again.

"Calm down... calm down, Dae-ho..." he whispers softly, taking a deep breath. "Just... relax, idiot."

He looks toward the bathroom door, anxiously waiting to see you come out. He doesn't want to ruin this. He doesn't want to rush anything. He doesn't want to seem like he was expecting this... even though he was. He's been fantasizing about this moment since the second date, when you laughed with your head thrown back and looked at him like you really liked him.

And now you're there. In the bathroom. In your house. And he... doesn't know whether to sit down, stand there, or go get you, say something, or make a joke to break the tension. He doesn't have much experience with this. He doesn't know if there's some kind of protocol to follow or if you just want to have a conversation while drinking coffee. He only knows that he wants you close. And that he doesn't want to disappoint you.

He looks at his hands. They're a little sweaty. He rubs them against his pants.

"Just make her feel good," he murmurs to himself, adjusting his shirt. "She likes you. Yeah… she likes you… right?”

He sighs. Deeply.

And he stands there, in the middle of your living room, hoping he doesn't look like the insecure fool he is when you come back out.

The minutes seem to drag on forever until he hears the door open and you come out of the bathroom.

Your steps are soft, measured. Not out of insecurity, but because something in the atmosphere demands caution. As if the slightest movement would break the calm that has formed between the two of you, and you don't want it to be rushed. The fabric of your dress settles over your legs with each step, and for a second you wonder if he'll notice that you fixed your hair. That you touched up your blush. That you got nervous around him.

Dae-ho sees you before you can say anything.

He stands halfway between the sofa and the window, his hands at his sides, as if he still can't believe he's there. He looks at you, and in that moment you notice it: the way his eyes soften, how his mouth opens slightly as if he's about to say something, but then he changes his mind.

He says nothing. He just looks at you as if you were more than he expected.

"Are you okay?" you ask, without needing to embellish the question.

"Yes. Yes, of course. Just..." He runs a hand through his hair, and that shy, charming smile of his appears, as it always does when he's nervous. "I don't want to do anything… wrong."

"You're not doing anything wrong, Dae-ho." You reply in a soft, warm tone that makes him feel a little better.

When he's in front of you, he doesn't touch you. Not yet. He just stands there, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his body, but without invading your space.

"If I mess up, let me know, okay?" he says quietly, almost like a secret. He's serious, his smile fades from his lips, and his gaze focuses on your mouth.

"I'll let you know," you assure him with a small but genuine smile.

Your hands move up, almost instinctively, to his shirt. You don't open it, you don't push it. You just take it between your fingers, barely holding on to him. He moves to the rhythm of your gesture, leaning closer until his lips brush against yours in a contact that makes you sigh because it feels so good.

This time the kiss is not a goodbye.

It's slower. Deeper. Filled with everything you've been holding back since the first time your hands brushed against each other on a silly date with coffee and nervous laughter.

His lips are soft and gentle, like everything else about him. But there is something else now: a new tension, an urgency that is not desperate, but sweet yet exciting. As if he were carefully exploring unknown territory, asking with each kiss if he can go a little further.

Your fingers trail up his neck. His rest on your waist over your dress, with a delicacy that almost hurts.

You don't make it to the bedroom as you might have imagined.

But you don't need to.

Your steps carry you toward him with a gentle determination that sets no limits. Dae-ho is now sitting in the center of the couch, his eyes fixed on you as if he can't quite believe this is happening. That you are choosing him. Again.

You settle yourself on his legs, taking care to position yourself correctly without hurting him, one knee on either side of his hips, the dress falling in soft waves over both. The fabric rustles slightly. You look at him, waiting for some reaction, and what you get is a small, warm, almost resigned smile.

"Is this okay?" you ask, just in case.

He nods slowly, swallowing hard.

"Yes. It's... very good."

Your lips meet again, and the kiss is unhurried because there is no rush now. Nothing interrupts the moment, just the two of you, in that stillness charged with heat and desire. Your hands caress his neck, his cheeks, his jaw.

His fingers, meanwhile, move slowly, with increasing confidence. From your waist, where they rested, they slowly and reverently move down to your thighs. They caress the fabric of your dress, then your skin, with an almost shy gentleness. As if they don't want to interrupt you. As if your body is something he wants to calmly memorize, but just enough to hear you moan softly against his mouth when his fingers squeeze your skin.

Sighs fill the spaces between kisses. Dae-ho leans forward, grabbing your back to bring his moist lips closer to your neck, tracing a path of warm kisses up to your collarbone while you close your eyes and run your fingers through his hair every time you feel his tongue licking your neck.

Your forehead rests against his. The warmth of his hands continues to move up and down your increasingly tense thighs on top of his body.

Then he stops moving.

He is looking at you.

And you know it, even before you open your eyes.

His fingers move slowly toward one of the straps of your dress on your shoulders, which have tempted him since he saw you in that dress. He doesn't pull it hard. He doesn't push it. He just brushes it, takes it between his fingers, and, without breaking eye contact, slowly slides it down your arm. Very slowly. As if every inch were torture.

You don't say anything. Even though you're dying to confess that you chose that outfit just so he would take it off you.

You don't look away. You don't stop him.

The strap falls down your arm, soft as a sigh.

Dae-ho keeps watching you, waiting for you to ask him to stop at any moment, but you don't. His breathing is slow, though you can feel his chest rising and falling with measured, almost restrained effort.

"Tell me if you want to stop," he murmurs, so softly that he almost doesn't dare.

"I will," you reply, firmly but softly. You don't smile, you don't laugh. You just look at him sincerely. Because you want it too.

His hands rest on your thighs again, and now they move up with a little more determination, caressing your exposed skin with his fingertips. His lips meet yours again, even slower, even deeper. It's a kiss that breathes you in. That speaks to you without saying a word.

You hold on to him a little tighter, your fingers tangled in his shirt. He gasps softly as your hips press harder against his, not in a rush, you just want to feel him and you do; hard and firm between your legs.

Your dress slowly slides down your body, with no one rushing you. Sometimes it's his hands that pull it down, other times it's you who guides it down, leaving your breasts exposed to his excited gaze. Dae-ho caresses your arms, your back, your neck. He kisses you wherever he can, without urgency. Slow kisses on your jaw, your shoulder, your collarbone. Leaving your breasts for last, looking at you the whole time before taking one into his mouth, careful not to hurt you with his teeth, and he doesn't.

"Wait..." you whisper, and he stops.

Your fingers unbutton his shirt smoothly, but with desire. You explore him as he explores you, with that mixture of respect and contained hunger to finally have him for yourself once and for all. Dae-ho is bigger than you. He always has been. You notice it every time he wraps you in an embrace, when he completely covers you with his body without even trying. And now, with the fabric of his shirt slowly unbuttoning, you notice it even more.

His torso is revealed inch by inch, warm, strong, just enough to make you want to touch him. You do. With your fingertips, running over his chest, his abdomen, the firm curve of his shoulders. His skin shivers under your touch, though he doesn't move much. He doesn't want to scare you. He doesn't want to break the moment.

But he does look at you.

All the time.

As if I couldn't take my eyes off you. As if watching you touch it was just as exciting as kissing it.

You leave a kiss on his collarbone. Another one lower down.

When your lips brush the center line of his chest, he throws his head back, holding his breath. He hasn't let go of your legs at any moment. He holds you firmly, as if you were something precious he's not willing to let go of. Your hips fit naturally on top of his, but his body is still restrained, waiting for you to take control.

His hands move more confidently over your thighs now, moving up to your buttocks, caressing your behind. He caresses you as if he has known you forever. His other hand moves up, and with a mixture of tenderness and need, he tangles his fingers in your long hair, pulling it slowly.

Not forcefully, but with intention.

And when he brings you back to his mouth, it's no longer the same shy kiss as before.

More hungry and urgent. He kisses you with that silent need that has been building since the first time he saw you laugh. And you... you understand. Because you can feel it too.

But he stops anyway. He pulls away just enough to speak to you. To make certain.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice a little hoarse, his eyes searching yours with desperate gentleness. "We don't have to do this tonight if you don't want to."

Your heart is beating so hard that you think he can hear it. But you look at him. You look at him closely.

You kiss his mouth again, his lips now swollen, your tongues brushing gently, his taste permeating you.

"I want this," you whisper close to his ear.

Dae-ho smiles. His forehead rests against yours for a second. And then he kisses you again. Not on impulse. Not out of anxiety.

You carefully climb down from his lap, your legs slightly trembling as you feel the coldness of his absence. You immediately distance yourself and leave a caress on his cheek before saying:

"I'm going to the bathroom... won't be long."

Dae-ho nods with a small smile, but inside he is a mess. He runs his hand through his hair and exhales slowly. His chest rises and falls as if he is holding back an emotion greater than his body can bear. As you walk down the hall, he remains seated on the couch, and after a few seconds, he gets up silently.

He unbuckles his belt, folds his pants with a slightly feigned calmness, and sits down again, his shirt already half off, so he finishes taking it off, leaving himself in his underwear. He doesn't want to seem too anxious, but he also doesn't want to hide how much he's been waiting for this moment. He wants it to be perfect... for you.

From the bathroom, you look at yourself in the mirror once more, holding back your excitement so as not to jump for joy. You hold the package between your fingertips. You carefully tuck it into the palm of your hand as you bite your lip. There is something in your gaze—a mixture of nervousness and confidence, desire and trust.

When you return to the living room, he is there, sitting as if he hadn't moved... but you notice his folded pants, his bare chest, his eyes fixed only on you.

And the way he looks at you, damn it... it's everything your body desires.

You approach him with the dress at your hips. He slowly spreads his legs, silently inviting you to climb back on. And you do, but not before removing the garment covering you, leaving only your underwear to cover you.

Your knees are once again on either side of his hips.

His firm torso, you can feel the touch of his warm bodies much better. Your body resting on his as if you had been there all your life.

His hands caress your bare back, your skin prickles as he touches you gently, watching you settle comfortably on his hip, and you can feel his erection rubbing against your entrance with greater intensity. He moves slowly, as if afraid you'll back away if he moves too fast.

"Are you okay?" he whispers.

You nod. You lean in and kiss him on the jaw.

"I'm fine," you say.

And with that, he exhales.

He helps you with the condom, his hands trembling a little at first as he opens it, then looking for the right side to put it on, but not because he lacks desire. It's because he wants to do it right. He doesn't want to hurt you, he doesn't want to rush. You pull your underwear down enough so that it's not a problem, and when he's finally ready, he holds you by the waist as if you were made of glass.

"Just tell me if it's uncomfortable... if something's wrong." He says against your neck, his voice barely audible.

"I trust you, Dae-ho." You reply, breathing heavily.

And that's it.

When he enters you, he does it slowly. Very slowly.

He takes his time with you.

Your breath mixes with his, and his arms wrap tightly around you. He doesn't let go. He doesn't let go for even a second. One of his hands caresses your back, the other clings to your hip as if that could control what he feels. But it can't.

At first it hurts a little.

Your body doesn't say it in words, but he notices it right away in the way you frown slightly, how you press your lips together, the slight tremor in your breathing as you settle on top of him.

His hands, which had been firmly on your hip, stop. He caresses your cheek with the back of his fingers.

"Does it hurt?" he asks softly, as if afraid he's done something wrong.

"A little..." you reply, honestly, but without pulling away from him.

Your cheeks are flushed, not only from the heat, but from the mixture of sensations: modesty, the sweet embarrassment of being so exposed, but also the desire and tenderness he shows you even when he is inside you.

"We can stop. Right now," he says, his forehead brushing against yours.

You shake your head gently.

"Just... give me a second."

Settle down, without rushing, unable to fully enjoy being inside you. He caresses your hair, your back. He leaves delicate kisses on your neck, your collarbone, your shoulders. And with each caress, your body relaxes, becoming accustomed to him, to the warmth, to the weight, to the invasive presence at the same time.

Then you begin to move. Slowly, very slowly. Back and forth.

The friction changes, and with it the pain becomes something else: pleasure, restrained but undeniable. Your hands rest on his chest, feeling his breathing become heavier. And you... let yourself go a little more.

You bounce on him with more confidence. As if your body remembers what it has never done before. As if it had been waiting for someone like him to discover itself without fear.

And Dae-ho...

Dae-ho can't stop looking at you.

"God..." he whispers between sighs, clasping his hands to your hips. "You feel incredible."

His fingers press more firmly against your hip. He guides you, but leaves you in control.

"You're doing so good. So good, baby." His words can't be contained in his mouth.

You lean toward him and kiss him because you need him to be close.

Your lips seek his in the midst of the act, as if you want to seal the connection that already feels so complete. He responds with the same devotion, his hands moving up your back, his mouth devouring yours with deeper, hungrier, harder kisses. Always with affection. Always with care.

Your rhythm becomes firmer, your body adapting to his with a synchronicity that seems written. There is no more pain. Only pleasure. Only you.

"Fuck... fuck. I can’t.”

He bites his lip as he watches you move on top of him, his eyes glazed over, but never taking his gaze off you for a moment. Sometimes his lips brush against your chest, sometimes he just squeezes your buttocks when you go deeper and his entire length enjoys your insides. You set the rhythm, and he adapts.

You get even more turned on when you see him with his eyes closed, trying to hold on a little longer for you. You’re still moving, your breath uneven, your hands braced on his chest when he suddenly stills you with a gentle grip on your hips.

“Let me,” he murmurs, voice low, deep. “I don’t want you to do everything on your own.”

Before you can respond, he shifts—his arms wrap around you and, with a quiet grunt, he lays you down carefully on the couch beneath him. His chest hovers over yours, his hands framing your face like you're something he doesn't want to hurt, but at this point he can't control his most carnal impulses.

You can feel the warmth of his skin, the weight of his body pressing against yours apoyándose en su brazo para no dejarse caer sobre ti, the way your legs wrap around him without even thinking. And still, his eyes stay locked on you.

Like he’s asking again.

You nod. You whisper his name, wishing that what you have started will come to an end.

And then he moves—gently, carefully—finding a rhythm that speaks more of connection than control. Every movement is fluid, like he’s listening to your body, your breath, the way your fingers cling to his shoulders and your lips part around quiet, surprised gasps.

You whisper things to him between the warmth of kisses and the flush of pleasure.

"Please, don't stop..." you say, scratching his back.

His own voice is breathless, strained, full of awe:

"You feel so good..." He buries his head in your neck so you can hear his breathing against your ear, making you feel tighter. "Just like that, so perfect."

The tension between you rises slowly, like a tide, building with each shared breath, each roll of his hips against yours. His forehead presses to yours, his mouth catching your every sigh as if he needs to taste your pleasure just as much as feel it. The sound of his pelvis against yours begins to grow louder, your moans also increase in volume, regardless of whether the neighbors hear you being fucked. Dae-ho moans louder, feeling your walls contract around his burning member inside you, their breaths mingling as you beg him not to stop.

He grabs your hips and lifts them slightly so he can go even deeper inside you. And when you reach that final crest—together—it's not rushed or loud or chaotic.

It’s full of warmth. Dae-ho te sigue un par de segundos después. Of hands clasped tight and a whispered name against your throat as your back arches and you fall apart with him.

He doesn’t move right away.

Just stays there, resting his forehead against your collarbone, both of you breathing hard. Tus piernas tiemblan bajo las de él sin poder controlarlas, You don’t say anything for a while.

The silence is full, but it’s not awkward. It’s warm. Real. You’re both still trying to catch your breath, your bodies tangled on the couch, the room dim and quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the rhythmic beat of your hearts trying to settle back into place.

Dae-ho’s head rests just below your collarbone, his lips barely brushing your skin as he breathes. One arm is still around your waist, the other tucked under your back, holding you like he’s afraid to let go too soon. Like if he loosens his grip, he might wake up and realize this wasn’t real.

Your fingers are in his hair—messy and damp and soft—and you trace little patterns along the base of his neck, still feeling the weight of everything you just shared.

Eventually, he shifts, just enough to look at you. His cheeks are pink, his hair sticking out in every direction, and his eyes are the softest you’ve ever seen them.

“You okay?” he asks.

It’s not a throwaway question. Not with him. He says it like it matters.

You nod, and for a second, your throat tightens—not from sadness, just from the quiet rush of feeling safe.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, and then, with a tiny smile, “More than okay.”

Relief floods his face, and his lips curve gently as he presses a slow kiss to your shoulder, then your collarbone, then just over your heart.

“You were…” he hesitates, as if afraid he’ll mess it up by speaking too soon. “You’re… amazing. I mean it.”

You smile, but roll your eyes a little, too.

He laughs, catching it. “I’m serious! I was trying really hard to stay in the moment and not just—completely fall apart.”

You giggle softly and tug his hair. “You didn’t fall apart.”

“I did internally,” he says, dramatic. “Like—my brain was melting. You were on top of me. Saying things. Doing things. I’m lucky I even remembered to breathe.”

He shifts again, sitting up just enough to reach behind the couch. He grabs the throw blanket you usually keep there and tucks it over both of you, pulling you close into his chest.

"It was incredible," you say as Dae-ho hugs you, holding you close to his body, making sure you don't get cold. You look up innocently. "We should do it again, don't you think?"

He laughs and kisses your forehead.

"All the times you want."

𐙚⋆°. MASTERLIST

[dreammfyre]

guilty as a sin? ⋆. 𐙚 steven conklin

❀ someone told me there's no such thing as bad thoughts. only your actions talk ❀

part one, part two, part three.

summary: steven and you haven't spoken since that last time, preferring to ignore that chaotic night. but you can't stop thinking about him, losing yourself in fantasies that lead nowhere. until, on belly's birthday, things spin out of control.

warnings: fisher!reader, steven x fem!reader, season one vibes, steven is a stupid (and a cheater!!). english is not my first language, so please be kind.

author note: first of all, i want to thank everyone who supported the first part, ngl, i didn't imagine you would like it that much. and wtf steven looks in s3?? have mercy.

Without saying a word, Steven and you decided not to mention the situation again.

Despite sleeping under the same roof, you still exchange greetings, although deep down you feel differently. You couldn't explain it exactly, but he's still the same as always with you as long as someone else is around.

The worst part is that you can't forget.

Every time you run into him, you feel like your heart is about to jump out of your mouth. You get nervous and can't look him in the eye for long because you inevitably flash back to the moment when his hands grabbed your body and his lips met yours. When you go to bed, you stare at the ceiling for hours, turning over in your bed, making a mess of your rumpled sheets, angry at Steven because his impulsiveness ruined your peace of mind. You touch your lips, and if you close your eyes, you can taste him in your mouth.

Your date was a disaster because of him.

You're grateful that Jeremiah convinced him to take a summer job at the country club because that means he has to leave the house most of the day. You can't look Belly in the face without your stomach hurting and your tongue burning in your mouth from telling her the truth because there are no secrets between you. You don't know how Steven is able to hang out with Jer or Conrad, but you have no idea that he's living out his own punishment in his own way.

If you had the chance to go back in time to avoid the consequences... you probably wouldn't change a thing. That was the best kiss you've ever had in your life.

Today is Belly's birthday. Like every year, you wake up a little earlier than the rest of the family to slip into her room and surprise her with your best breakfast. You spend a good part of the morning together. You gave her a blue floral dress that you bought more than four months ago but couldn't imagine any girl wearing. Having two brothers makes buying birthday gifts for them a real challenge; you feel like you never get it right, but with Belly it's different; you know each other so well that you both know what she likes. You lie down next to her, still in your pajamas, and talk for hours about memories of previous birthdays in this same place.

"Have you noticed how all my birthdays are the same?" She hugs you, lying on your chest. You stroke her long hair as a giggle escapes you. "It's a bit boring."

"Let's hope this one is different."

Even though you wished for it, nothing seemed to change from last year or the year before that; the same breakfast on the table, the pancake cake, the round of gifts in the living room. Even when Taylor came to Cousins to not miss her best friend's birthday, and as expected, the first thing they did was jump in the pool.

You stand in front of the mirror looking at yourself from every possible angle, considering locking yourself in until dinner. You've been thinking for about twenty minutes about whether it's a good idea to wear your first bikini. You can't get used to the feeling of showing so much, but it was a special request from the birthday girl because she also wanted to wear hers but didn't dare, so they were both going to wear their swimsuits for the first time. Is simple, white and made of lightweight fabric. You tie the back, praying that nothing will slip out of place, adjust your breasts inside the fabric, and then the lower part.

The sun is still high over Cousins, shining golden rays on the backyard as high-pitched laughter and splashing echo from the pool. The girls are in the pool waiting for you as they gossip and catch up on their vacations, but they weren't the only ones. Jeremiah and Steven asked for the day free so they wouldn't miss a moment of this day—unlike Conrad, who disappeared after breakfast and you're increasingly worried about your brother—they're on one of the sides talking about Steven's new girlfriend, Shayla, whom he met less than two days ago but apparently stole his heart in record time.

"She's the prettiest girl I've ever met." Says Steven, trying to justify his hasty relationship to his incredulous friend.

"Oh my God! You look amazing," Taylor shouts when she sees you arrive. "I think I want to kiss you."

Steven turns around and almost breaks his neck from the movement. He can feel the exact moment when the words get stuck in his throat.

His instincts are stronger; he respects you a lot, but he can't help focusing his attention on that damn white bikini.

"I feel naked," you say.

Such a simple piece of clothing, yet he doesn't understand why his mouth is dry.

It fits your body in a way Steven wasn't prepared for, the sunlight reflecting off your skin, glistening with coconut-scented sunscreen. Your hair is down but styled, with a few strands covering your cheeks, pink with embarrassment at being exposed. Your arms are awkwardly crossed over your stomach, as if you already regret going out like this, and that makes him feel deeply tender toward you.

Devastatingly adorable.

He doesn't know it, but he's just completely forgotten the whole conversation with Jeremiah.

And he is completely speechless.

"Excuse me, stop looking at my sister!" Jeremiah taps his shoulder, drawing the attention of all the girls.

Belly and Taylor laugh mockingly, but you don't react the same way.

"You're a pervert!" Tay exclaims, throwing water in his face.

"Hey! Remember I have a girlfriend!" Steven responds with an innocent laugh, and you come back to reality, which hits you in the face. "Don't say things aren't true."

He's already gotten over it. Or rather, he never really cared.

"Oh, sure, your girlfriend has you tied down," Jer teases. "She's the most beautiful girl I've ever met," he imitates him in an exaggeratedly high-pitched voice that makes him feel pathetic.

Prefer not to listen any further, your chest hurts and you have to fight with your own head not to run to your room and break down in tears. Damn it, you have to get over it once and for all, there are only a couple of days left before these vacations end and you won't have to see him until next year, so you have no choice but to pluck up your courage and get into the warm water bathed by the sun's rays.

"You look beautiful." Belly smiles at you as you join them.

"Imagine going to the beach wearing that." Taylor's voice makes you laugh. "I'm sure the men will be dying for you."

"Don't give my sister bad ideas!" Jeremiah shouts, having overheard the last part.

The sun is still beating down, the pool water cools your body as it adjusts to the temperature, and as always, it's Taylor who comes up with the worst proposal you could have heard at that moment:

"Let's play chicken." She smiles excitedly, applauding herself for her wonderful idea.

"We're not nine years old." You respond, completely unenthusiastic. Apparently, you're not the only one who doesn't feel like participating, because Steven doesn't seem excited about the game either.

"Are you serious?" He wrinkles his nose in disgust.

But Jeremiah immediately raises his arms as if he's been waiting for this challenge since they got into the pool.

"Let's go!"

Belly perks up when she hears your brother shout, laughs out loud, and steps forward. As always—because it's her birthday—she has the right to choose her teammate first.

"Jer." She points her finger at him. "You're mine."

Steven raises an eyebrow, crosses his arms.

"Wow. Without a doubt?”

"I want to win." Belly smiles, already jumping on his shoulders, getting ready for battle.

You immediately realize what that means, standing with the water almost touching your shoulders, a feeling in your stomach alerting you to the danger.

Steven looks at you, and you look back at him the same way.

"I guess it's you and me this time," he says, extending his hand toward you so you can come closer and climb onto his shoulders.

Your stomach flips as you take heavy steps underwater, not because you're afraid of the game—it's not your first time—but because you're about to be on top of Steven. Steven Conklin, the boy you think about every day and shouldn't desire.

You doubt for a second, too long.

Steven smiles, arrogant but warm.

"Are you afraid I'll drop you?"

You narrow your eyes.

"Don't tempt me to drown you today."

Stand behind him, with your hands on his shoulders, while he crouches down in the water enough to make you comfortable, getting ready. Carefully, so you don't fall, clumsily swing one leg over his shoulder, and then the other, as if you were used to doing it. The moment you are on top of him, his hands slide down to your thighs, strong, firm, warm even through the water.

You feel him squeezing your skin tightly, more than necessary, the contact is sudden. Steven stands up with you on his shoulders, your legs instinctively tightening a little more around his neck to keep your balance.

And Steven... Steven has to bite his tongue to keep from thinking inappropriate thoughts about you.

His grip tightens, his fingers sinking slightly into the soft skin of your thighs as if he can't help himself. For his own sanity, he prefers to grab your knees.

"Are you ready?" Taylor took her seat in the front row, at the edge of the pool, acting as the judge for this match. "On the count of three, guys. One... two..."

Steven dares to glance at you quickly.

"Are you ready?"

You stare straight ahead, jaw clenched, searching for the best strategy to win, ready to take down Jeremiah and Belly out of sheer pride. You're too competitive, everyone knows that, but luckily they're used to dealing with you.

Your fingers move lightly against his wet hair, as if you're trying not to grab it too tightly. And Steven's whole body is on fire beneath the surface, trying not to think about how your legs feel around him, your belly on the back of his neck, how this is something he's dreamed of but never had.

Finally, you nod your head.

Steven clears his throat and squeezes a little tighter, stabilizing you and holding on tight so you don't fall.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!" Taylor shouts, clapping from the edge of the pool as if she were watching the final of some international important championship.

You balance as best you can on Steven's shoulders, grabbing his hair—perhaps harder than necessary, but you're not thinking about that right now—pushing Belly with both hands as she swings dangerously on Jeremiah's shoulders. Laughter echoes, water splashes violently between you, and for a moment, just a moment, you feel like you're really going to win.

Until Belly grabs your wrists and pulls hard.

Steven tries to hold you, but you lose your balance.

"Shit...!"

Your legs slip as if they were covered in oil, Steven stumbles backward, and you both fall into the water.

The water envelops you in a whirlpool of bubbles around your body, and you close your eyes tightly before submerging. Your limbs flail instinctively, searching for something, anything, to grab onto without seeing anything underwater. Until, without realizing it, your hand catches Steven's face for half a second and your nails scratch his cheek badly.

Both of you surface seconds later, gasping for air.

Everyone laughs, Jer and Bells celebrate their victory hugging each other and mocking you, but Steven is the only one who doesn't laugh.

He immediately puts his hand to his face, grimacing in pain.

"Son of a bitch!" he exclaims angrily.

They are left in a confused silence that kills the whole vibe. You turn to look at him, and Jeremiah immediately swims over toward him.

"Hey, man, what happened?"

A red mark is already forming on the side of his cheek, just below his eye. Angular. Bright. Burning.

"I think I got scratched," he replies tensely, looking at his fingers for traces of blood or something. His skin burns, and the pool water doesn't help much. He takes his hand away from his cheek, and you can see the red mark on his cheekbone.

"My God, Steven, I-I didn't mean to..."

Taylor and Belly come over to get a better look at what happened, their smiles fading into worried looks.

"Let me see," Belly says, squinting to look at the scratch. "Damn it." Her expression isn't very optimistic, which worries him even more.

Before anyone else can share another wrong medical opinion, Steven is already walking toward the stairs to get out of the pool, water dripping down his back and pants. You rush after him to show him where the first aid kit is, slipping slightly on the wet tiles, ignoring Jeremiah calling your name as he scolds you like your mother for running barefoot.

"Steven," you say, walking slowly across the wooden floor, being careful not to slip.

You find him in the kitchen, looking at himself in the mirror on the wall until he sees you coming in the reflection. The floor is a mess with water marks in the shape of your feet following them, now the boys' voices sound too far away. As if there were no one else in that house except you.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you." Your voice trembles.

"You didn't hurt me." He responds by blatantly lying to you just to make you feel better, but his skin still burning and the pain is still there. He turns to you. "It was an accident. I'm fine."

"Let me check it out, you might need some cream or something." You raise your hand cautiously and gently touch the edge of the scratch with your fingers, checking his skin. He's quite a lot taller than you, so you have no choice but to stretch up on your tiptoes to get a better look.

Steven automatically tilts his head to help you, his hair still dripping with water.

"I feel really bad, seriously.” You whisper, brushing your finger across his face.

And instantly, something inside him softens.

You know that if this had happened ten years ago, his reaction would have been completely different. Steven would have screamed, cried, and blamed you for the mark on his cheek. He would have called you stupid without wasting any time accusing you to his mother for hurting him, then he would have sought revenge with the help of Conrad and Jeremiah. But they are no longer those messy children. His gaze wavers uncertainly over your worried eyes and your lower lip, which you bite gently to concentrate.

"It's… nothing," he says, more to himself than to you.

And he realizes that, of all the times he's seen you in his life—with your hair pulled back in a messy bun, oversized T-shirts, sand on your knees after long days at the beach, sick with the flu in the summer—he's never seen you like this before.

And it's not because of that bikini you're wearing.

It's the way you don't know how beautiful you are. It's your damp skin that tempts him like a torture he sought out himself, the curve of your neck wet from the pool, that gold necklace that adorns your neck, matching the thin gold bracelet Laurel gave you last Christmas. You're so close he can smell the coconut scent of your sunscreen.

You press a little too hard and he shudders in place.

"I'm sorry!"

Your hands instinctively caress his jaw, in innocent apology as you would have done with any of your brothers, and Steven's fingers tense at his sides.

He wants to touch you the same way he did in your room that night. Your waist. The lower part of your back. Run his thumb over one of the drops clinging to your collarbone and see how long it takes you to melt in his arms.

But he doesn't.

Good heavens, how much longer is this eternal summer going to last, killing him before the Fourth of July?

"Who came into the house without shoes?" You can recognize your mother's annoyed voice from miles away and know exactly how her eyebrows are furrowed.

You jump back instinctively, as if you've been caught red-handed, even though you both managed to control your impulses. Steven straightens up and quickly shoves his hands into the pockets of his wet swim trunks.

You turn around quickly. "I'm sorry, Mom."

"Yeah, I'm sorry," Steven repeats, his voice sounding strange, forcing him to clear his throat.

Susannah is standing in the doorway with two full shopping bags in her arms, her eyebrows raised, but her tone of voice calm. She sets them down on the counter and then turns back to the two of you, and when she sees Steven's face, she narrows her eyes, showing concern for his mark.

“Steven. What happened to your cheek?”

He shrugs too quickly.

"It's nothing. Just an accident." He smiles relaxed.

Guilt burns in your chest. You bite your lip, lower your gaze, and your fingers nervously play with the edge of your wet bikini top.

Susannah sighs as if she's said it a hundred times before. She's been used to you guys since you were kids.

"That's why I've told you all a hundred times: the pool is fun until someone gets hurt. It's slippery. It's dangerous. And I swear, you kids never listen."

"It's my fault," Steven murmurs, even though he knows it's not. “I will survive this.”

You try to change the subject as quickly as possible with the first thing that comes to mind.

"I'll help you with dinner, Mom." You offer with a friendly smile that manages to convince your mother.

The music blared throughout Nicole's house so loudly that you could hear it before opening the door, loud enough to make the floor vibrate beneath your feet. The laughter of the guests spread from the backyard, the colored lights gave the room a special touch, and you could smell the smoke permeating your hair as you greeted your friends. Plastic cups filled with alcohol were passed from hand to hand, along with beer cans and half-empty glass bottles.

You arrived with Conrad, and the car ride was quiet on both sides, which you appreciated. But at some point between people milling around and the second round of drinks, he had disappeared from your sight without warning, swallowed up by the crowd or wrapped up in some conversation you weren't invited to. You didn't really care. Not that night.

Taylor had insisted on doing your makeup this time to give you a different look: a soft glow on your cheeks with expensive highlighter, lashes with mascara so thick they brushed against your eyelids, lips painted with peach-colored gloss. She had also made flower crowns for the three of you, one for each of the girls. Yours now rested gently on your hair, with small white daisies intertwined among the loose strands. The soft petals brushed your temples every time you turned your head.

Your white skirt is light and comfortable, falling just above your knees, halfway down your thighs, and your matching heels give you a little extra height. You opted for a pink top with a heart-shaped neckline that catches the eye from a distance, decorating your neck with the same gold necklace as last time.

Had drunk just enough for someone who isn't used to drinking alcohol—a can of beer—nothing that would alarm your mother, but enough to feel a little more relaxed and braver than usual.

You took a sip from the red cup in your hand, emptying it and leaving a faint lipstick mark on the rim.

Honestly, you didn't expect to enjoy the night so much. You really didn't feel like coming, but Laurel and Susannah insisted that you accompany your siblings, trusting in your responsibility despite being the youngest of the Fishers. It's only been an hour since you arrived, and the party has only gotten louder, more chaotic. The kind of summer chaos you can only experience in a place like Cousins.

You're walking through the living room to get another drink, the lights projecting a soft green hue over everything, when you recognize Jeremiah's curly hair sitting on a couch, his arms wrapped around a boy he undoubtedly met fifteen minutes ago, kissing him as if it were a lifetime. You roll your eyes, amused but not surprised.

"Belly!" exclaim, recognizing her flower crown standing out in the crowd. Taylor had gone to get drinks as soon as she stepped into the house. "How long have you been here?"

"Ten minutes or so, maybe a little less." She answers, looking behind you for something or someone. "Steven drove us here, but I don't know where he went."

Nicole and her group started calling her, so you let her go so as not to interrupt her.

The line for the bathroom is even longer than it seemed at first: a row of partygoers waiting to get in, holding half-finished drinks, laughing and swaying slightly, leaning against the wall to keep from falling.

You recognize Steven about three people ahead by the clothes he's wearing. He's looking down, staring at his phone, ignoring his surroundings, its screen casting a soft blue glow on his face. His fingers move quickly across the screen, as if trying to keep up with the words he wants to say. He just wants to leave this place, but he promised Laurel he would bring Belly and her friend back.

You glance at the screen before he notices: just a name lit up at the top of the chat.

Shayla.

You feel a knot in your stomach, but you suppress it. Thanks to the alcohol and the effect it has on you, making you stupid and impulsive, you finally understand that you have to get on with your vacation, and you're not going to make it by hiding from Steven while he goes out to parties and even gets a new girlfriend.

"You can hardly notice it. You point to his cheek. He looks up from his phone and turns it off, putting it in his pocket. "Wait a minute..." You lean in a little closer, squinting. "Are you wearing makeup?"

Steven takes a couple of steps back, offended by your question.

"What? Of course not!"

"Oh my God, of course you are." You laugh loudly. "Let me guess, a little concealer, right?"

"Please. I just heal quickly. It's the Conklin genes. Superior skin regeneration."

You held back a smile.

"Right. So your 'superior skin' glows under the light like that too?" You point to the faint glow on his cheek. "That's definitely tinted foundation, Steven."

Steven leaned forward this time, raising an eyebrow.

"Says the girl wearing, like, four layers of makeup on her face right now." He scoffs at you, crossing his arms and raising both eyebrows. "I almost didn't recognize you from a distance with all that glitter."

You tap him on the shoulder with yours, and the tension between you eases enough for the first time since... well, since that night.

He looks down at you, literally, and you have to lift your chin slightly to meet his gaze.

"Sorry. But this is a highlighter, and it's very expensive."

Finally, after all that time, the line moved slowly forward, just one person at a time, and you leaned forward a little to see how many were left in front of you. Your heart dropped when you lost count.

"No way, there are still like ten people left." You sighed, leaning your arm against the wall and resting your weight on it.

You tilted your head toward him and lowered your voice enough to make it sound like a state secret.

"Look, I've known Nicole since we were little. I've been in this house hundreds of times. There's a bathroom upstairs, and I'm pretty sure no one's using it."

Steven raised an eyebrow.

"Really?"

You nodded, curving your lips slightly.

"Come on, we can both fix our makeup." You teased him one last time before walking toward the stairs.

He hesitated for half a second before following your lead, stepping away from the wall.

"You're evil, Fisher."

The two of you walked through the crowd, dodging partygoers, with Steven following close behind so as not to lose sight of you. You know the way by memory, so you have no trouble reaching the second floor. His fingers brushed yours once as you turned into the hallway, and neither of you said anything.

The moment the bedroom door closed behind you, before you could even breathe or tell him where the bathroom was, Steven's hands found your waist, strong and sure, and your back hit the door with a thud that took your breath away, but you didn't care. Not when his mouth crashed into yours as if he were starving, as if he couldn't wait another second.

It was wild. It was reckless. It was everything he had been holding back.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, your nails grazing the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine. His mouth moved against yours, hot and insistent, savoring your lips with every movement, until suddenly he pulled away awkwardly, his chest rising and falling in uncontrollable gasps.

"I can't..." He gasped against your lips, pulling away slightly.

"We shouldn't be doing this," you whispered with difficulty, mixing your breath with his as if it were something normal between you.

His eyes fixed on your mouth are the sign that he's not paying attention to you.

He leaned in again, brushing your lips with yours. "It's the last time, I swear."

He kissed you wildly, like someone who had fought against it for too long, with teeth, lips, and broken moans, as if the pain had accumulated during and now spilled out unstoppably.

And you kissed him back with the same desperation.

Every second with him felt like something forbidden, something you shouldn't want but wanted anyway, as if for some reason it belonged to you. He forgot that his best friends are your older brothers, who were going to kill him in cold blood. You forgot that your best friend is his sister, who is going to stop talking to you for a long time.

But there you were, pressed against the wall by Steven Conklin's desperation, your breasts against his ridiculous colorful shirt. The boy who used to steal your fries from your plate and make fun of your bad marks, the boy who now held your face as if you were something sacred.

Maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was the way his voice broke when he whispered, "I'm sorry, I can't” before kiss you.

Steven gasps into your mouth, something primitive and painful, and this time the kiss is slower. His hand traces your side, hesitant at first, until desire overcomes indecision. He finds the curve of your thigh, wraps his fingers around your skin, and gently lifts your leg, resting it against his hip.

It's a movement full of reckless and painful desire, unplanned, not even intelligent, but raw and honest. His hand remains on your thigh, holding it as if anchoring himself to something he doesn't believe he deserves.

You forget that he is your mother's spoiled child.

You forget that he kisses other girls as if it means nothing.

You forget that you feel too much when it comes to him.

And then your hand slid down the back of his neck, pulling him toward you again. Wondering how long you had before someone noticed your absence.

Steven's mouth stopped just below your ear, his warm breath against your skin as his hands rested on your waist, his thumbs moving in slow, dizzying circles.

Just when you think your heart can't beat any faster, the doorknock sounds on the other side.

Your whole body shuddered as if someone had woken you from a dream, as if you finally understood the consequences of your actions. Steven froze against you without letting go, clearly enjoying your closeness.

"Occupied!", he shouted, looking at the door, his voice too broken to sound casual.

The two of you stood there, your back against the door separating you from the party, waiting for some kind of death sentence or something like that. Your hands were now resting on his chest, which was rising and falling quickly and irregularly. He looked at you, his eyes stormy, his lips swollen, sensing the same thing you did.

"Steven?" Belly's voice from the other side almost gave you a heart attack. "Are you okay?"

You slowly slide your leg down. His hand withdraws as your eyes meet, breathless, stunned.

You're both fucked.

𐙚⋆°. MASTERLIST

[dreammfyre]

box of memories ✮⋆˙ kang dae-ho

⚝ are you gonna marry, kiss or kill me? it’s just a game, but really i’m betting on all three for us two ⚝

summary: when you open the box of memories from your childhood you find lots of stuff: photos, diaries, and the same old gonggi you used to play with when you were a child. the surprise is that your boyfriend seems to be an expert and tries to teach you, along the way, you both talk about your childhood memories, and it seems like you have more in common than you know.

warnings: kang dae-ho x fem!reader, fluff, no games alternative universe, golden retriever!bf x black cat!gf, domestic scenario. english is not my first language, so please be kind.

The aroma of garlic sautéed in sesame oil wafts through the air as you take off your shoes at the entrance, listening to the music coming from inside the apartment. To satisfy your appetite, your boyfriend has cooked dinner, which is great because you're starving. You find him stirring a spoon in a pot, steam filling the room as if something were burning. Dae-ho tries to control the boiling pot and the pan with vegetables while cutting mushrooms, your favourites.

"Hey, you're here," he smiles at you from the kitchen, continuing to stir what appears to be a steaming soup. "I was starting to miss you."

"That smells amazing," you reply, entering with a medium-sized box in your arms. "What are you cooking?”

"Ramyeon with something decent on the side. I don't want you say I only eat junk food." He points at you with a wooden spoon, and you put the box down on the living room table as you walk over to the kitchen so you can finally be with him.

Dae-ho leans in to kiss you. His lips taste of steam and tea, while yours taste of a mixture of cheap coffee from a machine and a mint cigarette, and his free hand rests tenderly on your waist, as if he can't resist touching you, even if only for a second.

"Thanks for not burning down the kitchen." You smile against his lips. You have to stand on tiptoe to leave one last kiss on his mouth before washing your hands.

You go to the bedroom to change your clothes, preferring something comfortable, and take one of Dae-ho's long T-shirts without asking his permission—you don't need it—and a pair of shorts to cope with the damn heat.

"What's that?" he asks, nodding toward the box. "Did you buy something?"

"Oh, I brought it from my mom's house," you reply, walking toward the sofa. You collapse with a sigh, tired from walking around the city streets carrying that box, and run your fingers over the dusty cardboard lid. "Stuff from when I was a kid."

Dae-ho can't contain his curiosity, turning his head toward you. He's always been like that, and you knew he wouldn't be able to wait to open the box. He turns off the stove and dries his hands with a cloth before crossing the kitchen to join you.

"Can I see?"

You nod without giving it much importance, even though deep down you're not very excited about your childhood memories, but it's impossible to say no to him. He sits down next to you, barely touching your shoulder. He hands you the box so you can do the honors, and you rest it on your thighs, praying that a spider won't crawl out of it.

"Sure, if you want. Although I don't know if there's anything very interesting in there.” You say with a small smile as you remove the lid.

Just as you expected, it's a mess. with dusty photos that make you cough, a couple of colorful frayed ribbons your mother used to comb your hair with when you went to school, an armless doll, crumpled papers with crayon drawings that Dae-ho looks at fondly—while trying to figure out what the hell you were trying to draw—and a notebook with old stickers stuck on it.

Dae-ho leans in a little closer, resting an arm on the back of the sofa behind you.

"I really like this." He murmurs, picking up one of your old photos. "I don't know. It feels like opening a doorway to another version of you."

You take a stack of photos in your hands and silently begin to look through them, in a silence that your boyfriend doesn't interrupt when he sees how focused you are. Memories that, to your surprise, are still there, photos with your sisters whom you haven't visited in months, your first birthday, your mother holding you in her arms. You move on to the next image, it's you and your grandparents, you run your finger over the paper, remembering the love they gave you when they were alive. You don't want to get nostalgic, so you show Dae-ho the photo of your birthday party. He puts it next to your face, you have the same strong gaze and that smile that has him in love since they met.

"You were adorable." Dae-ho says in a warm, slightly amused voice. "What happened to you?"

You give him a playful nudge.

"Live with you.”

He laughs at your response, accustomed to your natural sarcasm. Dae-ho reaches into your old memories and pulls out a photo with folded corners.

"Let's see..." He looks at it and recognizes you immediately, letting out a soft laugh. You peek over and see your six-year-old version, with messy hair, dressed in ruffles, and your face covered in ice cream.

"No way." You try to snatch it from him, but he stretches out his arm and that's enough to put it out of your reach. You feel the color rising to your cheeks and hide your face in your hands, embarrassed. "It's not funny!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, baby." Dae-ho replies with a laugh, putting his arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer to him to ease your discomfort. "But why did you have that look on your face? You seem... confused about existence."

"It was my birthday." You explain with a hint of embarrassment in your voice. “And they made me wear that awful dress."

He puts the picture back in the box, still smiling, imagining that if he had a daughter with you, she would be the most beautiful girl in the world. Without saying anything else, he leans over and kisses you on the cheek. Slowly and quickly, you smell his scent, but it's enough for you to forgive him for his childish teasing. His laughter disappears, replaced by that soft look that is your weakness.

"You're still pretty." He murmurs.

"You're not going to buy me off with that, Kang Dae-ho."

You hear him laugh and throw his head back, at least he tried. To your own surprise, a strange curiosity emerged in you about the contents of the box, so you reach in again, your cheek still warm from the kiss, until your fingers brush against something hard and familiar.

"Wait a minute..."

Eagerly, you pull out a small bag of brightly colored stones.

"What's that?"

"Gonggi." You reply with a smile. Damn, you would have swear you'd lost it forever. "I was the best. I could play with one hand and eat my ice cream with the other."

Excited, you sit on the floor and open the small cloth bag. Remembering, you take five pink-painted pebbles shaped like flowers and throw them on the floor with the confidence of a forgotten champion. You pick one up, throw another into the air... and fail miserably. The stone falls without you managing to catch any of them.

"Ugh. I think I lost the magic.” Say, chuckling.

Dae-ho cheers up.

"Let me try." He says, crouching down to the ground and imitating your position. Although he reaches out his hand with a little hesitation. "That looks very... pink. I'm not sure if my manhood will allow it."

"Your manhood will be fine.” You throw him a small stone, and he manages to catch it with one hand.

Dae-ho settles on the floor and, in a prolonged silence, looks at the pieces as if they were a complicated national defense system, and then, with absurd seriousness, he tries.

And he does it perfectly.

You are so surprised that you open your mouth unconsciously. He picks one up, throws another, catches it, and continues without missing or hesitating at any moment. You have to follow him with your eyes because his hand moves too fast. All with a concentration worthy of open-heart surgery.

When he finishes, he looks at you with a flirtatious smile, knowing that his performance was excellent. He opens his hand, showing you all the stones.

“…Did I win?”

"How did you do that?!" You raise your voice, still impressed.

"Maybe I have a hidden talent for little girls' games." He replies with a half-smile, proud but feigning humility.

"You lied to me." You pointed at him. "You've played before."

"I didn't want to intimidate you." He leaves the stones on the ground. "I didn't knew you were such a terrible player."

"How considerate of you." But deep down, you're thinking about how hot that was.

Now it's your turn. Dae-ho leans back in the sofa, watching your every move. At first you're agile, but not as agile as him, and you fail miserably, with stones falling everywhere except in your hand. Your boyfriend has to bite his lip to keep from laughing at you. You look cute gathering all the pieces, determined to keep trying to achieve your goal. But even though you're careful, keep missing when you try to catch them in the air.

"You're rushing too much."

"I'm doing the sam as you.” You reply, tying your hair into a ponytail. Oh, things got serious now.

"No, baby. You're squeezing your hand like it's a kitchen tong." He says, taking your hand gently. "Relax it."

He sits down next to you with his legs crossed and carefully arranges the small stones in front of you. Then he picks one up, tosses it gently, and with his fingers curved in a smooth gesture, catches another one before the first one hits the ground, making it look like the easiest thing in the world. He has complete control over every movement.

"See? It's more about rhythm than technique." He hands you the stones. "Your turn."

You take a deep breath, memorizing the order of the steps. Dae-ho stops breathing for a second, analyzing each of your movements. You imitate him. Well, you try to, because you mess up.

"It's impossible.” You mutter, more out of annoyance with yourself than anything else.

"It's not your fault." He pauses. He looks at the pebbles scattered on the floor of your apartment for a second before adding. "It's just that I grew up with this."

"Really?"

"Yes. Well, you know I'm the youngest of four sisters. Afternoons were... chaos." His tone softens. "They played all the time. Gonggi, palms, rope... and sometimes, if I was lucky, they let me join in. I guess I learned without realizing it.”

The idea of Dae-ho surrounded by his sisters has always seemed adorable to you, which is why he is always especially attentive to you. He knows how to treat you, how to take care of you with that special sensibility that sets him apart from the other men who have been in your life.

"You were good."

"Not at first." He corrects you with a tiny nostalgic smile. "They yelled at me all the time, 'Don't touch the stones like that! You're ruining it! You're too slow!' But after a while... I guess I started to really try hard. Just so they would let me play a little longer."

You watch him, silently giving him your full attention, noticing a different kind of sincerity. Dae-ho plays with the little stones in his palms, feeling comfy with you. There's something about the way he tells it that feels intimate, as if he's just opened another box, one he's been carrying inside his chest for years.

"Do you miss them?" You dare to ask.

"Yes. Sometimes. Other times not so much." He chuckles softly, shrugging his shoulders. "But without them... I wouldn't be who I am now."

There is a moment of pause. One that is not uncomfortable. It is just there, you are there.

"So..." You say, picking up the game again, trying again, too stubborn to give up so quickly. "If I have three sisters, would I be good too?"

"It depends. Were they as controlling as mine?"

"Probably worse." You make a face of disgust.

"Then yes. You'd be an expert."

As you play, you feel more relaxed, even when you fail, even when you laugh. Your boyfriend keeps watching you, but instead of following the movement of the stones, he prefers to focus on your face, how you concentrate, the way you bite your lower lip a little when you're close to victory. When you laugh, your cheeks become rounder, or on the contrary, when you get frustrated, you snort annoyedly and whisper a bad word. The effect you have on him is inexplicable, not even Dae-ho himself can understand it. He just watches you fondly.

The pieces bounces off your palm and falls for the fourth time. You pick it up from the ground with an exasperated sigh.

"I'm starting to hate this game.” You mutter, ready to throw the bag out the building window.

"Because you're not winning," Dae-ho replies with a smile.

He does it again. Throws. Catches. Perfect. As if it were second nature, he even seems to be picking up speed, winning effortlessly, occasionally shooting you a look of exaggerated pride as if he were competing in the Olympics.

"Show-off."

"Jealous."

He passes you the pebbles carefully, brushing your fingers with his. To no one's surprise, you fail at the last move, the most complicated one.

"How come you were good at this?" Dae-ho asks, resting his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand.

"I don't know. Maybe I tried harder back then."

"And why did you stop?”

You don't think much about the answer; it comes out of your mouth in a matter of seconds without you realizing it.

"I grew up." You stop playing for a moment. Dae-ho doesn't press you for more details, even though you have his full attention at that moment. He just waits for you to talk to him. "It wasn't easy to play at home. My parents worked all day. I took care of my sisters most of the time. Sometimes I made up games so they wouldn't cry... gonggi was one of them."

He nods, without interrupting. Your past is something neither of you talk about much, not because Dae-ho doesn't care, but rather because you prefer not to bring it up, and he respects that.

"And now?"

"Now they're older. My mom is still sick." You pause, and even though you didn't mean to say so much, it comes out so naturally that it scares you. "I find it hard to think about my childhood without thinking about responsibilities. As if it were made up of more duties than games."

Inevitably, you remember things that don't do you any good, like when you had to leave your home, the times you didn't talk to your sisters for months, when you had three jobs. All the people who hurt you on that journey to the present. Your heart beats fast and it's as if you've swallowed all the stones because you find it hard to speak, your throat tightens in a way you can't explain.

Dae-ho is silent for a moment and nods, both of you understanding each other, then he starts moving the pebbles again. His voice is soft.

"I grew up fast too." He confesses you for the first time. He plays with his hands, wanting to say it, but unfortunately it's not easy. "My sisters fought over everything. My parents yelled at each other. Sometimes the only quiet place was under the dining room table. I would crawl in there with a bag of cookies and try to disappear."

"Did you make it?”

He shakes his head and then sighs.

"No. But I learned to be invisible, which is almost the same thing." He picks up the small stones again, without any hurry. As if time in that apartment had stretched out just for you. "But with you, I don't have to disappear," he says suddenly. "And that... that feels fresh… good."

"Yes, it feels... good.” You reply, quietly.

And then he says it, without drama or emphasis. Just with the simple truth of someone who loves you unconditionally:

"Now you're my family I think." To start playing, repeating the same pattern of steps.

Your heart flutters in your chest and you feel it beating faster, and a genuine smile spreads across your lips as if your cheeks are being tickled. Dae-ho is the only person who has managed to break down all your barriers, and sometimes you feel too vulnerable with him, but you don't regret trying. You still feel a little afraid to trust a man so much, it's something you've been working on and you want to believe you have the right partner. There's something about that word — family — that carries a different weight when it comes from someone you chose.

It's those smiles that you feel in your stomach, that relax your body and make you want to cry, but in a good way. Because everything about him is good.

"I love you."

He doesn't respond immediately. Although he feels his hands tremble a little and almost fails in his perfect game. Instead, he picks up one of the pebbles and throws it into the air, catching another with the same hand, just at the last second.

Then he leans down, his hair loose just the way you like it, places the little stone in your palm, and looks at you as if he already knows everything you are.

"I love you too.” Dae-ho says, with a gentleness that makes everything else tremble.

You say nothing, but you feel that strange warmth in your chest, your cheeks flushed. And suddenly, without thinking twice, you reach out your arms toward him.

You say nothing. Just that: arms outstretched toward him, in a silent and direct signal that needs no interpretation. You look at him with that expression you always have when you don't want to seem vulnerable, but you are. A little.

Dae-ho stops the movement of his hands immediately. His eyebrows rise.

"Really?" He asks you as if he's not sure what you're asking for, and his tone is funny but surprised, with one eyebrow raised and a smile on his lips. "You? You want a hug? Are you sure?”

You nod. Almost imperceptibly.

Instead of throwing himself on top of you—as he surely wants to—he takes your hands gently, as if he doesn't want to scare you, and pulls you softly toward him to settle you on his lap, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if your place had always been there. His arms wrap around your waist, his chin rests on your shoulder, enjoying every inch of your skin.

He knows that physical contact isn't your strong point. Your love language is… different.

"I knew you'd melt one day," he murmurs in your ear, with a smile you can hear in his voice.

"Just for today.” You reply in the same soft tone, but you don't move. You don't want to move.

You feel your boyfriend's breath on your skin, caressing his arms around you as if it were your way of telling him not to let go.

"I want to close the box." You finally say, your voice on the breaking point.

Dae-ho kisses your shoulder.

"All right."

𐙚⋆°. MASTERLIST

[dreammfyre]

you belong with me ⋆. 𐙚 steven conklin

❀ can't you see that i’m the one who understands you? been here all along, so why can't you see? ❀

part one, part two, part three.

summary: you've known steven conklin your whole life, always a clown ready to ruin your vacation, even though deep down they were still the same kids. one night when laurel asks you about a possible new boyfriend at dinner, steven doesn't like the answer. looks like there's one name on his list of conquests he's just never been able to cross off.

warnings: fisher!reader, steven x fem!reader, season one vibes, steven is a stupid. english is not my first language, so please be kind.

author note: I CAN'T WITH S3!STEVEN WTFFFF the summer steven conklin turned pretty or what. team steven, next question.

The dining room smells of a delicious mixture of roasted fish and garlic butter. You were the last to arrive at the table after your siblings' shouts, not because they really cared that you were coming to share with them, but the rules were clear: no one starts eating until everyone has taken their place. So your absence caused a commotion among the kids. You ran down the stairs with wet hair, wearing a short green dress and your favorite shoes that go everywhere with you.

"I'm here, I'm here," you say, taking your place next to Bells. "I'm sorry."

"Always late," Jeremiah reproaches you in a tone of voice that annoys you. You give him a rude look, causing him to giggle.

"Come on, how long can it take you to take a shower?" Now it's Conrad who's scolding you.

"You can tell me Mr. '30 Minutes under shower'." You reply, raising an eyebrow and resting both elbows on the table, looking at him expectantly, waiting for his answer. Everyone laughs, Jer slaps his brother's arm and bursts out laughing, and Steven has to laugh, hiding his face in a napkin so as not to make fun of his friend.

"Enough, boys. We haven't even started eating and you're already fighting.” Your mother scolds you and your brothers.

The years go by, and some things never change—except you.

You're eating your salad while the conversation constantly changes topics. Conrad and you team up to mock Jer, quickly forgetting your discontent, then Jeremiah and Belly tease Steven about his bad performance in sports. He's always been a video game nerd sitting on the couch. That's how it goes, nothing is personal, it's just their way of passing the time. Until the moment arrives, the same every summer but on different vacation days, Laurel leans forward with that soft, sly smile. And then she says it.

"So, honey. Do you have a boyfriend or someone we should meet?" She winks at you.

Your fork freezes halfway to your mouth with the cherry tomato about to be chewed and digested. Conrad looks at you directly as if you were about to confess to a crime, unlike Jeremiah, who shows no interest in your answer. Your mother pats you on the shoulder, encouraging you to answer confidently. Of course, you're with family, but Belly knows better than anyone else in that room what you're feeling: your heart beating fast, calculating your words so as not to say something that will really embarrass you. She sympathizes with you with her gaze and a smile that comforts you. And Steven... well, Steven practically sits up straight in his seat, attentive to what you're about to say.

It's okay. You only have one job. The same one you have every year. Don't say anything stupid.

"Maybe."

That word causes a commotion at the table. What does maybe mean? Do you have a boyfriend? Conrad's eyes widen and his appetite disappears at the mystery of who the boy is who dares to date his little sister. Belly looks at you in surprise. You hadn't said anything to her about it, and deep down she feels a little betrayed because you two tell each other everything.

"Maybe?" Your mother repeats what you said.

Your cheeks turn red, you want to disappear. Bury yourself in the sand on the beach or walk towards the sea and never turn back.

"Excuse me?" Jeremiah now seems to realize what you just said. "Who are you talking about? Do we know him?"

Belly gives you a hand and tries to calm the situation down.

"Jer, calm down." She taps his arm discreetly. She doesn't want to make you more nervous; it's not that big of a deal.

And, as expected, Steven wasted no time in opening his mouth, always with the worst possible words.

"You mean the guy who vapes and talks about saving whales all the time?" He teases, knowing exactly who you're talking about. Good heavens, the most boring person he's ever met in his entire life. "You really like him?"

"Steven," his mother warns him, pointing her fork at him. But the boys are already laughing: Jeremiah chokes on his water—and you hope he chokes so they'll stop talking about this—Conrad shakes his head without saying anything else, not wanting to contribute to your humiliation, but it won't end there.

"You don't even know him, Steven." You try to defend yourself, but he always has something to say, no matter how stupid it is.

"I've seen enough," he says in a nasty tone. "His Instagram is a real red flag. And the way he commented on your photo? ‘Cutie patootie’? Are we in kindergarten?”

Holy crap, at this point, if he kept hearing about the dude dating his sister, Conrad was gonna be the one walking straight into the sea with no return. While Laurie regrets her question and everything it was causing, your cheeks couldn't be redder, and you bite your inner cheek to not do the same with your nails.

“At least he doesn’t argue with 11-year-olds on Xbox.” This time Belly defends you.

The table breaks out in laughter again, although this time there are fewer people laughing, but you don't smile again for the rest of the dinner. You are the first to finish, and even though it was one of your favorite meals, you don't ask for seconds. You excuse yourself early, without even waiting for the dessert, murmur a polite thank you to your mother and Laurel, and disappear upstairs before Steven can make another joke at the expense of your possible boyfriend.

Nothing was personal.

That's the rule. When you were ten, you didn't understand, and when the boys bullied you, you ended up crying in your room, locked away until the next day out of embarrassment. Even though you're no longer ten, you close the door harder than usual and breathe more deeply to control yourself. But you remember that the time is approaching and you have to finish getting ready for your date. You have no choice but to look for the makeup you want to use, wondering if it's a good idea to use eyeliner, knowing that your pulse right now is not something to be proud of.

You look in the mirror and don't feel so bad. Your hair has kept its natural waves, although they're not as defined, but it doesn't bother you. You even think it suits you. True to your habits, you ask Alexa to play your playlist, you start by covering your dark circles a little and adding some color to your cheeks while applying mascara to your eyelashes—too close to the mirror—when you hear a soft knock on the door.

"It's open." You raise your voice above the music. It must be Belly because you have to give her back a pair of earrings.

You turn around excitedly, wanting to ask your friend how you look in that dress; is it too short for a date? Do the rings match, or would it be better to switch from gold to silver? Does the makeup make you look like a slut? Oh, no, how embarrassing to show up looking like you want to sleep with him.

That's why you need female advice.

However, it's not Belly who walks through your bedroom door, it's her unbearable older brother.

"Hey.” Steven says in a low voice. He stays near the door, as if you're going to throw something at him, which, to be honest, you consider doing.

You look at him with disgust and turn back to the mirror, finishing your lips. Steven won't admit it, but he likes your room. It has a scent of perfume and strawberry incense that he only gets in this place. The decor perfectly reflects your personality, with soft, pleasant colors that suit you, pictures hanging with photos of your siblings and parents, and childhood stuffed animals that are many years old. The books you read on vacation are kept here, like a personal collection. For him, there is no more comfortable place in the whole house. Perhaps it's not the decor or the furniture; it's simply that your presence improves any place.

While you're trying to decide which color goes best with your outfit, Steven lies down on your perfectly made bed.

"What are you doing?" you ask him, not particularly interested in talking to him.

“You’re mad.” He points his finger at you.

You roll your eyes and let out a sigh. "Seriously, Sherlock? How did you notice? When I left the table after being humiliated in front of everyone?"

“You said ‘maybe.’ I thought that meant he wasn’t serious!” He raised his hands, claiming innocence.

“Or maybe I just didn’t want to talk about it.” You turn to look at yourself in the reflection one last time, fixing your hair and leaving a few strands hanging forward. Steven looks at you from your bed, letting his guard down and showing you his regret; he doesn't want to spend the whole summer away from you.

“I wasn’t trying to be a dick.”

But you don't take him seriously.

“You weren’t trying not to be, either.”

You grab your purse and phone, a cardigan that belonged to your mother years ago and is now yours thanks to your insistence. As a last step, you take your favorite perfume, that scent you only wear on special occasions, and perhaps tonight is the night you've been waiting for.

"Where are you going?" Steven follows you with his gaze.

"On a date."

He doesn't like the answer, frowning and tilting his head slightly, unhappy that you're leaving tonight. Especially if it's with that man. As you walk toward the door, you almost crash into him in your attempt to leave—or rather, escape—and you look up, ready to start another discussion.

"Can you tell me what you're doing?"

"A date?" he asks you with disgust. Not if he's alive to stop it. "With that jerk?”

"You don't know him."

It wasn't the first time Steven had made that kind of joke, but this time it felt different for some reason. You can see it in his eyes, you don't know if he's serious or just trying to make you angry again as usual.

"Fine, but does your mother know you're going out all night with a stranger?" He raises an eyebrow. You're outraged by his tone of voice; that kind of threat is considered high treason. You're about to respond when your phone buzzes with a notification. You quickly read the message: it's your date annoyed because you haven't arrived yet and he's still waiting for you at the agreed place. You don't know how to explain in a text Steven is making your life hell. "Is that him? Nice! You can tell him you're not goin'.”

"You're an idiot, Steven.” You point your finger at him, too angry to hold back. “I don’t say anything when you hook up with a different girl every summer. I’ve watched you treat feelings like summer jobs — temporary, seasonal, no strings attached. And you think you get to police me?”

"It's different."

His answer is so simple that it seems ridiculous to you. You slump your shoulders. Steven can't let you go out like that, all dressed up, with that hair that makes you irresistible, that dress that accentuates your figure, and that exquisite coconut and vanilla scent that will torture him all night long until the damn summer is over, because for some reason—biology—you're much hotter than you were last year. Damn it, you don't understand, he loves you, he just doesn't want some idiot to take advantage of you. It's his way of protecting you, but he's been doing it for years without realizing that the truth is, he just wants you for himself.

"Different," you repeat with contempt. “How? Why do you even care who I go out with, Steven?”

"That idiot doesn't deserve to go out with you!" Raise your voice, it's a good thing there's no one on the other side because you're not being subtle. "None of them deserve you!"

In his head, it makes sense. They don't know which song is your favorite, nor do they make you laugh when you're about to cry during the saddest part of the movie. Steven noticed this when you were kids watching old DVDs. He always passes you a tissue before even asking, and you never have to explain why. That you love chocolates but without any kind of filling, not mint, strawberry, or Oreo. You love to read, every summer they buy you a new book, and you love to spend the afternoon with Laurel on the terrace in silence while she writes. But his favorite thing is that you talk to the sea when you're alone. Once your mother told you that the waves carry away secrets, and since then you whisper them to the sea.

Those guys only see what's on the surface: your hair, your sparkle, your soft voice, or your tight dress. You don't blame them at all; you live by stealing their attention when you walk through the kitchen. But Steven knows every detail.

Damn it. He's screwed because of you.

Silence.

Dense and unbearable.

You don't say anything. You can't, your brain is in chaos right now and you can't make sense of it. The words get stuck in your throat like a painful stone.

And suddenly, Steven seems nervous. As if he didn't want to say that last thing and regrets his decision, or maybe as if he wanted to tell you but never imagined he actually would. Just being near you confuses him, your presence upsets him in a way he thought would never happen again.

His eyes rest on the hem of your dress, your legs drive him crazy. You see his throat move as he swallows. His gaze slowly scans your body, carefully observing every part of you as if this were the first time you had met. He loves your accessories, that necklace you bought two summers ago at a fair from a guy who makes them by hand. He has no idea why he remembers those things and not Mrs. Jenkins' last class, but that's beside the point. He continues up your neck until he reaches your mouth, pausing at the gloss of your lipstick.

Your voice is barely a whisper now. “Steven, let me go.”

But you don’t sound convinced. Not even a little, you want to know how far he'll go. You want to confirm if you're going completely crazy, your heart beats too fast and you feel your legs tremble under his gaze, Steven doesn’t move. Not for a second.

Slowly, a palm rests on your waist over your dress, warm and firm. The other gently caresses your jaw, with his thumb brushing the corner of your lips, as if curious to know if they are as sweet as they seem. He looks into your eyes one last time, waiting for you to push him against the door and yell at him like you usually do, but this time you just stay silent, waiting for him to make the next move because you are not capable of doing so.

Until he kisses you.

A movement that begins gently, without shyness or insecurity, just as he is, but with a totally new care. His lips are firm but patient, tasting the watermelon flavor of your lip gloss. You tense up instinctively, nervous about everything that is happening, your fingers curled in the palm of your hand and your breath coming in short gasps.

But Steven doesn't pressure you.

His thumb caresses your cheek, slowly and reassuringly, and your muscles relax one by one.

Your lips part beneath his, and suddenly you return the kiss, with a desire you didn't know existed between you. Steven moves closer, and you let him invade your space, your slightly trembling hands sliding down his chest and your fingers clinging to the fabric of his ridiculous colorful shirt as if you needed something solid to hold on to. His body is warm and familiar, but now it feels new.

Your mouths move together now, deeper, then faster, like a rhythm you've always known but never shared. Your lip gloss smudges slightly on his lips, but he doesn't care. And you gasp softly into his mouth, and he receives it like a revealing shiver.

Steven pulls away from your wet, half-open lips, just a few inches, and you slowly open your eyes, looking at him with a lust that suits you perfectly.

But this time it is you who leans in, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him toward you, desperate and reckless as he never imagined you could be. Your lips meet again, now with more urgency, your tongues brush against each other, your breath mixes, and you moan softly when his hand slides down the back of your dress, dangerously close to the zipper.

You don't know where this will end. You don't care.

Finally, when they pull apart to breathe, he keeps his forehead pressed against yours. Steven takes your face in both hands, looking at you as if he wants to keep that image forever in his memory.

His voice is rough, and he whispers so close that his breath keeps hitting you.

"Good luck on your date." He whispers as if his words are painful to say. You want to respond, or rather, you have many questions swirling around in your head. Just as you're about to say something, Steven tucks your hair behind your ear, leaving those loose strands you like so much. "You look beautiful."

You can't even respond.

And when he leaves, he can't bring himself to look you in the face one last time. As he walks out the door, he wipes his mouth with the back of his arm, still dazed and breathless from the warm sensation of your soft lips on his skin. He doesn't realize it yet:

He hasn't just ruined his date.

He has no idea what he just started.

And neither do you.

He stands in the hallway for a second — just stands there, intentando entender por qué había hecho eso, his heart pounding like he just got caught stealing something sacred. Maybe he did.

Stepping out of the shower, he runs into his best friend with wet hair, wearing only a towel. Oh dear, he has no idea how he got away with it. And guilt starts to eat him alive the moment he hears Jeremiah's calm voice. He has to try twice as hard to look him in the eye after what he just did.

“You still coming tonight?”

Steven swallows hard. “Nah. I don’t feel great.”

It’s not a lie. Not really. His chest feels too full. His head too loud. His hands still shake a little, Steven has no choice but to hide them behind his back. Oh, how he’s going to miss Cousins when Jeremiah and Conrad kill him.

He walks down the hall, past the familiar creak in the floorboard, and locks himself in his room, seriously considering not leaving that place until the vacations are over. The door clicks shut like the lid on a box he doesn’t know how to open again.

He doesn’t turn on the lights.

Steven just falls onto the bed, face up, until he realizes that the ceiling doesn't have answers. But he stares at it anyway — blank and white and still, the exact opposite of his insides. His lips are still tingling, and he's afraid he'll end up forgetting the sensation. He can taste your lip gloss on the edge of his mouth. He wipes it off again, but it doesn't go away.

He replays it in his mind—the first kiss, and the second. The way you clung to his shirt like you didn't want him to stop was a reaction he didn't expect from you. In fact, he didn't expect any of this, but his impulse was stronger than his intelligence, and that's not something that happens to him often.

But you never said stay.

You didn’t cancel the date.

His stomach twists, very different from a stomachache caused by mixing too many foods, but still a pain he cannot explain in words. He feels selfish, he doesn't want you to be with someone else, but he also has no intention of asking you for anything more.

He forces himself to get out of bed, feeling his body heavy with the guilt weighing on his shoulders. He had broken the first rule of friendship: never get involved with your friend's sister, and he did it in a big way because there are two of them. He looks out the window, hoping to find nothing. Stillness. But there you are, walking down...

Hair loose. Dress hugging your hips. The phone pressed to your ear as you move your hands quickly, you seem to be arguing, you are not happy at all.

Lip gloss freshly reapplied.

His heart stops, then starts again too fast. You’re actually going.

In a horrible silence, Steven watches you disappear into the night like nothing happened between you. Like his hands weren’t just on your skin. Like his mouth wasn’t just buried in your lips. Just like no one had ever wanted more.

He wonders if your date will notice the way your lips are slightly swollen, or that your perfume is already clinging to someone else’s shirt.

He has no choice but to lean his forehead against the cold glass.

And Steven Conklin, for the first time in a long time, feels like he’s losing something he never really had.

𐙚⋆°. MASTERLIST

[dreammfyre]

something real ⋆˙⟡ lee myung-gi

★ i'm choosing my confessions, trying to keep an eye on you like a hurt, lost and blinded fool ★

summary: after that bloody fight in the men's bathroom, your ex-boyfriend comes to your bed in the middle of the night to ask you to help clean his wounds. myung-gi and you broke up months ago, he left you one day and never call you back, now you've met again under these horrible circumstances, but no one knows him better than you, and that's why you know how dangerous he can be. however, you still manage to break him down like the first time. he just needs to feel something real.

warnings: MNDI!!!! mention of murder, blood, manipulation, explicit sexual content, sex in a public place (without protection). wc: 2400 aprox.

author note: okayyyyy i confess, have no idea how i got here, but it's late (pray for don't send it to drafts). i jump from fandom to fandom every so often; it's seasonal i’m guided by the moon. my fixation with characters of dubious morality should be studied, but in my defense, i’m interested in these types of personalities who should be in jail. english is not my first language, so please be kind.

You are not asleep when he comes silently, like a shadow haunting you. No one is capable of truly sleeping.

The lights have been off for hours, or that's what you think because you lost all sense of time when you woke up in this hell. Now, the disturbing silence in the bedroom when violence fills the air makes you afraid to close your eyes because you're not sure if you'll wake up again. Most people around you pretended to be resting. They try to ignore the smell of blood that lingers like a deadly plague carrying death.

Not you.

So when footsteps come closer, your brain is alert and your body is ready to attack. You've been watching him for meters. With your back against the wall, knees pressed against your chest, the broken glass bottle between your fingers ready to aim at his neck. Who the hell dared to step on your territory after you had killed three men who tried to murder you? You're not proud of it, but survival forces humans to act on their most primitive instincts. Through your heavy breathing feel some relief when recognize the figure that is still familiar, the number on his jacket engraved in your mind from day one.

333. Myung-gi.

Take a breath and hold it in your lungs, hiding your improvised weapon under the pillow before he sees it. He is still covered in dried blood on his clothes and skin, a terrifying sight if his eyes didn't tell you otherwise. His expression is indecipherable, which is nothing new; ever since you met him, you have had no idea what his intentions are. Calculating. Cold. Others never notice it, but you do: he doesn't talk much or communicate much out of convenience, probably doesn't have a team because he doesn't want one, but every time he opens his mouth, he achieves something for his own benefit. Every time he says a word, you want to slap him in the face.

He crouches down in front of your bed, knowing you're awake.

You stare at him.

"You're bleeding." You say, noticing the injured cheek.

Myung-gi touches his skin carefully, almost as if noticing it for the first time, looking at his fingers, which is useless because he doesn't know if the blood belongs to him or another player. There's a small, irregular cut on his cheek, but he's not surprised; Thanos probably had time to defend himself.

"I need your help," he says dryly, uncomfortable at being forced to talk to you. "Could you clean my wounds? My hand's a bit messed up, so I can't do it myself..."

"Why me?" You whisper without moving.

"I trust you."

The response is too quick, it even feels practiced and takes you by surprise, but you are careful not to react in any way; you want to be as inscrutable as Myung-gi. He has a way of addressing you, the voice low so as not to wake the others, which made him feel even more unsettling. You still don't response, you just watch him carefully. The way he remains crouched beside your bed at your level, you look down carefully at his hands on the sheets looking the tension in his fingers and dried blood on the nails.

"You killed him." It's not a question.

"I had to do it." A moment of silence feels like an eternity between you, and you can't stop judging him. "You have no right to look at me like that."

"I don't care what you do." That's not true. But you want to see his reaction.

Myung-gi tilts his head, just a little, pausing.

"You're lying."

That makes you move, even if it's just to get up. You don't want anyone see you talking with him; you already have enough problems. He follows you with the gaze still on his knees. You pass over him in search of an empty bed to break the cheap sheets. Luckily for player 333, you have a little water left in your bottle, and you moisten the white fabric with it. All in a deathly silence.

"Sit down there." You order him, pointing a bed further away from the group.

He obeys. You take a seat next to him, avoiding eye contact at all moments, wiping the fabric across his face. Most of it was dried blood, so you had to apply a little more force and scrub his skin to make him not look like a serial killer. It was a damn mess.

"Should have gone to someone else.” Murmur as you turn the bottle over again to wet the fabric.

"You always say the same shit." Myung-gi replies in a voice that is too calm, his eyes following your every move, careful to remain still even as your face draws closer. "But you still help me."

"Because I'm stupid." Brush your hand over his bloody cheek, pressing on his wound to stop the bleeding and earning a groan from him. "Don't make noise."

Your hand shakes a little and your mouth is dry, but you focus on the dry and fresh blood, on anything except the weight of his gaze over you. But he's not looking at your hand and he doesn't care if you're doing it right.

He's looking at your mouth, and the worst part is he's not hiding it.

Myung-gi has a small cut on his lower lip from a punch he received, his mouth is slightly open, you dare to raise your gaze and meet his, realizing that you are both thinking the same thing. Pretend not to notice and gently wipe the cloth across the curve of his cheekbone again, moving away from his mouth like a trap. But your breathing betrays you: it's faster now, more superficial.

"Damn. Sorry for that." You whisper after accidentally pressing on his injury, hurting him.

"Doesn't matter." he replies immediately, or at least that's what you think he said because he spoke so quickly. One hand grabs your thigh, firm and secure, the other goes straight around your neck from behind so you can't get away. He leans toward you and instinctively your lips separate, just a little. An invitation. Or maybe a surrender.

You should be afraid. Afraid of him, but maybe that place just brings out the worst in people.

And then he kisses you.

It's not a desperate kiss, but it's not tender either. That's not his style. It's something in the middle that you're not used to. His lips move slowly and passionately, filling your mouth with his taste as he tightens his grip on your weak body. He clings as if afraid of losing you, even though you don't move away. You melt into his hot touch, your hands clutching the front of his open jacket cover of dry red marks. You inhale and feel his scent fill your nose; an unpleasant mixture of sweat and blood.

You return the kiss as if it means nothing, because perhaps can mean nothing when surely tomorrow one of you will die. His lips devour yours trying not to make too much noise, a familiar desperation that reminds you the moments after a screaming fight. You feel the warmth of his hands on your jaw, his thumbs caressing the curve of your cheek as if they want to memorize your shape. He bites your lower lip, pulling it enough so that when he lets go, his teeth leave a slight mark.

The distant sound of someone moving in a bed disrupts the moment like glass underfoot. Myung-gi's hand slides from your face to your waist, applying firm pressure that makes his message clear: don't move. He leans toward you once more, this time not to kiss you, but to rest his forehead against yours. You feel the heart in your mouth, so strong you can hear it beating in the darkness.

"Don't look at me like that." His lips brush yours as he murmurs.

Your throat tightens.

"How?"

"Like this is wrong." Says, sending a shiver down your spine. "This place... makes you do terrible things, forget who you are. I just needed to feel something real."

The worst part is, for some reason, his words make sense to you. Something real. You live in fear and uncertainty, and you've almost forgotten what it means to live. The only way to survive in this horrible place is to live in constant fear and rage.

This time, you take the initiative and decide to cross the lines you set for yourself. Now you kiss him back desperately. Your hands find his face, careful not to hurt him, one sliding through his hair, and you pull him toward you, opening your mouth, your teeth catching on his lower lip. He growls deep in his throat, a low, dangerous sound, muffled by the need to remain silent.

You move without thinking and climb on top of him. Myung-gi catches you, settling under your legs wrapped around him. Without thinking, you climb onto Myung-gi’s lap.

He tenses beneath you for just a second, long enough to process what's happening, and then his hands find your waist under your T-shirt, pulling you closer, anchoring you to his lap as if you belonged there, as if he'd been longing for this for days. Maybe since they found each other at the games.

Your hips rub against his instinctively, remembering all the times you were on top of your ex—shit, so many times you couldn't count the number. He lets out a sound like a muffled curse. You feel the hard pressure of his member through the worn fabric of your pants, and it makes your pulse race but in a different way—adrenaline and ecstasy.

"Fuck.” He hisses, then closes his mouth and buries his face in your neck to silence himself. You feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, his teeth grazing you just enough to make you gasp softly. “You don't have idea how badly I need this… need you.”

Myung-gi’s hands slide under your shirt, calloused fingers tracing your sensitive skin touching the bruises from your blows. You arch toward him, biting your lower lip to silence yourself as his mouth finds the hollow of your neck, tortured by the presence of clothing between you.

The air is thick with pleasure and fear and something unbearably crude, like inevitable death. This isn't gentle; it's needy, breathless, almost clumsy in its urgency. You feel the urge to undress to feel his skin against yours, but you're not in your apartment or his, this isn't the bed you share. Everything is different except the two of you.

As the heat rises between you, you freeze when you hear the beds creak. He looks at you, his eyes wild with desperation, and says just one word:

"Silence.”

You nod your head and wait a few seconds. Myung-gi reclines you on the bed, but not before removing your pants. A light blanket covers both of you now, concealing your intimacy. Your hands slide down to his waist, feeling his body as delicately as possible. He groans a couple of times when you accidentally brush against him, when you apologize for that, he kisses you on the lips and silences you. Breathing heavily, not daring to look away from his face, you finally liberate him, feeling hard and palpitating in your hand. Myung-gi bites the inside of his cheek, swallowing any sound of pleasure at your touch.

Damn, he had missed you. Or maybe he just needs to release himself on you. At this point, either one works for you.

You pull your underwear aside, just enough.

Myung-gi looks at you as if asking you one last time, waiting for confirmation from you. The lights are very dim, just enough to reflect his features, and you respond without saying anything, guiding him toward you with a slow and careful movement from your hips.

The first thrust leaves you breathless because of how direct and fast it is, but you stay still, clinging to his arms with your forehead against his, mixing your moist breaths. His hands tremble on your hips, controlling themselves. They remain silent for a second. Two. Three.

As you make small movements with your hips, his hands dig into your skin. The blanket shakes slightly, its size familiar, and if you close your eyes, you can return to the memory of you two every night in the city. You bury your face in his neck to stifle the gasps building in your throat, and he kisses your shoulder, trembling.

You feel him everywhere: inside you, against you, on top of you. The world shrinks to the heat between your legs and the friction of his member, to the tension, to the way you both struggle to be together even as you're falling apart.

“Oh s-hit.”

“Don’t say anything.” He whispers so softly that you doubt you heard him, is ecstatic, fighting his own carnal instincts, savoring every part of you to make you his. The effect you have on him is unique, like a drug; you make him forget how miserable he is, how pathetic he feels for not being able to offer you all that you deserve. Perhaps that is the real reason he left. Now he would love to bite you just to mark you, kiss you everywhere, touch your breasts, climb on top of you, or turn you around, but he has to settle for a quick fuck.

You have no choice but to cover your mouth with your hand, biting your fingers. Your eyes are closed. He picks up the pace, still silent and careful, but now desperate. Both of you are at your limit. You know each other so well that you can tell just from his movements. Your fingers cling to his hair, and Myung-gi lifts your thigh up to his hip, burying his fingers in your skin.

Your climax washes over you like a wave, and you can't scream, torturing you. You hug him tightly, trembling silently, your mouth open, panting against his skin.

He follows you seconds later, his hips thrusting once, twice, before sinking as deep as he can and coming inside you, his chest heaving. His forehead rests on yours, you hear his erratic breathing up close, his dark eyes scare you but you can't pull away. You feel your body tense beneath his, Myung-gi pressing his lips against yours while caressing your cheek.

And then, only silence.

The hum of the room returns. Nothing else.

You don't move for a long time. Just hugging each other, letting the warmth linger, letting the illusion last a little longer.

When Myung-gi finally speaks again, it's just a whisper in your ear.

"Promise me you'll stay safe."

You shake your head and reply quietly.

"It's so difficult here." You turn to look him in the eyes. He's sweaty with messy hair, the lips wet with your saliva, his body emanating a different kind of heat and a specific smell. "You try not to get into more trouble than you already have."

But it was too late for that.

𐙚⋆°. MASTERLIST