hey yall, apologies for being on and off so inconsistently, but my spring break just started so i can finally catch some down time and i ofc wanna spend some of that time writing again! ik there's a few pieces that need a continuation or a pt 2, so please lmk what i should get to first!
based on this ask : Hi, I loved your entry for Johnny Sinclair. You could do one where Johnny x reader goes to a party in beachwood, he gets jealous of her and ends up fighting with a guy, she gets drunk, and the two take care of each other's injuries and hangover and end up reconciling.
youâre barefoot on the wooden deck outside cuddledown, heels long ago kicked into a corner somewhere, sipping something sticky-sweet out of a solo cup. music spills from the open windows, low and bass heavy, not loud enough to alert the adults, just enough to make everything feel a little off-kilter. like the whole night is leaning sideways.
mirren had decided it was a "party kind of night". just a few people, mostly distant cousins, maybe a couple of extras from the mainland.
bikinis under dresses. sand in everyoneâs hair. the kind of night that ends with someone crying in the hallway and someone else kissing the wrong person in the dark. you'd seen it plenty of times. being the johnny sinclair's girlfriend, you'd seen it all.
"everyone just loves a sinclair party," he'd say with a wink. "beautiful people don't get bored."
so there you were, in a red satin dress, slippery and short, one of johnny's favorites. you then came to the realization that you hadn't seen him in a while. he was here earlier, arm looped around your waist, bottle of something cold against his wrist. heâd kissed your shoulder, laughed into your neck.
but then he disappeared, vanishing into the tangle of rooms and snobby teens and dull conversation. you didnât chase him. not that you didn't consider it, but you didn't want to cling to him too badly.
youâre on your fourth drink now, lounging in a deck chair, pretending your nails had suddenly become incredibly interesting and wishing you knew where cadence or mirren was. that's when someone slides in close beside you.
the guy is taller than johnny, but bonier. familiar faceâ someone youâve seen around the mainland probably a dozen times, yet that didn't make you feel compelled to talk to him any moreso.
"you clean up nice," he says, voice warm with alcohol. your skin prickled. "havenât seen you around much without sinclair glued to your hip."
you rolled your eyes. "he is my boyfriend," you responded flatly.
"dude throws a great party." he gave you a lopsided smile. your drink now tasted bitter on your tongue. you took a long sip anyway.
"well, this party is actually courtesy of mirren, so maybe you should go and talk to her," you said, daring to meet his eyes as you spoke this time, hoping he would get the hint.
"i don't see her anywhere. come to think of it, your boyfriend actually told me i should keep an eye on you 'til he's finished, uh, mingling."
you couldn't bring yourself to analyze whether or not he was being sincere. johnny certainly had a lot of friends, you'd hate to make him look bad by telling off the wrong guy. you just took another swig from your cup, not wanting to deal with it.
you're lost far enough in your own thoughts that you donât notice the way his hand brushes your leg. you don't see the way he looks at you, eyes pausing on the area where the neckline of your dress dips. not until the mood shifts. not until the air around you thickens like somethingâs gone suddenly electric and stale at the same time.
and thenâ there he is. johnny. standing in the doorway, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair a mess, fingers already curling into fists.
you meet his eyes, and your heart drops.
itâs not the usual kind of johnny jealousâ the muttered comments, the arm suddenly thrown around your waist, the firm kiss to your temple like he's marking territory. this is different.
his mouth is set in a tight line, the muscle in his jaw twitching. you can almost feel the anger radiating off of him from where you're sitting. you donât know if itâs the alcohol, or the way the guy hasnât moved away from you, or something deeper, but you can see itâ heâs going to do something stupid.
"there a problem?â johnny says, voice low, sharp. not slurred, but dangerous.
the guy next to you, whose name you realize now you never even learned, raises his hands like heâs innocent. "woah, man, all good. you said to check on herâ"
"i didnât say you could fucking touch her." his words pierce the air like a knife. you try to stand. maybe youâre moving too fast or maybe itâs the four drinks, but your head spins.
"johnny," you say quickly, reaching for him. "itâs fine. we were just talking." you didn't even care about defending the guy, you just knew you desperately needed to diffuse whatever was impending. but he was already moving. already closing the space between them.
"johnny!" too late. he's seeing red.
"watch yourself sinclair," the shove is hard, reckless. it knocks johnny back, just half a step, enough for his cup to spill across the deck and a few people to turn around.
and you know how this ends, youâve seen how this ends. raised voices. fists. blood on white porch planks. someone shouts. someone tries to intervene. your stomach churns. your breath is caught in your chest, hand still outstretched. mirren appears in the doorway. gatâs right behind her. chaos blooms.
and you, drunk and furious and humiliated, canât stop yourself from screaming his name. "johnny, please!"
and then heâs on him. thereâs no warning, no hesitationâ he lunges, full of something fervid and ugly. knuckles colliding with cheekbone. the sound is sickening. you want to hide in mirren's chest like a little kid. you want to grab gat and beg him to make johnny stop. but you can't move. you're frozen. you can't do anything but watch.
the guy swings back, but itâs sloppy. johnnyâs faster, landing another hit. youâre surely on your feet now, attempting to shove your way between them before it gets worseâ before he gets worseâ but gat and mirren are already there, hands around johnnyâs shoulders, dragging him back like a wild dog from a kill.
you hated. when he got like this.
"get off me!" johnny snarls, still trying to lunge. his lipâs bleeding. the other guyâs already swearing, crouched over, clutching his jaw. youâre frozen, again, breath ragged, heart in your throat.
"what the fuck?!" you yell, voice cracking, and johnny looks at you like youâve slapped him.
"you let him put his hands on you," he spits, still straining against gatâs grip. "and iâm the one youâre yelling at?"
"jesus, johnny, look what you've done."
"what i've done? you have to be joking y/n, he touched you," he repeats.
"so you just had to get violent? again?"
itâs loud now. voices rising. people watching. and suddenly all you want is to disappear.
youâre not sure if itâs the alcohol or the embarrassment or the ache that's now blooming behind your temples, but everything feels too much. you shake your head, sniffle, take a step back. "i cannot do this with you right now."
johnny stiffens. something in him shutters. "so walk away, then," he snaps. "thatâs what youâre good at."
and it hits you like a slap. mean. cruel. said to hurt, and it does.
so you donât say anything. you just walk.
the bathroom is the only place you can breathe. if you hole up in your room like you want to, well that's just the first place they'll all look for you. so, you shut the door behind you and lean against it, dizzy and sick with it allâ alcohol, adrenaline, johnnyâs words echoing in your head.
thatâs what youâre good at.
you didnât cry at the party. not in front of them. not in front of him. but now, your throat is tight and your face is hot and the makeup that you had applied with such care just a few hours before is now smudged. the sobs wrack through your body before you can stop them.
you slide down to sit on the floor, head between your knees, the cool tile somewhat grounding you. you donât know how long you stay like that. long enough for your drinks to sour in your stomach. long enough to wish you hadnât worn this dress, or said that thing, or even agreed to come to that stupid party at all.
your stomach churns again, sharply this time. then you feel it coming up your throat. you scramble to the toilet and then youâre heavingâ hard, awful, nothing graceful about it. whatever fruity-sweet poison youâd been sipping all night hits the porcelain with a splash. your eyes sting. your arms shake. you press your forehead to the cool edge of the tub and do your best to breathe.
the taste wonât leave your mouth, no matter how many times you spit or rinse. and youâre back on the floor, your previously creaseless dress now twisted up, palms damp with sweat, when you hear the knock. one soft rap, then another.
"itâs me."
you glance at yourself in the mirror above the sink; smeared makeup, flushed cheeks, reddened, teary eyes, misery written across your face. a true mess. part of you wants to stay silent, let him leave, pretend this version of you doesnât exist. but he already knows. of course he does. your fingers tremble as you unlock the door.
his shirtâs wrinkled, stained at the hem. thereâs dried blood on his lip, and something wild in his eyesâ like he hasnât breathed since you walked away. youâre still gripping the doorknob. his gaze flicks over you. your crumpled dress. your shaky hands you're badly attempting to hide from him. the towel tossed on the floor from where youâd thrown up minutes ago.
"i'm sorry."
such a simple sentence, yet it meant everything to you. god only knows how much it took for johnny to admit he was in the wrong oftentimes.
"you look like shit," he says softly.
you laugh. or try to. it comes out more like a breath. "gee thanks, right back at ya." you slide back down onto the floor weakly.
he steps inside slowly, careful, like heâs approaching something wounded. he crouches by the sink cabinet, rummaging through the mess of first aid kits and old beach towels until he finds a washcloth. you watch as he runs it under cool water. wrings it out. crosses the tile to you.
"is it okay if iâ?" he asks, and you just nod before you can think too hard about it.
he kneels in front of you, presses the cloth gently to your forehead. the fabric is damp, cold. his fingers brush your temple and your skin buzzes with it.
"you threw up?" he murmurs, glancing towards the toilet bowl you were now wishing you had flushed.
you nod again, slower this time. "donât tell anyone."
"wouldnât dream of it." the moment stretches. neither of you moves. the only sound is the fan whirring overhead. "i'm so sorry," he whispers. "i didn't mean what i said, i swear. i just...," he trails off.
you swallow. your throatâs raw. "i know," you affirm simply.
"he shoved me first," johnny begins. "but i guess i was already looking for an excuse." you lift your head. he shrugs. "i saw him looking at you. like he thought he could get away with it. like he thought youâd let him."
you close your eyes and let out a sigh you didn't know you'd been holding in. "so you punched him."
"so i clocked his shit, yeah. he was asking for it."
you crack him a small smile at this, taking the washcloth from his hand. you press it to your chest, where your heart is still racing.
"you always start fights over me," you say shaking your head lightly.
"i donât want to." his voice is quiet. honest. "but i donât know how to stand still when someone touches whatâs mine." your breath catches a little. not at the wordsâ mine, youâre used to thatâ but at the way he says it now. not possessive. not proud. scared.
like heâs afraid heâs already lost you.
you lean your head back against the wall. exhale. "i feel gross," you groan.
he smiles, a little broken. "you still look pretty."
"liar."
"that, i am," he responds with a signature grin. you give him a look and he just throws his arms up in mock surrender with a simple "you walked right into that one."
you let out a laugh and peel yourself off the floor slowly, legs a little unsteady, johnny's hand hovering close like heâs ready to catch you if you sway too hard.
"i need to rinse this night off me," you mutter, grabbing the edge of the sink for balance. "i smell like sugar and regret."
he smiles. "you say that like itâs not a pleasant scent." you roll your eyes playfully. he stands up and leans in behind you, brushes a bit of mascara from under your eye with his thumb. "you want help?"
you raise a brow. "help. in the shower?"
"not like that, get your head outta the gutter," he teases. "just⊠well, you still look like you might pass out. iâll only sit on the floor, if you want. just donât want you slipping and cracking your skull open."
you pause. consider it. then, with a breath: "okay."
"although, if there was a little bit of a separate agendaâ"
"jonathan."
you tug your dress off in the glow of the vanity light, fingers fumbling with the zipper. johnnyâs already stripped down to his boxers, bloodied shirt abandoned somewhere on the counter.
the water runs hot and sharp as you step in. steam curls around your ankles. it smells like lemony soap and sunscreen from earlier in the day. you lean into the spray, eyes fluttering shut, head tilted back.
when he steps in behind you, he doesnât reach for you right away. doesnât press up against you or grab your waist. he doesn't touch you in that way that has something more lying underneath of it. he just⊠stands there.
the water hits both of you, and for a moment itâs like the night is dissolving around youâ everything sticky and sour and broken washing down the drain.
"you okay?" he asks eventually, voice quiet, breath warm on the back of your neck.
you nod. "yeah."
he touches your arm gently, fingers trailing from shoulder to elbow. "can i?" you lean back into him in answer, melting into his touch.
his hands are slow, nothing rushed. just soft palms and warm water, the way he smooths your hair back from your face, the way he runs shampoo through it like heâs scared youâll vanish if he isnât careful.
"you know iâm yours, right?" you whisper.
he exhales against your skin, a little shaky. "i know," he murmurs. "i just forget sometimes. when other people look at you like they donât."
you don't speak. you just fall into his arms once again, holding each other as the shower water continues to pour over the two of you.
the shower leaves you both wrung out and quiet, skin pink from heat, hair clinging to your neck. johnny finds you a towel first, wraps it around your shoulders like he thinks you might still be cold, even though the steam still clouds the mirror. his own towel hangs low on his hips, knuckles raw and lip split, and yet he looks at you like youâre the one who needs taking care of.
you tug on one of his old t-shirts, oversized and sun-bleached, probably left behind in one of the beach houses a summer ago. he watches you move like heâs still waiting for you to disappear.
"come on," you say, jerking your chin toward the guest room. "you wouldn't dare let me sleep alone, would you?"
his shoulders sag just a little. relieved.
the sheets are cool. the bed smells like clean linen and lavender. you crawl in first, curling on your side as johnny flips off the lamp. when he climbs in behind you, itâs slow. gentle. he doesnât pull you to him right away, just rests his hand on your hip, thumb stroking the fabric of his t-shirt like he needs proof youâre really there.
you speak into the dark. "you scared me tonight."
he goes still. "yeah," he mutters, "welcome to the club."
you roll to face him, tucking a leg between his, arm draped loosely across his chest. "seriously, you donât have to fight for me, johnny." your voice is barely there. "im already yours."
"i know."
you let out a breath. "you canât punch everyone who looks at me."
he snorts. "watch me."
you flick his side gently. "i mean it."
he shifts, just enough to rest his chin on top of your head. his voice drops. "i donât know how to be cool about you."
you smile, just a little. "good."
he exhales. "youâre not mad?"
you tilt your head up, press a soft kiss to his jaw. "i'm here." you don't answer the question directly. you don't need to.
his arms tighten around you. not possessive. not desperate. just firm. steady. like heâs anchoring himself to something solid.
you've already came once on his fingers and once on his tongue. you're not used to this kind of attention, and you can already feel yourself becoming fucked out. it's starting to be harder to string thoughts together to form sentences and you can feel your previous releases and arousal leaking onto the duvet below you.
but you are so far from finished.
"c'mon baby, spread 'em a little wider for me," steve encourages, referring to your shaky thighs. you do your best to comply with his instruction as you watch him open the bedside drawer. you're head falls back, all too aware of what's to come.
in his hand is seven inches of hot pink silicone (because "the realistic ones freak me out, steven!"), girthy and smooth.
this was your routine. the first few times, it was admittedly a little strange. it took a while to merely wrap your head around the idea that you'd need a fake dick to be able to take a real one, but you got over it after you realized how long it took to adjust to steve's size without prep.
"alright doll you know how this goes. gonna take it slow and you can have mine after you cum, k?" he talks you through it as he circles the dildo at your entrance.
you respond with a lazy nod and a quick "mhm", and then he pushes it in. "don't fight it, gotta take it if you want mine," he whispers.
"tryin'," you whimper, doing your best to relax and let it in.
"good girl, love watching your tight pussy eat this shit up," he praises. you moan at his words and involuntary clench around the dildo, nestling it further inside you, at which steve let's out a little chuckle.
once it's all the way in, he gives a teasing little tap against the flat base of it, making your body jolt. "ready?" he asks. you just nod, mentally preparing.
steve starts slow, like he said, moving it nearly all the way out so only the tip is inside you, and then back in again. his other hand circles your clit too both increase your pleasure and speed up the process slightly. he would sit here all day and prep you if it helped you take him better, but he's also just a man and highly impatient to take the place of that pink toy.
after it's clear you've gotten comfortable with the pace, he speeds up a bit, talking you through it the whole way. "there you go honey, that feels good, yea?"
"not like you do stevie," you respond without even really thinking.
he groans loudly and feels his dick harden impossibly more, so much so that he has to pop the button of his jeans.
"god baby, can't talk like that, not yet," he mumbles, speeding up his work on your clit.
that sweet, warm, tingling feeling starts to bleed in for the third time tonight. moans are spilling from your lips like a melody and your back begins to arch. that's when steve doubles down.
"let go for me babygirl, know you're close. give it to me. i know you want the real thing c'mon."
"ah- oh fuck stevie please," you whimper, not even really knowing what you're asking for as you begin to squeeze the dildo. just as you barely let up, he nudges it against your cervix and you're gone. moaning, fat tears rolling down your cheeks with absolute pleasure as you gush around the toy, sweet cum dripping down the base onto steve's fingers.
he continues to ride you through it rubbing your clit as your whole body goes warm with the power of your orgasm. you're near passed out by the end of it, barely awake enough to let out a whine at the lack of fullness when he pulls the silicone out of your drippy cunt. you don't even notice as steve runs two of his fingers up the side of it to collect some of your release and moans aloud as he pops them into his mouth.
what brings you back to reality is when you feel his spongy tip, absolutely slick with precum, nudging at your sopping entrance.
cw: smut mdni, dark themes, unprotected vaginal sex, unexpected creampie, breeding kink, mentions of pregnancy
the second you agree to let him fuck you raw, his eyes light up as if he's just won the lottery. (in his mind, he has.) he breaks into a wicked grin like he knows something you don't and peppers your face and shoulders with kisses.
"don't worry baby," he says. "i promise i'll pull out."
.
"steve, steve, steve!" his name falls from your lips frantically. "i think- i'm gonna- ah!" you moan.
he bites back a smile as he pounds you. "mhm, i know doll. give to me. cum on my cock babygirl, make a mess f'me."
and you do. you gush on his thick cock, release dripping down to his heavy balls. you pulse and squeeze around him as you peak, warm, wet, and just enough to push him over the edge.
"mmmhfuck," he grunts out. still riding out the waves of your own climax, you will yourself to be grounded enough to make sure he keeps his promise.
and he does. you register the feeling of him slipping wetly out of you cunt and a few quick spurts of his warm seed hitting your stomach. you let your head fall back and enjoy the whats rest of the delicious sensation wracking through your body as you drip onto the sheets.
that's when steve pushes back in.
in one quick motion, he's slipped back into your dripping pussy, really letting himself go now. he must have been holding back before, because know you can feel him absolutely filling you, his release warm and thick and oh so plentiful.
you forget you're supposed to panic. all you can do is moan at the sensation of being filled and warmed from the inside out.
the moment passes eventually. the panic does set in. but steve's planned this for far too long. he knows exactly what to do.
"oh god honey, i'm so sorry," he sympathizes, pulling you in close. "it just slipped babe, i didn't even noticed."
"stevie, i- what... what're we gonna-" you stutter.
"shhhh, don't worry your pretty little head about it, k? it's my fault, i'll take care of it. we'll grab you a plan b in the morning."
he hopes you don't notice his dick hardening again because he on fact has no intention of doing so and is already envisioning what you'll look like, stomach round and tits heavy carrying his baby
your clueless body relaxes at the solution. "o-okay. thank you stevie."
"anything for my girl," he praises, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
he waits for your breathing to slow as he holds you, waits until he's sure your far off in the depths of some peaceful dream land to whisper into your hair-
"oh baby, what would you do if you knew?" he chuckles to himself, "this is only the beginning."
HI first just wanted to say u are so talented at writing and ur stories make giggle and kick my feet and also (i don't remember if i sent in this request already or not so IGNORE ME IF I DID LOL) but i was wondering if u could write (only if ur comfy with it) a hurt/comfort with steve harrington where maybe steve and shy!inexperienced!reader are trying something a little rougher in bed for the first time and reader gets overwhelmed and asks to stop and its just steve being the sweetest with aftercare and all that :3
a/n : i adore this request, i've been wanting to write something like this for a while so thank you for this! i'm on both a hurt comfort kick and a steve kick atm (can you tell?), so i got right to writing when i saw this. thank you for the compliments on my writing, you're so sweet and i sincerely hope you enjoy this!
cw : contains smut mdni, hurt/comfort, vaginal sex, ass slapping, degradation, rough sex, use of safeword, emotional distress, crying, aftercare, fluff ending
steve's a little breathless, a little dazed, that warm, buzzing feeling in his chest that makes everything else fade out except you. your hands. your voice when you say his name. the way you're trusting him with something new, something you admitted you were nervous about but curious enough to try.
he'd proposed the idea earlier that day.
"honey?" he'd called out as he bustled through the kitchen. "can i ask ya a question?"
"you just did," you'd replied plainly, a smile tugging at your lips.
"mkay, smartass," he teased back, dropping down beside you on the couch. his knee bounced once, then stilled. "seriously. i need to ask you something."
"i'm listening," you agreed, shutting your book and setting it aside.
steve rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but your face. "how would you feel if we tried being a little⊠rougher?"
"rougher?" you repeated. "i'm not quite sure what you mean."
"y'know," he said, voice dropping, shy but earnest. "in the bedroom." that familiar pink flushed the tips of his ears, the one that always showed up when he was nervous but trying anyway.
"oh." your eyes widened slightly. a beat passed. "what exactly would that entail?"
he'd been careful then, stumbling over his words, stopping often to make sure you understood, to make sure you knew you could say no. he told you it didn't have to mean anything scary. that it could just be firmer touches, more intensity, more passion. maybe some new positions or ways of talking. he made sure, though, that you knew the most important part was that you stayed in control.
"just somethin' new. not that anything's wrong with what we're doing now, of course, but i just thought it could be fun. just give it some thought hun, don't have to give me an answer right now."
you'd nodded, heart racing, curiosity buzzing under your nerves. you trusted him. that was the truth of it.
he was so gentle with it, so kind and calm. and when the two of you were having sex, he'd literally give you anything you wanted. he fucked you slow and deep, sweet praises whispered into your ears. always gentle and attentive.
it was like he dedicated his life to finding out just how to melt your brain and send all your thoughts gushing out from between your legs in all the best ways. he always knew which buttons to press, he had sent you to moon with pleasure countless times. sex with steve was a dream, so who were you to deny him after all he'd given you?
so there you found yourself, mere hours later, face smattered with kisses of excitement from your boyfriend after giving your consent to his idea.
now, here, with the room quiet and the air heavy with that familiar closeness, steve thinks everything's fine.
he thinks the way your body tenses beneath his hands is anticipation. thinks the way you go quiet is focus, nerves settling instead of spiking. he murmurs reassurance, presses closer, caught up in the moment, caught up in wanting to do this right for you.
he doesn't notice right away when your breathing starts to come too fast.
you're face down ass up, hence why he can't see your face and therefore can't read you like he'd normally be able to. right now, he thinks you're enjoying it, and you're trying to tell yourself the same.
his balls smack against your ass with every thrust, and it feels good, nothing feels bad about the sex itself. you try to ground yourself in the comfort of that familiar pleasure, tuning out the other aspects of it. steve reaches down to rub your achy clit, and you let out a moan.
see, you tell yourself, you do like this. you just need a minute to adjust, that was all. you really do get lost in the feeling for a minute, one sweet minute. you can feel your arousal soaking his thick cock as he pounds in out of you, his hand palming the supple flesh of your ass.
that's when he delivers a sharp smack to your ass with his free hand. your body jolts, your cunt squeezing around his dick within you in surprise.
steve, not knowing any better, thinks its a clench of pleasure, as is typical. so he responds. "oh yeah baby, you like that? fuckin' squeezin me in, i know you do. such a slut."
the word steals the air from your chest.
you were used to good girl and pretty baby and sweet angel. you had known you agreed to this, but you didn't expect it to make tears prick the corners of your eyes. you're hardly even registering the fact that steve is still pounding into you, too busy trying to calm yourself internally before the dam breaks.
steve doesn't see how your hands curl in tighter, not around him, but into the sheets like youâre grounding yourself. you tell yourself to breathe, to wait it out, because this is all pretend. steve is gentle and patient and you don't want to disappoint him. you don't want to be the reason everything screeches to a halt.
but it keeps building. the pressure in your chest, the buzzing under your skin. too much. too fast.
you're broken out of the panic your brain is going into by another sharp slap to your asscheek, causing you gasp aloud.
"shut up, whore. take my cock."
and that's when you realize you need to stop.
"steve," you try, voice thin.
"didn't i just say to shu-"
"red. redredredredred," the word spills from your lips in a pure panic, like it's the only thing you know.
he freezes.
steve pulls back like he's been burned, hands lifting away from you as he shifts so he can see your face. his expression changes in an instant, concern wiping away every trace of heat. then, you see the panic in his own face, causing the guilt to sear through you like a hot iron.
the sobs are flowing freely now, you couldn't stop them if you tried, only adding to your embarrassment. you want nothing more than to run away and hide, but of course, you can't manage that right now. so you do the best you can do and scramble backward on the bed, balling yourself up by the headboard and hiding your face in your hands.
steve's heart drops. you're scared of him.
the thought hits harder than anything else ever could, knocks the air clean out of his lungs. he stays completely still, hands hovering uselessly at his sides like he's afraid even moving might make it worse.
"hey," he says quietly, voice already breaking. "hey, it's okay. i'm not, i'm not coming any closer, alright?"
you don't answer. your shoulders are shaking, breath coming in short, uneven pulls as you hide your face. the sight twists something ugly and painful in his chest.
"sweetheart,â steve murmurs, softer now, grounding himself before he even thinks about grounding you. "you did the right thing. you hear me? you did exactly what you were supposed to do."
when you don't pull away, he slowly lowers himself to sit on the bed, not next to you, just close enough to be there if you want him. he grabs the blanket and gently drapes it over your shoulders, careful, like every movement matters. because it does right now.
"i'm so sorry," he says, and there's no defensiveness in it. just honesty. "i should've noticed sooner. i should've checked in. that's on me."
your sobs hitch at that, something in his words cutting through the spiral in your head. "i didn't mean to," you choke out. "i didn't wanna ruin it, please, i'm sorry, i just-"
his head snaps up as he cuts you off. "hey. no, no. don't, honey." he swallows hard and meets your eyes. "you could never ruin anything by telling me you're overwhelmed. ever."
he finally reaches out, stopping just short of touching you. "can i hold you?" he asks quietly. "or do you want space?"
the choice steadies you more than anything else.
"hold me," you whisper.
steve moves immediately, but gently, wrapping you up like you're something precious, not fragile. he pulls you against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles into your back.
"you're safe," he murmurs over and over. "i've got you. i promise i've got you."
your breathing slowly starts to match his, the tight knot in your chest loosening as he stays exactly where he is, all warmth and steady presence.
after a while, when the tears finally begin to taper off, steve presses a kiss into your hair.
"thank you for trusting me enough to stop it," he says.
you sniffle, clinging to his shirt. "i was scared you'd be mad."
he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes shining. "mad?" he shakes his head. "baby, i'd rather stop a hundred times than ever make you feel like that again."
he tucks the blanket tighter around you, forehead resting against yours. "we don't ever have to try that again unless you want to. and if you do, we go slower. we talk more. or we don't do it at all. i just want you to feel safe with me.â
you nod, exhausted but calmer now, and let yourself melt back into his arms. steve doesn't let go of you until your breathing has fully evened out.
even then, he keeps one arm wrapped around you, the other smoothing slowly up and down your back like he's afraid the moment he stops, you might slip away again. when you finally pull back just enough to wipe at your face, he's already reaching for the box of tissues on the nightstand.
"here," he murmurs, handing them to you like it's a gift of some sort.
you dab at your cheeks, eyes still glassy, exhaustion settling into your bones now that the panic has burned itself out. steve watches you carefully, not in a way that feels overwhelming, more like he's memorizing you, checking that you're really okay.
"can i get you some water?" he asks. "or juice. or," he huffs out a quiet breath. "honestly, whatever you want."
"water sounds good," you say softly.
he nods and is gone in seconds, moving with quiet purpose. when he comes back, he helps you sit up against the headboard, steadying you with a hand at your back while you take slow sips. he doesn't rush you, doesn't look away, just stays right there like he's anchoring you in place.
"any dizziness?" he asks gently.
you shake your head. "just tired."
"okay." he presses a kiss to your temple. "that makes sense."
steve pulls the blankets up higher around you, tucking you in with surprising care, like he's done this before, like taking care of you is second nature. he slips a pair of his sweatpants over your legs, helps you into one of his soft t-shirts without a word, all calm movements and quiet reassurance.
when he finally settles back beside you, he opens his arms again. "c'mere."
you don't hesitate this time, curling into his chest and letting your head rest right where it fits best. his hand resumes those slow circles on your back, his thumb tracing absentminded patterns like he's trying to soothe every last lingering tremor out of you.
"i never meant for it to go that way," he says. "i should've payed better attention. next time i'll-"
now it's your turn to cut off his rambling, "steve. its okay. i know. i know you."
the relief that washes over his face is immediate. he exhales, forehead dropping to rest against the top of your head. "god," he murmurs. "that means everything to me."
he stays with you until your eyes start to droop, until your body finally relaxes fully into his. even then, he doesn't move, just adjusts the blankets, presses one last gentle kiss into your hair, and keeps holding you like that's exactly where he's meant to be.
you fall asleep feeling warm, safe, and cared for, wrapped up in steve harrington's quiet promise that you're always allowed to stop, and he'll always be there when you do.
summary: you accidentally overhear steve calling you âclingyâ to robin. instead of confronting him, you retreat into silence, letting your hurt fester. steve notices and becomes desperate to understand, but the more he reaches out, the wider the distance grows.
word count: 6.1k
a/n: after writing way too much steve fluff, itâs time for some angst with my fav trope: fmc overhears her spouse call her clingy⊠eventual happy ending <3
tags: takes place after s4 timeskip, so much angst, emotional hurt, crying, reader has scars from a demo attack, nancy and robin are so sweet here, distancing, reader has ptsd, emotional vulnerability, reader was eddie's bsf, mentions of violence, trauma, typical upside down gore, lack of communication, so much fluff at the end, happy ending.
You truly didnât mean to eavesdrop.Â
If anything, it was an accident, a cruel, stupid accident orchestrated by the universe itself and whatever higher power up there that wanted to see you suffering.Â
Youâd been at the Squawk with Steve and Robin, the three of you crammed into the booth like always. Robin, as usual, was rambling about something while Steve laughed and bumped his knee into yours under the table, grounding you without even trying.Â
By the time the clock crept past 8:30, the air outside was already dark and heavy, that familiar tightness had started curling in your chest; one that always showed up when it got late.
Youâd told yourself you could handle it, that you were fine and you werenât helpless, but you still asked Steve to accompany you home anyway, too afraid to go on your own.
âCan you come with me?â youâd asked casually, âor at least drive me home?â
Steve frowned, glancing at Robin. âBaby, youâll be fine. You can go on your own. Iâll be back in like an hour, okay? â
You nodded and kissed him goodbye, then you walked out to your car telling yourself you werenât a scared little kid, and that nothing can harm you anymore.
Only to realize halfway down the lot that your coat was still inside.
So you turned around.
That was all; a forgotten coat, a stupid, normal thing, and you would have been in and out in seconds if not for your name cutting through the noise in the squawk as you heard Steve mention you to Robin.
You shouldnât have listened, you knew that. You were raised better than to hover at doors and steal pieces of conversations that werenât yours to hear, but your body didnât listen to reason anymore.
Your feet stayed planted, your lungs forgot how to work as panic washed over you so fast and so violently that for a second you werenât in Hawkins at all.
You were back in the Upside Down.
Back in that choking red sky, where the air is thick and cold. You could feel all over again the vines slick and alive under your hands as you ran, heart tearing itself apart inside your chest.Â
You could still feel the demobats, the weight of them, the wet snap of their wings, the sound of flesh ripping, the blood, so much blood, everywhere you looked there was bloodbloodbloodbloodbloodâ
âthe combined screams of yours and Eddieâs. You remembered the way his body had gone still, the way Steve had dragged your bloodied body away as your entire abdomen was ripped apart, shaking so badly you couldnât even scream.
You remember the way youâd thought you were going to die there with your throat ripped open and your bones scattered across that fucked-up place.
You hadnât felt safe since.
Four months, five months? however long it had been, it didnât matter. Fear had latched onto you like a parasite and refused to let go.
Everything startled you now, doors, clocks, cold air on your neck, cars backfiring, footsteps too close behind you. The world felt like a nightmare, and the night was only much worse.
Steve was the only place that didnât feel like that.
Steve made it quiet. Steve made it stop.
You hadnât even realized youâd started clinging until it was already done, until your body had decided he was shelter, that he was protection, that if he was near then nothing could touch you.Â
And now you were standing outside a door, listening to him talk about you.
âI donât know, Robin,â he says again, voice rough and worn down, like heâs been chewing on the same thought for weeks and itâs finally gone bloody. âSheâs just⊠different. Ever since.â
Robin leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching him carefully. âYeah,â she says, slow and measured. âNo shit. She went to literal hell, Steve.â
âI know that,â he snaps too fast, immediately regretting the edge in his voice. He exhales, drags a hand down his face. âI know. I do. Thatâs the problem. I know, and I still feel like shit about how I feel.â
She waits. Robinâs good at that. At letting him talk himself into the truth.
âItâs like,â he starts again, quieter but faster, words tumbling over each other now, âsheâs everywhere. All the time. Wherever I go, sheâs already there or tryinâ to be. If I grab my keys, suddenly she needs to leave too. If Iâm sittinâ down, sheâs sittinâ down. If I say Iâm tired, sheâs tired. Itâs like she canât exist unless Iâm right next to her.â
Your stomach drops where you stand, frozen just outside the door, fingers clenched tight around the strap of your bag.
âIâm serious,â Steve keeps going, oblivious, frustration bleeding through every word. âIf Iâm goinâ to see Dustin, sheâs got a reason to come. If Iâm headinâ to the Squawk, somehow weâre paired up for drills again. She doesnât do anything alone, Robin. Never. Sheâs just⊠latched onto me.â
He laughs humorless. âAnd I sound like a dick sayinâ it, I know I do, but itâs fuckinâ suffocating.â
Suffocating. Like heâs drowning because of you.
Robin doesnât answer right away. When she finally speaks, her voice is softer, more careful. âSteve. Thatâs not weird, matter of fact it's a normal response given what she's been through. Thatâs her brain trying to keep her alive.â
âI know,â he says, rubbing at his neck like it physically hurts to admit it. âI know sheâs not doing it on purpose.â
âShe nearly died,â Robin presses. âShe watched Eddie die right in front of her. She got dragged into the Upside Down and came back with scars all over her body. She wakes up screaming, Steve. Youâre the only thing that makes her feel safe.â
âI didnât say she was the bad guy,â he snaps, voice cracking despite himself. âIâm just sayinâ Iâm overwhelmed. Sheâs so clingy, Robin. You saw her tonight. She didnât wanna leave without me. I had to practically beg her to go first.â
Your vision blurs. You press a hand to your mouth, swallowing hard.
âItâs like I gotta make up excuses just to be alone,â he admits, quieter now, stripped bare. âI need space. I need to breathe. And I canât say that without soundinâ like a heartless asshole because yeah, sheâs traumatized, and then suddenly Iâm the villain for wantinâ five goddamn minutes to myself.â
Robin scoffs, pushing off the counter. âSteve, you idiot. You said it yourself. Your girlfriend is traumatized.â
âYeah,â he shoots back, voice rising, âbut how the hell do I tell my traumatized girlfriend to back off without destroyinâ her. How do I say âhey, I love you, but youâre smotherinâ me,â and not absolutely fuck her up more than she already is.â
âYou donât call her clingy,â Robin says immediately. âFor starters. That word is banned and most girls, including Vickie, hate it.â
Steve lets out a short, bitter laugh. âWell, she is.â
Robin gasps dramatically, clutching her chest. âOh nooo,â she mocks, voice high and obnoxious. âIâm Steve Harrington and my girlfriend loves me so much. Oh noooo, she feels safe with me. My life is helllll.â
âShut up,â Steve mutters, shoving her shoulder.
âOww, you asshole!â Robin shoots back, swatting him in return, then sobers as she gets all serious again. âYouâre not wrong for being tired. You are wrong for talking about her like sheâs a burden.â
Steve goes still. âI donât think sheâs a burden,â he says quietly, and this time it sounds like the truth. âI just⊠I donât wanna be the only thing keepinâ her together. What happens if I fuck up? What happens if I leave?â
Robin sighs. âThen you talk to her. You communicate, dingus.â
You step back before they can see you, heart pounding, every word replaying in your head on a brutal loop. Suffocating. Clingy. Everywhere.
You donât grab your coat when you leave.
You donât even realize youâre driving until youâre already halfway home, knuckles white on the steering wheel as every memory crashes into you at once. Begging him to stay while you showered because you were convinced something would crawl out of the drain. Nights you woke up screaming, clinging to his shirt like it was the only safe place left in the world. Training days for the crawl where you stuck close, too afraid to be alone, grateful when you were paired with him again.
You could see it all, every single little thing you had leaned on him for, flashing through your mind like some god-awful horror slideshow.
Steveâs words had been like a bucket of ice water dumped on you, shocking you into clarity whether you wanted it or not.Â
Maybe you had been too sensitive. Maybe you had been unbearable. Maybe you had been so clingy that it wasnât fair for him, and maybe you needed to let go, at least a little.Â
It wasnât as if you had been the only one stuck in the Upside Down. Will had survived a week in that hell, seen things that should have ripped him apart, and yet he had come back and carried himself with a strength you couldnât even muster.Â
Dustin had lost Eddie too, but he hadnât latched onto anyone, hadnât made himself a burden. Eleven had been tortured, exploited, experimented on, broken in ways that should have left her crushed, and yet she still managed to find herself amidst everything, to stand and breathe and continue on.Â
And here you were, the only one who seemed incapable of moving past it, of finding even a fragment of independence, still tethered to Steve as if without him you would fall apart.
Somehow, without realizing it, you had arrived at your shared home with Steve, parked your car in the driveway, and walked inside on autopilot, your body carrying you through familiar motions while your mind carried the full weight of guilt, shame, and heartbreak.
You stripped off your clothes in the bathroom, letting the water hit your skin in a rhythm you used to find comfort in, and prepared some dinner. You heated up leftovers, the smell of food filling the kitchen like it always had, but this time there was no laughter, no shared commentary on who had eaten what, no teasing Steve about his obsession with ketchup.Â
By the time Steve arrived, the house was quiet. You were already in bed, tucked under the covers, something you hadnât done alone in months because for months you hadnât slept unless his arms were wrapped around you.Â
But tonight, the house felt empty, and he found himself standing in the kitchen, fork in hand, staring at the warm meal you had prepared for him, and realizing that for the first time in an eternity, you werenât waiting for him.
The next morning only deepened the silence. Steve woke to an empty bed, the sunlight spilling across rumpled sheets that smelled faintly of your perfume, and felt a prickling, cold panic he couldnât name at first.Â
You were already dressed, shoes on, ready to leave.
âWhere are you heading?â he asked, voice rough.
âGoing to get some stuff from the store,â you replied dryly.
âWant me to come with you, sweetheart?â His words carried that familiar gentleness, but you couldnât look past it without feeling like a burden.
âNo,â you said simply.
It was such a small, simple word. It shouldnât feel like this. Except it made Steve sit in bed alone, blood running cold, realizing far too late that you were beginning to avoid him.
You leave early and donât come back until the sky is already dimming, the house dark except for the kitchen light that Steve has turned on and off three times now like it might summon you home faster.
By the time you unlock the front door, he has been pacing a groove into the living room carpet, heart in his throat, mind running through every worst case scenario he promised himself he wouldnât think about anymore. The second the lock clicks and the door opens, heâs there, crowding your space before you can even hang up your coat.
âWhere the hell were you?!â he blurts, voice tight and frantic, eyes scanning you like heâs checking for blood. âYouâve been outta the house for nearly six hours. Six. I was losinâ my goddamn mind. I thought somethinâ happened to you.â
You sigh, slow and tired, and for a split second when you really look at him, at the pure unfiltered worry etched into his face, you almost break.
Almost step into his arms, almost let yourself melt into him and admit how badly you missed him, how those six hours felt like six days without his voice or his hands or the steady reassurance of his presence.Â
If six hours did this to him, then the space you were forcing had been tearing you apart twice as badly.
But then your brain betrays you, replays his words in his voice, clingy, suffocating, always there, and you harden.
âI was out, Steve,â you say quietly.
âYeah, no shit,â he fires back, following you as you walk toward the kitchen. âOut where?â
You open the fridge, more for something to do than because youâre hungry, and shrug. âWith Nancy. We hung out and I accidentally lost track of time.â
The tension drains out of him immediately, shoulders sagging in relief. âJesus,â he breathes. âWhy didnât you tell me, huh? I was freakinâ out. Is everything okay? Did somethinâ happen?â
You shake your head. âNo, nothing happened, donât worry.â
He nods quickly, like heâs trying not to push. âOkay. Okay. I wonât pry.â He hesitates, then softens. âHey, I was thinkinâ dinner. You want lasagna or pizza?â
âIâm not hungry,â you say, already turning away. âIâm gonna go sleep, okay.â
He frowns. âBut I thought we could just hang out a little, I mean we barely saw each other todaââ
âMaybe another time, alright? Goodnight, Steve.â
He exhales, defeated. âGoodnight,â he says softly. âI love you.â
You pause just long enough to whisper it back before disappearing down the hall. âI love you too,â
The days after are worse.
Steve wakes up and barely gets a word in before youâre already pulling on shoes, mumbling something about a jog. If he waits, you need a shower. If he waits longer, youâre late to see your nana.Â
If he suggests the Squawk, youâre already going with Nancy. Itâs like every time he reaches out, you slip through his fingers a little more, like trying to grasp smoke.
Not long ago, you haunted him with your presence. You were everywhere, constant, inescapable, but now you ghost him with your absence. He doesnât know where you go or what you do, only that the house feels emptier even when youâre technically still there.
Thatâs how he ends up sitting on the edge of the bed tonight, waiting for the bathroom door to open, heart pounding like heâs bracing for bad news. When you finally step out, hair damp, towel slung over your shoulder, he looks up like heâs been holding his breath.
âHey, sweetheart,â he says gently, like heâs testing the word to see if it still belongs to him.
You glance at him in the mirror and give him a small, careful smile. âHi, Steve.â
He lingers there for a second, then steps closer, hands hovering before he settles them lightly at your waist, afraid you might flinch. He leans down and presses a kiss to your collarbone.Â
âI missed you,â he murmurs. âYouâve been out all day. Didnât even see you at the Squawk.â
Your body betrays you before your mouth does, a shiver running through you at the sound of his voice, the warmth of him behind you. For a heartbeat you let yourself feel it, the pull, the ache. Then you pull away, just enough to break the contact, reaching for your hairbrush like itâs a shield.
âYeah,â you say lightly. âNancy asked me to go shopping with her again.â
âOh.â He straightens, nodding, trying to keep his tone easy. âWas it fun? I figured youâd come back with, like, ten bags or somethinâ.â
You shrug, brushing through damp hair. âDidnât need anything.â
He watches you in the mirror, the way you wonât quite look at him, the way your answers land flat and stop short. He clears his throat as heshifts his weight.
He hesitates, then clears his throat, trying again, voice low and careful. âUh. We trained today. Me, Hopper, and El. She shaved her time down again.â
You pause only briefly, tugging at your hair with the brush.
âThirty-three seconds,â he continues, a little brighter despite himself. âLast week it was thirty-six. Sheâs pissed about it too, which I guess is good. Means she knows she can do better.â
âThatâs good,â you say quietly.
He nods, even though youâre not looking at him. âYeah. Sheâs gettinâ scary strong again. In a good way.â
âMhm.â
Steve frowns. He leans back on his hands, searching your face even though youâre facing away now. âWe could all hang out this weekend. Just us, or maybe the kids too. Whatever you want. Thought it might be nice.â
âIâm actually quite tired,â you say quietly.
âOkay,â he says quickly. âYeah. Thatâs fine. We donât have to do anything big.â He pauses, then softly asks. âHey. Are you okay? Like, really okay?â
You swallow. âIâm fine, Steve.â
Thereâs a beat of silence where he clearly wants to say more as his mouth opens and closes like heâs rearranging words that never come out right.Â
He tries again, desperate now. âDid I do somethinâ? Because if I did, I swear Iâm not tryinâ to mess this up. I just need you to talk to me, okay.â
Your chest tightens. You squeeze your eyes shut.
âSteve,â you say softly, cutting him off before he can dig himself deeper, âcan you turn off the light, please?â
He gets the hint; you donât want to talk.
He freezes for a second, then nods once. âYeah. Yeah, of course.â
He stands, reaches for the lamp, and the room falls into darkness. He lingers there for a moment longer, like heâs hoping youâll turn back around, say his name, give him something to hold onto.
You donât.
âNight,â he says quietly.
âNight,â you reply, barely audible.
He lies down beside you, careful not to touch, staring up at the ceiling with the awful, sinking realization that this is what losing you looks like..
As the days passed, then quietly turned into weeks, you built a new routine that did not include Steve in it at all. It happened slowly enough that it almost felt reasonable at first.Â
You learned how to time your mornings so you were out the door before he woke up, learned how to come home late enough that conversation felt unnecessary, learned how to smile just enough to keep him from asking questions that you did not have the strength to answer.
Avoiding him became second nature. Lying became easy.
You spent most of your days outside, anywhere that was not the house and not around him. Sometimes you sat beside your nanaâs hospital bed for hours, holding her hand and watching the rise and fall of her chest just to remind yourself that people stayed alive even when everything went wrong.Â
Other days you walked until your legs ached, wandering neighborhoods you barely recognized, letting exhaustion drown out thought. Occasionally you called a friend, anyone who would answer, and let the hours blur together in cafes and parking lots and friendly conversations that never went anywhere deep enough to hurt.
It got to the point where you could not remember the last time you had kissed him without forcing yourself to think about it, and when you did, the number made your stomach twist. Four days. Four whole days since his mouth had been on yours, since his hands had found your waist without asking, since you had slept tangled together instead of inches apart.Â
There was a time when five minutes apart felt unbearable, when you haunted each other in hallways and kitchens and doorways, hands always reaching, always searching.
You grew used to the distance.Â
Steve though, did not.
His patience thinned in ways that showed. It did not help that things with Dustin were already strained. Steve started snapping again and retreating into old habits he thought he had outgrown.Â
He tried to pull himself back every time he felt it happening, tried to reach for you like he always had.
And every time he did, you stepped further away.
That was how he found himself one late afternoon sitting on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the front door.Â
You had been gone all day again, supposedly with Nancy, doing whatever it was you told him you were doing now.Â
Steve knew you were close to her, knew you trusted her, but not to the point where you would spend hours every other day together. Still, he told himself not to judge. Girls were odd in their friendships, and he did not want to be the guy who questioned everything.
But his mind would not shut up.
Every instinct in him was screaming that something was wrong, that he needed to do something instead of sitting there waiting. He was snapped out of his thoughts when the doorbell rang.
Steve was on his feet instantly, relief and fear colliding in his chest as he rushed to the door. He yanked it open, already ready to say your name.
Instead, Nancy Wheeler stood there.
For a split second, his brain refused to process it. Then panic slammed into him so hard it stole the air from his lungs. If you were supposed to be with Nancy, then why is she standing here alone?
âWhere is she?â he blurted out, voice sharp and scared. âIs she okay? What happened?â
Nancy blinked in shock at his reaction, taking in the way his shoulders were tight, the way his hands were already shaking like heâd been holding himself together by sheer force of will. âWhoa, Steve, hey,â she said quickly. âSlow down. Whatâs going on?â
âWhat,â he shot back, breath uneven, eyes already scanning the driveway behind her like you might suddenly appear. âWhereâs she? Why are you here without her, Nancy?â
Nancy frowned. âWithout who?â
âY/N,â he snapped, panic bleeding into anger because fear always did that to him. âIâm talking about Y/N.â
Her expression shifted immediately. âYeah,â she said slowly, âthatâs actually why Iâm here. I havenât heard from her in weeks. I just wanted to check in.â
The words hit him like a punch straight to the chest.
âWhat do you mean you havenât heard from her?â he said, quieter now, like saying it louder might make it real. âYou were literally together today?â
Nancy let out a short, incredulous laugh. âSteve, no. Iâve been with Jonathan all day. Heâs waiting in the car right now. I just stopped by because I was worried about her.â
The color drained from his face so fast it scared her.
âSteve,â she said carefully, stepping closer, âyouâre freaking me out. Whatâs going on?â
He swallowed hard, throat tight like it was closing in on itself. âSheâs been telling me sheâs with you,â he said. âEvery time sheâs gone. She says sheâs with you.â
Nancy stared at him. âWhy would she lie about that?â
âI donât know,â he said, voice cracking despite how hard he tried to keep it together. âThatâs the thing, Nance, I donât know. One day she was everywhere. Everywhere. I couldnât turn around without her being there, couldnât breathe without feelinâ her next to me, and then suddenly itâs like she vanished. We didnât fight. Iâi didn't do anything. At least not that I remember.â
Nancy sighed, rubbing her forehead, her tone firm but not unkind. âSteve. You donât just wake up one day like that. Something must've happened.â
âNo, no, noâ he said immediately, shaking his head. âNo, I would know. I would remember if I fucked up that bad.â
âAnd you didnât think to ask her?â Nancy pressed.
âI did,â he snapped. âI tried. Every time I tried sheâd shut it down, say she was tired or busy or fine. What the hell was I supposed to do, corner her?â
âShe was clingy, okay. Iâll say it. I couldnât go anywhere without her, couldnât get a second alone, and then suddenly itâs like she was gone.â
Nancyâs head snapped up. âDonât,â she said sharply.
âWhat?â he shot back.
âYou do not call her clingy, Steve!â Nancy said, anger flaring now. âYou donât get to use that word with Y/N out of all people!â
He bristled. âOh come on, Nancy. I didnât mean it like that.â
âYeah, you did,â she said. âAnd even if you didnât, it doesnât matter. In case youâve forgotten, Harrington, weâre all wrapped up in this upside down bullshit because we have to be. I do it because of Mike and Barb. You do it because of Dustin. Guess what? She doesnât have to be involved in it!â
Steve opened his mouth, then stopped.
âThat girl is fucking traumatized, and she went through that shit because you dragged her into it!â Nancy continued, voice steady but fierce.
âShe nearly died. She was attacked by monsters that shouldnât exist. She watched Eddie die just like the rest of us, and she doesnât get to talk about it with anyone outside this circle. She canât go to her friends or her family and say, âhey, I got slimed by an interdimensional monster and almost got ripped apart.â The only person she feels safe enough to lean on is you!â
His jaw tightened, guilt creeping in through the cracks.
âSo yeah,â Nancy went on, âmaybe she leaned too hard or she didnât know how to be alone after that. But that doesnât make her clingy, Steve. That makes her scared.â
He dragged a hand down his face. âI didnât mean to hurt her.â
âI know,â Nancy said. âBut intent doesnât erase impact. Something you said or did made her feel like she was too much, like she was a burden, and instead of yelling or crying she did the only thing she could think to do. She disappeared.â
Steve let out a shaky breath. âSheâs been lying to me, Nancy.â
âSheâs protecting herself,â Nancy said. âYou need to see things in her lightâ
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
âSo what,â he said finally, voice raw. âWhat if sheâs just⊠done? What if she realized she doesnât need me?â
Nancy softened then, stepping closer. âSteve. She needs you. She just doesnât think sheâs allowed to anymore. And thatâs on you to fix.â
He looked at her, eyes glassy. âHow?â
âYou talk to her,â Nancy said simply. âReally talk. Don't accuse her or get defensive. Listen to her.â
She glanced back toward the driveway. âIâll stop by tomorrow and check on her too, okay? But you canât let this sit. Whateverâs going on, itâs clearly eating both of you alive.â
Steve nodded faintly, chest aching. âYeah.â
Nancy opened the door, then paused. âAnd Steve.â
âYeah?â
âSnap out of it,â she said firmly. âBefore you lose her for real.â
With that, she left, heading back toward Jonathanâs car, while Steve stood alone in the doorway.
Ironically, barely ten minutes after Nancy and Jonathan pulled out of the driveway, you came home.
The house was dark. Too dark.
Your stomach dropped immediately, panic flaring hot and fast as you stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. No lights. No TV. No noise.
For a split second, every worst-case scenario youâd trained yourself not to think about came crashing in all at once.
âSteve?â you called out, voice tight.
Footsteps shuffled, and then he appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, lit only by the faint glow from the stove light.
âHey,â he said, like nothing in the world was wrong.
You froze for half a beat. âOh. Hi.â
There was something awkward in the air instantly, like youâd both stepped into the same room carrying entirely different weights. He leaned against the counter, trying to look casual.
âHow was your day?â he asked.
You shrugged, slipping your shoes off. âIt was⊠alright.â
His eyes drifted to the bag clutched in your hand, the crinkled plastic catching his attention. âWhatâs that?â
âOh,â you said quickly, glancing down at it. âI stopped by the pharmacy to get the cream. For, uh⊠you know. The scarring.â
He nodded, softer now. âThatâs good.â
Neither of you said anything else as you walked down the hall together. The bedroom felt smaller than usual as Steve sat on the edge of the bed while you set the bag down.
âUm,â he said, rubbing the back of his neck. âDo you want me to help you apply it?â
You hesitated for a second. Then you nodded and handed him the bag.
He unsealed the ointment while you slipped your shirt off and sat cross-legged on the floor, your back to him. You were suddenly acutely aware of every scarâdeep, jagged reminders carved across your back and abdomen from the demogorgon attack. Old wounds, but never really gone.
Steve didnât react the way you always feared people might. He never did.
His hands were warm as he scooped some of the cream, spreading it carefully across your skin gently. He worked it into your shoulders, thumbs pressing lightly as he massaged your shoulders.
You let yourself breathe.
He kept going until he was done, smoothing the last of it in with quiet focus. As you started to shift, ready to stand and pull your shirt back on, you felt itâ
Two soft kisses. One pressed over each long scar crossing your back.
Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.
You stood quickly, sliding your shirt back on, suddenly unsure what to do with all the space between you. You were halfway to the door when his voice stopped you.
âUhm, Y/n.â
You turned. âYeah?â
He reached out, fingers wrapping gently around your hand, and tugged you a step closer. âCan we talk?â
He keeps hold of your hand when you hesitate.
âTalk about what?â you ask quietly.
Steve doesnât answer right away. Instead, he steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the familiar gravity thatâs always pulled you in whether you wanted it to or not. His hand tightens around yours like heâs afraid youâll disappear if he loosens his grip.
âI know Iâve been shitty,â he says again, like repeating it might finally make it land where it needs to. His voice is low and rough, scraped raw by guilt. âI know Iâve been so far away from you. I know you felt it. I saw it, even when I pretended I didnât.â He swallows hard.Â
âAnd I know youâre going through thingsâthings I canât even fully understandâand I hate that instead of being the person you could come to, the person who made it easier, Iââ
He cuts himself off with a sharp breath, hand lifting to his face like he can physically stop the words from spilling.
Your chest tightens so painfully it almost steals your breath.
âI panicked,â he rushes on, panic bleeding straight through his words now. âI didnât know how to handle it. Knowing someone was dependent on me, really dependent on me, not just for rides or babysitting or stupid shit like that, but emotionally.â His voice wavers. âI thought I was gonna screw it up. Thought I already was screwing it up. And instead of dealing with that like an adult, I freaked out.â
He laughs once, sharp and broken. âGod, I thought I needed space. I thought if I pulled back, things would calm down, that weâd both breathe easier. But fuckââ His voice cracks hard on the word. âThis is so much worse. You being gone is so much worse than you being everywhere. Iâd give anything to have you hovering around me again, asking if Iâm okay, touching my arm, sittinâ too close on the couch.â
He steps closer, hands shaking as they come up to your sides, not quite touching like heâs scared youâll flinch away.
âPlease,â he whispers, forehead nearly brushing yours now, eyes glossy and wrecked. âPlease, sweetheart. Donât stop being dependent on me. Donât stop needing me. Donât stop loving me.â
Your breath stutters, a broken sound caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.
âI need you to need me,â he says, the words spilling faster, desperate and unfiltered. âI didnât realize it until you pulled away, but I do. I need it. I need you. Because I canât do this anymore. I canât wake up every day wondering if youâre okay and knowing itâs my fault you donât tell me.â His voice drops to a whisper.Â
âI canât do this without you.â
Thatâs when you break.
The sob tears out of you violently, ripping through your chest like something finally gave way. Your knees nearly buckle as you fold into him, crying so hard your body shakes, hiccups jerking through each breath.Â
Steve reacts instantly, arms wrapping around you tight, crushing you to his chest like if he lets go youâll disappear for real this time.
âIâm sorry,â he murmurs into your hair, voice breaking completely now. âIâm so sorry. Fuckâfuck, baby, donât cry. Please donât cry.â
His hand moves up and down your back in slow, steady motions, grounding and familiar, his chin pressing into your hair. You cry into his shirt until itâs damp, until your throat burns and your lungs ache and you feel wrung out and hollow.
Eventually, trembling, you pull back just enough to look at him.
âI heard you, Steve,â you say, the words tripping over themselves.
He freezes. âYou⊠heard what?â
Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms like you deserve the sting. âA few weeks ago. At the station. I left early and forgot my coat.â Your voice wobbles badly now. âI came back, and I heard you.â
The color drains from his face so fast it scares you.
âYou were talking to Robin,â you continue, tears spilling again. âYou said I was clingy. You said I was suffocating you.â
âOhâno,â he breathes, panic exploding across his features. âNo, no, no, baby, pleaseââ
âI didnât mean to be,â you sob. âI swear I didnât. I wasnât trying to trap you or make you feel stuck. I justââ You choke on a breath. âI only felt safe with you. And everyone else was doing okay. Everyone. And I wasnât. I was falling apart and I didnât know how to be alone with that.â
Steveâs hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your tears away like each one physically hurts him.
âBaby,â he says fiercely, voice shaking as his arms tighten around you. âYou cling to me as tight as you want and as long as you want. I donât ever want you to feel like you have to pull away to protect me.â
His voice drops, thick and aching, the words pressed straight into your hair. âI love you so much it hurts. I love you so much it scares me, and instead of owning that, I ran my mouth and said something stupid and careless. And I hate that it hurt you. I hate that I made you feel like you were too much when all you ever were was⊠you.â
He presses his forehead to yours, breath shaky. âYou were never suffocating me. I was just scared of how much I needed you back.â
You search his face, eyes swollen, chest still hitching with quiet aftershocks of sobs. He looks wrecked and earnest and painfully open, like every wall heâs ever built has finally come down.
âItâs okay, Steve,â you whisper, even though the words wobble on the way out, even though they donât quite feel solid yet.
He shakes his head immediately, curls bouncing with the movement. âItâs not. Itâs really not.â His hands slide up your back, holding you close. âBut weâre gonna fix it, okay? I will fix it. I promise. I donât care how long it takes.â
His forehead presses against yours again, like heâs grounding himself. âJust⊠donât pull away from me ever again.â
You nod, slow but sure, arms wrapping around him fully now as you bury your face into his chest. He holds you like he means it this time, rocking you gently, big hands warm and steady like theyâre reminding you that heâs real, that heâs here.
You breathe him in.
And thenâ
Grrrgrgrgrgrgr.
You freeze for half a second.
Then you pull back just enough to look up at him, eyes still wet, face scrunched, and you burst out laughingâbroken, hiccupy laughter that comes out of you mid-cry.
âAre youââ you sniff, laughing harder, ââare you hungry?â
Steveâs face goes bright red.
âIââ he stammers, mortified. âI was gonna wait for you to come back, okay? I didnât wanna eat without you.â
That just makes you laugh more. You press your face back into his chest, shoulders shaking, and he lets out a breathy laugh too, embarrassed but relieved, his arms tightening around you again.
âGod,â he mutters. âTiming, huh.â
You tilt your head up and kiss him. He kisses you back immediately, like heâs been starving for it just as much as food. When you pull away, barely an inch, he leans in again and kisses you harder this time and deeper, pouring everything unsaid into it.
He breaks the kiss with a breathless laugh, forehead resting against yours. âMissed kissing you.â
You smile. âMe too.â
He exhales, then straightens suddenly like heâs had an epiphany. âYou know what?â
âWhat?â you ask.
âI am starving,â he says, dead serious. âAnd Iâm pretty sure you are too.â
You blink. âSteveââ
âCome on,â he says, already grabbing your hand and tugging you gently toward the door. âGrab a coat.â
âWait,â you laugh, stumbling after him. âWhere are we even going?â
He grins over his shoulder, that familiar boyish smile you fell in love with. âEnzoâs.â
Your eyes widen. âWhat? No, Steve, that place is expensive. And you need a reservation andâ I can just heat something up, itâs fineââ
âNope,â he cuts in immediately. âAbsolutely not.â
âSteveââ
âI gotta spend the next year or so making it up to you,â he says, squeezing your hand. âMinimum.â
You gape at him. âButââ
âToo late,â he says cheerfully, already opening the door.
You stumble as he leads you out to the car, the night air cool against your skin. He opens your door for you like always, and excitedly smiles at you. As the engine starts and the house disappears in the rearview mirror, you lean back in your seat, heart full and sore and warm all at once.
Deep down, you know it again: Steve will stay by your side. Heâll wait while you heal. Heâll hold you steady until youâre strong enough to take steps on your own.
And Steve knows, wholeheartedly, that heâll be the one clinging to you just as tightly. Because youâre the only one heâs ever loved enough to spill his heart to.
And, apparently, spend three hundred and ninety dollars on at some fancy restaurant without even blinking.
hii! i would like to request a pairing of clark kent and its, catwoman!reader x clark kent. So instead of catwoman and batman.. itâs superman. how they meet is because clark catches catwoman (reader) sneaking into a museum to steal a necklace and everytime clark catches us, we slip away. so he gets more mad each time we get away, so itâs basically like a cat and mouse chase. the rest is up to you but pls make it smut with a lot of plot. thank yew!! đ„č
two of a kind - part one
a/n: thank you for this request. this is one of my favorite things i've written so far. i hope you all adore reading this as much as i adored writing it. part 2 will contain all the smut, so if you have any ideas regarding that my inbox is open. enjoy babes.
cw: breaking and entering, violence, (non-graphic), tension-filled, slightly suggestive, chase, mild verbal hostility, next part will contain smut
the museum is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
grey marble floors stretch endlessly beneath high ceilings, antique crystal chandeliers dangling like frozen constellations above. it's cavernous, everything far too large, too grandiose, too still. every movement echoes, so you have to be careful.
you land soundlessly on the marble floor, absorbing the impact through bent knees, already cataloging exits, angles, reflections.
your night vision makes quick work of the security system. the lasers glow a unique shade of red. predictable, you think, nearly scoffing. you slip between them with practiced ease, your body bending and flexing fluidly, barely sparing them a second glance.
the necklace glints behind reinforced glass, heavy with history and blood money. the golden plaque beneath it shines smugly, etched with the name of some donor you've never heard of, and certainly donât care to learn now.
you step closer, studying the detailing. hundreds of diamonds, varying sizes, each meticulously secured to a fine gold chain. they sparkle as though they're begging to be taken.
you zero in, fingers twitching as they hover over the glass.
when you sense something
someone.
in a millisecond, they're behind you.
you feel the presence before you hear a sound, which is⊠odd. the trademark black ears adorning your suit never miss a noise, especially not in a place like this, where sound ricochets like a bouncy ball off every surface.
"that's far enough," a deep, husky voice cuts in, breaking you out of your trance.
you'd been half-expecting a bumbling security guard. maybe a clumsy night watchman you could take down in two seconds without even breaking a sweat. whatever stands behind you is clearly none of the above.
your body stills. your brow quirks. adrenaline floods your veins. you don't flinch. donât curse. you just stop, because whatever just spoke didnât arrive. it was simply⊠there.
you ignore the way your blood goes just a little cold at the realization.
slowly, you straighten, exhaling through your nose. "you're late," you say coolly. "security's usually faster."
you turn, against your better judgment. curiosity killed the cat, after all.
you hadn't expected this.
the suit catches the light first, blue impossibly vivid against the darkness, the red of his cape cutting through the space like a warning. he's built like someone who doesnât need to prove it: broad shoulders, solid through the chest, strength packed into every still line of him, restrained rather than displayed. there's no theatrical stance, no dramatic flourish, just quiet, immovable certainty.
another anomaly, then. another person who isn't entirely human, looking at you like he's just realized you might not be either.
you swear you see something flicker behind his eyes at the same time you clock him, recognition, maybe. interest. like he's just discovered a challenge instead of a criminal.
then something shutters.
his expression smooths into something flat and unreadable. irritatingly calm. not scared. not impressed. his gaze sweeps over you once, thorough, assessing, like he's already decided something and you're only now being informed.
"i told them to stand down," he says.
the audacity of it pulls a sharp laugh from your throat.
his brows knit together.
"you don't look like security."
"i'm not."
"you don't look like law enforcement either."
"correct."
you tilt your head, irritation sparking. "then who exactly do you think you are?"
"someone who's not letting you walk out of here."
you step toward him deliberately, closing the distance just enough to test him. he doesn't move, but his shoulders tense, jaw setting.
good.
"you're awfully confident," you say lightly, "for a man standing between me and a locked door."
"don't see what there is to be scared of," he replies.
something about the certainty in his voice needles you.
"you don't want to find out."
his eyes flick to the tools at your belt. your stance. your breathing. the subtle shift of your weight. he's sizing you up.
that does it.
you move, fast, hard, precise, aiming to slip around him and put space between you.
you don't get far. his hand snaps around your wrist, stopping you dead.
you hiss sharply, not in pain, but shock, twisting instinctively, only to realize youâre not going anywhere. panic flares hot and immediate, and you donât hesitate. your claws extend. they slice cleanly through the fabric of his suit like it's paper, sharp enough to draw sparks where they meet something denser beneath. his grip loosens just enough, and that's all you need.
you wrench free, already moving, already gone, heart hammering as you vault backward and create distance.
he doesn't chase you. that's what unsettles you most.
he just watches, eyes dark, posture rigid, as if recalibrating, as if the encounter didnât go the way he expected. as if you weren't supposed to surprise him.
you bare your teeth in something that isn't quite a smile.
"cat got your tongue?" you remark slyly. "next time," you mutter under your breath, retreating into the shadows, "don't blink."
and for the first time that night, you're not sure which of you is more irritated that this isn't over.
you don't return to the museum, no, that would be sloppy. predictable. you hate predictable.
instead, you give him three nights.
three nights where you let the city breathe, let rumors circulate, let him wonder if he imagined the way your claws cut through his suit like it meant something. you know his type, meticulous, stubborn, savior complex with an ego to match, and deathly allergic to loose ends.
by the fourth night, you make your move.
a private gala in midtown. glass walls, rooftop terrace, too much money concentrated in one place. donors, executives, politicians. the kind of crowd that likes to pretend their hands are clean.
you're already inside when you feel it. not him, the shift.
the air changes. pressure building, subtle but unmistakable. your skin prickles beneath your suit, instincts flaring.
you slip out onto the terrace, heels clicking softly against stone, the city spread wide and glittering below. music hums behind you, laughter floating through open doors.
"you picked a crowded place," his voice says behind you.
you don't turn yet.
"you picked a predictable one," you reply. "following patterns now?" there's a pause. deliberate.
"knew you'd come somewhere like this," he says. "somewhere public. you don't like witnesses, but you love the risk. the game."
you smile despite yourself.
"careful," you say. "you're starting to sound obsessed."
when you turn, he looks just the same. though, when your eyes flick down to his wrist, the spot on his suit where you had sliced is patched flawlessly, like it never happened at all. you wonder how he's done it. you try to ignore the near primal sensation within you to create some kind of mark on him again.
your gaze flicks over the rest of him before you can stop it, taking in the breadth of his shoulders, the way the suit molds to muscle without exaggeration, strength coiled and contained. he looks less theatrical up close. more real. more dangerous.
"disappointed?" he asks.
"surprised," you correct coolly. "was hoping you'd keep pretending."
his jaw tightens. "you cut my suit."
"you grabbed me," you shoot back.
his eyes drop to your hands. "you won't get that close again."
the confidence in his voice irritates you instantly. "bold of you to assume i want to."
"you wouldn't be here if you didn't," he says.
you laugh softly. "you really think this is about you?"
he steps closer; not fast, not aggressive, but measured.
"everything you steal," he says, "comes from people who can afford to lose it. criminals who hide behind philanthropy. you don't hurt civilians." he pauses. "you're not as evil as you paint yourself."
your smile fades. just a fraction. "you've been doing homework."
"i had to," he replies. "you don't fit."
"neither do you," you snap. "a god playing watchdog for men who don't deserve it."
his eyes flash. there it is: that crack in the calm.
"you don't get to decide who deserves justice."
"neither do you," you fire back. "but at least i don't pretend i'm neutral."
the space between you feels tight now, humming. the music behind you swells, muffled and distant, like it belongs to another world entirely.
"step away from the ledge," he says.
you glance down at the drop, then back at him. "or what?"
he moves, not to grab you, but to block your exit.
you bristle immediately. "don't."
"you're not leaving," he says.
"you don't own the sky," you hiss.
his eyes flick up, tracking the grappling line coiled at your hip. "you won't make it."
the challenge in your chest flares hot and immediate. you launch yourself sideways, claws flashing, but this time, he's ready.
he catches your wrist again, faster than before, grip firm but controlled. you snarl, twisting, claws scraping uselessly against reinforced fabric now.
for a moment, you're locked there, breathing the same air, city wind tugging at his cape, your heart pounding hard enough you swear he must hear it.
he doesn't tighten his grip. doesn't let go, either.
"you donât hate me," you say suddenly.
his brows knit. "you donât know that."
"if you did," you murmur, leaning just enough to test him, "you wouldn't hesitate."
his grip tightens. just a fraction. that's all the answer you need.
you knee upward, not to hurt, just to distract, twisting free as your smoke pellet hits the ground between you. the terrace fills with white, guests shouting in confusion as alarms finally start to blare.
when the smoke clears, you're gone.
again.
superman stands alone at the edge of the rooftop, fists clenched, chest tight. this wasn't supposed to feel personal.
and somewhere several blocks away, perched high above the city, you peel your mask back just enough to breathe. your pulse is racing, not from the jump, but from the way he looked at you like he was trying to decide whether to stop you, or understand you.
it happens a week later. no alarms. no crowds. no theatrics.
you're on a rooftop you know he patrols, boots planted at the ledge like you're daring the night to blink first. the city hums below, alive and indifferent.
you don't have to wait long. like routine, the wind shifts.
"you're doing this on purpose," he says behind you.
you don't turn. "doing what?"
"standing where i can find you."
you glance over your shoulder, eyes catching the familiar blue and red. the suit looks darker tonight, shadows clinging to every line of him. closer. heavier.
"maybe," you say. "or maybe you just keep showing up."
he steps closer. "you shouldn't," he says.
"make me," you reply softly.
silence stretches between you, taut enough to snap. you can feel him there, heat, presence, restraint wound too tight. you're close enough now that if you leaned back even an inch, you'd hit his chest.
neither of you moves.
"this isn't hatred," you murmur. "you know that, right?"
his jaw flexes. "you don't know what this is."
"then why are you shaking?" you ask, too quiet to be teasing.
he exhales sharply, like the truth slipped out before he could stop it.
for one reckless second, his hand lifts, hovering near your waist, not touching, not retreating either.
the space between almost closes. almost.
you step away first, heart hammering, a grin tugging at your mouth.
"next time," you say, backing toward the edge, "we stop pretending."
you disappear into the dark before he can answer. he stays there long after you're gone.
currently finishing up a superman x catwoman!reader piece and the way i have to resist myself from making a cat pun every other paragraph is borderline comical
steve is the type of bf to always pay for your nails simply bc he loves the feeling of fresh acrylics running across his scalp
he also loves the way they feel when you trace his balls over his boxers. bby boy will twitch and whine at the feeling til he's literally just about to cum. "can't take it anymore honey, please" so ofc you give him what he deserves and wrap a hand around his cock, both of you admiring the way your nail color compliments the shade of his tip đ
hello hello itâs been one million years but hi itâs me (đȘ) first off just wanna say i have been loving ur blog + the new theme this whole time just quietlyđ€«đ€«
but do you remember ALL that time ago when i told you about that guy who lives across the country who i sent a letter to???
well now, 5 months later, he sent one back.
he said some crazy shit about how much i mean to him and then signed off âsincerely yoursâ i was absolutely shocked
cuz weâve been texting all these months as just friends ykwim but he said smth like âwe have now been longer apart than we have been together, but i feel just as, if not closer, to you.â and other stuff like that and all that time ago when we only knew each other for a week i DID tell him that i like him
i sent out my response today but itâs just like⊠if you were me would you thug it out or try to get some kind of clarification about what we are
congrats on all the milestones diva and hope u enjoy this updateđđ
hi lovely i missed you!!! omfg the way i squealed when i read this
thank you for the compliments on the new theme, it's my personal fav so far hehe
LET ME JUST SAY i have missing your updates & the tea spilling on this guy sm. "sincerely yours"?!??!! that's so beautiful oml it sounds like this man writes like a poet!
honestly, if it was me in the situation, idk what id even do bc he lives so far and i feel like there's a lot that'd just be difficult, but at the same time, i know that i'd wonder what the result would have been if I tried to get some kind of clarification for the rest of my life. personally im just like a wonderer like that yk but if you're asking for my advice on it, i'm always going to tell you the heart wants what it wants and if you know you feel a certain way, shoot your shot girly what could go wrong
thank you again, i enjoyed this very very much and I hope to hear from you again soon babes đ
Hi Jade! I canât stop thinking about the mermaid au it is so amazing!! I saw you were asking for requests and thought maybe you could do something where the pool or backyard needs maintenance and Steve needs to hide reader inside the house in the bathtub or something and sheâs just super fascinated with all the inside items. Canât wait to see what you write next! :)
beyond the sea au | fem, 1.3k
Steve wakes up in the night to the sound of water sloshing over the side of the bath. Youâre still all cut up on your side, weak and prone to moments of dissociation, so Steve gets out of bed and eases open the ensuite door as quietly as he can.Â
Youâre on the bathroom floor.Â
âShit!â he whispers. âAre you okay? Ow?âÂ
You nod. You do not mean yes. âNo ow,â you say, holding up a bottle of shampoo to him. âAh?â
âThatâs shampoo. I put it in my hair.â
âAh?â
He points at his hair. âTo wash it.â You hold up the conditioner next. He points at his hair again. âItâs all the same stuff.â Steve gestures to the tub. âHelp you back in?â
âHold?â you ask, eyes doing something heâs not sure of.Â
âHold into the tub.â
You point at the tub. âAh?â
âTub. Can I put you back in it?â
âNo.â
Steve sighs in defeat. He gets to host the worldâs first dry mermaid, apparently. âOkay, stay there, then,â he says, closing the en-suite door and locking it before sitting down with his back to it in case his mom hears the noise and gets the grand idea to investigate.Â
You move your tail. You seem to have a joint in there like a knee and can bend it, pulling what might be your thighs up and wrapping your arm around your âkneeâ. âYou ow?â you ask.Â
Steve sort of wishes he hadnât given you âowâ in place of âhurtâ. âIâm okay. I,â âhe points to himselfâ âam okay,â he says, weight on âokayâ, then pointing at his smile. âIâm okay. No ow.âÂ
You raise your brows.Â
âAre you okay?â he asks, going through the pointing routine again.Â
âYou okay,â you say, smiling.Â
âIâm okay.âÂ
You wrinkle your nose with a huff, like youâre saying Donât patronise me.Â
This might not be the best place for an English lesson, but Steveâs getting tired of not knowing what youâre saying, and what you need.Â
He points at himself. âAh?âÂ
You perk up.Â
âAh?â he says. âSteve. Iâm Steve. Ah, tub,â âhe points at the tubâ âAh, ow. Ah, Steve.âÂ
Your eyes light up. You point at yourself and say a word thatâs soft and melodic. He assumes itâs your name. He tries to say it back.Â
You cup a handful of water from the tub and tip it down yourself. Steve has helped you out of the rash guard to let your skin breathe a little. Heâs no doctor, but he assumes that itâs uncomfortable if not detrimental to your skin longterm. And like, hey. You seemed so happy to have it taken off that heâs not sure youâll want it on again, but if Dustinâs gonna help, Steve â okay. Steve knows that you arenât pornagraphic, but Dustinâs a teenage boy. Heâs not gonna be able to talk to you if you arenât dressed. And Dustin might be your only hope for continued communication. Robin seemed a little too freaked to start speech therapy.Â
Steve is admittedly in two halves. He can acknowledge that you have something super beautiful going on there, and that you arenât shy about being exposed, while also feeling that he should be a proper gentleman about it and at least not linger on the curves and colours youâre made up of.Â
âYou must be so bored here,â he says.Â
You grab a towel off of the rack and wrap it around your shoulders. Then you press your cheek to it and rub it.Â
âI guess you donât know what any of this stuff is,â he says, more to himself than you. âIt must all feel alien, for you.âÂ
Steve gets up. He unlocks the bathroom door, tiptoes quick to the bedroom and checks that itâs locked. Then he pokes his head back in the bathroom where youâre waiting expectantly and asks you the million dollar question, âCan I hold you?âÂ
He shouldâve said âcarryâ. Steve thought for sure that he did say âcarryâ, at some point, but heâd been thinking about holding you up and his mouth made a mess and now âcarryâ and âhugâ have meshed together into âholdâ, so Steve should expect it when he leans down to pick you up and you wrap your arms around him in a pleased hug.Â
âYou guys must be a pretty affectionate species, huh?âÂ
You chirp.Â
Steve turns your face into his shoulder. âShh,â he whispers, ânot so loud.â
âShhhâŠâ you say back.Â
Steve puts you down in his bed. You laugh, but when you see his scared face you falter. âShh, we have to talk like this,â he says, pointing at the door.Â
You arenât stupid. You remember that thereâs a woman here that Steve was hiding you from, and you shake your head sagely.Â
âAh?â you ask, giving a little jump on his bed.Â
âThatâs my bed. Bed.â
Youâre pleased, slinking back in his pillows with the biggest smile youâve ever shown him. Youâve kept the towel around your shoulders, and if you like that, youâre gonna love his blankets.Â
Steve brushes your hair back, readjusting the pillow behind your head. âComfy?â he asks. âOkay?â
Your tail curls up. Steve takes it for an answer and pulls the sheet out gently from beneath you, then he shakes it out over you and lets it fall. Your eyes sparkle, darker than pitch as the blanket settles over you. Steve smooths it down. Tucks it in a little.Â
âThere you go,â he says quietly. âThis is like, my second favourite part of being a human. Getting all snug in bed. How long do you think you can stay here before you need to go back in the water?â
You shuffle further down, rubbing your cheek ecstatically against his pillow.Â
Steve sits by your side. This close, relaxed, with your face turned away, he can see a slit curving up the side of your neck just under your ears. Two, actually, parallel to one another.Â
He touches near them with his fingertip.
You smart, eyes whipping to him.Â
âWhatâs that?â he asks.Â
You touch your neck. âAh?â
âYeah. Ah? What?â
You put your hands together and mime a quick swim through water. Then you breathe deep and loud.Â
âFor you to breathe underwater. Thatâs awesome. Theyâre your⊠uh. Shit, whatâs the word? Sharks have them.â
You canât know what heâs said, but your answering smile has a dubious amount of teeth in it.Â
Steve points at the bathroom, then touches your tummy. âYou tell me when I need to hold you back to the tub, okay?â
You shake your head. Say a word that might be soft or no or why as you smooth your hands over the blanket.Â
âI know you canât stay out here forever. The half of you thatâs fish wonât like being dry. So.â He lays down beside you. âYou tell me when, and Iâll carry you back to the tub.Â
Steveâs too afraid to fall asleep in case you havenât understood him, so the two of you stay awake in the middle of the night, looking up at his ceiling. You disturb the quiet occasionally with words he doesnât know, then turn to rest your forehead on his shoulder. âHold,â you say.Â
Steve⊠heâs ridiculous, delusional, but he doesnât think you wanna go back to the tub. He wraps his arm around your waist and listens to your breathing calm. You doze for an hour, your snores like the wind over an empty glass bottle, and after a while you rouse looking uncomfortable as you ask, âTub?âÂ
