𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your boyfriend loves you with his whole heart. and sometimes, you’re not sure what to do with something that big.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, established relationship, touch/love-starved reader, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, brief smut, implied past trauma/abuse but nothing explicitly mentioned, heart-aching fluff, character analysis
𝐚/𝐧: flipping my favorite trope onto reader. this one's for all my peeps who have a tough time with physical touch and emotional intimacy
♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡
Your boyfriend loves easily.
Affection stitched directly into the lining of him, inseparable from the rest of his body.
Touch, to Steve, is instinct before intention.
Automatic and unthinking, his hands find you the way roots find water.
Waiting in line at the fall fair, he hooks two fingers through your belt loop and sways you gently side to side while the Ferris wheel spins overhead in smeared red and gold light.
The air smells like fried dough and cinnamon sugar, cold autumn wind carrying bursts of laughter through the crowds. Steve stands behind you with his chin resting on your shoulder, warm chest pressed loosely to your back while he argues passionately about kettle corn versus popcorn.
Once in a while, he'll slide his thumb beneath the cuff of your sleeve mid-sentence, stroking the pulse point at your wrist, completely unaware that your heart is beating itself raw under his fingertips.
It’s impossible to explain it.
How overwhelming it feels to be loved by someone so thoroughly.
Because Steve never hesitates.
Never acts like affection is something shameful.
Love pours out of him, as naturally as body heat.
If your hands are cold, he interrupts himself halfway through a story just to catch your fingers and tuck them into his jacket pockets alongside his own, rubbing warmth back into your knuckles while continuing his sentence without missing a beat.
If you yawn during movie night, his arm is around your shoulders before the sound can finish leaving your mouth. “C’mere, sleepy girl,” he murmurs automatically, pulling you sideways against his chest.
If your shoelaces come untied in the middle of the sidewalk, he drops immediately to one knee with a distracted, “hang on, baby.”
Rainwater hisses along the curb while he reties the bow tighter this time, fingers quick and practiced, one hand steadying lightly against your ankle. His knuckles brush your skin through your sock and you have to stand there, holding your breath until your lungs ache with it, staring down at the concentration pulling his brows together.
Wondering what it must be like to love someone with your whole heart and not feel like it’s going to break you open.
He’s warm everywhere, your Steve. Warm hands, warm mouth. Warm stomach pressed against your back beneath blankets. He smells like laundry detergent and faint cedar cologne rubbed into the collar of his jackets. Sometimes vanilla chapstick, sometimes mint gum. Always Steve.
And the kisses are constant too.
Quick, thoughtless ones, born entirely from fondness.
The corner of your mouth while waiting for the microwave to beep. Your forehead when he passes behind you in the kitchen. Your shoulder while you lean over the sink brushing your teeth side by side. The back of your neck when he reaches around you for orange juice in the fridge, mumbling a sleepy, “morning, honey,” against your skin before kissing beneath your hairline.
Sometimes he just looks at you for a second. Expression softening imperceptibly, like some private thought crossed his mind, and then he leans over and kisses your cheek with this quiet little hum in his throat.
Like loving you tastes good.
And god, the neck kissing.
It’s terrible.
And right now, in the middle of a museum gallery so quiet you can hear shoes squeak against polished floors, he’s doing it again.
You’re trying to read the plaque beneath some enormous renaissance painting—something about divinity and grief, oil on canvas—but Steve is behind you, arms folded around your waist while he scans the museum brochure one-handed.
One of his hands has slipped beneath your cardigan, warm palm spread low across your stomach.
“Okay, so,” he murmurs near your ear, voice low enough that the sound vibrates through you, “there’s the Greek sculpture thing upstairs, or... there’s apparently a room with these like, tiny dollhouses?”
You wrinkle your nose. “That sounds horrifying.”
“Right?” His lips brush the shell of your ear as he speaks. “Like what if one of them’s haunted?”
Then his mouth finds the hinge of your jaw.
One lazy, distracted kiss.
His lips are soft, slightly chapped from the cold outside. Warm breath spills across your skin afterward, making your pulse jump beneath his mouth. He lingers there, nose nudging lightly against your neck while he keeps mumbling off different sections of the museum.
You feel the shape of his smile against your skin when he finds another ridiculous exhibit.
“Apparently there’s a room that’s just chairs.”
“That can’t be true.”
“No, I swear to god.”
Then his mouth drifts lower.
Open-mouthed kisses this time.
Slow enough that warmth blooms beneath every press of his lips. You feel the faint scrape of his teeth catch your skin playfully before he smooths over it with another softer kiss, his thumb stroking across your stomach.
Your entire body tightens around the feeling.
The worst part is knowing that he isn’t trying to fluster you.
Steve isn’t performing intimacy.
He just never second-guesses affection.
Unlike you.
For you, every touch feels catastrophic.
The second Steve touches you, awareness crashes through your body all at once—your pulse, your breathing, the weight of his hand, whether your hair smells okay, whether your stomach feels too soft beneath his palm, whether someone across the gallery can see this.
Whether you deserve to be loved this openly at all.
“....and Robin said there’s some painting of a guy eating his own son which honestly seems kinda—”
He stops, hand stilling against your stomach.
“Babe?”
You blink hard, staring at the plaque without reading a single word.
Steve leans back, concern creasing immediately between his brows.
“Hey,” his hand slides higher, rubbing gently over your ribs. “You okay?”
“Hm? Mhm.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Another lie.
Your skin still burns where he kissed you.
And underneath all the panic is something worse.
Fear and hunger, knotted so tightly you can’t separate them anymore.
Wanting him closer, wanting him to keep touching you forever. Wanting to crawl inside every warm, gentle thing he gives you and stay there.
Not knowing what you’d do if he ever stopped.
Because as terrifying as it is to be loved this softly, you think losing it might actually destroy you.
“You wanna sit down for a sec?” Steve asks quietly. “I think I still have that granola bar in my bag if you’re hungry.”
You almost laugh, because of course that’s where his mind goes.
Care.
Always care.
“No, I’m okay,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “We can keep going. The uh, Greek sculpture thing sounds good.”
He watches you for a beat longer than comfortable, thumb rubbing against your hipbone through your jeans.
“Okay,” he says finally.
His hand slides up your arm, gently fixing the cardigan slipping off your shoulder. His fingers brush your neck in the process, absentmindedly smoothing your hair back into place too.
And then, because he’s Steve—because affection lives inside him so naturally he doesn’t know how to love except with his whole body—
He reaches down and interlaces your fingers with his.
Warmth immediately fills the spaces between your knuckles, his callused fingers curling around yours with steady, secure pressure.
He keeps holding your hand the entire walk toward the staircase, thumb stroking across your skin while he talks about haunted dollhouses and ugly marble babies and whether you think ancient Greek people had chest hair.
And isn’t it terrifying, how quickly your body has learned what safety feels like in someone else’s hands?
...
It isn’t just the touching.
You almost wish it was.
Because that would be easier to understand.
A touch can be explained away:
Steve’s just naturally affectionate. Steve likes physical contact.
But it’s not just that.
It’s the way he loves you without condition. Without making you earn it first.
A few weeks into dating, he showed up at your apartment carrying a bouquet so enormous it nearly blocked his entire face.
When you opened the door, all you could see were flowers.
Soft cream roses crowded against pale pink delphiniums, petals curling delicately at the edges like silk ribbon. Deep burgundy dahlias bloomed low in the arrangement, velvety and dark as spilled wine, white baby’s breath drifting between everything like tiny bursts of snowfall.
And hidden right in the middle were your favorites.
Blue hydrangeas.
Dusty-blue petals clustered together like storm clouds at dusk, edges fading lavender where the light caught them.
You had pointed them out exactly once while passing a florist downtown.
Three seconds, maybe.
You remembered slowing briefly in front of the shop window because they looked beautiful beneath the warm yellow display lights. Rain had just started misting softly against the sidewalk and Steve had been halfway through ranting about some middle schooler trying to rent an R-rated horror movie with a fake ID. You’d smiled at his story before murmuring, almost absentmindedly, “Those are so pretty.”
That was it.
You hadn’t even thought he heard you.
But Steve Harrington has a habit of holding onto the tiniest details about you like they're something precious.
“Baby, I swear to god,” Steve was saying now as he stepped inside your apartment, nudging the door shut with his foot, “I had the craziest day today. This guy at work tried to return a tape completely melted.”
The bouquet landed in your arms before he shrugged off his jacket.
“Melted,” he repeated, horrified, running a hand through his hair. “Like, fully warped. Looked like somebody cooked that thing in a microwave.”
You stared down at the flowers.
The bouquet was heavy enough that you had to support it with both arms. Thick stems pressed cool and damp against your palms beneath layers of cream florist paper, the wrapping folded slightly unevenly around the flowers and tied together with rough twine that looked suspiciously hand-done.
Not florist-perfect, but Steve-perfect.
The flowers smelled dizzyingly alive: sweet rose perfume softened by rainwater and the cool, earthy scent of freshly cut stems.
“…um, Steve?”
“—and Keith asked me if I did that,” he huffed, toeing off his shoes. “I mean, can you believe that shit? What does he think I do at work all day, destroy tapes for fun?”
“Steve.”
“Yeah?”
You blinked at him slowly.
“What’s…” Your throat tightened strangely around the words. “What’s this for?”
He looked down at the bouquet like he’d genuinely forgotten he walked in carrying it.
“Uh…” His brows lifted slightly. “Flowers?”
He laughed softly after saying it, confused.
But you didn’t laugh.
Because your brain was already doing what it always did: rummaging frantically for conditions. For expectations and hidden meanings tucked beneath kindness.
Your heartbeat started creeping unpleasantly high in your throat.
Was it an anniversary?
Oh god.
Had you forgotten something?
Your stomach dropped, dates scrambling uselessly through your head too fast to follow. One month? Six weeks? Was there something couples were supposed to celebrate this early? Had Steve done something thoughtful and now you were standing there empty-handed like the worst girlfriend alive?
The cellophane crackled beneath your tightening grip.
“Did I…” You cleared your throat quietly. “Did I forget something?”
Steve’s forehead wrinkled.
“Huh?”
“The flowers.”
“What about ‘em?”
Your voice came out impossibly small. “Why’d you get these?”
“Uh, ‘cause I…” He huffed a tiny laugh through his nose, head tilting. “’Cause I wanted to?”
His confusion only made your chest tighten more.
“Is it our anniversary or something?”
His frown deepened. “What? No.”
“Then… why?”
Steve stared at you for a second, slightly open-mouthed now, the soft amusement on his face fading into gentle concern.
“Baby, they’re just flowers.”
You stared back helplessly.
“But why?” you asked again, quieter this time.
“Well, I…” He shrugged one shoulder slightly. “I saw them. And I thought about you.”
The apartment suddenly felt very quiet.
You looked back down at the bouquet in your arms.
The hydrangeas were even prettier up close, petals shifting between pale blue and soft lavender depending on how the light hit them. Tiny sprays of baby’s breath caught between larger blooms like stars scattered through clouds.
A single sunflower tucked near the back, drooping sideways because Steve probably had the bouquet strapped into the passenger's seat on the drive over.
Your throat burned.
“That’s it?” you asked quietly.
Steve let out a soft breath through his nose.
His socked feet whispered against the floor as he stepped closer, one hand rising to cup your cheek.
Big enough to hold the entire side of your face, his palm enveloped you in warmth. Your lashes fluttered at the feeling of his thumb sweeping beneath your eye, brushing over the apple of your cheek, soothing something there without even knowing what hurt.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s it. I saw ’em and thought you’d like them.” His mouth tugged into a small smile. “You stared at those flowers for like, ten minutes.”
You huffed weakly. “It was not ten minutes.”
Steve’s smile widened, encouraged by the sound of your laugh.
“There was this whole wrapping station thing too,” he added, gesturing proudly toward the bouquet still overflowing from your arms. The cream paper rustled softly as he touched it, uneven folds bunching around the stems where the twine had already started slipping loose on one side. “The lady kept trying to help me but I told her I could handle it.”
He tipped his head, inspecting his own work. “Pretty good, right?”
You looked down again.
The wrapping really was crooked. One corner folded inward strangely while another flared too wide, baby’s breath poking free through gaps in the paper.
It couldn’t have been more beautiful.
Steve’s grin turned sheepish, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly, I think she stopped helping 'cause I was stressing her out.”
A quiet bubble of laughter escaped you, and the second it did, you noticed the way his face changed. Grin softening, eyes gone warm at the realization that he’d made you smile.
That was the other unbearable thing about him.
How carefully he watches for your joy, waiting for the next chance to do it again.
He really had done all this just because he wanted to.
No special occasions—he just saw something beautiful and immediately thought of you.
You blinked quickly, staring down at the velvety rose petals before he could notice the dangerous sting gathering behind your eyes.
Nobody had ever remembered little things about you before.
Not enough to act on them later.
Certainly not enough to drive across town carrying an absurdly oversized bouquet because of one passing comment you barely remembered making yourself.
But Steve noticed everything.
The tea you always reach for when you’re sick. The songs you hum in the car without realizing. Which side of the bed you like to sleep on. Which sweatshirt you wear when you’re sad. The way you peel pepperoni slices off pizza before eating.
The flowers you paused to admire for three seconds on a rainy sidewalk weeks ago.
Your fingers tightened carefully around the bouquet.
“Thank you,” you managed quietly.
Steve smiled, stepping closer until the bouquet crushed lightly between your bodies, cellophane crinkling in the quiet of the apartment.
“Yeah. Anytime, baby,” he hummed, bending down to press his smile into the curve of your mouth, as natural as breathing.
...
You don’t know why you get like this.
Why your body reacts like it’s bracing for impact when all he’s doing is being gentle. Why his affection makes your chest ache the way it does.
Why your first instinct is always to freeze.
Body going stiff whenever Steve wraps himself around your back in grocery store checkout lines, chin hooked over your shoulder while he complains about magazine prices and rubs his thumb beneath the hem of your shirt.
Sometimes he brushes your hair behind your ear mid-conversation and keeps talking without even realizing he did it. Sometimes he reaches for your hand in his sleep, eyes still closed, finding you beneath the blankets when his body notices your absence before he does.
And you wonder why, in all those sweet, wonderful moments—when he kisses your forehead while waiting for the microwave to beep, when he pulls you against his chest during movies, when he drops to his knees on dirty pavement because he doesn't want you to trip over your laces, when he holds your face in both hands like it’s something precious—you feel this horrible urge to apologize afterward.
Sorry I’m difficult.
Sorry you picked me.
Sorry you don’t realize yet there are easier people to love.
Love had always arrived transactional before him.
Conditional.
Dependent on being easy enough, pretty enough, quiet enough, useful enough.
But Steve loves you without condition.
And being seen that intimately by someone so good—someone as warm and earnest and sincere as Steve Harrington—feels unbearable sometimes.
Maybe that’s why nights like this overwhelm you so badly.
A fancy dinner downtown stretches long past sunset, candlelight flickering gold across Steve’s face while he steals bites from your plate despite insisting twenty minutes ago he was “seriously so stuffed.”
Wine leaves his cheeks faintly pink by the time you leave the restaurant. His tie hangs loose, crooked around his throat, top buttons undone and sleeves rolled to his elbows. Summer heat still clings to the sidewalks even this late at night, thick with blooming jasmine spilling from flower boxes outside storefronts. Somewhere farther downtown, music drifts through open bar doors, muffled bass and laughter carried through the warm air.
Steve's hand never leaves your lower back, fingers flexing gently against you whenever the crowd thickens, pulling you instinctively closer to his chest.
By the time you drift into the park, your heels are dangling from one hand and your body feels pleasantly heavy from the wine.
The grass is cool beneath your bare feet. Damp earth presses between your toes as you wander deeper along the meadow paths, fireflies blinking through the dark around you like floating embers.
Steve is halfway through retelling some ridiculous story his students had told him earlier that day, pausing every other sentence because he keeps getting distracted trying to kiss you.
Grass stains smear across the knees of his expensive slacks when he finally pulls you down beside him into the field.
“Steve,” you protest weakly, glancing at his pants.
“What?” he asks innocently, tightening his hands around your waist.
“Those are gonna stain.”
“Mm.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, grin lazy. “Worth it.”
You lose track of time there.
Talking between kisses, lying shoulder-to-shoulder in the grass while Steve points out constellations he names wrong on purpose just to make you argue with him. His fingers comb slowly through your hair while your head rests against his shoulder, skin sticking together in the humid night air.
And by the time he gets you home, you’re half-floating.
Steve crowds you against the apartment door before the lock has even clicked shut.
Both hands on your waist, lips sealing over yours. The force of it nudges you softly into the door, his body fitting against yours as he grunts low into your mouth like he’s been holding himself back all night.
Sweet burgundy wine still lingers on his tongue when his lips part against yours.
He’s warm everywhere.
Warm hands sliding beneath your dress, warm mouth against your throat. Warm breath ghosting over newly exposed skin every time he pauses to look at you.
And he does pause, constantly.
Heavy-lidded hazel eyes drag across your face, your throat, the curve of your body beneath his hands, lips gone slack from that third glass of Merlot though his smile tells you he’s drunk on more than just the wine.
His palms skim along the back of your thighs while he kisses down your neck, the soft scrape of his stubble pulling a shaky breath in the shape of his name.
He smiles against your skin, feeling your fingers clutch tighter at his shoulders.
“C’mere,” he murmurs softly.
The bedroom lights stay low when he walks you backward toward the bed.
Blue comforter wrinkling beneath you when he eases you onto your back, following you down, kissing over every inch of exposed skin while your heartbeat stutters harder with each press of his mouth.
Broad palms smooth upward beneath your dress while his lips trail lower, the slow descent of it dizzying; his mouth dragging across your collarbone, the center of your chest, down your stomach, your ribs, each kiss separated by warm breaths and playful nips that make your muscles jump.
And when he kneels at the foot of the bed—nudging your legs apart carefully, lovingly, thumbs stroking slow circles into the soft skin inside your thighs as he settles himself in between—he lets out this quiet little sigh.
Like nowhere else on earth could possibly compare to this.
“Pretty girl,” he murmurs against you, pressing the words directly into your skin. “You’re so beautiful.”
His fingers hook beneath the waistband of your underwear while he glances up at you through heavy lashes, tongue darting briefly to wet his lower lip.
You reach for his hair quickly, panic flaring.
“Steve,” you whisper. “Wait.”
His hands still immediately where they rest on your hips. “What’s wrong?”
You swallow hard. “Nothing, I just...”
Your head spins pleasantly and horribly all at once from the wine and the heat and the sweet boy kneeling between your thighs looking at you like you hung the moon.
“I should shower first.”
His brows pull together. “Why?”
“Because,” you laugh weakly. “I’m sweaty.”
Steve smiles at that, like it’s the sweetest thing he’s heard all day.
He leans in even closer, nose brushing over your clothed mound before he presses a slow kiss there.
“Baby,” he murmurs against you, “I don’t care.”
“Steve...”
“I mean it.”
His hands glide upward along your waist, warm and heavy as velvet, fingertips grazing your ribs on the way up.
“I like you like this,” he says softly.
Then he takes in a breath.
A deep, deliberate pull through his nose, the warm drag of air against the damp fabric making your thighs twitch around him.
“You smell good,” he murmurs, kissing you there again. “Like summer.”
Your face burns, but Steve only smiles wider, already halfway gone.
“Just stay,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you. We can take a bath after, promise.”
He turns his head to the side, nose nudging affectionately along your inner thigh before he closes his lips around the sensitive skin there. The suction is soft at first, teasing warmth into you before the pressure deepens just enough to sting pleasantly.
A new love bite starts to bloom, petal-soft and tender, like a flower kissed awake by rain. His mouth traces over it, soothing the flush of it back into softer color with gentle, unhurried pecks.
“So pretty,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss over the bruise-tinted skin. “My perfect girl.”
To be loved this intensely feels like it could swallow you whole.
Like the warmth of it could burn straight through you.
You don’t even realize you’ve started crying until your breath catches sharply in your chest, a raw, jagged gasp tearing from your lungs.
Steve’s head snaps up instantly.
You jerk your face away in horror, both hands flying to cover your eyes before he can see.
God.
Oh god.
Not now.
Why now?
“Baby, are you—”
His voice cuts off the second your breath stutters again, louder this time.
The mattress jolts beneath you as he pushes upright, fast enough that the bed frame gives a small protesting creak.
“Hey, hey—what’s wrong?”
You can feel him at your side immediately, his quick, uneven breaths brushing against your hands where they're pressed tight to your face.
“Baby, what happened?”
His fingers curl around your wrists, firm but impossibly gentle.
Always gentle.
“Did I hurt you? Did I do something?”
“N-no,” you choke out immediately.
“Then what?” His voice starts to break slightly, turning sharp with worry. “What is it? Honey, what’s wrong?”
You shake your head helplessly, unable to form the words, unable to explain.
The lamp clicks on beside you. Warm amber light spills across everything at once: rumpled sheets and discarded clothes, Steve kneeling beside you, shirt open at the collar, belt buckle undone and tie hanging loose around his neck.
The flowers from dinner are on the dresser.
Slightly uneven in their vase, waterline crooked, the hydrangeas beginning to open wider in the warmth of your apartment.
Embarrassment crashes over you like a wave.
Perfect.
A night he’d planned so carefully—reservations at the candlelit Italian place downtown, your favorite wine already waiting at your table, flowers arranged before you’d even walked through the door—
And now you’re crying halfway through sex because your brain can’t handle something as simple as being loved.
You turn your face away again instinctively, shoulders curling inward, but the tears don’t stop. They come harder, messy and humiliating, gasps of air ripping through your chest no matter how hard you try to swallow them down.
You feel Steve’s hand slide up your spine.
Slow, slow passes between your shoulder blades, fingertips pressing gently.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to hide, okay? You don’t have to hide from me.”
“I’m sorry,” you choke out, wiping at your face uselessly. “I-I don’t know w-why I’m—I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry—”
“No, hey, don’t apologize, baby. Don’t say sorry.”
You resist him weakly when he tries to gather you in his arms.
You can’t look at him.
Can’t stand the thought of seeing the concern on his face after ruining this.
“I just—” You let out a shaky breath, voice cracking completely. “Fuck, I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Steve stills at that.
Then slowly, carefully, he takes your wrists fully in both hands.
You let him this time. Arms trembling the entire way down as he lowers your hands into his lap. You still refuse to meet his eyes, staring instead at the heavy rise and fall of his chest. His crisp white shirt is wrinkled, open at the collar, a faint pink bite mark just above his collarbone where you kissed him during the taxi ride home.
His gaze presses into you, heavy and intent, trying to read what you can’t say.
“I need you to look at me,” he says quietly.
“I can’t.”
“Yeah,” he answers immediately. “You can.”
Another tear slips down your cheek. He catches it without hesitation, wiping it away with the pad of his thumb.
“Please,” he whispers, softer now. “Look at me.”
You finally do.
Steve’s hair is a mess, chestnut strands falling across his forehead where your fingers had been tangled moments ago.
His eyes—warm honey and green and amber all blurred together beneath the low light—are pained, tight with worry and unbearably expressive.
“There's nothing wrong with you,” he says, unshakably certain. “Nothing.”
His lips are swollen from kissing you, parted slightly with how hard he’s breathing.
It’s so painfully clear, how panicked he is.
Steve’s face never hides anything
It doesn’t know how to.
When he’s happy, it shows in the soft wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
When he’s worried, it gathers in his brows, in the tight set of his mouth.
And when he loves, it radiates from him so naturally it feels endless. Like sunlight.
You wonder what that must feel like.
To love someone without fear.
To offer tenderness without expectation, without the quiet dread that grows the more there is to lose.
He reaches up slowly, clearing tear-sticky strands away from your temples, thumb brushing beneath your eye. Still trying to read what hurts, the furrow in his brows asking without words.
You want to tell him.
For him, you’d try.
But the truth feels monstrous once it reaches your throat.
How do you explain that being loved by him feels unbearable sometimes?
That every touch lands somewhere deep inside you that still expects pain?
That he gives and gives and gives, asking for nothing in return, and yet some terrified part of you waits for the bill to come due?
How do you explain that it makes you feel broken, not knowing how to take something he gives so easily?
You part your lips, throat dry and aching.
Steve waits, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your wrists.
Patient.
Always so fucking patient with you.
“I just...” Your voice shakes. You stare at his mouth instead of his eyes, because it’s easier than being seen.
“...I just really love you.”
It rushes out so quickly.
And in a horrifyingly beautiful moment of clarity, you realize it’s the first time you’ve ever said it to anyone.
Ever.
Steve goes still. His brows soften, eyes drooping at the corners. His lips part soundlessly for a second.
“Oh,” he breathes.
You feel his hands twitch against yours, squeezing your fingers unconsciously.
“I love you too,” he says, immediate and certain. “I... I love you so much it’s kind of insane.”
He watches you for a moment, thumb rubbing slow over your knuckles.
“Is that... is that why you're crying? 'Cause you love me a lot?”
A small, startled laugh breaks through your tears; it sounds so simple when he says it like that.
It isn’t simple.
But maybe it also is.
So you nod, watching him visibly come back to himself, drawing out a shaky breath, shoulders dropping heavily like he’d been bracing too, just in a different way.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. C’mere.”
This time you don’t hesitate.
You fold into him, feeling his arm wrap securely around your back, the other cradling the back of your head.
And what you always used to brace against—tonight, you sink into willingly.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your hair.
You let your eyes slip shut, burying your face in the crook of his neck, fingers crinkling his shirt as you hold on tight.
“I love you,” you whisper again, the words pressed softly against his skin.
Thank you, you mean.
Thank you for being gentle with me.
Thank you for waiting.
Thank you for loving me like it’s easy.
I get wet at the thought of you (being a responsible guy)
Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
Synopsis: Clark Kent, starring as the lamb. He has more than one pillow, calls his mom (but not too much), isn’t afraid to buy you tampons, and thinks about your needs like it’s second nature. You, starring as the lioness. In your opinion, his thoughtfulness is more effective than any other foreplay. Inspiration from Tears by Sabrina Carpenter
Word Count: 4.0k
Authors Note:stared at this for so long I don’t even know if it’s good anymore but here it is!!! If it’s bad don’t tell me!
Warnings: MDNI 18+ p in v, reader is a freak, Clark Kent fucks, established relationship, sub!Clark if you squint idk maybe even more like switch Clark? they’re horny! that’s all I know, brief prey/predator dynamic, ikea, gratuitous use of italics, please let me know if I missed anything <3 also keep this visual 🖖 in mind for later okay thanks.
It was sick really.
Clark wasn’t even doing anything, and yet here you are, legs twisted together while your heart beats between your thighs.
You watch him now, walking back to your table from the bar, your drink held above the crowd to avoid spilling. His other hand raised too, as if to say I am big but friendly! Don’t be afraid! He’s turning side ways, pivoting with every step to avoid jostling anyone he passes.
You watch his presence ripple, jealous eyes latching onto him as he passes and Clark doesn’t even seem to notice. You don’t mean to, but you relish in it. In the women who bat their eyelashes and reapply their lipstick, praying he’ll notice. You’d been dealing with it ever since you got together, even from your single friends, politely smiling when they make jokes like ‘Does he have a brother?’ Or ‘Do they sell him on Amazon?’ You lie tell them that there’s hope. Other tall, dark, handsome and hung fish in the sea.
Clark finally reaches your table, a relieved smile painted across his face. “Almost got lost there for a minute.” He jokes. His glasses started to slip on the journey, they sit on the edge of his noise, barely hanging on. Just like you. “For the lady.” He puts your drink on the table, but before he slides it over he pulls a straw from his pocket and in one quick movement unwraps it and slips it into the glass for you.
Your thighs squeeze tighter, the heat in your lower stomach growing.
This is so stupid, you think, he’s just a guy!
Expect he’s not, he’s Clark.
You feel like a teenager, ruining your panties at the drop of a hat, practically creaming at the smallest gestures. A door that’s held open, a chair that’s pulled out, one time he switched with you on the sidewalk so you were on the inside. The motion had been smooth, effortless, he just pulled your hand until you were in-front of him, then he dropped it and side stepped so he was closest to the street. He didn’t even acknowledge it afterward, just continued walking, switching his bags to the other hand so he could hold yours.
You nearly pulled him into the first alley you saw.
That doesn’t even count the things you’ve watched him do as Superman, the times you’ve ridden him into oblivion after a reading a story about how he saved a cat from a tree or something equally as ridiculous.
“Thank you.” You hum, bringing the straw to your lips and taking a sip. “What is it?” You ask.
Clark slid into the booth across from you, taking a sip from his own drink- a water. “Just a dirty Shirley, was gonna get a Bay Breeze but I remember you said pineapple juice gives you heartburn.”
You imagine all two-hundred and forty pounds of him at the bar asking for a Dirty Shirley with that sweet farm-boy smile. You wonder if he’d let you drag him the bathroom.
“It’s perfect.” You assure him, taking another sip to avoiding adding something sappy like ‘so are you.’
Clark beams, then starts telling you about how he saw an ad for a furniture store that’s going out of business.
“Lois said the deals are crazy.” He explains, hands waving as he talks. “Thought I might pickup a new bedroom set.”
You tilt your head, “What’s wrong with the one you have?” Most guys hardly have a bed frame and a top sheet, Clark has a matching headboard and armoire.
Clark shrugs, “I only have one end table, you should have one for your side.”
Your side. Your cunt pulses again, needy and inconvenient, you can’t take her anywhere.
“I also want a bigger dresser, so you can have more than just one drawer.” He explains. You actually have two drawers, and at least a quarter of Clark’s closet. Nevermind your spot in his medicine cabinet or the key to his apartment in your purse.
Maybe he’s trying to get you pregnant. Seduce you with domesticity and home furnishings.
“Something wrong?” Clark asks.
Nothing honey, you think, just imagining you installing car seats and holding babies.
“Nothing.” You promise.
You insist he continue telling you about furniture and all of his other home decor plans. You wonder if he’d want to live on a ranch some day, you’d bet it’d have a great big porch with a swing. Or was he more of a suburbs guy? You wonder if he’s thought about it, owning a house, having a mortgage and hosting barbecues. Visions of Clark in front of grill wearing a cheesy apron and nothing else. Your brain spins.
You make a joke about reinforcing his new headboard and Clark’s entire face turns red, then he admits he already ordered a kit to mount it to the wall.
Dear god.
You only last another half hour, resolve cracking after when you try to pay the bill and Clark swats your hand away with a dismissive ‘Don’t be silly.’ You splurge for the extra fast Uber.
Clark’s apartment gives you butterflies. It’s perfectly mundane, filled with bookshelves, a couch and floor to ceiling windows. What really gets you is way he actually has seasonings in his cabinets, multiple pots and pans in the drawers, cleaning products under the sink. In the bedroom he has room darkening blinds, hanging on real curtain rods instead of those cheap tension rods. A shoe rack by the door and above it a hook he added for your purse.
“I did some laundry with the clothes you left here,“ Another pulse, she’s furious now. “-I hope you don’t mind I ironed that white blouse with the flowers.”
You know exactly what you blouse he’s talking about, it’s cotton, has pleats and wrinkles if you so much as look at it wrong. A total pain in the ass to iron.
“You ironed it?” You ask, incredulous.
Clark shrugs, “I iron all my shirts, Ma says life is too short for wrinkles.” He’s at the fridge, grabbing each of you a cold bottle of water before moving towards the bedroom.
You want to eat him alive, tear his button down off with your teeth and ride him until he forgets his name. You feel like a rubber band that’s been pulled too tight, or a rope that’s fraying from tension, you’re about to snap. Your cunt screams, refusing to be ignored any longer.
You trail Clark to the bedroom, like a lioness stalking her prey.
Clark rests on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes, then his socks.
When he catches you waiting in the doorway, he jerks his head, as if to say ‘come here,’ and welcomes you between his legs without a second thought, knees spreading to make room for you to stand between them. Your hands curl around to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the rogue strands of hair. His smile is intoxicating, as sweet as it is devastating.
You crawl into his lap, legs landing in either side of his hips as he shifts backward to make enough room for you. His hands, big, strong, and capable, find your waist.
Your kiss is searing, an entire evening of pent up energy channeled into your lips. Into your hands pulling at his curls, into your thighs clenching against his hips. Your tongue is in his mouth, like you’re trying to capture his essence and swallow it. Clark is playing catchup, a startled noise erupting from the back of his throat.
What he lacks in preparation, he makes up for in enthusiasm, hands sliding down to your ass and squeezing the soft flesh. His lips press hard against yours, teeth clashing as he rises to the challenge, determined to match your intensity.
Your nose hits his glasses, once, then twice, and by the third time you need to break for air anyway. Your hands reach up, grabbing the arms and pulling them off his pretty, pretty face. You fold them and despite the urge to throw them across the room, you place them on his end table. Mr. Terrific would be pissed if you broke another pair anyway.
You’re leaning back in when Clark seems to remember himself, moving his hands off your ass and pulling his lips out of your reach.
Uh oh.
“Honey.“ He clears his throat. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
The fuck?
“Is there a reason you don’t want to have sex with me Clark?” Your cunt asks. The words have more bite than you intend, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re too horny for patience.
Clark goes stiff as steel beneath you, ears turning bright red. “Not what I said!” He defends, eyes screaming Innocent! Innocent man here! “I just wanna make sure you’re up for it.”
“Clark I climbed onto your lap, I’m very much up for it.” You assure him.
“Not complaining about that, trust me.” Clark says, his hands have found their way back to your waist and he gives it an affectionate squeeze. “Just,” he says tentatively, “You have that big presentation in the morning and I want to make sure you get a full eight hours.”
Once again he knocks you breathless. What man would willingly give up sex so his girlfriend (who totally forgot about that presentation by the way) can sleep? Your cunt flares, white hot and screaming his name.
Instead of answering you drop your full weight onto his lap, your thighs landing firmly on top his, your heat pressing tight to his crotch. His hips jerk, reacting to the sudden heat of you.
You grind down, chasing any friction you can get. You’re so wet you can almost smell it, you wouldn’t be surprised if he can feel it already. You should be embarrassed, but what else is a girl to do when her boyfriend spends all of date night promising domestic bliss and being built like a brick shit house.
“Clark.” You nip at his ear, “I’m sure.” The words come out low and lusty, whispered against his lips and punctuated with an achingly slow roll of your hips.
Thankfully, Clark is easily swayed. “Okay.”
You make quick work of his buttons, pressing a kiss each sliver of skin that gets exposed.
He’s burning up under your hands, thick cords of muscle rippling as you pull the fabric off of him. A smattering of chest hair decorating his pecs and abdomen, trailing into his pants like a map.
You reach for his belt next, giving it a hard tug and smirking when his hips jump. It lands with a thud somewhere across the room. You yank off his jeans, working fast and aggressive, until you only have his briefs left. Your index fingers are crooked into the waist band when Clark’s hand stops you, dwarfing your wrist in his grasp.
He gives you that look, the pleading one that makes his eyes look like saucers. You love when he’s like this, at your mercy, happy to let you take and take and take. “You’re still fully dressed,” he says, pressing a wet kiss to your jaw, then another to your pulse point, a third to your collarbone. “Not fair.” He whispers.
Sweet, perfect man.
You stand, and he reaches after you, hands flexing when he catches himself. Your top lands on the floor, and your bottoms quickly following suit.
Clark watches you undress, ands grabbing at the sheets beside him. You can see his cock straining where it’s still trapped under fabric, you’d bet money on there being a wet spot pooling against his tip. The thought makes your mouth water. A little voice in your head coos, mine mine mine mine.
“You wanna take care of me right?” You ask, doing your best impression of silk, making sure each word drips with want.
He nods, frantic, eager to please.
You crawl back onto the bed, walking on your hands and knees towards him. Your Clark, big blue all scared and excited, lets you chase him. His long legs kicking at the sheets for traction as he shuffles back, not stopping until he hits the headboard with a ‘thump.’
You don’t stop until you’re back in his lap, even closer than before. Your tits pressed so tight to his chest you can feel his ribcage shudder with each breath. Gotcha.
Despite your victory, you can’t help but think that he’s exactly where he wants to be.
His lips are parted, pink and swollen from your kisses.
This time when you kiss him it’s almost soft, at least the closest you’ve come to it all night. He moans against your mouth, and you can feel his hands hovering over your body as he brings them higher and higher. You wonder where he’ll land, what part of you he needs to touch the most.
He bypasses exposed skin, all the soft places just begging to be groped and cradles your face instead. His thumbs swipe delicate strokes over your cheekbones, like you’re something precious.
In contrast, your hands are rabid. A wave of want so strong you swear you feel wetness drip down your thigh. You’re too impatient to take his briefs off now, instead you pull him out, his cock thick, heavy and hot in your hand. His tip is red and angry, like he’s the one who’s been worked up all night.
You think it’s only right, that a man who is so good, so thoughtful, was rewarded with a dick pretty enough to make angels cry.
You tuck the waist band under his balls, making sure to give them a soft little tug, (something you know he likes), and then you start sink onto him.
The stretch is immediate, intense and overwhelming. Like your body is rearranging itself to find every spare inch of room, whatever it takes to make him fit.
Normally Clark prepares you, eats you out until you can hardly spell your own name, then he fingers you until you can’t remember the alphabet, but tonight you need the stretch, need a fullness only he can provide. You want to sit at your desk tomorrow and feel him every-time you move. Want every curve, every vein etched into your walls.
Clark makes a noise, something between a gasp and a moan, as if you’ve stolen the air out of his lungs. Then he kisses you, hard and messy like he’s trying to do the same to you. You don’t pull back until he’s bottomed out.
“This is how you can take care of me.” You murmur against his lips.
It’s like you can feel him in your lungs, and suddenly the lines of lion and lamb are blurred. You whimper, hips grinding down even though you have no where to go. A smug smile pollutes Clark’s pretty face, beneath you, ever so slightly the tables start turning.
In an effort to keep your lead, you rise up, stopping just short of his tip, and then drop down again, putting your all your weight behind the it. He hits so different like this, finding that spongey spot inside you with every pass.
His smile disappears into a moan, his head tipping back in pleasure as you give him the tightest squeeze you can muster. You watch the veins on his neck pop, he’s already closer than he wants to admit.
“Gosh, honey.” He whispers, “So tight.” His voice is full of reverence, the kind most men reserve for praying. His gaze is locked on the sight of you wrapped around him, the ring of your arousal that’s forming at the base of cock. He stares at it like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, eyes wide and hands shaking. A sacrificial lamb at the alter of your cunt.
It makes you feel drunk.
Your thighs are burning, trembling on either side of him as you try to raise yourself again. Between the width of his body, and the sheer length of cock you have to travel, you’re already struggling to find a rhythm.
You can feel his heart racing, body tense and all but vibrating as try to steady your self, both of your palms pressed flat to his chest for support. You’re trying to find the will, doing vaginal acrobatics to try and distract him from the fact that you’re falling apart. But Clark, who has made himself an expert in reading your body, doesn’t fall for it. You’re suddenly reminded of his strength, of the superhero hiding under a mop of a curls and dimples. You foolishly mistook his tension for want; you realize now, as his hands curls around your hips and lift you up, that it was restraint.
Instead of pushing you back down, he holds you there, letting your cunt flutter around just the head of his cock. You can’t even think as you try to fuck yourself down onto him. Your hips thrash with the efforts, but gravity is no match for his strength.
“Clark what are you doing, please.” You beg, angry red welts appear under your nails as you claw at his skin, willing him to let you fall.
Your breaths, which had been up to this point been controlled and even, become heaves, borderline sobs. Your hips trashing in his grip as you try to get friction.
He shushes you, gentle and loving. As if it’s obvious he says. “Taking care of you.”
Then without warning, Clark pushes you down, faster than you could ever achieve yourself. Then he lifts you back up, and brings down again, fucking you on his cock until you’re crying out with each pass. Until your hips start to move with his hands, canting in time with each thrust.
“Tell me what you want.” Clark says.
You gasp, when did you lose control of this?
“Touch me.” You beg anyway. You grab one of his hands and drag it off your hip until it finds where your bodies are connected. “Please.”
Clark obliges, his thumb zeroing in your clit and beginning a familiar rhythm of slow, tight circles. The rest of his fingers spread against his cock, resting alongside your folds, teasing your weeping hole where it’s stretched around him. His fingers dance along the edges, like he’s threatening to slip one in. You’re already so full of him, but your pulse stutters at the thought.
Your hips jerk again, chasing his thumb as he bottoms out again, this time Clark lets you stay there, grinding against his hand while you fuck yourself down onto the base of his cock.
“That’s it, use me honey. Take what you need.” He says, his hand is sandwiched between you at an awkward angle in this position, but Clark is unphased, his thumb pressing even harder against your clit.
You cry out, your head falling into the crook of his neck as you chase your orgasm. You can feel it creeping up your spine, pushing your nerves to the edge, every hair standing at attention.
“Tell me-“ You hiccup, your own moan interrupting you. “Tell me about the bedroom set again.”
Clark freezes, surprised, but only momentarily. Then he resumes his efforts with fervor, shifting his hips so he can thrust up into you while his thumb doubles its speed.
“The end tables have outlets.” He tells you, “So you can plug your laptop in, work from bed when you’re too sore to walk.”
You bite down on his throat, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. You’re so close, so fucking close.
“Need a better bed,” He pants, “So I can fuck you through it.”
You clench, another ragged moan of his name falling from your lips. You can see your orgasm, the wave creating as it prepares to knock you over.
“Finance or buy?” You ask, voice shaking.
“Finance.” He punctuates it with a thrust. “Good-“ Another thrust “-for credit score.”
The earth shatters, your vision turning white and your blood to lava. Your orgasm crashes into you with the power of a tsunami, the power of it sweeping Clark away with you. Despite his own orgasm, his thumb never stops, he keeps circling your clit, dragging your orgasm out as long as possible, not pulling away until you finally stop twitching.
When you try to breathe again, you’re covered in sweat, both of your thighs are drenched in your ecstasy. So are the sheets.
“Jesus.” You pant, still not finding the strength to move, letting his cock soften inside you.
“Nope.” Clark says, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Just me.”
“Ha. Ha.” Your body sags against his, limp and exhausted.
You stay like that until your bladder finally gets the better of you. You pull off of Clark with a hiss and a wet sound that can only be described as vulgar.
It takes a minute to remember how to stand, legs uncertain as you take your first steps.
When you come back from the bathroom, clean and ready to sleep. Clark has changed the sheets, and is setting two Tylenol down next to the water bottle (he already broke the seal on it for you) that he grabbed earlier. “So your thighs don’t ache as bad in the morning.” He explains.
Folded in a neat square, one of his t-shirts is sitting on your side of the bed. He’s already slipped on sweats, and to your delight, he hasn’t bothered with a shirt. The clothes you’d abandoned on the floor earlier are gone, probably in his hamper (You love that he has a hamper).
Sweet, perfect man.
“Thank you.” You slip on the shirt and slide underneath the covers.
Clark climbs in beside you, holding his arm out so you can take your place curled against his side. He doesn’t speak until you’ve settled.
“So.” He starts, your head is on his chest, listening to his heart beat. “Since when are you so horny for furniture?”
You hum, too tired to be embarrassed. “IKEA catalogues are my Playboy.” You joke, a beat of silence passes. “I like how responsible you are. It’s really hot.” You admit.
You feel Clark nod, he doesn’t say anything but you hear his heartbeat pick up. Mid-yawn, you throw your leg over his waist, a silent ‘down boy.’
Then you remember what he said, right before you came.
“Since when are you worried about your credit-score?” You ask.
Clark doesn’t speak for a minute, like he’s weighing his options. His hand traces a lazy path up and down your spine.
“Wanna buy us a house someday. Good credit means a better mortgage.” He explains, point-blank and nonchalant. “Paying off stuff like furniture can build a positive payment history and they have a deal with no interest rate for the first two years.” Like the journalist he is, Clark Kent has done his research.
You freeze, head tilting up so you can see his face. Clark isn’t even looking at you, just smiling at the ceiling like he’s picturing it. You and him, a white picket fence and a freshly mowed lawn.
Your cunt roars back to life.
“Oh my god.” You groan.
Clark looks down at you, brows furrowed. “What?”
You don’t answer. Instead you sit up and despite the protest in your muscles, straddle him once more.
Authors note: that’s all folks!!!! In all seriousness I hope you liked this, if you made it this far thank you so much. If you enjoyed this fic please holler at me. I had a lot of fun writing this and ignoring the 194729 other wips I should be finishing! Go stream mans best friend by sabrina carpenter! Okay love you, say it back!
Summary: Armed with dimples and a hero complex, Clark Kent has taken it upon himself to drive you insane. He’s always there, on the radio, in the breakroom, and in your mind. Despite your very sound reasoning for not dating him, he refuses to take no for an answer. Will a close call change everything or will your fears get the better of both of you?
PSA (Pink Service Announcement): this is the first installment in my blush pink anthology, an interactive series where you chose your date! this fic is a direct result of this poll, where EMT! Clark beat SingleDad! Clark by just .7%!
Warnings: I got my degree at greys anatomy university so excuse any medical inaccuracies, mild violence, description of a car crash, blood, talk of death, figs scrubs mentioned (not sponsored), reader is described as being shorter than Clark, some angst but there is comfort, heavy(ish) makeout
dt: the 436 people who voted! also my friends who listened to me rant about this endlessly, @houseofhyde for actually making me excited to write this, @tw1sters for hyping me up no matter what, @54nboo for being sat, @wildflowersandvibranium for loving Clark as much as me, @opheliabbarnes for promising me it doesn’t suck and always making me giggle 🩷I’d lost without every single one of you.
Word Count: 5.4k
You're pretty sure you hate him.
"Metropolis General, this is Unit Twelve-Krypto. How do you copy?” Clark's voice crackles through the radio, enough to make your frustration already start to simmer.
Looking around, everyone else has their hands full, leaving you to pick up the receiver.
"Twelve-Krypto, General is receiving. We copy you loud and clear, go ahead." You answer.
Static pops as you wait for his answer, knuckles white around the speaker as you prepare yourself for-
"Is that my girl?" Clark asks.
You can hear his smile through the line, stupid and cocky. It makes your teeth clench.
"Twelve-Krypto, we copy you loud and clear. Go Ahead." You repeat, a little sharper this time.
One of the other nurses floats by the station, pausing for a just a moment as she passes you. Her eyebrows raise in a silent question, Big Trauma?
You shake your head, ignoring her relief as you mouth Clark, sighing as if it's worse.
For you, it is.
"Oh okay, right, Miss. Professional." He cracks. You can hear his laughter jumping through the frequency, broken by pops of static and the occasional catch of the rig's siren. His voice cuts in again, obviously teasing as he pushes it deeper. “Copy, we are inbound with one pediatric patient. Female, age seven, approximately fifty five pounds. Chief complaint is mild abdominal pain and nausea."
You mark the information down, "Copy, is the patient alert?" You ask.
"Patient is alert, calm, talking comfortably. No vomiting or fever. Pain started about an hour ago after eating some snacks — parents list popcorn, cotton candy, and a ‘mega swirl churro.’ No known allergies or medical history of note."
"Copy, vitals are stable?"
"Vitals are stable, BP one-oh-two over sixty four. Heart rate is ninety eight. Abdomen is soft with mild tenderness." Clark reports, in between he mutters something about funnel cake and not having enough time. You only catch every other word, "She's resting comfortably and drinking water. Parents are accompanying. No interventions required en route."
"Copy, no intervention required, no red flags noted, parents with you- understood." You're already motioning to someone else, checking that the pediatric room is clear. "What's your ETA?"
"ETA is six minutes, anything you need on our end?"
"Negative, Twelve-Krypto. No special requests. Go to Bay three and I'll be waiting to receive."
"Copy,” His voice returns to its normal cadence, smile evident as he adds “Can’t wait to see you." It's playful, biting in the way a nibble is. Not breaking the skin, just teasing it.
"Metro Receiving out." Is all he gets as a reply.
They arrive in four minutes, Clark waltzing though the trauma bay with a mop of curls in his arms and two tired parents behind him.
He goes straight to pediatric room without even stopping to check, dimpled smiles given out like candy to every person he passes.
You watch them melt under his gaze, a mess of weak knees and distracted patients left in his wake.
Why doesn't anyone else see it? You wonder, see him the way you do?
The constant flirting, the heroics and risky saves that have left him needing stitches more times than you can count. The way he moves through your ER like he knows it better than any one else. How he steals coffee from your break room and doesn't bother to start a fresh pot because the just happened to 'get a call!' as soon as he finished pouring himself a cup.
The last one only happened once, but the point still stands.
That's why you don't fall for it when he greets you with a warm "There she is!"
"Clark." You give him a tight nod, "You can go we've got it from here."
The patient- Gracie, is snuggled under the thin blanket on the bed. Her entire upper body is still clinging to Clark. Both arms wrapped around his bicep and her face mushed against his shoulder.
"No!" She panics, pulling him even tighter to herself, hard enough to make Clark sway on his feet just a little. "He can't go!" She insists.
Jesus fucking Christ.
You pull a chair over, throwing Gracie's parents an assuring smile and sitting on the side of the bed opposite to Clark.
"Hi Gracie, I'm sorry I should have introduced myself." You start, setting your chart down on the far end of the bed where her feet catch reach. "I'm gonna be your nurse today, okay?"
She nods, curls bouncing.
You smile again, as warm as you can muster. "My friend, Clark-“ you almost choke on it "-told me you have a pretty bad tummy ache."
Her parents take over from there, launching into the full extent of her Carnival food binge. It sounds like too much sugar and mild dehydration, but for the sake of their worries and peace of mind, you suggest a blood test and some iv fluids. Also an antacid.
By the time the orders are written, and you're clear to get started Gracie has finally released Clark's arm, settling for holding onto his thumb instead.
You choose to ignore just how big his hand looks compared to hers.
Much to your dismay, Clark is a great help. He keeps her distracted with photos of his dog and stories of carnivals back in Kansas. How he got lost in the corn maze one year and almost became a scarecrow. Her little mind is occupied through every needle.
By the time you get the antacid and fluids rolling, she's fast asleep.
As you make you exit, ready to face a the ten other patients who are probably looking for you, Clark follows.
In the privacy of the hallway, he gives you a mega-watt smile.
"We make a good team." He says, smile smug and dimpled. "We should go out, get dinner to celebrate."
"Celebrate?" You deadpan.
"Yeah!" Clark shrugs, "For saving little Gracie."
"I would hardly consider giving her a tums life saving." You deflect.
It's quiet out here, the closest thing you can find to it. The pediatric section is careful about that, a little secluded area away from the rest of the Metro ER insanity. No beeping monitors, no screaming patients, just pastel wallpaper and lollipops in every cabinet.
"Then let's call it a date." Clark suggests.
You lied earlier, when talking about all the reasons you hate Clark Kent. This is the reason.
He won't take no for an answer.
You huff a sigh, beginning to walk with him hot at your heels, not answering until you make it to the breakroom. "I told you Clark I'm not going out with you again."
You hear him try to protest behind you, a halfhearted, almost genuinely disappointed "Still?" falling from his lips.
"Are you still doing that whole hero thing?" You bite, ignoring his gaze as you pour yourself a lukewarm coffee.
Clark sputters behind you, "The whole what?"
You check the fridge for cream, only to find none. "I told you-" You take a sip, black and bitter and perfectly fitting for how you feel about this conversation. "I can't do this if you're constantly throwing yourself into dangerous situations."
The hero thing.
Clark sighs, "You know I can't promise that."
You do know, you know better than anyone. Except it's not that he can't promise it, it's that he won't even try.
"I'm not asking you to give up your job Clark." You tell him through gritted teeth. "I just want you to promise you won't run into a falling building when everyone is telling you not to."
"It was one time-" He tries to defend.
"I don't care!" You bite, "Do you know what it was like to see you come in here on a gurney?"
He falters, hands dropping to his sides and his eyes dropping to the floor.
"I know you can't promise you'll be safe, I'm not naive." You swallow around the lump in your throat, washing it down with another sip. "But you won't even try, Clark."
Clark stands there stunned, and dejected, like you just sucked the wind out of sails. "I was fine." He insists, like the stubborn, stupid, self-assured man he is. "They said I set the record for fastest PT-"
"You almost died!" You interrupt. "I can't be with someone who doesn't understand how serious that is."
Silence, he knows you're right, you know you're right, hell, the janitor eavesdropping outside the door knows you're right.
You down the last of your coffee, the taste almost as bitter as the ache in your chest. "I have to get back to work." You leave him there, alone on the hill he's chosen to die on.
You're pretty sure you hate your job.
Or at least hate today.
A pile up the length of five city blocks. Thirty cars, two buses, and a trolley all tangled together. One bad swerve and now half of Metropolis is stuck in gridlock.
You're the first to raise your hand for triage. You can hear the sirens from the ambulance bay, the chaos unfolding just a few streets over. You're close though to walk.
The ER splits in half, part of your team staying back to wait in the ambulance bay for when things finally loosen up, while the rest of you make tracks.
You're armed with a supply pack on your shoulder and a walkie-talkie clipped to your vest. The smell of burnt rubber stings your nose as you walk head first into hell.
"Triage this is Kent from Krypto-Twelve, where do you need me?" His voice knocks the wind out of you.
Since when were EMTs allowed on this channel?
You haven't spoken in almost two weeks.
One of you changed your shifts (Clark), the other one tried to apologize and chickened out (you).
They must have called in off-duty units, desperate for any hands with medical training.
You keep busy, ignoring the way his voice cuts through the static as you work.
You're barely sticking out from beneath a flipped SUV, your bag abandoned on the asphalt while you climb underneath get a better angle on a head lac.
Suddenly, it all shifts. The weight changes, someone's wheel turns or a steel beam finally gives way, who knows. One second your gasping, throwing your hands up in panic and the next you're moving.
Two large hands grab your ankles, using them to pull you out from the wreckage just as it shifts again, landing with a metal groan where you just were.
"What the hell are you doing?" Clark bites.
You're not sure what he is, buts it's something you've never seen before. Wild eyes tracing over every line of your face, holding your arms out and flipping them over as he checks you for injuries.
When he meets your eyes, something else has melted in his gaze, fear eclipsed by worry.
His hand swallows one side of your face as he cups in his palm, thumb brushing over your cheek bone as he looks you over once more. "Are you okay?" He asks it, but it doesn't sound like a question, more like a plea. As if he's begging the answer to be yes.
The car shifts again behind you, another snap of metal knocking you back to reality.
You swat his hand away with a dismissive "I'm fine."
"Why are you here?" He lets his hand fall, but it twitches at his side.
You bend down to reach in your bag, eager to lose his stare. "Triage certified." is all you say. Fresh gauze in hands you try to move back to the car.
You were able to reach the driver through the moon roof before, a thready pulse and steady blood flow enough for you confidently mark them as yellow. Unconscious but breathing.
You'll have to go in through the passenger window now, it's tight, but should be doable as long as you can get the right angle-
You hardly make it two steps before Clark's arms wrap around your waist. He lifts you with ease, ignoring your protests as spins you around, placing himself between the car and you.
"Are you insane?" He asks, voice breathy and rougher than you've ever heard it. He sounds nervous, you realize, shaken. Something Clark Kent is notorious for not being. "You're not going back in that car, it's too unstable."
You try to walk past him, pushing against his chest only to met with solid muscle. He doesn't even sway. "The driver is still inside," you explain. You hold up the supplies in your hands as if to prove your point.
Clark nods, but instead of moving aside, he takes the gauze from your hands and before you can protest, climbs in the window himself.
It's almost incredible, watching such large man squeeze into such a tight space, his shoulders folding in on themselves as he slides into the window.
"What are you doing?" You ask.
Clark doesn't even give you a smile, none of his usual tease as he replies, "Triage certified."
He disappears into the car, his legs still visible from the outside as he maneuvers himself.
You wait to hear the sound of tape or gauze pulling over skin, instead it's just Clark's voice again.
"Pass me a back tag." He says, and his voice is even heavier than before.
You falter, your hand that had already been reaching for morphine stills.
"What?" You ask. "They had a pulse three minutes ago! Clark it should be yellow-"
It's his turn to interrupt, a hard bang from the inside of the car as he answers. "Blown pupils and no pulse." He says. You hear him sigh from inside, his voice softening as he adds, "Not your fault, just shit luck." His hand reaches back through the window for the tag.
You pass it to him without saying anything else, forcing yourself to take a few deeps breaths as he shuffles back out of the window.
Before you can protest he's hoisting your supply pack onto his shoulder, and walking toward the next victim in your path.
Begrudgingly, you follow.
It's quiet work, short instructions and the occasional question. Clark is uncharacteristically focused, each task getting his full attention.
He hands you supplies before the first syllable even hits your tongue, hauls debris out of your path as if it weighs nothing and insists on checking the stability of every car before letting you near them. If they so much as list in a direction he doesn't like then he's climbing through the rubble instead.
If he can, he holds it steady himself, a strong arm braced as he twists himself into human scaffolding so you can work. Those are the most unnerving moments, your spine tingling with his gaze and the way he watches you work.
You wonder if it's the same way you're watching him, worry, respect, all tinged with a sense of awe.
Like cold water, the realization hits you. You’ve never actually seen him in the field.
Blue eyes gone cold with determination and a promise to help. He only softens when the patient needs it. A single mother still clinging to her steering wheel warms his voice. A man asking for a phone to call his wife has Clark ready to empty his pockets.
A little boy whose parents were on the trolley has him misty and forcing a smile.
Your chest aches with it, his overwhelming goodness.
You can see him throwing himself in danger for the sake of any one of them, suddenly it’s a lot harder to blame him for it.
You're there for hours, patching wounds and placing tags until you run out of gauze, and eventually out of everything else. Clark stays at your side the whole time, ignoring calls of his name over the radio with a simple "Busy." Murmured into the receiver.
By the time you make it back to the meetup spot, you're both dragging. Covered in dirt and grime as your feet drum heavy footsteps.
It's started to clear, a handful of ambulances on scene and a tow-truck beginning to clear the rubble. Traffic will probably be back within two hours, and the city will move on. It always does, long after the carnage still burns the back of your eyes.
Clark passes you your empty bag with a word, just a tight smile on his lips and a nod.
Then he turns and starts to walk away, back toward his rig.
"Clark!" You call after him, voice shaping around his name on its own accord.
Clark stops, long legs having already carried him almost ten feet away. He looks over his shoulder to you, distant and sad, as if it hurts him not to run back to you. His eyebrows raise, silent surprise as if he expected you just let him go.
Does he really think you’re that cold? The question sits on your tongue, right at the edge like a dare.
"Thank you." Is what you muster instead. best you can muster. It's genuine, you wouldn't have been able to help half of the people you did today if it weren't for Clark.
Clark just nods, and for the first time all day he gives you a smile. Not the fake, flirty one he usually flashes you. No, this one is softer, a gentle curve with no teeth. It's almost sheepish in its subtlety, just enough for his dimple to carve out its place on his cheek.
You spend the entire ride back to hospital trying to quiet your racing mind, and worse, your racing heart.
You're pretty sure you hate the new girl.
Okay that's not fair. She hasn't technically done anything wrong, she just had the misfortune of being the one to take the call.
A sleepy shift, hardly any traumas, hardly any patients, just a nap in the on call room and the snow falling outside.
You should've known better than to think it would stay that way.
The radio went off with a shrill cry, snapping every head in its direction.
New girl was closest, tripping over herself to pick up the receiver.
"Twelve-Krypto, General is receiving. We copy" Her voice is shaky with nerves, hands reaching for a pad to write down the patient information.
Her face goes pale, her hand pausing over the notepad before resuming its scribbles in ten fold. She smushes the receiver between her ear and and shoulder, brows furrowing as she tries to keep up.
"Must be a bad one." You whisper, you start to move on autopilot, walking towards the supply pantry. You're already halfway through your mental checklist, forming a plan of attack when she says-
"You said you have a medic down?" She asks, looking around for reassurance. "How much blood has he lost?"
The hair on the back of your neck stands up. Despite the fact that he's still on nights and the shift change doesn't happen for a another few hours, you thoughts immediately shift to one person.
Clark.
A pit settles in your stomach, sure and heavy, like a stone sinking into a lake.
One of the other nurses has taken over the receiver, motioning to get a trauma room ready and whispering something about paging upstairs.
They try to placate whoever is on the line, voice even and calm, but their eyes betray them. A quick glance at to you with the briefest flash of panic, just as they say the words that confirm your worst fears.
"Jimmy, slow down." It's said to into the radio but it might as well have been whispered in your ear with the way it sends a shiver up your spine.
Jimmy is Clark's partner.
They never work a shift without the eachother.
Jimmy hates talking on the radio, that's why Clark always does it.
Suddenly you're underwater, ice rushing through your veins as you realize it's happening again.
Except there's no anger like you thought there would be.
There's no instinct to fight, or urge to slap him silly. All that you can think about is how sorry you are.
Sorry for ever fighting, for being so stubborn. Your legs swell with your regrets and keep you planted in the middle of the floor, everyone moving around you as if the world hasn't tilted on its axis.
A doctor taps you on the shoulder, a gentle voice suggesting that "Maybe you should sit this one out."
That does it, he's dying.
He's dying, he's going to come through those doors with the grim reaper at his heels and you won't ever be able to tell him you were wrong.
It burns the back of your throat, emotion rising like bile as you nod in agreement.
Everyone else is in aprons, ready to whisk him away to a trauma bay. Gloves are on, blood bags are hanging, an operating room is being cleared upstairs.
Then there's you, sitting at the nurses station like a statue in Figs. You watch the door like a gargoyle, unblinking as the siren gets closer and closer.
You hear the chaos from inside, tires screeching and metal slamming as everyone jumps into action. When the doors open it's like floodgates, a sudden burst of noise as a gurney is wheeled across the linoleum floors.
Jimmy's on top of it doing chest compressions, counting under his breath as he fights to keep time. You can't see Clark's face through the crowd, craning your neck and lifting onto your tippy toes to try and get a glance. All you can see are tatters of his uniform and bloodied skin.
You hear yourself asking questions, How long have you been doing compressions? Did anyone push epi? What the fuck happened? But your voice ignored, lost among barked instructions.
Then, as quickly as the noise came, it disappears. You're not sure when you stood again, but you're left in the middle of the all, arms useless at your sides as you stare at the doors they took him through.
You have half a mind to follow, the instinct to push your way in and hold his hand, even if he is already gone. You need him to know you were there. You need him to know you weren't angry.
Tears well faster than you can stop them, threatening to spill over your lash line as you try your best to think-
"How is he?"
A voice interrupts from behind you.
You turn, wiping frantically at your cheeks are you try to take a deep breath, "I don't know, but I can come find you as soon as…" The words are lost, disappearing from your lips.
It's Clark, all six feet, four inches of him. His uniform is a wrinkled and stained mess, but the exception of a cut on his forehead, he's untouched.
"Clark?" You choke, throat tight as you rub at your eyes again. "I thought-" you cut yourself off, head snapping to the trauma room doors and then back to Clark.
You're not sure if it's because of your tears or obvious confusion, but Clark closes the distance. He walks until you're almost toe-to-toe, hardly even noting how close he is. His hands are on your cheeks and despite the grime and dirt you don't flinch away when he wipes your tears, melting into his touch.
"Are you okay?" Clark worries, "Are you hurt what happened?"
You're too busy staring at him, it's as if you're seeing him for the first time. There’s no bright and shiny gloss or distraction of things you’ve projected onto him. Just the man.
"I thought it was you." You manage to whisper. You hands reach up to rest over his, making sure he's really there.
Clark goes still, pretty blue eyes popping wide. You admission hangs in the air, dragging it down and filling it with unexpected emotion.
"You cried for me?" He asks, the question is genuine, no teasing or forced professionalism, just the raw vulnerability of the moment.
Another tear escapes rolling down your cheek, and giving him his answer.
"I'm sorry." He says, earnest and real. He has nothing to apologize for, but it soothes your souls anyway and heals something deep inside of your fragile heart.
"You're okay." It's hardly more than a whisper, "That's all that matters."
The distance between you gets smaller, your chest brushes his with every breath. You can feel his exhales, his gaze dancing between your eye and your lips as he begins to dip his neck towards you.
You look closer, eyeing the dirt on his cheeks and the way blood has trickled from his forehead down to eyebrow. You plant your hands on his chest, stopping him from leaning in the rest of the way.
The room erupts, a flurry of noise as the EMT they brought in is wheeled to the elevator.
You and Clark jump apart, caught like children.
"C'mon." You tell him, grabbing his hand and guiding him away from growing chaos as everyone goes back to their original tasks. "Let me get you cleaned up."
Shockingly, Clark goes without protest, his fingers curling around yours as he follows you into an empty on-call room. He doesn't argue when you turn the lock, or unclip your pager. Not a peep when push at jacket of his uniform, peeling it down his arms to check for any other scrapes.
He doesn't speak until you open the wipes you'd snagged off a supply cart on the way in. The soft tear of plastic breaking the silence.
"What are you doing?" He asks.
You look everywhere but his eyes, hand shaking as you pull out a wipe and lift it to his face. You focus on his cheeks, gently tracing his jaw and the swiping the cloth across it, over and over again until the only dark spots left are his freckles. Then you move to the other side, cleaning up to where his eyes crinkle.
"I'm cleaning you up." You tell him, purposely obtuse, "You're covered in dirt or soot or whatever this is."
"Yes I know, but why?"
You start on his nose with a fresh wipe, the other tossed somewhere on the floor. You ride the curve of it, fingers sweeping down until you brush against the crest of his upper lip. You feel him hold his breath, still as a statue while he waits for your answer.
"So your face is clean when I kiss you." You admit. You feel naked in the confession, wearing your busy hands like a shield.
Clark captures your wrist, pulling the wipe from between your fingers and tossing it onto the floor the first one.
He takes the package of wipes from you and finishes his face, clearing the blood from his forehead and even wiping down his neck. He makes faster work of it then you, harsh drags of microfiber until his skin is pink and irritated.
"But you said…" he struggles to find the words, mouth opening and closing as he works the wipe over his collar bone.
He finishes with his hands, carefully going over every finger and across the divots of his palm while he stares at you.
You nod "I know what I said." You assure him.
Finally ready, you start to close the distance.
"I care about you." You tell him, voice steady as you take the wipe from his hands and toss it to the floor. "I'm going to worry about you whether we are together or not.” You give him a soft smile as you continue, “I was wrong, pushing you away didn't make it hurt any less."
"I get it though." Clark's lips twitch, like he's torn between a smile and a grimace. "The day at the crash, when I saw you under that car. It was like my whole life flashed before my eyes." His hand lifts to your cheek, cradling your entire face in his palm. "I never want to make you feel like that again."
You keep smiling, soft and happy as you take another step. You're closer than you were in the hallway now, your feet between his as you tilt your head up to look at him.
"You will," You promise, "And I'll do the same to you." You turn your face to kiss his palm, gentle and sure. "That's what love is."
Clark doesn't answer, not with words at least. Instead, faster than you can blink, he leans down and kisses you.
It's bruising in its force, his other hand cupping your neck as he tries to bring you even closer, pulling until your chest is flush with his, keeping contact even as he curls himself over you.
The kiss is everything you haven’t said since that first date, since the day you told him ‘no’ the first time. In the months that have passed since with banter and teases. It s a kiss that tries to make up for lost time.
You can feel his smile against your lips, your own threatening to break through, until eventually it does. You smile into eachothers mouths until the kiss devolves, becoming a messy clash of teeth and giggles as you enjoy the euphoria of just touching one another.
Slowly he walks you back, short steps until your knees hit the edge of the cot.
You pull away from him with a gasp, your smile still so wide it makes your cheeks ache.
"I'm really glad you're not dead." You whisper, bringing your hand up to his collar, fidgeting with the button at the top until you finally undo it.
Clark beams, eyes shining as he presses another kiss to your lips. "Me too." He murmurs against them.
Then your feet are off the ground, but only for a moment as he lifts you to sit on the bed, pushing your shoulder so you lie back. It's barely a twin, hardly big enough for one person, but as Clark slides his body over yours, you don't mind the tight quarters.
Your hands go back to his buttons, this time with purpose.
"I still think I should make it up to you." He says, teasing and cocky. The same tone that used to make your blood boil on the radio.
You hum in agreement, jutting your chin just enough to chase his mouth. When you capture it, you pull his bottom lip between your teeth, punishing it with a gentle bite. "Can't argue with that."
Clark groans deep in the back of his throat, somewhere between tortured and happy as your tongue soothes over the indentations of your teeth in his skin
"No arguing." He agrees, bending his neck to press a wet kiss to your neck. "From now on, I do whatever you say."
Your hands finally finish his shirt, palms sliding underneath the opened fabric and tracing his skin through the ribbing of his tank top. "Mm-mm." You agree, arching your back into his chest as you smile. "I like the sound of that."
Clark works down to your collarbone, his tongue dragging a wet line over it's valley until he finds the neck of your scrubs.
Clark's touches start to wander too, one arm keeping him hovering above you while the other reaches down to the hem of your scrub top.
"No more burning buildings?" You ask, it's meant to be a tease, but it's broken by a gasp as his hand slides underneath the fabric. Rough fingers drag up your stomach, finding the curve of your ribs and splaying over them.
"Nope." Clark assures you, placing another kiss to your lips as he lays his hips even firmer against you.
"What about de-railed trains?" You suggest. Your voice is breathless, your back arching into his touch.
You feel Clark shake his head against you.
"I'm retiring from the hero thing." He promises, and despite the way he peppers your cheeks with kisses, you can tell he's serious. "Not worth the risk." He says.
"Yeah?" You ask, small and hopeful. Your heard pounds under his palm, pulse thrumming as his shifts to look you in the eye.
"Yeah." He says, "As long as you promise to be waiting for me, I promise to do everything I can to I come home to you."
It's not perfect, and you know Clark, you know that there will be a cat in a tree or an old lady who needs him, but he’ll try, and that’s all you ever needed.
Summary: Getting stuck with Steve in the van on crawl nights fucking sucks. Getting stranded in a snowstorm, forced to cuddle up next to the one person you cannot stand, all to share warmth and hopefully survive the night? You’re almost certain you’d rather freeze to death. Almost.
WC: 18k+
Includes: bitchy idiots to lovers. one bed & forced proximity tropes. hurt/comfort. angst w/ some fluff to balance it out. language. steve’s trauma. reader’s trust issues. smut- heavy petting, humping, oral (f receiving), PiV sex, dirty talk. reader has no descriptions beyond breasts & vagina, and she/her pronouns. fic takes place in the winter, pre s5. prob some inaccuracies re: treating hypothermia; everything I researched was conflicting with other info, so for the sake of the fic, pretend any errors work lmao. lmk if I forgot any tags. // MDNI 18+ as always with my fics, please respect that.
A/N: Said I wasn’t gonna even try to write a van fic, the fandom has enough, and then this idea slapped itself permanently into my brain after vol. 1, and unfortunately took me months to finish. So... sorry if you’re sick of the van fics, but here’s one more 😅 title is a lyric from hard - hayley williams, and the fic is loosely (very loosely lol) inspired by the song itself. dividers by @/cursed-carmine
♪ always ready for the piano to fall / always ready to be left out in the cold / armor’s heavy, never suited me at all / but it’s the devil I know ♬
This has to be the worst night for a crawl yet.
Much to your dismay, you're stuck with Steve in the van tonight.
Dustin's sick with the flu, Will is still restricted from ever leaving Joyce's sight at this point, and you were more knowledgeable on telemetry tracking than Jonathan.
Leaving you- alone- with your least favorite person, for the rest of the night.
Yeah, lucky you.
This isn't the first time you've been paired up with him, nor would it be the last, you're certain. However, tonight's forecast called for snow and plummeting temps; accurate as ever as the evening grew near, with grey-white clouds blanketing the skies, flurries fluffing up by the minute.
You tried warning the others about the weather, understanding that crawls were usually non-negotiable, keeping flexible to the military's burn schedules, unbeknownst to them.
It still had to happen; any chance to find and defeat Vecna is a chance to end this nightmare, once and for all.
And that's never your call to make.
Creaking the passenger side door open, the first greeting that hits you is a miffed grumble, "Jesus, took you long enough."
"Yeah, hi to you too, Steve," you deadpan, careful to climb in backwards, kicking as much snow off your boots as you can before shutting the door.
He gives you a once-over, poorly stifling an ill-fitted chuckle.
Rolling your eyes, you glare over at him. "What?"
"You look like that kid from A Christmas Story with all those layers."
"Ha-ha, very funny." You struggle to cross your arms, puffed up and padded down with your winter coat.
"There's heat in the van, y'know." Glancing over his shoulder, he throws a thumb to the back of the van. "That box of stuff is back there, too, but… kinda just a waste of space, don't you think?"
"Oh, for the love of—" you crawl between the front seats, shoving Steve's shoulder in the process. Reaching the medium-sized cardboard box, you drag a well-loved and worn blanket out. "We've been over this, Steve."
"We get it, your circulation sucks, or whatever. I don't see how that's anyone else's problem."
"If I have to put up with you leaving all those goddamn Boppers wrappers around, you can deal with the emergency box." Holding a hand up, you add, "Which, is for everyone, by the way."
"Yeah, well, a sleeping bag's a little much. And extra socks? A sweatshirt? C'mon—"
"Last week Dustin was glad I packed that sweatshirt when it dropped to 40 degrees at night," you settle in the back, unlocking the wheel on the ceiling. "Because you refused to shut your window."
Exasperated, he throws his arms up. "The cold keeps me awake! Sue me!" Steve turns around, lip curled upward in disgust. "Also it's gross you just… leave socks for other people to use."
"They're new and I wash them if they get used! I wash everything in here, you fucking mor—"
"Hey, guys, you good to go?" Robin's voice through the tinny speaker of the walkie disrupts the insults you had on standby for Steve.
Glaring at Steve while he reflects his own sharp stare, you respond, "As good as we're gonna get."
There's no room for Steve to bite back; you're already tugging the headphones over your ears, focused as you fidget with the knobs. Your main concern isn't him, it's tracking Hopper to keep this as successful and safe of a crawl as possible.
Steve's gaze lingers, but it softens, deflates into one of dejection. You feel his eyes on you, but ignore it, thinking he's still trying to hold out on the sign of animosity; it's not that.
Despondency plagues him whenever you're around, and he resorts to cynicism, trapped in its ugly cycle. You hate him, why should he play nice in return?
It's easier to allow bitterness to keep distance between the two of you. Easier to forget how you and Steve were just in reach of something more.
Until you just… left.
Friendship break-ups are sometimes harder than romantic ones.
No one ever talks about that weird gap, suspended between acquaintances and beyond, falling into potential friendship, drifting back off into something bitter, a bond you only shared, tip-toeing along a jagged edge.
You'd drift in, drift out.
Grew close, just enough for hope to thrive, only to push him away.
In, out.
All while longing for something more, desperate to ride out a wave that drifts back and builds momentum, only to crash ashore into nothing.
So you cough up water, take a few deep breaths, and dive back in again.
Turns out, that shit gets exhausting over time. Especially when you discover a grim truth, hidden from the start.
When you're not treading water to stay afloat, it's swimming through a naval minefield in murky waters; drift into one, and you're blasted into overthinking what went wrong, what stopped the bond from blooming. And all it takes is one 'what if?' to shift course and bump into one these mines, ruining your day completely.
What if you hadn't moved away after Starcourt's explosive demise, deciding on a fresh start by leaving this nightmare of a town behind?
What if you and Steve were able to become more, if not stay friends, and he had just been honest about the Upside Down from the beginning?
What if you allowed that friendship to swell into something more? Standing him up on a date that could've changed everything; a wave ready to ride out naturally, only to retreat. Withdraw like the ocean before returning full force as a tsunami; why follow the tide out just to trap yourself in the path of imminent destruction?
If you stayed… would it have been worth it?
The two of you were star-crossed; Steve was still hung up on Nancy when you discovered your feelings for him. When he moved on, you found someone else. It almost turned into a sad, little game; when one was ready, the other had been redirected elsewhere.
It was even pitiful, the way you two barely had a friendship to build on, because one wasn't ready, and the other got tired of waiting.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Your time outside of Hawkins brought you steps away from turning fully into stone; get hurt enough times, you refuse welcoming anyone and everyone in so easily. One too many soured relationships had you settled on the idea that maybe you just weren't meant to share love like that.
That hurt transforms your body as a shield for your heart, ribs hardening into steel cages as an added last line of defense; you were one heartbreak away from adding electric barbed wire for good measure.
No one would get in again. Not if you could help it. Not like that.
Coming home wasn't an easy choice, but it was the only one that felt right. Your friends were still here, who you loved as family— bonded through unholy tragedies rather than blood, still family all the same; you had to check on them. You couldn't leave them hanging again.
Because your first thought upon hearing of the destruction, was what if any of them died?
Then you return to find out the worst what if came true: someone among the group died; Eddie's gone. And Max? Well… she's closer to a tragic ending than most of you.
You suffocated yourself in distractions, helping your parents to pack up and move out, promising you wouldn't be too far behind, that you needed to check on your friends immediately.
Unfortunately, coming home right before the town went into quarantine was not part of the plan.
Time away had you forget how downright stubborn Steve could be if he set his mind to something, and all he wanted was to break your walls down, at least to find common ground.
That was still far too much give, and not enough take for you. They're not uncharted waters, you just know you're not meant to navigate them, and know damn well Steve would just stand by and watch you sink.
Those what ifs of your past resurfaced, pulling you under, taunting you to open your mouth when there was nowhere to breathe.
The last place you needed to drown in emotions you couldn't afford was in a town under quarantine. Locked in, fenced off from the rest of the world, with someone you barely had a chance to build a friendship with. Someone you always yearned for more with, yet royally fucked up any chances with.
That more, those chances, they're thousands of meters below a rough, choppy surface, down to the pitch-black depths of the abyssal zone; it's just not in reach, and you've protected your heart this long, you didn't need all that effort to go to waste within a impulsive dive, head first into what would certainly make your heart implode.
You can only tread water for so long, though.
"Hop's going as slow as possible tonight, so we don't have to speed, alright?"
Steve only shoves an aggressive thumbs up over his head, tongue prodding into the side of his cheek.
"I mean, it'll pick up if he hitches a ride on a military truck for a while, but—"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don't go fast unless necessary." He grumbles under his breath, "I'm not stupid."
And that stings, because you genuinely weren't insinuating that. In fact, you're certain you've never insinuated that before.
"Steve, I wasn't trying to—"
"Don't." His shoulders tense up, grumbling out, "Unless it's about this crawl, I don't wanna talk. You focus on your job, I'll focus on mine."
His flat tone and curt demeanor makes your stomach churn. Nights like these where you're forced together have you longing for the past. Before you knew of the Upside Down, before he was trapped in a bunker below Starcourt, before you left like a goddamn coward.
Ever since you returned to Hawkins, it's like he resents you for protecting yourself. Your peace. Your sanity.
What the hell was the point of continuing to stick around, pour your heart into a friendship that only opened if you brought the crowbar?
Despite the mutual loathing, you and Steve make a pretty solid team when kept strictly to business.
Keeping up with a telemetry tracker while stuck in a snow storm is tricky, to say the least. Neither of you have a problem blaming the other for what's outside of your control, though.
"Jesus, Steve, slow down." It's hard to sit upright as he keeps his speed— a speed that normally wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for the slick roads. You hiss under your breath,"Fucking lead-foot."
He hears you, snapping back, "You wanna drive? Huh?" His eyes stay fixated on the road. The windshield becomes more obstructed as the snow gains momentum, falling heavily onto every surface within reach. "By all means, be my guest."
"God, you're such a bitch."
"Me?! Have you ever heard yourself talk for even, like, five seconds?" Steve's tempted to turn around to shout at you, but he keeps whatever cool he has left— which isn't much— and continues driving safely. "You're so fucking rude, and- god- you're so annoying, so fucking annoying."
"That's bold, coming from a pain in the ass like you…" you grumble, trailing off as the signal on the tracker drops; Hopper stopped moving. "Steve. Steve!"
"What?! Christ, can't you shut up—"
"Stop!"
"How come I have to stop, but you can keep bitching and moaning—"
"I meant the van, asshole!"
Steve slams on the brakes, hoping to skid to a stop, but the van keeps moving.
Gliding. Coasting. The van's skating on the slick road, completely out of control.
You throw the headphones aside, scrambling to the front to peer around Steve's seat. "Dude, what the fuck?!"
"Shit, shit, shit!"
Steve's death grip wraps around the wheel, knuckles turning white; he's ready to turn it toward the shoulder to get off the road, but you grab his arm and hold him in place. Eyes darting to the floor, you see his foot is still weighed down on the brake pedal.
"Wait— watch it! Harrington, keep the wheel straight!" Voice trembling from the frenzy. Steve's about to slam his foot down onto the brake when you panic, "Fuck, get your foot off the brake!"
Despite sliding, you don't spin. Snowfall rushes around the van, limiting visibility to just a few feet ahead. Even as the van slows, it fishtails. Steve frantically switches into low gear, breaths heavy and jagged as he releases control.
His right arm shoots out, bridging between the seats to brace himself and create a barrier to hold you back. Alarmed, he shouts, "Stay down!"
You don't move in time before impact, but you're projected into his arm with force, restraining you from hurtling over the seats and into the dashboard. The van's wheels rumble as it veers off the road, the ditch finally slowing you down to a halt.
Adrenaline rushing, you pant as you're frozen against his arm, processing that absolute disaster.
"Shit…" Steve gasps, trying to catch his breath. "… You okay?" Scanning over your figure, unable to find immediate concern beyond the fear on your expression, his shoulders begin to relax.
"Uh-huh," you rasp out, glancing up at him. "You?"
He nods firmly and swallows. "M'okay."
Static harshly shoves into the van, with Robin's voice following close behind.
She drones out, "Angry Lovebirds, do you copy? Hellooooo? Where the hell did you two go?"
You cringe at the code name, wishing you could shrink on the spot and disappear.
"Why the hell does she still call us that?" Steve gripes, running his hands over his face. "We've never— I don't even—"
Her voice drops to a mutter and cuts Steve off, asking as if the others aren't on the same channel, "Please tell me you two didn't kill each other."
"Oh my god," Steve rolls his eyes with a groan, head falling back against the seat.
In reluctant favor of answering Robin, you leave the warmth of Steve's side to grab the walkie. You curse yourself inwardly at the misplaced feelings.
Thumb jabbing in the talk button, you exhale a winded response, "We're good, we, uh…" Your eyes meet Steve's before darting away. "We hit black ice, though."
"Shit! Can you make it back safely?" She adds, "We were trying to get a hold of you guys, 'cus we had to call off the crawl. It didn't work out."
So the two of you slid on black ice… for nothing.
Fantastic.
"Um, hang— h- hold on." Turning to Steve, you noticed smoke rising on the other side from the van's hood. "Oh, fuck."
Steve jerks his head up, jumping into action. He kills the engine, immediately cutting off the warmth from the janky heater. Throwing his jacket on, he flings the driver's side door open and jumps out. Snowfall drifts sideways from the wind, and he winces as it pelts into his face.
"Guys?" Nancy's voice takes over now, concerned with the delay. "What's the status on the van?"
"Uh- well, it's actually—" You forget to release the talk button, shouting after Steve. "Wait! I'm coming with!"
Releasing it, a booming voice immediately floods through the speaker. "What the hell is going on out there?"
Hopper.
Oh, boy.
Meanwhile, Steve stands firm, shouting over the brutal, howling wind, "No, you're staying put!" He bites back on his own shivers, already creeping down his spine as he slams the door shut.
Well, can't say you didn't try.
Flicking your thumb against the talk button, your explanation comes to life with nervous laughter. "Hop! Hi. Soooooo… we're stuck in a ditch."
You can just imagine the drawn out sigh he lets out before responding, pinching the bridge of his nose, and all.
"Okay, where are you exactly?"
The glass of the back door window is freezing as you try to peek out. You huff your breath onto the glass, rubbing your sleeve against it to clear it up. It barely helps, with snow and frost beginning to coat it completely outside.
You squint through the narrow opening between patches of snow, gaze landing on the landmark in the near distance.
Groaning, you punch the talk button with your thumb. "The fuckin' cemetery."
"Language."
"Hey, I'm an adult! Last thing on my mind right now is censoring myself," you grumble into the walkie.
"How the hell did you two end up out there? That's not where I was in the Upside Down."
So, not only did the van throw you and Steve around like rag dolls on a failed crawl, but the tracker was off.
Way off.
"I- I don't know."
A frustrated shout cuts through the whistling squall outside. The van rocks as Steve kicks the bumper, cursing wildly at the shoddy engine.
"I thought you said you could handle tracking?"
Your blood begins to boil. Now's not the time for some trivial debate, not when you're possibly stranded in what's shaping up to be one of the worst snow storms Hawkins has seen yet.
There's no chance to respond when another voice, congested and hoarse, cuts in. "She can, she's actually good at this."
Dustin Henderson is a goddamn good egg, even while battling the flu.
You wish Hopper could see the smug grin on your face right now.
"I personally think Hop lost the tracker—" silence cuts in for a second, returning with Hopper scolding him; they have to be fighting over the damn walkie. "Watch it, kid. I didn't lose shit."
You slam your thumb down onto the talk button within another pause, mocking back, "Hey, Hopper? Language."
Another pause draws itself out, and eventually Robin returns with an exasperated huff. "You and Steve did nothing wrong. Hopper definitely lost the tracker."
"I didn't lose the fucking—"
The talk button is released on her end, abruptly interrupting Hopper's rant.
"Anyway… we're not that far from the station, right?"
"Five miles an hour in that van might take way longer, but you're not making it here on foot in this weather. It's not safe."
Woven into the wind is a muffled "son of a bitch!". The hood slams shut, jostling the van before Steve yanks the van door open, gracelessly stumbling inside.
Snow sticks to his hair, his clothes, slowly melting to leave him like a freezing, wet dog.
"This is fu- fuck, it's cold—!". Steve huffs out a mirthless chuckle, appearing nowhere near amused. "S'fucking ridiculous." His teeth chatter as he gripes, eyes falling on you, then to the walkie. "Give m- me that."
Steve's hand brushes against yours as he snatches the walkie from you, frigid and stiff. It takes a few tries to hit the talk button and hold it in successfully.
"Can anyone come get us? The van's f- fucked." With his jaw this tight, he's about to crush his teeth to dust. For a second, his eyes flicker to you, and you swear there's a flash of something genuine within the hazel. "Leaving the engine run is a d- disaster waiting to happen, so we can't use the h- heat."
There's silence on the other end; lack of an instant answer usually never fares well for any of you.
Scouring through the emergency box, you pick out a small, rolled towel, handing it over to Steve. For once, he doesn't look at you like you're nuts for keeping the damn box stocked.
He accepts it with a trembling hand, murmuring a both grateful yet defeated "Thanks".
"It's too dangerous for anyone to drive out, and way too dangerous for you two to try walking back. The nearest tunnel is at least a mile out from you, give or take on where you two ended up exactly in the cemetery."
Steve exhales roughly through his red, wind-bitten nose, handing the walkie back to you. "You t- take it. M'too pissed off to be nice ri- right now."
Nodding solemnly, you grab it back, responding to everyone. "Okay. We'll just… tough it out. I got some stuff to stay warm, so we should be okay for a few hours at least." Sighing, you glance up at Steve, laying out the now damp towel on the dashboard. "But the second it's safe enough, someone needs to come get us."
Hopper presses the talk button early, releasing a weary sigh first. "We'll try when we can."
That's not good enough, not for you, and not for Steve; the two of you cannot be stranded here overnight.
Together.
Alone.
"No, you'll do it when you can. I warned y'all the weather would be shit. You get us out of this mess the moment this storm slows down. Got it?"
A lengthy pause begins to irritate you the longer the seconds pass.
"Yeah, kid. I got it."
In defeat, you chuck the walkie aside, swallowing down the urge to scream.
It's no use to be angry now; best to bury those emotions and redirect that energy into something useful. Like helping Steve.
Even if he doesn't really deserve your help to begin with.
"Okay, Harrington, here's what's gonna happen." He turns slowly, heavy-lidded with fatigue settling into his expression. "I think the clothes in here are your size—"
"How the hell do y- you know what size clothes I wear?"
Would it kill him to be nice? Or quiet? For just five fucking seconds?
"To keep this shit on hand if we need it, and you're welcome, by the way." You toss a t-shirt with the radio's logo on it, wool socks, and sweatpants his way. "There's a reason I asked everyone what their sizes were months ago."
Steve catches it all, just barely, but he's left dumbfounded. Through chattering teeth, he snaps, "Wh- why the hell do I want these?"
"Are you kidding me? Dude, you can't stay in those clothes. You're gonna get hypothermia."
"Whatever," he starts peeling off his clothes, and you take that as a cue to turn around. A faint comment slips under his breath, "It'd be better than being stuck here."
It's still audible enough to you, clear enough to sting. You feel like a damn fool for thinking Steve was finally presenting something other than hatred, for once.
"You're not the only one who doesn't wanna be stuck here." Rubbing your eyes, you sigh.
There's no way you can last the night in here without killing one another; it's too long to put up with his bullshit.
Unless…
There might be one shred of hope left. And okay, sure, it's more a thin, fraying thread that could lead to nothing, but you won't know until you try.
You bundle yourself back up, zipping up your jacket, winding the scarf around your neck tightly, tugging your hat over your head. Steve notices when you're slipping your hands into a pair of mittens.
"Hey, whoa—" Now comfortably changed, he clambers to the back, a little too close for comfort. "No. What are you doing? You're not going out there."
But you ignore his concern, if it's even real to begin with. "That gas station's still down the road, right?"
"Maybe? I don't— that's not—" Frazzled, he stumbles over his thoughts. "You're not walking down there in the snow." His fingers fight against stiffness, winding around your wrist shielded under your coat. "You need to be safe."
"Why? So you don't get the blame if something bad happens?" Irritated, you yank your hand back. "Just… wait here. I'll be quick."
"Quick? Yeah, right. It's not that close by foot." Steve, still stiff from the cold, clumsily shoves in front of you to block the back doors. "Your circulation sucks, remember?"
His attempted smartass comment fails miserably as concern seeps through the cracks of his tone.
"And you said it wasn't your problem," you retort, shoving him aside. "Look, it's right down the road. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll have coffee, or something hot. We both could use something like that right now—"
"You brought your thermos! I haven't seen you use it once." He runs a hand through his damp hair, sighing. "And even if they did have coffee, it'd be ice cold by the time you got back."
"Oh, you watching my every move now, Harrington?" Your voice drops low, dry, sick of this conversation. "That's precious."
He doesn't react, only argues, "What if it's closed?"
Your eyes dart away from him, faltering. "T- there's a pay phone outside," you really thought it'd be easier to shake him. "I can call someone to get us out—"
"No. Now you're just being ridiculous." One hand perches on his hip, while the other waves wildly as he speaks. "Who the hell's coming out after curfew? Especially in this?"
You shrug, shrinking into yourself with a weak lie. "… I might know a guy?"
"Cut the shit, what's out there that's worth freezing to death for, huh?"
"I'm trying to leave you the fuck alone, Steve!" Seething, the explosion silences Steve, guilt and shame softening his expression. "I'm not thrilled to be stranded here with you either, but I was willing to play nice! I was willing to get along, but you don't want that, and that—" You bite back tears, ones born of anger, maybe even a hint of rage. "That's fine. Just trying to make it easier for us both, give some space."
"Wh… what?" He's dumbfounded. "When I said I didn't want to be stuck here, that wasn't about you—"
"Oh, please. Like I buy that for a fucking second."
"I wish you would!" He exclaims, voice fracturing with panic. "You really think I want you to freeze to death 'cause we can't get along? That's the last thing I'd want."
"Yeah, well…" your hand lingers over the handle, glaring back at him, returning the jagged comment to sender. "It'd be better than being stuck here."
It's tempting to tack on "with you" at the end, but you bite your tongue. You're not even sure if you'd mean that.
Eyes set forward, you miss his sullen, wounded stare, etched into his features when you exit the van. You're plunging head first into regret once your boots hit the snow. Instead of swallowing your pride and climbing right back in, you feign indifference as you slam the doors shut without looking back.
The doors never reopen, and he never calls for you; it's clear how much of a relief the space is for both of you.
If you tell yourself enough times that it's better than being stuck in that doomed ice box on wheels with Steve all night, maybe you'll begin believing it.
Before the Upside Down, before losing his friends, losing Nancy, losing the cheap crown on his head in his fall from grace— Steve could fall asleep with ease. His head could hit the pillow and he'd be out.
The typical high school blues were enough to send any teenager into stress-induced sleep loss, but the Upside Down's daunting reminder that the fight was only dormant, forced full blown insomnia to become his closest friend.
Exhaustion would lead him to eventually sleep, but he'd fight it off as long as he could; you can only handle the bloodcurdling screams and cries of your friends dying in your dreams so many times before giving up on sleep completely.
Every creak in his house on nights home alone— loneliness all too common in that house— had him holding his breath, waiting for sudden movements to echo out again. Every light bulb, flickering on its way out for good, froze him in fear of who, or what, lay in wait on the other side. And if a detail, no matter how small, is enough to keep him from sleep, that's an open invitation for his mind to spiral.
Tonight, trying to rest in the van, he notices a gap; it's thin and barely noticeable, between the flimsy plywood floorboards underneath the shag carpet. Steve feels it every time he tosses and turns; it always digs into his left hip, slightly uneven from the other board it should be snug against.
He flips to the right, but no, that feels wrong; he's not a right side sleeper. That changed after '84, and he's not exactly sure why, but he sleeps better on the left side.
And on his back? He doesn't even dare, not after a sleep paralysis episode after those fucking bats attacked him. That one and only episode he felt pinned to the bed, like a bat was choking him all over again. His scars ached for hours after, the one around his throat singed through his skin like some god-awful, hellish rope-burn.
So, yeah, Steve can't sleep, clearly not from the cold; turns out, that sleeping bag of yours was a good idea. He won't outright admit that though. Or, how your emergency box actually was, and continues to be, useful.
He tries to rest, flip-flops between sides to get comfortable, but the minutes you're gone only accumulate in his mind to a concerning degree, like the heavy snowfall outside. Every second that ticks past is a second too long without you.
By car, the gas station is a few minutes away. By foot, in weather like this, bundled up in excessive layers? Shit, even he'd struggle to move quickly. He'd definitely get sick, too.
Time passes, snow builds, and Steve continues to overthink. Eventually, he wonders, Am I really that fucking awful to be stranded in the snow with?
What the answer would be to you, he already knows. You think he doesn't give a fuck, and it's not like he's done much to prove otherwise.
To you, Steve's fears to let you go out into the cold were only linked to the clear concept of: if you got hurt, he'd be to blame.
To Steve, though, it goes beyond blame; he's scared, now rueful, that he didn't fight harder to make you stay, because the thought of losing you more than he already had terrifies him.
The possibilities of what could go wrong were endless: you, losing your way, disoriented from the blizzard. What if you froze to death out there? Or got caught being out past curfew? Though, Steve's pretty sure the military doesn't give a fuck about two idiots stranded in the snow.
The wind howls and whistles, whipping around the van as the snow falls diagonally. Every now and then, he opens each door to slam it again, shaking off the snow outside; there's too much buildup to keep an eye out for you.
He checks his watch; you left about an hour ago. The footprints that trailed behind you are now covered over with fresh snow.
Steve's tempted to radio everyone at the station— assuming they stayed in for the night with the storm— but that means admitting he didn't stop you. He didn't protect you.
You're your own person, though. You don't need to be babied, or protected.
Sure doesn't stop Steve's protective side from caring about you.
It's not like anyone could come out to rescue either of you in the first place. But if you're gone and he says nothing, he'd never forgive himself if you got sick. Or worse.
Jesus, what if you're already freezing to death?
In the midst of internal panic, a thud! with fierce force slams against the van outside. Steve jolts upright, startled enough that it clears his damn sinuses while his heart races.
There's another thump, with a few more to follow, inching towards the passenger side door. It flings open, snow sprinkling in as you flop forward, face against the seat.
"Jesus Christ," is all Steve can manage to say, because he's grateful to see you, alive, but also, you're such a fucking idiot.
You crawl into the van, collapsing onto the floor. "'Idn't wanna get th'carpet wet," you mumble through your teeth, jaw rigid, struggling to close the door as the handle slips through your weak grip.
"C'mon, sit up for me." Steve guides you into the seat while you struggle, clumsy like you're intoxicated, yet your limbs are stiff. Under your freezing wet clothes, he can feel you shiver, practically vibrating uncontrollably.
When you're settled up right, he shoots an arm between the seat and wall, barely managing to grab the door handle and slam it shut.
"Ow… S'loud," you groan.
"Shit, sorry." He drags the box over, rummaging through it haphazardly. A pair of sweats and a sweater lay at the bottom, warm and ready to wear. He lays them aside, leaning over the seat to unzip your coat.
"D- damn, a'least flirt with me first," you slur, lips a muted shade from their normal lively color.
It's a joke, but not an invite for playful banter; Steve bites his tongue, quickly helping you out of your coat. He unwinds your scarf and tugs your hat off, dropping all of them to the driver side's floor.
Your clothes are soaked underneath, too. Though you're still pretty covered, he can see how strained your muscles are from stiffening.
Steve peels your puffy vest, hoodie, and sweater off next— Jesus, he forgot how layered you were. And it still didn't help.
"You're an idiot, you know that?" The fondness in his tone sneaks through the disapproval. When the air hits your skin, damp and frigid, gasp, face twisting from discomfort; it feels like sharp needles prickling along your arms.
"M'fine," yet you look far from it— hair tangled and soaked, frozen in spots, skin dull of its usual shine and shade, lids weighed down like you're drunk and sleepy, even a little puffy.
Funny how concerned you were of him getting hypothermia earlier, when you're already there.
And by funny, it's fucking scary, because there's no way to get you to a hospital tonight.
Really, he doesn't think it's that severe, but at any stage, hypothermia's nothing to fuck with; you're still suffering no matter what, and he hates to see you in pain.
Hates that he just admitted that to himself, too.
"Bullshit," he contends as he pulls another small towel from the box— seriously? You thought of everything with this box.
He'll thank you later. Maybe even apologize for being such a dick about it if it saves your asses.
Steve lays the towel over your head, gently tousling your hair against the fabric to help it dry. You shiver violently, "Hey, the sooner you get changed, the sooner you'll feel better."
"Said m'fine," you grit your teeth, attempting to shove him away, but your arms are still weak and stiff. "Jus' put the heat on."
"We can't run the engine, remember?" Steve throws the towel onto the driver's seat; that's a problem for future him. "C'mon, you can't stay in your clothes."
The moment the words leave his lips, he cringes, waiting for you to snidely remark, insinuate he's a pervert, but you're quiet.
Yeah, you're worse than he thought.
"I'm gonna help, okay?" There's no protest from you. He reaches down to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, but pausing before it passes your belly button. "This alright?"
"M'yeah, s'kay."
If you weren't tumbling into a life threatening condition, he'd poke fun at how wasted you sound.
Steve's perceptive, keeping an eye on your reaction, ensuring he's not hurting you. Prioritizing your safety doesn't make the reveal of you, half naked, any easier to deal with.
Shirt thrown to the side, Steve scrunches his eyes shut, scolds himself internally to behave, don't be a creep. He leans from behind the seat, over you to unbutton your jeans— Jesus Christ, why the fuck did you wear jeans? They're practically painted onto your form after all the ice and snow sunk into the denim.
He sucks in a breath, "Uh… can you get them off yourself?"
"S'okay, jus' leave 'em like this."
"It's really not," he sighs, climbing between the front seats and sliding down to the floor before you. The space is limited, incredibly limited, and he's contorting in a way he's never folded before, just to fit here. And for you, of all people.
He finds the chair's lever, shoving it back as far as it can go, though not much of a difference exists.
"Okay, c'mon, boots first."
Steve undresses you with care, tries not to notice the position you're both in, how close his face is to your core. How he's imagined on lonely, late nights, him kneeling for you, while he strokes himself, cock twitching as always while wondering what you taste like.
Every last ounce of self control is gathered up to keep his composure. You're in your underwear. Nothing else.
And your underwear? Yeah. That's wet, too; bra sticking flush to your chest, nipples peaked enough to reveal their shape through the fabric. He dares to take a lower peek when your eyes flutter shut as you sigh— out of concern, not pleasure, he reminds himself— and the fabric against your core is damp, hugging to the shape of your puffy lips.
He scrunches his eyes shut, runs a hand down over his mouth as he thinks … fuck me.
You shiver and twitch and whimper as the near-numbness finally settles into fucking freezing. It shatters whatever trance Steve was falling into.
"Honey," he frowns at himself immediately, because where the fuck did that come from? "You need to warm up."
There's no way to suggest sharing heat without sounding like a total pervert. Every choice of words could definitely be taken as suggestive, at best.
At worst? Steve's coming off as Hawkins' biggest douche-bag.
"Don't wanna," you whine, petulant and pained.
"It's this or freeze to death," he forces himself to deadpan, afraid of coming off as too concerned.
"You'd— bet that'd make y'happy."
He's not sure if he should file that comment under the usual banter the two of you have, or something worse.
"It wouldn't." Steve crawls up, hands gripping the sides of your seat as he tries respecting your space— the little bit left, at least. And still, he stumbles, catching himself right before he headbutts you. "Shit. Ah— shit, I- I'm sorry."
If he makes eye contact with you right now, it is game over. The whine you just released, though likely in pain, doesn't help his already wound-up, touch-starved thoughts.
"Okay. Okay," he sighs, more to himself, finding his balance again. "C'mon, we're gonna use that sleeping bag of yours to stay warm."
You're slow, painfully, agonizingly, moving at a snail's pace, while Steve moves you out of the seat. He's patient, cautious, already trying to press his body against yours to share warmth from the moment you begin trembling.
"Slow, take it easy," he guides you to the carpet while he murmurs softly. It's a miracle you make it to the back safely, considering how frozen stiff your joints are. "Doing okay?"
That's a dumb fucking question.
"Other th- than my t- t- tits freezing off, m'f- fine."
When you flash a curl of a smirk, just the tiniest one, Steve still feels relief. It's a speck of relief, but he'll gladly accept.
About to sit from your kneeling position, he grabs your hips to stop you. Steve clears his throat, awkwardly releasing you.
"Sorry, just, uh… your, uh… the—" he nods vaguely to your chest, eyes lingering for a second too long, wondering how soft you'd feel. By the time he peels his eyes away to drift lower, he gulps. "Those need to come off."
"Wh- why?" You pout, body violently trembling the longer you go without warmth.
"Just work with me, okay? Dry clothes aren't gonna warm you up enough on their own." He huffs, kneeling near you. "M'not trying anything funny, I promise."
Leaning close, Steve's face is near yours while his hands reach around your torso. His fingers skate up your cold skin, bringing about his own shivers, finding your bra clasp and unhooking it.
Poorly strangling a gasp, it still manages to slip past your lips, and he's almost certain it's because you're in pain. Nothing else.
But it sure sounds like it stems from another source.
Hovering his touch, he halts, eyes wide as they dart to meet yours. "Did I hurt you?"
"N- no, just co- c- cold." Teeth chattering, you grab onto his shoulders weakly as he removes your underwear. He bites back the urge to yelp from how bone chilling your touch is.
You hold your balance against him while shifting onto one knee, then the other, to step out of the soaked garment. "'Vry'thing hurts."
He hears you, knows you're hurting, but your panties, soaked and bunched up in his grip, make his cock twitch. The fabric is nowhere near his face, but your scent is dizzying; he wonders if they're only soaked from the snow, or yourself, too.
What stands between him and dirty thoughts is your fragile state; you need help, not him as… some horny creep.
Steve pushes past the tempting thoughts, for your sake.
"I know," he murmurs, heart aching, wishing he could take that pain away instantly. "It's gonna be okay, promise."
He guides you into the sleeping bag, eyes off and away from your figure out of respect. When you're settled, he rips his clothes off, save for his boxer briefs. One glance down his body and he's reminded how scarred he still is. He falters, swallowing thickly; what if you notice them? What if you're disgusted by him?
That's not like you, though; you've never been shallow like that.
Your teeth clatter together so loudly, it breaks him from those looming insecurities. With a deep breath, he finally slides in next to you.
Steve zips the sleeping bag up, arms hooking around your torso to pull you flush against him. He weaves his legs between yours, careful not to press his thigh against your core. He has to throw his thoughts as far away from you as possible; the last thing either of you need is a poorly timed hard-on.
He thinks of the time he broke his arm in sixth grade, falling off the seesaw at recess. Tries focusing on the concept of race cars and the specific tires they use. Forces himself to wonder how broccoli grows, or if it really matters to separate the dark garments from the lights when doing laundry.
That tangled trail of curiosity leads him to wonder what life outside of Hawkins must be like these days, and if they're forgotten to the rest of the world.
The last one's bleak, so he redirects to thinking about aquariums, and if fish sleep— they sleep, right?
God, he really wished he paid more attention in school. Did they even talk about any of this stuff? What the hell does he care if race cars use specific tires?
Whatever.
It's a challenge to keep his thoughts on a steady path away from you, because every time you breathe, your bare chest pushes against his, and that's— no. Just no.
The plush of your breasts squish up against him, nipples poking through his chest hair and into him like an accusing finger, shaming him for fighting off a natural response to a naked figure entwined with his own.
Doesn't make it any easier that your breaths are shallow, because logically, he knows it's because you're freezing. But every so often, you make these faint gasps as you shiver that sound closer to pleasure than pain.
That's not the case, and he feels guilty for letting his mind wander that far.
Okay, focus. Think about… concrete. Sure. That. Must be fascinating to pour that shit for sidewalks and—
"How come your underw- wear is on but not mine?"
Well, that's not fucking helping when you just out right ask it like that.
Steve's face burns up, rushing out, "Didn't wanna make you uncomfortable."
Your heart is pounding so viciously, he can feel the thumping against his own body.
Which, yeah— you have hypothermia. Of course your heart is working overtime. Just from that. Only that.
He reaches outside the bag to throw a worn, knitted blanket over your bodies, hoping for extra warmth while he's zipping the bag back up.
"Please tell me this shit is helping," he murmurs, fighting the urge to gently rub your back; this isn't supposed to be some kind of cute, intimate moment. And rubbing to create heat isn't helpful for hypothermia.
He doesn't remember why, just that it's unsafe for a situation like this.
"S'helpin'," you shudder against his skin, face tucked into the curve of his neck. Your lips brush against one of his sensitive spots, and he gulps, praying you don't notice. "I sh- shouldn't have lef-f- ft."
Steve doesn't scold you, but he doesn't disagree. "I really wish you didn't." He shivers, nowhere near as violently as you have, but exchanging body heat with someone in this state isn't all rainbows and sunshine. "I wish I didn't let you go. I should've gone with you, or had you stay here while I went out."
The words ache with more desperation than he intends.
"I'm a b- bi- big girl, s'my choice," your body involuntarily twitches, rutting into his bulge.
"A- ah—" Steve manages to swallow down the breathy moan before it can fill the van.
"Sor- sorry. Did I h- hurt you?"
He's quick to shush you, gently, rushing out, "I'm fine." One hand wanders to your head, delicately threading your damp hair through his fingers. "How are you feeling?"
"Fu- fucking cold."
"No shit," Steve dryly retorts. "You have hypothermia, dumbass."
You hum out what he thinks was a shaky hum. "Surprised y'even kn-know anything about i- it."
"At least something good came from me being a Boy Scout for one year," he snorts. "That, and I know how to start a fire... which, not very helpful while snowed into a van. Don't know much more than that."
You don't respond. Whenever he's shared something personal of his past, even just a passing comment, you groan and fuss about "learning Harrington lore against your will". The lack of that snarky response is just another sign of how unwell you're feeling.
Shifting cautiously, your arms bend slowly, snaking between the two of you. Steve's breath hitches, wondering what the fuck you're doing.
Your hands travel north, both to his relief and disappointment, cupping over your chest. "M'sorry, m- my tits hurt." And sure enough, the attention is brought to your stiff nipples, harder than minutes ago, brushing up against him through the gaps between your fingers.
Steve doesn't have the chance to panic, not when he fails to stifle a chuckle before it slips out. That comment was the last thing he expected to leave your lips.
"Be n- n- nice!"
"Sorry, sorry!" He relaxes against you again, tries not to dwell on how much of your figure he can feel against his. "Are you getting any warmer?"
"Why? You h- hate this?" Your tone is dry, but he can feel the curve of your smirk against his neck. "Want me to go back outside?"
The lighthearted energy drains quickly; Steve feels his heart drop just at the mere thought of you enduring the blizzard.
Like a fucking fool.
"Don't joke about that," he mutters, daring to speak aloud, "I thought you were dead."
The shrill, whistling wind draws out the lapse in conversation.
"… Didn't th- think you c- cared."
"I do, it's just—" Steve huffs, pausing. "We can talk about it when you're feeling better. Deal?" You nod slowly, sighing. "Do you think you could sit up? Just for a few seconds?"
You were feeling warmer, still cold, still aching, but nowhere near the severity you felt before your return. "Um… I g- guess?"
"Just hang tight okay? Where's your thermos?"
"S'up by th'cup h- holder," you nod to the front. As soon as Steve moves, you begin to harshly shiver again.
He's quick to snatch it, unscrewing the top to pour out whatever you had inside into it. The warm aroma hits him head on. "Hot cocoa? Damn, if I knew that, I woulda' stole some."
"You could h- have some f'ya' want."
"Maybe later, but you need to drink something warm." Steve slides a hand under your back, arm curling around to lift you upright. He tries to ignore the sleeping bag falling off your chest, leaving you exposed. "C'mon, just a few sips."
"N- no, m'cold, wanna get back in."
"I know, honey, I'm sorry." There it is again, a slip up without warning. Like it's natural, familiar.
You manage to sit up, resting against a crate on the shelf behind you. Reaching a shaky hand out, Steve gently pushes it aside. "I got you, try to keep still for me."
He eases the mug top to your lips, cautiously tilting it while you sip on the hot cocoa. It's slow, but Steve's relieved you're not at the severe stage, where you wouldn't be able to drink anything at all. "That's it, a little more… s'good for me."
Oh god. He's one step away from praising you with a 'good girl, and now is not the time or place for that.
"Promise it'll help," he assures, feeling horrible for dragging you out of the warm cocoon of the sleeping bag. Yet he's desperate to try everything, anything, as long as it brings your temperature back up.
You finish off the mug with a gasp. Steve takes it away, watching as that muted tone in your lips begin to fade. It's subtle, but it's a change for the better, nonetheless. A step in the right direction.
"Can't say th- that shit to me," you pant, forcing an airy, uneasy laugh. "I'm gonna start thinkin' y- you're— you like me, or something."
Oh, if only you knew.
"C'mere," Steve murmurs as he gently brings you close. Guiding you back into the sleeping bag, he slides in cautiously next to you, zipping it shut around the two of you. "Don't make this weird, okay?"
"Make wh- what weird?"
Arms winding around your waist, he reels you in, body flush against your own. It's like every goosebump on your skin brushing up along his he can feel. Every shiver runs out of you and into him, like an electrical current.
The gasp that leaves your lips is unexpected and sharp. "Fu— fuck, Steve, m'so c- c- cold."
"I know, sweetheart." He tangles his legs between yours, large hand reaching up to cradle the back of your head. You bury your face into his shoulder, shivering violently. "Just stay close to me."
"M'tryin'," you whimper as your hips shift closer. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd think you were trying to rock your hips against him, as if you're aching for relief, release.
The airy, shattered, "oh, god", sure doesn't help his imagination either. His cock twitches again.
"You're okay," he reassures, not just for you, but for his filthy mind to chill the fuck out. When you roll your hips again, he seizes them, grip tightening to end the attempt. "Don't— hey." You huff as he firmly holds you in place. "Hey, listen to me. No sudden movements."
"S- sorry, jus'thought friction would help," your teeth chatter as you force you words through them. "… Oh my god. Wait. Oh my god, no, wait."
You sound mortified.
"What?" Steve defaults to panic once more. "What's wrong?"
"I- I swear to go- god I didn't mean it like that." You untangle yourself from him, limbs haphazardly knocking into his own with the limited space in the bag. "I just— friction causes he- heat, and I didn't— I wasn't tr- tr- trying to—"
He nervously chuckles, not at you, just— well, shit. How should anyone react in a situation like this?
"S'okay, you're okay." The reassurance seems to help; you relax against him once more, still trembling from the cold in your bones, though. "Can't warm you up too quickly, it could make you feel worse."
"Well that's fu- fucking stupid."
He chuckles, taunting, "You're starting to sound more like yourself again." It's much more endearing than he wanted to sound.
There's no response, just your steady breaths in spite of your jitters. You hum, winding your embrace around his torso, burying your face into his neck again.
Steve's about to lose it; you've got to stop resting your lips on his skin.
Talk about something else. Anything.
"Hey… thanks for helping earlier," he mumbles. You lean back to meet his stare with a perplexed one of your own.
"Hm? Wi- with what?"
"The black ice," he clarifies. "I panicked and blanked out, forgot how to handle it. I could've fucked up real bad… could've wrapped us around a tree, or something."
"We still ended up in a ditch—"
"Alive. It sucks, being stranded in the storm sucks, but we're alive, thanks to you."
You shake your head, cuddling closer to him, still shivering, still unable to shake the cold. It's not warm in the van anymore, but it'd be more tolerable if you weren't recovering.
"You know how to dr- drive this damn t- thing," you quip, shuddering and clinging closer to Steve. "S'like a fuckin' boat."
Steve laughs heartily, tightening his embrace around you. "Guess we make a pretty good team."
"When we're n- not trying to ki- kill each other."
Emboldened, Steve's lips brush against the top of your head; it's not quite a kiss, but it's enough to be noticed. Enough to mean something. They linger as he takes a deep breath, voice rumbling low against your scalp.
"… We don't have to fight all the time," he suggests, fingers skating along the length of your spine. You arch your back, pushing the hardened peaks of your nipples against his chest. He swallows down a moan. "We don't have to hate each other."
"S'jus'easier," you slur, though, he's not sure it's from the cold.
"Yeah? Why's that?" Face still buried into his shoulder, you shake your head. "No, c'mon," he hopes the low, gentle rasp in his voice is enticing. "You can tell me."
It's quiet for a moment, swirling gusts of wind providing filler noise among your shallow breaths.
"'Cus liking you means letting you in," you're shuddering as the van sways, wind strong enough to sneak into the drafty vehicle. "Letting you in m- me- means this is real, and that's just a set up to be let down— be a let down to you, eventually."
He has to be hallucinating from the cold. Or maybe you're still delirious. There's no way you just said that.
"… What?"
Because since when do you care about letting him down?
"You've been hurt enough, I didn't want to add to that hurt." Steve feels you shift with a whimper, has to swallow back the cocky remark he'd make if you felt better. "Your heart's always g- gonna be elsewhere, anyway."
Steve would do anything— hike through this blizzard, move mountains, face a swarm of demo-bats— if it meant he could use a time machine, return to the moment things shattered before they could flourish. He'd do anything to fix it all.
"Even when it was elsewhere, it—" Your trembling brings him to a pause, a reminder how real this all is. After hoping for so long that you'd return, dwelling too much on the anger of you just… leaving, fleeing so quietly, so abruptly— you're here, in his arms. "You were always in it, but I didn't want hurt you, either."
And look where that got the two of you.
Steve's stunned into silence by your confession, tumbling out in unstoppable waves.
You trail off with a huff, tensing up; Steve's unsure if the cold's at fault, or if teasing went too far. "It's hard to… to trust. It scares the hell out of me."
"Scares me too, but look at you. You're trusting now."
"It was that or freeze to death, Harrington."
"Still chose to trust me after everything between us." His voice softens, moving on autopilot— courtesy of his heart— as he cradles the side of your face. His cheeks grow warm as he whispers your name, just loud enough to be heard over the howling winds outside. "Thank you. For trusting me."
The pads of your fingers press into his skin as you tighten your hold around him. "Thanks for not letting me die."
We're not out of the woods, yet, he thinks. But you should be able to keep warm now.
"I used to hate that you couldn't relate to what Robin and I went through last summer," Steve's got no reason to hide this anymore. "Truth is, I was relieved you called out sick that day."
An aching warmth bleeds through his chest with the confession, one that he hopes is enough to warm you up, even a little.
Or, maybe that's just because Steve's bare chest is pressed up against yours, still generating heat like a human furnace for you.
"I still have nightmares, and I—" He chokes up, arms tightening around you. You return the squeeze with reassurance, leaving patience and silence for him. "Sometimes, in them, they're hurting you, too… and I- I can't do anything but watch."
It feels like is heart is caving in all over again; he had done so well ignoring the hurt, but now…
Now he realizes he only bottled it up, shelved it away for darker times.
And dark times have arrived; here you both are, trapped in a goddamn, broken down, radio station van in the middle of a blizzard.
"Then you just… you left. You stood me up. You were gone not even a month later. We were finally getting close—"
"And I f- fucked it up." A sigh rumbles out of Steve; he doesn't agree or disagree, just… acknowledges it. "This is gonna sound so dumb, but I felt… guilty, for calling out that day. I should've been th—"
"No. I mean it. It's a relief you never went through that shit. And then in the spring…" Except, you came back. Right after the destruction, but you came back. Colder, yet braver than you left. "I get it. I don't blame you for leaving. You were scared." He swallows thickly. "… But so was I."
Scared is an understatement.
He's feared for his life before, the year prior, and before that. He was scared for Nancy, hell, even Jonathan, the night they tried to trap the Demogorgon in the Byers' home.
He was terrified in the junkyard, plastering on a brave face for the kids. No way in hell would he let them down; he was gonna succeed or die trying— to Steve, no other choices existed.
He was convinced he'd die down in that cursed bunker with Robin, and if it weren't Erica and Dustin— two children— that anticipated fate would've played out to truth.
And the Mind Flayer— Jesus Christ— that fuckin'… thing. A grotesque terror on monstrous legs; too many damn legs, arms, everything, if you ask Steve. He can't think too hard about what exactly it was made up of, who specifically turned essentially into human jam and—
Yeah. No. He really can't stomach it. Just like the nightmares of losing you leave him shaken for the rest of the waking day.
Most nights, Steve has to double, sometimes triple check the locks on the doors before he goes to sleep. He latches all the windows. Sometimes unlatches just to re-latch, jiggling the window's frame, just to be certain it's closed. Every room, every hallway, holds a night-light's subtle glow for peace of mind.
Peace of mind from what, exactly? A Demogorgon? Demodogs? The Mind Flayer? The Russian guards, and flayed former classmates? All this time later, he hasn't been able to pinpoint which exactly he wants peace from the most. They're all equally fucked up, all royally fucked him up.
Steve knows his efforts are not enough to stave off these fears forever. They never are.
And Vecna? He's still processing that. After all, it hasn't even been one year since it all happened.
Less than one year since Eddie died, slowly killing Dustin with each day that passes without him; the more Steve tries to be there for the kid, the more he's pushed away. It's taking a toll on Steve, trying to be mindful of Dustin's grieving, trying to remind this kid he's not alone.
Less than one year since Max technically, in clinical terms, died, for over a minute; even a second considered dead is way too fucking long, and for a kid her age? Too damn soon. If it weren't for El reviving her, the party would be in shambles— yet they're on the verge of crumbling while Max is in a coma, anyway.
If anything happened to any of these kids, it'd devastate the rest of them. It'd devastate anyone in this little, yet forever growing, found family Steve's tripped and fallen into years ago.
And you.
You— he can't even stomach the idea of your safety being threatened. It only circles back to the nightmares he still has of you. He fears one of these days losing you will come true, and… and—
It hits him like a nuclear missile, dead on.
He didn't want you to leave earlier, to go out into the storm, because he was afraid one of his greatest fears, losing you, again, would come true. This chance to fix everything, at least make peace with what never came to be, has been right in front of you both for months since you got home.
Instead, it's been spent stuck in a cycle of hate, giving and taking sharp glares and words only dripping in venom.
So much wasted time—
"Steve?"
Reality settles in around him again, eyes focusing on you, remorse taking hold of every thought crossing his mind.
Unexpectedly, even to him, Steve blurts out, "I'm sorry." When your brows furrow, the remorse floods out. "I- I'm sorry for not being honest from the start—"
"You were trying to protect me, I get that now." He feels the tension dissolve out of you. "I'm sorry too." Your voice trembles, not from the cold this time. "Can we… start over?"
A smug smirk curls along his face. "Um… we can, but it'd be pretty awkward to start over like this."
"Oh my god, Steve."
"What? I'm just saying!" He chuckles with a shrug. "When we met, I had strawberry ice cream stains on my shirt, and I got, like, maybe three hours of sleep the night before. This seems incredibly different, considering we're both naked."
"You're not the one fully naked." You stifle laughter, rolling your eyes.
"Oh, what, I'm sorry— did you want me to be blunt instead? Because I am really fucking sorry if I get hard." Flustered, he rambles as you blink up at him, wide-eyed. "Seriously, you keep rubbing against me like that and it's- I'm— fuck."
Your hips are rolling into him again as the corners of your lips gradually quirk upward. "Okay," you say simply, not matching your devious smile.
"… Okay?" Steve scoffs.
"I mean… it's not like you're the only one struggling here," you admit, brash and certain. "Can't tell you how wet I've been since you started holding me."
"Oh, trust me. I know." Steve bounces back, stifling a smug chuckle. "Felt it the whole time."
Mortification contorts its way into your face. You hide again, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder.
"Hey, nuh-uh, no hiding. I thought it was hot." His fingers trail down your spine, sweeping to your side. He rests his hand over the curve of your hip, drawing slow circles into your skin with his thumb. "… Still do."
A shrill, piercing whistle whirls past the van, leading in a wave of howling wind, rocking the van. The instant jostle nudges you against him completely, It taunts you and Steve as you dance around you feelings.
The van's frame sways and creaks as the blizzard continues. You shift, trying to get comfortable, until your thigh presses against Steve's bulge and he hisses under his breath.
"Fuck, shit, fuck—"
Yeah. He's hard.
He tangles himself into you, thick thigh flexing against your slick heat. All carnal desires aside, he's sure fucking relieved to feel some part of you completely warm.
Thinking of being warm, and staying that way, leads him to speaking unfiltered. "Might not be the worse way to keep each other from freezing to death."
"Uh-huh…" you sound breathy, the last of your animosity towards Steve long disintegrated by now. "S'good idea." A shiver down your spine sends your hips bucking forward; Steve's curious if it from the cold or not. "S- sorry, m'sorry, I keep—"
Steve shushes you delicately. "Don't be sorry, take what you need."
Your thighs tighten around his, clit throbbing against him. Arousal builds onto his bare skin the more you drag your cunt against him.
"Just go slow, okay?" His reminder is tender, faces close enough to touch, breaths picking up speed. "Slow, slow, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."
"Yeah but—" your fingers hook under his waistband teasingly, breaths growing shallower. "Want you n- now—"
Steve grabs your hands, pulling them up within eyesight. He needs you clear-headed. "Hey, I mean it. We gotta be smart about this."
He doesn't expect you to frown, ego visibly wounded in your expression; what did you hear out of what he said?
"We don't have to do anything if you're not into it."
"No, no, I'm—" Steve puffs his cheeks out, exhaling quickly. His arms rope you back in, pressing up against him with a gasp. "You were freezing to death less than an hour ago—"
"Not to death."
"Only 'cause you came back before it was too late." And that he kept you stable, but he's not seeking recognition for that. His hands rise to cradle your cheeks, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Last thing we need is your heart over-exerting itself."
"But you're the one who suggested—" you collect your thoughts with a deep breath. "You're sending mixed signals, Steve. Do you want this or not?"
"I do, but I want you safe and warm. So, let me take care of you, alright?"
"Okay…" Steve looks down as you trail off, noticing your mood shift. Concern draws your brows together, tugs your lips downward and hushes your voice to a whisper. A cold finger traces the scar around his neck, and he gulps. "When did this happen?"
He was dreading this, grateful you'd been so delirious while recovering that you didn't notice the freshly healed skin, taut and pink— now a little purple from the cold, he's sure; this kind of weather always promises to emphasize souvenirs of the past.
"Last year," he trembles; the more he focuses on trying to breathe steadily, the more he shakes. "… Bats."
"The same that…" He hears you hesitate, holding that one, brutal truth on the tip of your tongue, only to soften it for both of your sake. "Same ones that… that attacked Eddie?"
"Yeah, I guess." Steve shakes his head, "I don't know how I survived and he didn't." His voice drops, laden with guilt. "Kinda fucked up if you ask me."
"Do they hurt?" You ask so tenderly, sincerity woven within your words. It pricks hot tears in Steve's eyes, ones he blinks away quickly.
No one ever really asks Steve if he's okay. Not like this. Not when it comes to the Upside Down.
"Yeah," he croaks out. "Sometimes, yeah." Unprompted, he adds, "Not as much as the headaches, though."
"How often do you get them?" You ask, but Steve only shrugs. It's not enough to quell your concern. "Steve…"
He doesn't need you to know just how bad it gets sometimes. The warning signs leading up to a flare— like how his neck aches and stiffens, how his vision doubles, and the ringing in his ears only grows louder.
Steve doesn't want to worry you, or anyone, of the throbbing, consistent pain; how similar it feels to being cracked in the skull with a fist, something he's experienced more than once— one time too many. The agonizing throbbing that morphs into pounding, and sometimes he can feel it behind his left eye, like it's still swollen shut.
Sounds become unbearably sharp and jagged to his brain. Too much light enrages him. They're more than just headaches, he knows that. Yet he bottles it all up, because emotionally, he can't afford to not be okay. He has to show up for everyone else.
Acknowledging him, you hum softly; he's grateful you've never been one to push him too far on a subject he'd rather avoid. "Should I, um—" you clear your throat awkwardly, "avoid them? The scars, I mean."
Not like this one's much easier to talk about.
Steve's shoulder's tighten while his breath hitches, sharp and obvious and shit, he wishes he caught that in time. That wish strengthens when you grimace.
"I'm sorry. That's— I'm not trying to be rude, just wasn't sure since sometimes they hurt—"
"S'okay," he relaxes after a deep breath. "Don't worry about 'em."
You hum, tracing the one along his neck with your finger. The warmth left in the wake of your touch is another reminder he's safe with you.
It's when your fingertips trail up to his face, palm caressing his cheek before resting there, that his heart skips a beat. And when you gingerly sweep your thumb against his cheekbone, his breath hitches.
"Whenever your headaches start… you'll tell me, right?"
When that simple question, loaded with empathy and laced with tenderness, leaves your lips, something within Steve breaks.
"It's… it's okay, I can handle it on my own."
For the first time, those words aren't convincing enough to lie to himself.
"Steve," you whisper, head shaking as the color of your irises bore into the hazel of his. "You don't have to handle anything on your own."
It's so direct, so honest— how can he even respond to that?
There's so much to say— how he'd always put the kids before himself, no questions asked. How he wants to do his part and keep everyone safe, during crawls and beyond. How his trauma, chronic and relentless, stays bottled up and shelved away, only to have manifested into a physical curse on every nerve ending in his entire being— and he still keeps it hidden away.
The past you narrowly escaped while he was beaten to hell and back, that's not yours to carry, it's his.
"I won't let you handle it alone," you whisper, challenging his unspoken thoughts. "Not anymore."
Feelings for you that he forcefully sunk long ago, rush to the surface and consume Steve. It's overwhelming, and words aren't enough; he surges forward, his lips finding yours while you squeak with surprise.
Steve breaks away, presses his lips to your jaw, kisses down your neck while his hands caress the shape of your figure. His touch is gentle, yet sturdy. Firm, yet sweet.
You bite back a moan, teeth pinning your bottom lip down, but you still shiver. He knows he's making you feel good. If you won't say it, he certainly feels it in the way you grab him, anywhere you can find purchase; his hips, his arms, his back, leaving behind little divots from your finger tips, dug into his skin.
He moves lower, one hand pausing on your breast, kneading it tenderly, kissing down your chest to pause at the other side. His lips gently lingering against the sensitive, pebbled peak is all it takes to begin unraveling you.
The gasp that slips out is one beyond what Steve's dreams could even imagine. His cock kicks as he flicks his tongue on your nipple.
"Shit, Steve…"
He sucks softly, a distinct pop! filling the confined space when he pulls back. He looks up with a thread of spit tethering him to your skin, and you look wrecked already.
He can't even wrap his mind around how devastatingly fucked out you'll look when he's through with you.
"Coulda' kept each other warm all this time," Steve breathes, kissing across the valley between your breasts to the other side. His tongue flits out, lazily teasing your nipple while tweaking and pinching the other. "You just had to be stubborn, huh?"
"Only 'cause you- you— a- ah, fuck…" your hips roll up into his, cunt grazing against his clothed cock, sticky and warm and slick and god… if you weren't so fragile right now, Steve would love to ruin you immediately.
If, you know, you were into that.
His cock twitches as his mind drifts, curious as to what the hell you're even into, and if he'll be lucky enough to have more chances to find out.
The two of you just have to survive this night first.
"'Cause I what?" He should be a little softer, a little kinder, but the edge is returning, and only because of your wanton, needy squirming. "Finish the sentence."
You gasp as Steve nudges his knee between your legs, parting them to flex his thigh against your cunt. You're soaked enough to glide yourself effortlessly against him.
Except, Steve grabs your hips, hovering above you while pinning them in place.
"Finish. The. Sentence."
You clamp your legs tight around the one against your core, but he plants his hands on your thighs, pushing them apart to admire your glistening cunt.
"I wouldn't h- have left if you weren't so m- mean!"
"Yet you're a mess right now." He withdraws, only to use his thumbs to part your folds. "Look at you, dripping and pretending like you're not into this."
Steve licks his lips, one thumb casually gliding up from your hole through your folds, resting lightly over your clit. You jolt from even the slight pressure.
"Bet you were this wet before you left."
Your brows knit together. "I wasn't."
"No?" He taunts you, pad of his thumb circling your clit, so close to where you want him, yet so deliberately distant. "Hm… you sure?" Your hips twitch while you gasp, inflating his ego as he simpers. "Seemed like earlier you were pretty fuckin' soaked."
"From t- the snow!" The more flustered you become, the more Steve's confidence grows, bordering onto being cocky. "Jesus, I was outside in a blizzard, in case you forgot."
Steve laughs. He laughs; it's cruel and runs straight to your throbbing clit, adjacent to his teasing touch.
"I don't think so, sweetheart." With a smug grin, he adds, "Doubt the snow would make you smell this damn good either."
"Steve!" You gasp, taken aback. The line's almost tacky, straight out of a bad porno, but Jesus Christ, he can't help himself around you.
"In fact—" he reaches out of the bag, retrieving the garment in question. Reservations long buried under the snow, he brings the pair to his face, eyes rolling back as he huffs in your scent. A guttural groan tears through him, while you're left speechless. "Been wanting to do that all fuckin' night."
Jaw hanging ajar, you whisper, "Holy shit, Harrington."
The smug expression falters, "Too much?"
"No," you breathe out, "fuck, no."
Relief revives his smirk. "Good. I'm far from done with you."
Trailing wet, painfully paced kisses down your body, Steve begins unzipping the sleeping bag; he'd rather not suffocate in that while going down on you. If anything keeps him from breathing tonight, he prays it's only your slick cunt smothering his face.
He's gentle, mindful, caressing your sides slowly to keep you warm. It softens the mean streak he just held out for your sake.
Parting your legs, he glances up to you. "Doing okay?" His lips drag along the plush of your left thigh, gentle, pointed kisses trailing closer to your core. His strong grip digs into your thighs before switching to the right one. "Need to hear you, honey."
"Mhm, yeah, I'm—" Steve parts your slit, moaning softly as he takes you in. "M'good. Promise."
"Good," he husks, leaving a chaste, open mouth kiss over your core. "Don't wanna neglect this pretty pussy."
You huff with an affectionate eye roll. "Swear to god, Steve, if anyone else said shit like this to me, I'd leave instantly."
"So what you're saying is…" Steve's lips linger on your folds, tongue teasingly flitting out, barely meeting your clit. Your legs twitch while you whimper. "I'm the exception?"
"D- don't let it get to your head, Har—" Sharply, you gasp as he spreads your core apart with his thumbs, only to spit on your puffy clit. "Fuck."
He leans in, mouth working languidly as his lips meet your glistening slit. It's already written in stone that the taste of anyone else won't ever compare; you've effortlessly wrecked him.
And he's already ruined you with each drag of his tongue, leading to your clit to suckle tenderly. He looks up, hoping to see you slowly unravel, and he does; your eyes roll back in time while you clench around nothing, rolling your hips to chase his tongue.
The soft sounds from his mouth cause you to throb, feeling every hum and groan, hearing him lave at your arousal. Hooded stare weighed down with lust, he continues watching you fall apart on his tongue.
Steve's moans tremble through you, with gravelly murmurs in between; every oh shit, and fuck, and little praise in between is enough to roll waves of heat through you. He must be able to feel it.
"See? You just needed to get warmed up." Your hips jolt against his mouth as he laps at your clit, while a thick finger circles your hole. He grins smugly. "Be good for me, and I'll keep you warm."
Your clit throbs against his tongue, and Steve moans. It's almost as pornographic as the sound he let out minutes before. His arms hook around your thighs, tugging you flush against his mouth.
"Is this all it takes to shut you up?"
Though drained and still trembling, your fingers tangle through his hair, pulling to trap his mouth against your pussy. He notices the light pressure in your grasp, mindful of his mention of headaches earlier.
"I dunno, I- I should be asking you the same damn thing."
The switch is subtle, tiny, but it's enough to send Steve's eyes rolling back into his head, whimpering as he bucks into the floor of the van.
"Oh…" you grin deviously. "You're into that, huh?"
The ounce of power, that microscopic switch, falls apart instantly as Steve leans back. Warmth withdraws along with him, your hands fall away, and all pleasure ceases. He slides two fingers up the edge of your folds, spreading them apart to spit directly onto your clit; you twitch and gasp.
"Hey!" Exasperated, you yelp, "Why'd you stop?!"
Steve doesn't answer, only runs his hands along the back of your thighs, gently nudging your legs to fold closer to yourself. He reaches your hips, pushing up to throw a nearby blanket underneath your back.
"What— what are you—" His mouth is back on you, tongue delving into your slit, running around your clit before puckering his lips. "Ohmyfuckinggod— Steve—"
You gasp when he mouths sloppily at your cunt, making out with it, taking his time to explore this part of you he's already dreamed so much of.
This part, this sweet, tight, hot part of you that he's fucked his fist to the thought of almost every night since you've moved home.
Not even his wildest dreams could've conceived what you really taste like. Your scent. How soft you are. And pretty, so goddamn pretty.
And as your hardened personality thaws out, the real you— the one Steve's always pined over— finally melts through.
He's missed you. So, so much.
The obscene sounds, all of the slurping and suckling to make you fall apart, fill the van. Walls clenching around his fingers as they barely enter you, your body sucks him in greedily.
"Jesus Christ," Steve breathes, getting sloppier as you get louder. He angles his fingers differently, and with the way he's got you positioned, you're blindsided by an orgasm shattering through you.
"Oh my god, oh my god—" he brushes up against your sweet spot, triggering your legs to shake around his head. "Fuck!"
Your high's barely over as he kisses your inner thighs, eyeing up your puffy, dripping folds.
"Got one more in you?" His lips and chin glisten with your essence in the low light. You nod breathlessly, hand over your chest as it rises and falls rapidly. His demeanor softens. "Hey, look at me."
Dazed, your eyes flutter open. They lock with his, full of concern.
"Should we stop?" You shake your head, but the silent conformation isn't enough. "Need you to say it if you want it," there's a flash of dull pain as he nips at your inner thigh, kissing away the sting immediately. His hand pulls away, leaving you empty and needy.
"I- I want it."
"Want… what?"
Exasperated, you whine while throwing your head back, "Oh my god, Steve."
"C'mon, you can tell me." He begins taunting you, "Usually you have no problem running that mouth of yours."
"You're so fucking insufferable sometimes, I sw- swear to god." The tremble in your voice is more from aftershocks than the cold.
Even when you were nice, you had an edge, and he missed that, too.
Steve crawls over you, nose nudging against your own. His fingers feather and tease along your slit, retreating as you buck your hips to chase his touch.
"There she is," chuckling, he slips a finger back into you, leaning down to murmur against your lips, "There's my girl."
As you gasp, he takes the chance to kiss you, really kiss you this time. Your back arches while he pumps into your slick heat. Lips parted against your own, slotted together, tasting yourself on his tongue while he licks into your mouth— it's all so goddamn dizzying for the both of you.
You break apart when you palm him over his boxers, rendering Steve speechless for a moment.
"Who knew that'd shut you up so easily too," you snicker, giving a gentle squeeze to his bulge, eliciting a sweet gasp from him. "Fuck, Steve. You're…"
Cheeks heating up to a rosy pink, he freezes, eyes darting down between your bodies, then back to you. "What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. I- I just…" Keeping an airy touch, you trace a finger along his cock. He whines pathetically, head falling forward onto your shoulder. To muffle his sounds, he mouths at your skin. "You're so… big."
He sighs; yeah, he should've expected that.
"It's not a bad thing! No part of you is bad!" You're tumbling into a nervous ramble. "That stuff doesn't matter anyway, y'know, size and whatever. I just- I don't know—" you clear your throat with an awkward laugh, rushing out, "Idon'tknowifyou'llfit."
Steve blinks as the words sink in.
Oh.
"Hey, shh, s'okay," he chuckles softly, confidence flowing back. "We can try, if you want. But there's no pressure."
"I wanna, I really want to, it's— I'm— you—"
He cuts you off with a kiss. There's a soft hum reeled out of you, shaping his lips into a smirk against your own. It's short and sweet, resting his forehead on yours as you break apart.
"One step at a time, okay?"
He's back between your legs as before, allowing you both to relax as he tries to take this slow, almost at a lazy pace, but that lasts all of five seconds.
Because one more taste of you, and Steve's a fucking goner.
Steve juts his face into your cunt, tapering his tongue to fuck into you as you're grinding onto his face. He grants your wordless wish, sinking a finger into you again. In search of that sweet, sacred spot, he curls it, grazing somewhere inside that makes hips rock with desperation while you cry out.
"Harder," he grunts into your core, the rumble of his order going straight to your clit without direct touch. He yanks you closer to his face— as if it's even possible at this point— and his gaze travels away from you, rolling to the back of his head, groaning as you're the only taste on his tongue. In way too deep to speak, he just hums with satisfaction, laced with an air of praise.
Licking into you, the strong bridge of his nose nudges against your clit as it throbs. You buck forward accidentally, but he happily accepts, burying his face between your thighs. He slides another finger into you and smirks as your legs begin to quiver.
"Steve…" You cover your mouth, but he yanks your hand away, while leaning back to spit onto your cunt again.
In between flits and laves of his tongue, he husks, "Wanna hear you again." The vibrations of his gravelly voice are what send you to the edge, but his tender encouragement is what seals the deal. "It's just us, honey. C'mon," he coaxes. "Lemme hear those pretty sounds you make."
Steve works overtime, meticulous in the speed he pumps his fingers, while your essence drips down his hand. The curls and flattening of his tongue between your folds, lapping up every drop you have to offer. Eventually rubbing his nose against your clit while he both tongue and finger fucks you simultaneously.
Bliss rolls through your body, luring out whimpers of his name and babbles of praise.
"Steve—" you gasp, back arching up as your tangled fingers anchor him to you. "Fu- oh my god, fuck—!"
You tremble, you gush, you unravel at the seams, and he'd keep doing this, and only this, all night if you'd let him. Watching you fade into such a fucked out state has his cock throbbing, sandwiched between himself and the van's floor.
Steve feels sticky; that much he expected. But… his boxers are damp, tacky against his skin, along with his tummy, where the tip of his cock lay snug under the waistband.
Oh, no.
"So, uh…" he kisses your core, smirking as it clenches around nothing. Kissing your thigh, he peers up through his lashes at you. "… How hard is it to wash cum out of a sleeping bag?"
Dazed, you're still smiling, dopey and giddy and sighing, "Mmm, dunno. Can't be that difficult—" your eyes pop open before you study Steve, still between your legs. "… Why?"
"No reason, really, just— I'm just curious—"
"Steve."
"M'yeah?" His eyes shift away for a second, guilty.
"Were you— oh my god."
"What?!"
A taunting, victorious smirk comes to life. "Did you hump the fucking floor?"
"Well, when you put it like that…" Steve cringes, blushing intensely. "Kinda?" Your playful stare narrows down at him. "It's not like I was trying to! It just— I— you—" he groans, burying his face into the plush of your inner thigh.
The embarrassment's worth it to hear your laugh, genuine and breathy woven into your comedown. "Better on the damn bag than the actual rug."
He could fall asleep here, so cozy and warm between your legs. You card your fingers through his soft hair, gingerly scraping along his scalp, earning his content hum.
Steve lifts his head to be met with your longing stare, soft, weary smile. It's impossible to hide his own smile. "What?"
"Come back up," you shoot out grabby hands. "M'cold."
"Oh," he snorts, crawling back into your arms. "Is that all I'm good for?"
"Nah, your tongue is pretty great, too."
Rolling his eyes, a smile peeks out as he zips the bag back up, cuddling close to you. Your leg swings over his hip and he reels you in. Fatigue settles in, and it's not long before you're drifting off.
You're not cold anymore, with most symptoms finally fading or completely dissipated; he figures it's safe to sleep. Hell, he could use the rest, too.
It's not until the first, faint snore, that he realizes his goddamn, sticky boxers are still on, and he doesn't have the heart to move you.
A little discomfort is worth it if you're safe and sound in his arms, but… Jesus Christ, this is going to be one long fucking nap.
Steve's unsure when the two of you shifted in your sleep, but with the limited space in the bag, you've ended up spooning him.
It's… kinda nice. He's never been the little spoon before, not with anyone he's ever cuddled with.
By some higher power or sheer, dumb luck, you're warm— fucking finally. You're clinging onto him from behind and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck.
Steve's breath hitches when your lips graze his neck. He chokes back a whine as you brush your soft figure against his back.
He gently murmurs your name into the dark while your arms tighten around his torso. You hum in return, soft and content.
Splaying out your fingers, they creep down his body, teasing around the waistband, dipping just below the elastic of his briefs.
"Mm—" Steve bites back some kind of pathetic sound. "Baby, what're'y'doin'?"
The pet name blooms heat under your cheeks. He hears you hum, feels you shrug. Your fingers sink a little lower, brushing up against the head of his cock.
"S'okay?"
"It- yeah, but—" Steve gasps when your thumb sweeps over the slit on his tip, still tacky from when he came in his boxers earlier. Now, on top of that, arousal weeps his slit on command by your touch.
"But?"
Your hand begins to retreat, until Steve grabs it, shoving it toward the base of his cock. His hips buck into your palm, groan rumbling deep from his throat.
Whether it's because Steve's been touch starved, or just really, really into you (both. it's totally both), your fingertips tracing down his shaft cause him to twitch.
He can feel himself pulsate into your palm as your grip winds around him. You only pump once, twice, three times, and he's quick to begin unraveling.
"I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that," Steve whines, bucking into your fist. "I can't— ah… f- fuck—" he grumbles, forcing out, "I— dammit, I can't afford to come in my pants again. I only have one pair!"
"Then take 'em off," you giggle. "Need you in me."
Any other circumstance, Steve would allow the teasing to drag on, but he can't take any more tension. He flips over to lean above you, switching positions; you're the little spoon now, and you're flustered from the sudden change.
As you roll to your left side, you lean on your elbow to prop yourself up. Steve hastily plucks a condom from his wallet, still in the crumpled, damp jeans he discarded earlier and within reach.
You keep your legs bent as Steve settles behind you, backside on full display to him. Glancing over your shoulder, you've got a perfect view of him, already reveling in the way he's struggling to keep himself together while rolling the condom down his length.
Hand at the thick base of his cock, he drags the ruddy tip between your folds, teasing your clit before catching at your entrance. He repeats the taunting motion, smirk building with each whimper and whine you set free. One last drag through your slick slit, Steve rests the head at your entrance, pushing in only a little bit.
"Still okay?" He asks, eyes flitting to yours. One might think he sounds groggy from a nap, but he's just pussy drunk already.
"Yeah, mhm," your breathy reply makes his cock kick in his hand and against you. "Ju- just go slow, okay?"'
Steve leans down, planting his lips on your forehead. "Promise I will."
And he does; inch by inch, he slides into you, stretching you out to a limit you've never reached before. In awe, he watches himself disappear inside of you, breath hitching the further he goes.
"Fuck— fuck, you're—" his eyes roll back, twitching against your tight, warm walls. Hips tilting, you push your ass back to help him ease in. All it does is make Steve a total wreck. Pathetically, he strains out through bated breath, "…Might need a minute."
"Yeah?" The teasing edge he secretly loves so much is returning; a sign you're feeling more like yourself. "You look like you could use ten."
"Keep it up," he huffs, "you're gonna need a few days 'til you can walk again."
Steve's hips reel back, dragging out torturously slow as you banter on. He leisurely slides back in, stretching you out. Again, he pulls out, even slower this time.
"We talkin' business days? 'Cause tomorrow's the weekend, and I'd love to not be in recovery—" He slams into you, bottoming out in one thrust. "— Christ, Steve! What the—"
Fully retreating, his shaft caresses your silky, slick walls. Fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, he teasingly glides the tip of his cock through your folds, dipping into your entrance.
With each push back, he pulls out; your desire is only met with taunting, dangling bliss just in reach.
"You done talking logistics yet?"
Though your jaw falls open to quip back, only a gasp tumbles out. With another snap of his hips against yours, he fills you again.
That stretch isn't dizzying on one end only; Steve has to gulp down steady breaths to relax. He's wanted this, wanted you, for years now.
No way is he fucking this up now with a pitifully swift finish.
"N'you were worried you couldn't take me," he patronizes, yet your walls clenching around him mercilessly wipe the smug grin off his face. "Jesus fuckin' christ."
"Maybe you can't take me," you dare to challenge him. The teasing ignites something deep within, and, well, you're the one who started a fire you most likely can't extinguish.
Steve lifts the leg closest to him to rest it against his torso. You roll a little more onto your back as he straddles your leg against the floor; similar to missionary, but the angle hits so sinfully as he sinks back in.
Then, without mercy, void of warning, he relentlessly pounds into you.
Already at a loss for words, all you have to offer are sharp gasps. The plush of your body bounces with each of his thrusts, enticing his grip of one hand to dig into your hip.
What he doesn't expect is your hand to glide down your form, conforming to your curves until your fingertips brush over his knuckles.
Steve's breath hitches, hips stuttering with a faltering pace. Hesitantly, he laces his fingers between yours, and to his surprise, your grip doesn't falter.
It tightens.
Just like the choke-hold his feelings for you have on his heart.
"Don't get sappy on me now," Steve teases, fighting off his own emotions. His eyes flicker down to your hands intertwined, cock twitching inside you when you tighten your hold on him.
The gesture is small, but his heart flutters; what's meaningful to Steve is something you're probably not even thinking twice about. He rolls his hips against you, slow and deep, hoping to distract from his feelings.
"Wouldn't dr— oh!" You gasp, eyes rolling back as he hits the spot that makes you weak. He hears you murmur his name, strung together with expletives under your breath. "W- wouldn't dream of it."
Fog blankets the windows as each thrust rocks the van on its frame. Sweat beads at your brow, and there's relief found in the sight. You feel so warm, only reminding him mere hours ago you were freezing to death.
But you're here, underneath him, closer than he ever imagined to be outside of his dreams. You're here, warm, coherent, safe.
Safe because of him. Alive, because you chose to trust him.
That plucks at his heartstrings, too.
"Steve?"
Your voice is breathy, but concern is laced throughout, tugging him back into the present. He locks eyes with you, but you're blurry. He registers your hand extending to rest on his cheek, instinctively leaning into your tender touch.
"Hey, slow down," you swipe your thumb across his cheek, and it glides against his skin with ease. Too much ease. "Baby, stop for a second. You're crying."
Baby.
Anytime he's been called that, it never felt right. But hearing it from your lips is a whole different story.
Wait, did you say he was crying?
"Sorry, I…" he trails off, glancing away and kissing your palm, panting heavily against it. "M'okay."
"Steve—"
"No, I swear. I'm just—" he shudders out a breath, one with relief. "I'm glad you're okay."
"So much for not getting sappy," you tease, but when Steve only halfheartedly smiles, you fall back into the energy he has. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I'm okay."
"I know." He nods, hair flopping in his face. "I know, I know that. I know."
Maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it.
"St—"
He cuts you off abruptly with a kiss, insatiably slotting his lips against yours. His tongue runs along your bottom lip, silently pleading for more. When you oblige, parting your kiss-swollen, wind-bitten lips, he groans, thrusting without warning into you again.
You break the kiss reluctantly, grabbing his face. "Steve. You should—"
"I'm fine, I mean it," he whispers against your lips, sloppily rocking into you. "I'm okay. Promise."
And, really, he is, he just didn't think those emotions would sucker punch him right now.
You gasp again as he hits your sweet spot, eyes falling out of focus into a dazed stare. "M'gonna cum," you rasp out, staving off a strangled moan. "Steve, I'm— I—"
He unsheathes himself from you, and it pains him to do so, whimpering as the chill of the air around erases your warmth. He glances down to your cunt, watching it clench around nothing.
"Why'd you do that?" You're breathless as you manage to ask, and the heartbroken look on your face almost tempts Steve to give in. Instead, he runs a finger through your folds, dripping and enticing as his touch drags over your throbbing clit. "Oh my god, this is the second time tonight you've done that!"
"M'not letting you finish that easy," he teases.
You whine, tossing your head back against the worn pillow, now damp with sweat. He restrains himself from splitting you open again, ignoring how needy his cock is, throbbing, red, and leaking at the tip.
"Up," he orders, throwing the sleeping bag off your tangled forms. Eager for more, you sit up, a little too quickly for his liking. Immediately his tone softens with concern, "Okay, wait. Careful, slow— Don't need you passing out."
Steve's hand finds your cheek, lips planting on yours, kissing you so sweetly. He smiles against your lips before he rolls a blanket up while nodding to the carpet. "You okay on your knees?"
"Okay?" You climb onto all fours, teasing, "I'm pretty fuckin' great on my knees."
Steve shakes his head, though his smile doesn't fade, "Jesus Christ, and I had the bad lines?" He places the blanket under your tummy, hiking your hips up with the extra support. "That help?"
It's a small gesture, one he probably doesn't think twice about, but it sure sticks with you anyway. "Uh-huh." You wiggle your ass, impatiently eager to be filled again.
His large hands slide over the curve of your backside, squeezing and kneading the doughy flesh. Your core glistens with arousal, practically begging for indulgence.
And Steve? He's in a trance, mouth on you for the third time tonight; he can't get enough of you. No one has ever tasted like you. No one's ever felt as soft as you, been as soaked as you. No one sounds like you, or shows the tiny yet impactful levels of intimacy you do with him.
No one's like you. No one could even compare.
"Fuck…" he lowly sighs out, nose nudging between your folds. "Didn't think you'd get this wet again."
"I—" You cut yourself off with a strangled gasp as Steve's tongue flits out, curling at your entrance, but not quite dipping in. "Hhhohmygod."
Thick fingers drag through your folds as he pulls back, teasing in circles around your throbbing clit, never touching it directly. You push your ass back, but he grips your hip firmly, holding you still.
"Steve," you whine.
"I know, I know," he murmurs, leaning in to suck crudely on your clit, one final time. Lining up with your entrance, one hand roams to your hips, the other, guiding himself into you. "Gonna take real good care of you, honey."
You're already clenching with a gasp. "Can't be saying— a- ah!" Steve nudges the tip into you, barely past the head's flare when you whine out. Sinking in, the delicious stretch lures you both under its spell. "S- sayin' sweet shit to me like th- that."
"I mean it," he groans, eyes rolling back as your tight heat envelopes him again. "Every damn time, too."
"What, this isn't a h- heat of the moment kinda th- thing?"
"Not even close, sweetheart." He digs his grip into the plush of your ass, slowly entering you again. Hypnotized, he watches himself disappear inside of you with each thrust. "Jesus Christ… suckin' me right in."
You nudge back into him. Steve chokes on his breath as your ass slams into him. "I- I need more."
"Yeah?" Thumbs on your lower back circle softly on your skin. He watches the goosebumps rise with satisfaction. "How do we ask for more?"
"Jesus fuckin'—" irked, you grumble. You slump against the pillows beneath you, whining, "Please."
"Please… what?"
"Steve, I s- swear to god—"
"Go ahead," he juts his chin out, smirk strong as he feels a power trip within reach. He wishes you could see how smug he is from there. In a slow retreat, he drags himself out of you, leaving you empty, cold, miserable. "Keep up the attitude, we'll see what happens."
"You're such a—" Steve slams back into you, knocking a cry from your lungs. His cock kicks against your tightening walls. "Oh, fuck…" You clap a hand over your mouth, but Steve yanks it away.
He pins that arm behind your back, thrusting hard and deep.
"Such a what?"
"Nothing. Sh- shut up an' fuck me already." When he doesn't move, you breathe out reluctantly, "… please?"
Steve snaps his hips against your ass, bottoming out within you. The sudden stretch shoves a cry out from the back of your throat.
"Aw, see?” He drags himself out, tauntingly slow. “Not so hard to ask for what you need, huh?" He thrusts again, sinking in to the hilt, "Thaaaaaat's my girl." He moans, rumbling deeply as he fills and stretches you all over again.
The condescending comment should be that, only that, but instead your breath hitches. It's one that unexpectedly makes Steve's heart jump, his stomach flip; he wonders if you feel the same.
"I… Yours?"
Though you can't see him in this position, Steve's eyes flicker away, tongue darting out the corner of his mouth as he tries focusing on fucking you instead.
"Mhm, if…" He groans when your free hand reaches between your thighs, underneath you both to grip his balls and massage them. "Oh, shit, honey… s- so good…"
Fatigue still rests heavy in your limbs, and even with the pillow supporting underneath, you begin to sag down to the floor. It's not much help that you're not holding your own balance anymore.
"Hang on, I got ya'." It's such a basic phrase handled with care, passion coupling with his actions; a strong arm winds around your waist as his thrusts slow. He hoists you back into his lap, kneeling back on his heels while you're sat back onto him.
He moves again, and you cry out from the new angle, feeling him even deeper than moments before. It's almost toointense; your trembling legs are a sign of that.
"Hey, hey, shhh," Steve kisses your neck softly, leading up to your jaw. "Need a minute?" You shake your head, breaths rapid and shallow. "Wanna stop?"
"God, no," you nearly sob, tightly clenching around his cock, almost to keep him inside you.
"Okay, okay." He kisses your cheek, lips lingering against you as he demands gently, "Tell me what you need."
"Y- you."
Steve chuckles, nuzzling his nose against your jawbone, unable to keep his lips off of you. If this is the only time he has you, he wants to kiss every inch he can reach.
"I'm right here."
Your lips part, but your breath is taken away with each thrust; you can only manage a nod while you whine and gasp.
The smell of sex hanging heavy above you both, the plap plap plap of skin slapping on skin, filling the van alongside your filthy moans; the two of you could put a porn studio to goddamn shame.
And then, there's the mouth on Steve among all of this.
"This pussy all mine?" His head falls back with a throaty groan, hips twitching off-key as embers smolder low in his belly, a fire that's always been easy to build off of.
It's only fair to match his energy.
"Dunno…" You turn your head as he leans over your shoulder, holding you flush against him while relentlessly, sloppily fucking into you. "This cock all mine, Harrington?" You burst into giggles among the breathy sighs. "Got me saying the dumbest shit, that's h- how much I like you."
He doesn't just twitch inside of you, he kicks, with little room to move within your tight walls. The whimper that pairs is one too delicious to ever imagine once, just once.
No, he'll never get enough of you. Not now. Not ever.
"S'all yours, honey," his nose prods into your cheekbone when he kisses the round, soft side of your grin. Huffing and puffing, thrusting into you relentlessly, he adds, "M'all yours."
Steve drives his cock deep within your cunt, dizzy as the stretch barely lets up. The fingers gripped around your chin ease up, two teasing at your bottom lip, tracing it softly. You're so fucked out already, it doesn't register what he's trying to accomplish. Not until he pushes them past your lips. That's when you take him in.
Even just two fingers are thick enough to softly gag you, while your tongue licks and laves at his digits. Warm and wet, you leave him a wreck as he quietly imagines fucking your mouth instead.
God, he hopes this isn't a one time fling; he wants you like this all the time.
"Fuck, you're unreal."
You try and fail to whimper his name around his fingers, drooling onto yourself and his hand.
Steve's fingers slip away, hands sliding down your neck. He loosely holds, gives a gentle squeeze, pushing you right up to the edge. You lean into his palm, tightening around him as you give into trust. His thumb caresses the side of your neck
"St- Steve, m'gonna— I—" his other hand finds your clit, coaxing you to fall into bliss with a steady, tender touch.
"C'mon, come for me," he husks in your ear while his own thrusts stutter, cock pulsing as he follows you into a shared high. He slurs out, "Thas'it. Fu- fuck—"
He spills into you, and you gush around him, yet it's so much more than that. There's a closeness you've craved, finally satiated as you're intertwined and losing yourselves in well-overdue bliss.
Trying to anchor yourselves to one another, there's desperate grasping in tandem with sounds rooted in indulgence. You've got your arm curled behind to tangle your fingers through his hair. Steve's greedily planting his fingerprints everywhere he can reach, digging pressure into every muscle and curve. You pull, he squeezes; the two of you claim one another through frantically passionate touches.
Beyond the lust, this is what you've always longed for with Steve; even if it didn't pan out the way either of you wanted, maybe it was needed to all fall into place.
Wrapped around one another, sweat still drying, smell of sex finally fading, the two of you revel in the afterglow together. Any walls— built with years of spite, grudges, and loss— between you have been demolished.
That doesn't ease Steve's nerves, though.
"Would you…" Steve trails off as self doubt's choke hold tightens on his heart. You lift your head, chin resting on his chest as your eyes find his.
All animosity in your gaze vanishes; he never thought he'd see the day.
"Would you wanna, uh, go out?" Like he didn't just rail you into oblivion, shyness creeps in. He braces himself for rejection, and maybe this question should've waited until after you're dug out from the snow. "Like, on a date, I mean."
Eager, you tease, "Promise I won't stand you up this time."
"Not like you can leave town this time anyway."
Though you scoff, it's playful. There's a smile he never imagined he'd see again, paired perfectly with your sincere laughter that reassures him.
The light in your eyes that radiates a soothing warmth, like spring sunshine on his skin, is back.
"Not sure I'd leave if I even had the chance," you admit. "Not without you."
And the sincerity in those words, it comforts him. Grounds him. For once, just once, the two of you could have something stable, constant, that isn't a threat to your lives.
There's a comfortable silence between you; the blizzard's howling gusts don't sound so lonely and hollow anymore.
"Might be smart to get dressed before the morning." Steve grimaces, reaching between his legs to slide the condom off. "… and clean up first."
"You would ruin the moment with something like that," you groan as he ties it off, sliding an arm out of the sleeping bag to throw it into a small trash bin nearby. "Besides, we're warm and cozy, and—" he smirks, reaching for the zipper next while you whine. "Ugh, no, c'mon— don't open it!"
Steve shrugs, amused. "Then you can explain to whoever ends up rescuing us why we're naked in the middle of a—"
"Okay, okay!" You grumble, stretching over Steve to zip the bag open. Begrudgingly, you shimmy out, rushing to grab the emergency box for clothes.
Despite your protests, Steve helps you get dressed as you grumble over the soreness, no longer numb from the cold. With teamwork and grace, you're back in warm, dry clothes, and Steve follows suit. He helps you back into the sleeping bag, snuggling up next to you once zipped up.
It's effortless, though mindful, how you tangle yourselves around one another. Your leg is thrown over his thigh while you rest on your side. He faces you, slotting his leg between yours and reeling you into his embrace. You tuck your head under his chin, inviting him to kiss the top of your head— and he does.
"We're taking the weekend off," you murmur. It's not a question, it's a firm statement. "No crawls. Not unless they're absolutely certain we're ending this."
"No crawls," Steve agrees, chuckling softly into you hair. "Stay over this weekend? I know it's not the most ideal first date location, but we don't really have the greatest options right now, and—"
"Okay."
"Oh." He pauses, relieved there was no hesitancy from you. "Okay. Yeah. We'll do that."
This might take some getting used to, the whole not being at each other's throats all the time thing. He can't complain, in fact, it's a welcomed change.
"The others can wait, we got catching up to do," you nuzzle your face into his neck, voice vibrating against his throat. "And we'll be dry this time."
He hums with a chuckle low in his throat. "Not sure you could say that for yourself, but sure, okay."
"Steve."
The two of you are too wrapped up in one another to notice the snow finally slowing to something serene, teasing back and forth like you used to. This banter without venom, it's natural now, and he hopes it stays. He hopes you stay. By the way you're so at ease in his embrace, Steve knows you will.
pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
word count: 4k
summary: When you realize you're pregnant, your world is turned upside-down. You find yourself stepping back, pulling away from him, because how could you possibly tell him now? And yet, every time you see him, a tiny spark of hope fights its way through the panic, whispering that maybe he’ll understand.
warnings: miscommunication, angst, sad!Steve, pregnancy, fluff, Steve is the sweetest boy, happy ending.
You loved Steve.
Steve loved you.
It was that simple. You knew him like the back of your hand. You knew the sound of his footsteps and the way he pinched his nose when he was annoyed.
Your friends noticed the signs way before you did. They always knew that your friendship with Steve ran deeper than you admitted to. When you announced that you were officially dating 3 years ago, no one was surprised. "It's about time. It was getting really pathetic, dingus," Robin had said.
Steve was always sweet to you. He always made sure that you felt loved and needed. Sure, you had days when you would bicker, when Steve's jealousy would get the best of him and make him act selfishly. When you just got mad at him because he looked at you weirdly. But everybody had those days. Steve knew you would do anything for him, and you knew he would put his life over yours without even thinking twice.
When you took the pregnancy test you didn't expect the two red lines staring back at you. Robin was there, supporting you. You had broken down in her arms, making her promise that she would not tell a single soul. You felt torn inside. No matter how hard you tried, you were unable to tell Steve that you were pregnant with his child.
--
You were not planning on having a kid - at least not now - and the secret weighed heavily on your mind, making you feel more isolated amid the chaos of Vecna's threat. You and Steve often talked about the future, about traveling the world with your six little nuggets, but that was meant to be a distant possibility.
Steve sensed something was wrong. You had been avoiding him like he was the plague lately. He did not know what he did wrong. He tried talking to you when you were not busy making plans for the crawls, but you shut him out every time. Steve was getting desperate. A part of him was missing, and he didn't even know how it had happened.
--
You were curled up on your couch, wearing Steve's shirt and watching a shitty sitcom. Pregnancy was already kicking your ass. You felt horrible. You were throwing up almost every day and couldn't keep anything down.
Suddenly, you heard a knock on the door. You groaned, too lazy to stand up from the comfort of your sofa. When the knocking did not stop, you realized you had no way but to answer it.
Steve was standing awkwardly in your doorway. He was holding a bouquet of red roses.
"Steve?" You said his name instinctively, not expecting to see him today. He was supposed to be helping Robin with her new job at the Squawk.
"Hey! I thought I'd check on you. I haven't seen you in a while." He smiled sheepishly, looking you in the eyes.
"Steve, you saw me yesterday," you sighed, shaking your head. You knew Steve was clingy. That was clear even before you started dating, and you did not mind his clinginess at all. Actually, you loved that about him, but lately, you felt so overwhelmed by everything. You did not want him to suspect anything, and his constant clinginess was complicating matters.
You knew, Steve knew something was up. And you knew it was only a matter of time before he figured it out.
"Exactly," Steve answered. "You're acting like I can't miss my girlfriend or something."
You sighed again. "Am not." He raised an eyebrow at that.
"Come in," you decided to invite him in. "Are those for me?" you motioned to the flowers.
"Ye- yeah, of course." He answered quickly. He was looking at you with a hopeful gleam in his eyes.
You took it from him, smiling despite yourself. "Thanks, Stevie."
"Sure thing," he answered with a wave of his hand.
The room was uncharacteristically quiet. You decided to put the flowers in the vase to escape the suffocating awkwardness that was in the air.
Steve was hunched over the kitchen cabinet, watching your every move with big, puppy eyes. He looked like he wanted to say something, but was careful not to frighten you with his words.
"So how was the last crawl?" You started, desperate to fill the awkward silence. You had not gone to the last crawl because of the fatigue, and Robin had assured you they could manage without you.
"It was good," he said, nodding at himself, lips stretched in a line. "Really good. There's one tomorrow, you should come."
"Uh, yeah, sure," you answered half-heartedly.
He leaned closer towards you, putting his hand on your arm softly. You could feel your heart rate speeding up as the action unfolded. What was wrong with you?!
"You know you can talk to me, right?" He started.
"Of course, Steve." You murmured. You wanted to get out of this situation quickly, unable to lie under his gaze.
Steve clicked his tongue, pulling his hand away from your arm to hold your palms. "You've been acting distant lately. You sure you okay, sweetie?" You seriously hated the puppy eyes he was giving you.
You sighed, wanting to tell him everything so desperately. Yet, you could not. You were scared. Terrified of what it would mean, of how he would react. You did not want him to freak out. You figured a supernatural hellhole being open in your town was enough. You did not want to be another one of Steve's worries. You could not be the reason he lost his concentration.
"I'm okay," you tried to sound firm.
He cupped your face carefully.
"I miss you, baby," he breathed out.
You pulled away from him, like you were splashed with cold water. You could not be intimate with him anymore, not without you breaking down completely.
"Please, sweetheart, just tell me what's wrong," he strolled towards you again, not letting you leave. "Did I do something wrong? Is it because I used your last hairspray?"
You rolled your eyes. He was so ridiculous.
"Listen, I am sorry, okay? I will buy you a new one, I swear-"
"Steve, stop!" You said, your voice coming out higher than you intended. "It's not that! It's- it's just- I'm just tired, okay? I need some space." You started pacing.
"Space?" He asked, dumbfounded, like it was the first time he heard that word. "But it's been weeks, baby. You've been acting so weird… "he said, placing his hands on your waist. You stepped back.
"Stop, just stop, Steve. I can't do this right now," you breathed, going towards your front door and opening it. "You need to leave."
Steve's face dropped instantly, not expecting you to be so harsh. "What?" He stayed frozen in place.
"Leave! You need to leave." You repeated, trying to keep your tears at bay.
He slowly stepped towards the door, as if in disbelief, hurt evident on his face. "Okay, I am leaving," he said in a small voice.
You shut the door and slid down, face in your hands. It was breaking your heart to treat him like this, but you thought that was the only logical way.
You tried to calm yourself, taking deep breaths. When the tears finally stopped, you went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror.
"It's gonna be alright. Everything's gonna be okay." You promised yourself, looking at your tear-stained face.
You seriously hated this.
--
The sound of a phone ringing woke you up. You rubbed your eyes, not wanting to leave the warmth of your bed.
"Hi?" You answered groggily.
"Wakey, wakey, dingus." You heard Robin's overly excited voice over the phone. You groaned. You loved Robin, but she could be annoying, especially when she woke you up at 8 in the morning. "…So yeah, we think we are close, like really close, dingus. This could be it. You should come today." She blubbered. "Oh, and if you think about ditching me, I will be dragging you there PHYSICALLY, got it?"
"Ugh, Robin. Fine, I'll come. Just stop rambling."
“Per-fect.” She shouted victoriously.
You chuckled and hung up the phone, already dreading today's meeting. You hadn't seen Steve after the 'incident'. Five days had gone by. He had tried calling you, but you did not answer, not knowing what to say. Still, you knew you had to face him at some point, so it might've as well been today.
You sighed and decided to take a shower.
Surprisingly, you felt better after the shower. Better than the last few weeks. You decided to make an effort to at least look presentable. You tied your hair in a messy updo and put on your favorite pair of jeans and Steve's hoodie. You were ready to go.
You heard honking in your driveway. Confused, you went to the porch and saw Steve's car. Robin was in the front seat. Of course, she told him that you were going today. You weighed your options. It's not like you owned a car. A ride would be nice. With that thought, you hopped into the backseat.
"Hey," you greeted them, trying to sound normal.
"Hi," they said simultaneously.
"You can sit in the front, sweetie. Robin can move." Steve offered, looking back at you. He was acting as if nothing had happened, but you did not dare bring it up.
"Hey, I can hear you," Robin protested, breaking you out of your thoughts. Steve shrugged meekly. You huffed a smile.
"It's okay, Steve, just drive."
He didn't argue and reversed quickly to drive away.
Two hours had passed after you arrived at your destination. It was total chaos. Nancy was still going over the plan. Mike was disagreeing with her, and Robin was arguing with Dustin about something.
The energy you felt at the start of the day had long left you. Now you were feeling worn out like somebody had beaten you. Steve was sitting next to you with a hand on your waist. It made you feel better.
"You okay?" He asked, tightening his hand around you.
"Yeah?" You answered, but it came out like a question.
"You look really pale."
You shrugged. "Just stressed about the crawl." That was not a total lie. However, you were more worried about the nausea hitting you in waves. You prayed it would go away.
"Steve." His attention instantly snapped to you.
"Yeah?"
"m'sorry," you said, licking your dry lips.
"For what, hun?"
"Y'know… for kicking you out of my house. That was rude."
"I know you didn't mean it." He said, looking you straight in the eyes now. "You didn't, right?" He tried not to let his fear show in his voice.
"No, no, I didn't. Sorry, I was so harsh."
Steve finally breathed out. "It's okay, sweetheart. It's fine." Steve sighed, not knowing if he was comforting you or himself. You gave him a tight-lipped smile and tried to focus on the plan.
You were sure the day couldn't get worse after listening to Nancy and Mike argue for 10 minutes straight. You were wrong. You felt the nausea hit you like an avalanche. You stood up abruptly and went towards the bathroom to minimize the chances of embarrassing yourself in front of everyone.
To your luck, Steve had followed you in the hallway.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his face crumpled in a worried expression.
"Nothing, just need to use the bathroom." You blubbered quickly, not slowing down.
"You sure you're fine? You look REALLY sick."
“Okay, ow.” You shot him a look.
"I mean no- beautiful. You look beautiful. But your lips are pale, and you are pale, and it's-"
You quickly ran to the bathroom, not being confident in your ability to not throw up in the hallway.
Steve had just entered when you puked in the toilet. He held your hair as he caressed your back.
"It's okay," Steve whispered. "Maybe you have food poisoning?"
You hummed, flushing the toilet.
"I'll take you home," he offered, towering over you.
"I'm fine."
"I WILL drag you out if I have to," he warned you, raising his index finger.
Oh boy.
--
The next few days went by monotonously. Robin had come to your house multiple times. She complained about how you and Steve needed to communicate better and that she was tired of Steve whining about you giving him the cold shoulder. "He deserves to know the truth. He told me, and I quote, "I think she just got tired of me, Robin. She doesn't love me anymore," said Robin. She begged you to talk to him. Your heart broke at her words. Did Steve really think that you had forgotten him?! You considered her words carefully, deciding to finally tell Steve the truth, no matter the consequences.
Today was the day. You could feel it. You put on some clothes and decided to go to the radio station in hopes of finally talking to Steve.
You took your mom's car. The ride was refreshing, helping you clear your thoughts. When you arrived, you sighed deeply, promising yourself that you would not back down this time.
As you turned the corner inside the building, you stilled. You found Robin and Vicky hunched against a table, making out.
"Oh my god, sorry." You fumbled. You knew about their relationship, but seeing your best friend's tongue in Vicky's mouth felt weird. "I was looking for Stev-" you tried to change the subject.
"He was gonna go in his room," Robin yelled before you could finish the sentence. You nodded, giving her an awkward smile and a thumbs-up.
You walked through the corridors you had become familiar with and stopped as you approached Steve's room. You raised your arm to knock, but your confidence was fleeting by the second. At last, you brought your fist to his door, but to your surprise, you got no answer. You decided to crack the door open.
"Steve?"
Steve was lying on his back, mouth open, and hair ruffled all over his face. He was deep in sleep. You smiled to yourself. He looked so sweet. You sat at the edge of his bed. Your hand was hovering near his face, not wanting to wake him up. Still, you could not withstand the temptation to put his hair out of his eyes. His hair was soft in your hands. You let your fingers run over his face, stroking his cheek. Steve's eyes fluttered. He shifted a bit in his bed and sat up when he saw your face. "Oh- hi. What are you doing here?"
"Sorry. I should've totally called before I came." You rubbed your forehead.
"No, no. Just… is everything alright? Nothing bad happened, right?" He said, as he sat up next to you, his feet now on the floor.
"Everything's fine. I just- I…" you sighed, not being able to word your thoughts. You put your head in your hands, frustrated at yourself.
"I just wanted you to know that it's not true."
"What's not true?"
"That I don't love you anymore. That's not true." Your heart was beating so loud, you feared you would have a heart attack.
"Oh," he said, looking at the floor. "Robin told you that?"
"Yeah," you said, playing with your fingers. Silence settled in the room. None of you dared to speak for a moment.
It's not?" his voice finally broke the silence.
"No."
"So you love me still?" Steve tried not to sound desperate, but he knew he was a lost cause.
"I love you. Always will." You breathed out shakily, wanting to kiss all his doubts away.
He smiled softly at your words and sighed. "I'm so glad you said that, baby."
He pulled you into his chest, hugging your waist tightly. You melted into the hug, feeling like you could finally breathe again. Your nose settled into the crook of his neck, breathing him in.
"Steve…" you started, not knowing where you were going with this. You blinked rapidly, desperately trying not to cry. But it was too late. A quiet sniffle outed you.
Steve stiffened immediately.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?" He tried pulling away to look at you, but you tightened your hold on him and pulled him impossibly closer. He held you like that, caressing your head gently. You cried in his arms for what felt like eternity, unable to contain yourself.
Steve finally pulled you from him with an effort and took your face in his hands. "Baby, talk to me, please." He said as he wiped away your pouring tears. "Whatever it is. We will figure it out together, yeah?" You nodded, unable to speak yet. "Yeah, good. Just breathe with me, okay?" He said as he placed your head on his chest. His heartbeat calmed you down, and your breathing evened out a bit. "Good. Good girl, baby," Steve murmured sweet encouragements in your ear. You wiped your eyes and sniffled, exhaling shakily. "Promise you won't be mad." You started.
"I promise, baby." He nodded frantically.
You stood up from the bed, unable to sit still. Steve followed, putting his hands on your hips and hugging you from behind. You turned around in his hold to face him.
"Steve I- it's… I've been feeling weird lately."
Steve's face fell. "Weird?" He questioned.
"Yeah, like constantly feeling tired and nauseous and just I- I hate this."
"Okay... have you been to the doctor?" Steve questioned with a worried expression.
"No... I-"
"Then we should go! Right now!" he stated.
"No... just listen to me, Steve," you started. "I thought l was just stressed, y'know, from all the crawls and plans and..." you shook your head. Steve was gazing at you intensely. "But the nausea, it's just... I mean, I can't eat anything, and then I told Robin, and she said that maybe I was pregnant," you sighed, running your hands through your hair. "I took a pregnancy test, just to rule it out and..." You looked at your hands, unable to hold eye contact.
Steve stilled, even holding his breath for a second. A realization hit him, leaving him unable to form cohesive sentences. "You're… pregnant?" He asked quietly.
"Yes." You sighed, hugging yourself to calm your nerves.
"How… I- are you sure?"
"Yes," you repeated.
"Oh my god," he said as he put his hands on his head. "Oh my god."
Steve was utterly stunned. As quick as lightning, he rushed to you and spun you in his arms. You hugged him tightly, tearing up again.
"You're not mad?" you questioned quietly.
He put you down.
"Mad? What! Why would I be mad? Sweetheart, this is amazing!" He said excitedly. "God, I can't believe this… I mean, the timing could be better, but still, babe..." he stopped. "Is this why you've been acting so weird lately? You're not happy about this?"
"I am. It's just… I don't know…"
"Scary?"
"Yeah," you whispered, looking him in the eyes.
He nodded, a silent understanding shared between you. "It's gonna be okay. I promise," he said as he kissed your lips. He kneeled in front of you with both knees, tucking your shirt up and gently kissing your stomach. "I can't believe I'm gonna be a dad." He whispered, voice strained from the shock of it all. He stood up and spun you again, making you yelp. "Steve, god, you're gonna give me a concussion." He chuckled. "Wait. What are we gonna name it?" He asked in a serious tone.
"Steve, we don't even know the gender." You tried to sound serious, but could not hold back the chuckle.
"Yes, but we have to be ready for both. What if they're twins, or triplets, or... WE should make a list."
"God, no."
Steve laughed at your terrified face.
"The kids are gonna freak out," he mumbled, kissing your forehead.
You groaned. "Oh god, they totally will."
"How are we gonna tell them?"
"We. Aren't. Telling. Anybody. Yet." You stated with a stern tone.
"Okay. I mean, it's your call, whenever you're ready."
"Robin knows," you said.
Steve rolled his eyes. "Of course, she does. I can't believe you told her BEFORE ME," he whined, making you laugh.
You sighed, dropping onto Steve's bed. You felt like a huge weight had been lifted from your shoulders.
"So when do you think it happened?" Steve asked as he dropped next to you.
"What?"
"One of my swimmers winning the race," he said matter-of-factly.
"God Steve, you disgust me."
"Oh, do I now?" He said as he wrapped your arms around your waist, plastering kisses on your collarbone. "I didn't disgust you when I-" he was silenced by the pillow that you threw at his face.
--
Steve was hugging you from behind while you were making coffee. His head was in the crook of your neck, and his hands were tightly secured around your waist. Suddenly, an urge to puke hit you. You tried to slip out of his hold, but Steve was oblivious to your struggle.
"STEVE, LET ME GO," you yelled at him, and he eased his hold. You ran to the bathroom, Steve's footsteps following you behind. He held your hair as you emptied your stomach in the toilet.
You hated how this had become a routine for you: You would throw up, and Steve would caress your back, whispering encouragements. You hated how queasy you had become. You felt like shit 24/7.
"I feel disgusting," you told Steve, as you wiped your mouth.
"Hey. Don't say that." He said sternly.
"I mean… aren't you disgusted? You don't have to follow me every time I throw up, Steve."
Steve rubbed your back, looking at you sympathetically. "There's not a single thing about you that I find disgusting, honey." He said, raising his eyebrows. "I'm not doing anything I don't wanna do, so don't ever think that again," he replied as he kissed your forehead. You sighed contentedly and smiled sweetly at him. What did you do to deserve him?!
You brushed your teeth thoroughly. Steve was there the whole time telling you about something Dustin had said and how ridiculous it was.
When you finished cleaning up, you went back to the kitchen, sipping the coffee you had made earlier. Steve looked like he was deep in thought.
"Penny for your thoughts?" You asked.
Steve smiled. "Nothing, I just want this whole thing to end soon."
"The Vecna stuff?"
He chuckled. "Yeah, the Vecna stuff." He said, playing with your hair. You hummed.
"We should get married," he said suddenly.
"Get married?" you looked up at him.
"Yeah. Would you?"
"Would I?"
"Would you marry me?"
"Hmm, let me think." You put on a thinking face. Steve opened his mouth, feigning hurt. "I really don't know, Steve, you do have some bad habits."
He scoffed. "Bad habits? Like what, huh?"
"First of all, you drool when you sleep…"
Steve lunged at you and picked you up, throwing you over his shoulder as if you weighed nothing. You screamed. "Steve, put me down!"
He was not having it. He walked to the bedroom and placed you on your bed, hovering above you. "So, I drool?" he asked.
"YES! You do!" you replied.
He smirked devilishly.
"No!" You whispered loudly, realizing what he was scheming, but before you could finish your sentence, he started tickling you. You giggled, trying to escape his hold, but he was too strong. "STEVE," you yelled. "Oh my god, Steve."
"Take your words back."
"Okay, OKAYYY! I take it back!" You shouted, nearly out of breath.
He stopped and looked you in the eyes. You playfully hit him in the chest, trying to hide from his intense gaze.
"You're so beautiful," he said.
You smiled back at him. "So are you." He huffed in response.
"I love you, Stevie, and I'd love to marry you after all of this is over," you told him.
He smiled at your words. “I love you more.”
"Promise that we're gonna survive this together,” you breathed.
You ran out on Steve almost three years ago in the middle of a sweet fling, but now you’re back in Hawkins, and there’s a little girl on your hip that looks just like him. fem, 14k
afab reader, second-chance romance, girl!dad steve, slow burn idiots, no upside down au
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆
You realise how fucked you are pretty quickly.
It’s something in the way the kid is looking at you. He’s staring at you, not unfriendly but piercing, and his gaze keeps flicking to Leah like he’s trying to make sense of her, and his mouth is stuck obnoxiously with his tongue flat and pulled into that cruel letter ‘S’.
You freeze up like you’ve been caught, which doesn’t help.
And the kid spins in his Nike’s and races for the entrance, ditching a basket full of veggies and a pack of gum in the middle of the aisle.
“Okay, Lee,” you say, sweating despite the November chill. “Let’s get going.”
Leah grins in her seat in the shopping cart. “Meemaw’s?” she asks.
“Yeah. Let’s go make sure your meemaw had her dinner.”
Your ears ring all the way home. They don’t stop ringing. You spend the night waiting for a phone call you don’t get, awkward and clammy. There’s a certain way that rich families work in Indiana. You can see the coming hush money or the threat to leave town almost as clearly as you could see the loveless marriage years ago. You and Leah need to get out of dodge before you’re stuck having conversations you never wanted to have.
I mean, who could’ve predicted that? One of Steve’s teenagers recognises you in the grocery store three years after your fling, how’d they even remember?
The phone doesn’t ring, that night.
Or the next.
Maybe Steve didn’t believe the kid. Maybe the kid had an emergency completely unrelated to Leah. Maybe Steve believed it and didn’t care. You deem yourselves safe from harm in a venture to the grocery store when your mom asks for chicken noodle soup.
It’s there you recognise your mistake. Steve Harrington’s shiny BMW sits parked in the bay by the sign for the laundromat and the man himself sits inside with a paperback bent open on his thigh. He’s glaring at it like it killed his whole family.
You move bodily away from him with Leah clasped to your chest, wondering if you can beat him in, but then a chirp sounds near the door and you watch in slow motion as a young teenager brings a radio to his mouth and says, “Code milkshake!”
You hear a curse and can’t help looking back, right at the bimmer, where Steve is looking up through the windshield with a look of frozen trepidation on his face.
—
So.
How did you end up where you are?
You aren’t one for thinking about the past. Don’t like doing it. In fact, you try your very hardest not to think of the past when you can help it. Once Leah was born, that was easy to do. Babies are demanding, they take over your entire life, and your new life in Portland was already busy to begin with. You find thinking of the past incessant and unnecessary, but. Things are happening oh so fast —you had genuinely figured you could get through your homecoming without being spotted. You figured you could leave Leah at home with your mom while you shopped, but meemaw’s stroke has affected more than her body, and you couldn’t leave Leah there in good conscience in case an accident happened.
It’s not like you had many friends, before you left. Any, in fact. Steve was the first guy to ever show any interest in you, and as nice as he’d been in the quiet moments after, he hadn’t exactly brought you roses or promised you anything. You’re the dummy who got pregnant by the ‘washed out’ king of Hawkins High. It was probably going to be one of his peers, and it was never going to be Nancy Wheeler.
Things were obviously more detailed at the time, but you and Steve had come together in a fling. It’s not a relationship that you’d pictured for yourself, but it’s not as though you set your sights on him and thought, yeah, I’m going to fuck him. It was more that he was friendly, and you were both at the same bar at the same time sitting by yourselves, and with a little gin and a ton of mutual loneliness, it’d felt natural to let him kiss you against the hood of his car. When he drove you home, worried you’d get stuck in the rain, you’d offered him into an empty house. Things snowballed from there.
The sex was good. Steve was kind. He was a bit awkward from time to time and he didn’t know what to say without putting his foot in his mouth, but you liked it. Liked him.
Then the test. Then the memory of his Harrington name, how his mom wanted him to marry a socialite and his dad was priming him to get into the family business, whatever that may be. That silly conversation about kids. “I’d never put them through it,” he’d said, naked and tracing a star into your shoulder blades through the sheets, his hair damp at the nape of his neck with sweat, “are you joking? They’d be the loneliest kid ever.”
You remember laughing softly. You’d wanted him to say something different, but you aren’t sure what it is he could’ve said to make it right enough to stay.
In the end, you figured Leah could be part of a brand new start. You applied for a job in the classifieds and uprooted the rest of your life to go to it, and when you finally had your baby, you didn’t let yourself call Steve. What use would that have been, letting him smash the lingering, aching bit of your heart that wanted him to love you? You were smart enough then to recognise that your dream for the future was about as childish as getting knocked up at nineteen.
It hurts now, though, as he gets out of the car, how badly you want him to want you, and how stupid you’ve always been.
Steve shuts the door to the BMW and makes his way in a jog across the parking lot. He breathes your name. You’re nervous, not stupid. You don’t try to hide the baby.
She grumbles on your hip.
Steve stands in front of you. He’s remarkably not shouting at you, but he’s not smiling, either. He looks different than the last time you’d seen him for sure, fuller and broader, lip dark with stubble and his hair shorter (but not short). There’s a funny scar stretching unkindly against his throat, startlingly new to you but clearly healed.
He stands there in quiet.
Leah makes a fawning sound, like she’s tired and excited to see a new person.
“Hi, Steve,” you say, to get sound out in the air.
His eyes fall on Leah. She’s a good mix of you both. Got her dad’s eyes and her mom’s nose and a handful of his beauty marks, small dark freckles that sprouted all over her body a few weeks after she was born.
“Is she mine?” he asks, cutting straight to the fat.
You shift her closer to your chest. He’s impossible to read for once, not a lick of anything on his face as he waits for you to answer. The cold chaps your lips and the late-fall sunshine threatens to blind you where it’s rising from behind him.
“You didn’t want to have a baby,” you say carefully. Each word said with less enthusiasm than the previous.
He doesn’t speak. Leah whines at the pause, her hand spreading against your collarbone in protest.
“I know you didn’t. You said it’d be miserable, and you’d get stuck with a woman you didn’t love to save face, and I knew that. I didn’t see any good in… in making you go through that.”
To your complete and utter surprise, his face softens. His mouth puckers in sympathy and his arm twitches like he’s going to reach for you. His hair curls into his eyes in the cold breeze. He squints against it, gaze falling once again on Leah, who he can’t get enough of. He’s full-blown gawking at her, watching her sigh and sniffle and press her hand into your neck.
“Is she mine?” Steve asks again.
You clear your throat to answer, but you can’t summon the words. Your nod is jerky and embarrassed and annoyed, all at once. Of course she’s his baby. She looks so much like him, and you never let anybody else touch you.
Steve opens his mouth to finally speak and you cut him off. “Well, she’s mine,” you say tightly.
He nods like he understands. He doesn’t even look mad at the insinuation.
“Her name is Leah.” If he’d been angry with you, cruel, even agitated, which maybe he deserves to be, you’re not sure you could offer this to him now. “She… she looks a lot like you, huh?” you ask.
Steve manages a laugh, strained as it may be. “Yeah. Yeah, she does.” He swallows harshly. “I thought if I came by the house you’d turn me away. Uh. Because I thought there must’ve been a reason you didn’t want me to know, but now we’re… here.”
You glance around the parking lot. His tattle of a child has made himself scarce.
“Do you wanna come home with me?” you ask. Mostly for want of something to say.
“Yeah.”
You go to leave, but Steve makes a sound and brings you right back. Without comment, he curls an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into a half-hug, slotting his nose against your temple like he used to, even as you tense up in his embrace.
“I thought you’d be more angry at me than this,” you say under your breath.
“Yeah, that’s not really how I work.” He parts from you awkwardly and points to the car. “I’ll follow you?” he asks.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He turns very suddenly and makes his way to his car.
You meander to your own car and pop open Leah’s door. “Sorry, Lee,” you murmur, tucking her into her carseat.
“Why?” she murmurs.
“We’re gonna go to meemaw’s, okay?” If your mom could hear you calling her meemaw before her stroke she’d have knocked you up the side of the head, but it’s all Leah’s ever known her as, and meemaw doesn’t have much choice in the matter now. You’d laugh if you didn’t feel sick.
“Okay.”
You kiss her cheek, getting stuck there with your nose in her hair, all manner of panic and awkwardness and I’d-rather-nots thrumming through you. I should’ve stayed in Portland, you think.
Leah kisses your cheek while you’re stooped there. Your misery takes a backseat as you gather your bearings.
You climb into your own seat, close the door, lock it, and shove the keys in the ignition. Steve’s car idles a few spaces behind, waiting for you to go. You cannot put this off much longer, but you’d pictured the moment so differently, there’s a sense of unreality now. Is this happening? Did you really spill the truth to him the very first time he asked?
Where’s your backbone?
Where’s your common sense?
With a groan, you pull the car out of the space and begin the drive to your mom’s house. You were never close with her, as strange as it seems. She was a woman with interests and her kid happened incidentally. It doesn't bother you anymore. You came to Hawkins to take care of her. Nobody else was going to do it for you, but so far she’s been an easy patient. She needs help making dinner and she can’t walk more than the length of the hall without finding herself breathless, but she’s recovering slowly, so long as her mental faculties recoup with her body, she’ll be alright.
You, however, have screwed the entire pooch. You look at Leah in the rearview mirror and worry you’ve ruined her entire life.
“Chill,” you say to yourself quietly, almost missing the road to your mom’s house. Worst comes to worst and we go home to Portland, you tell yourself. Nothing has to change.
“Mommy?”
“Mm?” you ask.
Leah leans forward in her car seat, huffing with annoyance when the belts keep her in place. The jacket she’s wearing has bunched into a lump under her chin. “Off?” she asks.
“Two minutes.”
“Off.”
“Let me park the car, Lee. I’ll take it off of you as soon as we get home.”
She whines long and loud.
“Sorry, sweet girl. Two minutes and we’re there.”
Leah sulks the entire way there. You park in the space in front of the house and hurry out of the car, quick enough to see Steve in the bimmer pulling onto the sidewalk. You open Leah’s door and offer her a huge smile, hoping to cull a tantrum with bubbly affection. “Hi, off?”
“Yes!”
You laugh to yourself and bring her out, even as your heartbeat climbs up your throat. You can hear Steve getting out of his car as you unbuckle Leah from the car seat and drag her out. You sit her in the slight dip of the window and use your stomach to keep her up as your fingers search for the zipper of her coat. You pull it tight down and unzipper her, freeing her of the thing that had been irking her so bad and restoring her good mood.
She exhales dramatically in relief, which has you laughing again. “Is that better?” you ask through it.
“Better,” she echoes.
Leah sits up at the sound of shoes on gravel. Steve’s crossing the drive, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Who?” she asks.
Uhhhh.
“He’s gonna come in and have dinner with us, okay?”
“Y’okay.”
“Yeah?”
Leah nods enthusiastically. You can see Steve grinning in your peripheral vision, and it’s so much like Leah’s smile you find your heart going haywire.
“Okay,” you say, your full attention to Steve. “Is that cool?”
“Can we talk, first?”
You don’t blame him for asking.
“Yeah, we’ll talk first. But… my mom, she’s not doing the best right now, so. Maybe we should talk outside?”
“I’m not going to yell.”
“No, but. If you’re angry, I get it, but she can’t cope with that right now.”
“Are you angry?” he asks.
“No.”
“Then we don’t have anything to worry about,” he says, the sound of his smile palpable as Leah gives one back. “I’m not gonna yell. I promise.”
You show him into the house. It feels like walking yourself to the gallows.
The room is narrow. The sides of your vision start to dissolve as you drop your car keys in the bowl by the door, then walk Leah to the kitchen. You hold her one handed as you palm off her shoes, dropping them and then her on the floor by the kitchen table. “Okay?” you ask her.
She wanders off toward the living room and the sound of TV.
Steve Harrington’s standing in your mom’s rinky dink kitchen waiting for you to talk. You’re standing there useless, taking sips of air that sting, waiting for him to cut the crap and berate you. It would make sense. If he’s upset that you didn’t tell him you were pregnant, or that you were stupid enough to keep her, to get pregnant in the first place, it wouldn’t surprise you. Men are cruel, and Steve had a reputation for popularity. It would make sense for him to be mean to you now.
“How old is she?” he asks finally.
“She’s turning two soon.”
Steve seems to be holding his tongue.
“Just– ask.” You try to look sorry. “Ask me whatever you want.”
“Can I–” He throws a hand out, the first sign that he’s not as genial as he appears. “Can I be her dad?”
You flinch. “What?”
“Like, I want to be her dad. A real dad. I want to be in her life, I want her to know me. Did you think I wouldn’t want that?”
“I didn’t think you wanted kids at all.”
“I want kids.” Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “I always wanted a whole team of them.”
“That’s not what you said.”
“When? When you told me you were having my baby?”
This is more what you’d been expecting. There’s a cruel pleasure in being vindicated. “When you told me you didn’t want kids, Steve. You said you didn’t want a miserable kid in a miserable marriage, what was I supposed to glean from that?”
“Exactly, I didn’t want a miserable kid, which is exactly what I was, and I didn’t want it in an arranged marriage that my mom thought would be good for me.” His anger drains a little. “I never meant– I mean, even if I didn’t, you should’ve told me.”
“She’s my baby.”
“That’s not fair.”
“That’s totally fair, she’s literally mine.”
“It’s not fair to act like I wouldn’t have cared,” he clarifies, frowning at you. It’s so disappointed-looking it pisses you off worse, but you're trying to keep a level head. Nobody here deserves for you to blow up and say words you don’t mean.
You bite your lip. “I’m sorry, Steve, but I wasn’t convinced that you would. I wanted what was best for me and her.”
“I can be best for you both.”
You wait for him to hold it up. To prove what he means.
“If she’s mine, I want to be her dad,” he says.
“If?”
He waves a hand, like he could roll his eyes. He should thank his lucky stars he didn’t. “Not like that, I’m not saying she’s not, I just want to look after her.”
“She’s looked after.”
“I’m not saying she’s not,” he says, uneasy now, shifting to hide a hand in his pocket. He wasn’t expecting you to be difficult, you think. “I’m not saying that. I’m not saying anything about you, I’m asking you if I can do right by you.”
“You might not actually want her, Steve.”
“I haven’t stopped thinking about her since the kids told me. I didn’t get a good look at her, but the idea? Just the idea of her? I wanted it.”
You sigh, frustrated, and set your sights on the fridge. “Can’t believe you had kids posted up at Bradley’s to stalk me,” you murmur.
“I needed to see her for myself.”
“Steve... You’re twenty three. We aren’t married. You don’t have to be anything to her, you don’t have to do right by me, we don’t have to play house until you’re miserable. In a couple of months we’ll go home to Portland and you don’t have to do anything. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but you don’t have to worry. You can tell everyone you tried and I said no and you’ll still look good.”
“Why are you being like this?” he asks, leaving little air between your sentence and his. “What are you talking about? I’m asking you if I can keep you guys and you’re trying to run me out?”
“Keep us?” you ask indignantly.
“Yes!” He clears his throat. “I don’t get why you left without telling me and I am angry, but I also don’t understand what it’s like to have to make that decision, and I’m sorry you made it by yourself, and I don’t blame you for running away. Okay? Is that okay?”
He’s so loud, then, so tightly wound and upset, his voice a shade of pleading, that the protests you’d been making die on your lips.
“Yeah,” you say quietly.
“You didn’t think I wanted a baby, and I guess I didn’t give you a reason to think that, but I do want one. I would’ve— if you’d told me, I would’ve lost my mind. I’m still losing it.”
You pull out a chair at the kitchen table to take a wobbly seat. Your heart is racing, that stupid kiddie feeling of being in trouble for hurting him clouded by a lingering sense of mistrust. You’d thought… all these years, that Steve didn’t want kids, or marriage, or anything, and– and– maybe you didn’t run away because of him, maybe it was all you, maybe—
“Hey,” he says, a hand landing between your shoulders, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” you ask, sharper than you mean to.
“I don’t know. I wanted you to stop freaking out.”
“Well,” you say, licking your lips, your breath coming short and shallow, “it didn’t work.”
Steve Harrington rubs your back. You try desperately to chill out, Leah in the other room, your mom sleeping or listening, probably already wound up from all the ruckus, and Steve, who you haven’t seen in years, who used to kiss all over your face before he’d hug you in the dark of his bedroom, waiting for you to calm down so he can say what he needs to.
A chair pulls out next to yours after a while. Steve sits beside you, resting his hand on your knee.
After a few minutes, you cover his hand with yours.
“She’s beautiful,” he says.
“Looks like her mom,” you mumble.
“Yeah, she does. More like me though.”
You huff a weak laugh.
“Are you gonna throw me out?” Steve asks.
“You want to be her dad?”
For a few seconds, you worry he hasn’t heard you. But he rubs a small back and forth on your leg and says, “Please.”
“Okay. Okay, then. I’m not letting you meet her if you’re not serious, Steve. You have to mean it.” You raise your eyes to his and all his perfect lashes. “Promise?”
He offers his pinky, which is so dumb. This whole scenario is so stupid. Too bad it’s mostly (almost entirely) your own fault.
You shake his pinky. He keeps them tied for a long time.
In a rush, you sniffle yourself dry and usher Leah into the room with a hand on her shoulder. She is so, so small. At least your mom missed the commotion, sleeping sat up in the armchair.
“You promise?” you ask Steve, pausing at the table.
Steve nods emphatically. By the looks of things, he’s all in.
You pull your chair out opposite Steve and scoop Leah into your lap. You hold her wrist in your hand gently and lean down to talk in her ear. “Okay, Lee. I gotta tell you something, okay?”
“Y’okay.”
“This is daddy.”
You can tell he’s not expecting such a straightforward introduction, but after a moment, he cannot hide his smile. Leah looks at him with his almond shaped eyes, all smiles in return.
“Okay? This is daddy, and he’s gonna spend some time with us.”
“Huh?”
You point at Steve, smiling even as your hand trembles between you both. “This is your daddy. He missed you very much and wanted to see you. Can you say hi?”
“Hi,” Leah says, her voice raspy and high.
“Hi, Leah,” he says, ever so slightly choked up. Just barely.
“He was my best friend,” you say, “and he wants to be your best friend, too. Do you want to play a game with daddy?”
“Wam’ play game?” Leah asks Steve.
“Please, I would love to play a game. What game do you like?” he asks.
“Um…” Leah places her hand in his and you could probably weep, but he’s smiling at her with so much love as he waves it up and down you never get there. She shakes her fist up and down in his, giggling when he over exaggerates her strength.
“Woah, strong girl!” he says. “Don’t break my arm!”
Leah gives him a good shake.
—
“I do not understand why you’re so calm. How you’re so calm. This is not how I’ve seen you react to things.”
Steve pushes the shopping cart into Robin’s hip. She squawks and thrusts it at him, the crate of kiddie water bottles he’d balanced on the bottom rung hitting him clean in the ankle.
“How am I supposed to react?” he asks, wincing as he brings his leg up to rub at the new wound.
“Uh, to blow the fuck up?” She tucks her hair behind her ears, staring at him. “I was expecting more whining, if I’m totally honest.”
Steve gets back to the task at hand. The aisle they’re in is pink no matter where you look, full of Barbie dolls and ballerina tutus and teddy bears with hearts in their palms. “What would you want if you were two?” he asks.
Robin offers one of her kinder smiles. “I guess I’d want everything.”
“Well, Y/N’s not gonna like that.”
He wants to take care of you both. He doesn’t want to make you feel like you weren’t doing that already. So. The cart is full of stuff for him mostly, things he’ll need to look after Leah should he ever be allowed to take her by himself, which he assumes he will. He’s got diapers, sippy cups, wet wipes, rash creams, a mountain of clothes he has to remember to keep the receipt for, baby snacks, a changing pad, bath toys. He has a towel like a poncho with a ladybug hood and a great big bottle of bathroom cleaner to shape things up for his baby.
He also got you pajamas. He’s not sure why. He remembers that old pair you used to wear whenever he’d make it to your place with the pink and purple plaid, and he’d been wondering if you kept them, and a desire to see you in them again had come over him and now they’re in the cart. He’s hoping he can sort of slip them in between diapers.
Steve doesn’t want to show you up, but he does want to prove he’s being serious, emotionally and physically —financially. Leah is his baby. Kids are expensive, and she must’ve already cost you a small fortune, and you didn’t want his help but you can bet you’ll be getting it, not singularly because he cared for you (he has to gloss it into that one word, care, things being complicated enough as it stands without remembered notions of falling and love) but because Leah is literally his baby.
He pauses on the spot.
Leah is his girl. He’s allowed to buy her things. It will not be an insult.
He grabs a Barbie with a puppy dog on a leash, a box of stickle bricks, a teddy bear with a big cutesy grin, and purple bunny rabbit to be his best friend.
Robin watches him put it all in the cart in silence.
“Is that enough?” he asks, despite previous internal decisions. She’s his best friend. Everyone needs one.
Robin turns on the spot to look at the shelves behind them, grabbing a box set of storybooks bound with ribbon down the spines. “These ones are from me,” she says, dumping them next to the second jumbo box of diapers.
“I’m not, like, super angry,” he says, getting behind the cart to push for the checkout. “I want kids. I want Leah. This isn’t a bad thing.”
“You kind of missed out on a lot,” Robin says. Carefully, not to be cruel, but to present it to him in case he hasn’t thought about it. Obviously he’s thought about it, but.
“I mean, yeah. But do you remember being a baby?”
“It’s, like, a deep down thing.”
He swallows. “Sure, I don’t like that I didn’t get to be there when Leah was a baby, but… I’m finding it hard to be mad when she was protecting all of us from things we didn’t want, or, that’s what she thought.” Steve gives a jerky shrug. “I’m sure she got enough love from her without me, but I’m gonna make up for whatever she missed out on.”
“Okay. Well, when you explode, I’m literally right here.”
Steve is overcome with the urge to snuggle her in the middle of the store, but he hits her with the shopping cart again and feels the thanks get stuck in his throat. “I’m not gonna explode. I’m happy.”
Steve is thrilled. He has a baby. He has a child. Maybe it’s not the wife and six kids he thought he wanted, but Leah is his baby.
“She’s mine,” he says.
“I know, dingus. You’ve said it a hundred times.”
He parks his cart at the belt behind a grandma buying cat food. “I can’t wait for you to meet her, Rob, she’s–”
“She’s beautiful,” Robin says, rolling her eyes. “We’re way too young for kids, Steven. You were supposed to go to college.”
“I’m still gonna go!”
“With what money?”
Steve will save again. It’s community college.
Robin holds his eye. He avoids it, starts putting things on the checkout belt. “You’re doing the only thing you can do,” she says, “I don’t wanna be friends with a deadbeat, but I wanted you to go. I’m too young to be an Aunt.”
“I’ll going, Rob.”
“Fine. I believe you.”
“Can you help?”
She pulls stuff out of the cart reluctantly.
Together, they pack what can be bagged and take it all to the car. Steve drops Robin off at home without much of a goodbye —either she’ll call him tonight or he’ll call her, ‘cos one way or another, they’re gonna talk. Then he takes the side road to your mom’s house and parks the bimmer behind your old blue Pontiac.
He grabs the toys and the bag of groceries. He’ll have to make another trip for the diapers, but he figures it’s best to see your reaction before he lugs it all up the driveway.
You answer the door. Parenting has been going better than expected considering you kept the baby a secret for two whole years, and you’re already smiling when you see him. Things were awkward that first week, but he’s been coming by every single day after work if he works, bright and early if he doesn’t. He can tell you’re growing more confident in his promises. He’s not gonna realise how big this whole thing is and run. He’s well aware of how world-changing his decision was to stay, but it wasn’t a decision at all.
“Hi, is she awake yet?” he asks. Leah naps every day at noon.
“Mm-hm. She was asking me for daddy all morning,” you say. Secrets you may have kept, but you’re glad for both of them whenever Steve and Leah get along. “I promised you’d be here after dinner.”
“Is it cool that I’m early?”
You eye the bags in his hands. “Sure. I already told you, I’m not gonna dictate anything. You can see her when you want to… What’s that?”
“I was thinking I’d make dinner?” He shakes the lighter bag. “And this is for Leah.”
“Right. Okay.”
You let Steve in. He, despite all things in his body that remember this song and dance and demand he kiss your cheek hello, powers through to the kitchen without making a fool of himself.
“Brought your favourite. Thought Leah would probably like it, since you liked it so much,” he says. “And those pastries you loved.”
“You want me to go grab her?”
“Where is she?”
“She’s sitting with my mom. Don’t think she heard the door, she would’ve come out running by now. She’s a little sleepy.”
“That’s okay. I can put all this away and I’ll go see if she’s awake.”
You cross your arms over your stomach, leaning against the counter. “You didn’t have to get stuff for me.”
“I wanted to.”
“You don’t have to, though. Leah’s your baby, but I’m…”
He feels achy in his jaw. He abandons the bag full of groceries to look at you fully. “If you’d turned up here without Leah, after two years of full radio silence, no letters and no clue where you went, if you came back, I’d want to see you. You know that, right?”
“I…”
“I asked your mom where you went, did you know that?”
“No.”
“Well, she wouldn’t tell me.”
“I don’t think she knew.”
Steve hates how much that annoys him, hates the way he relates to it. He dries his hands on his pants, not sure if he wants to hug you or tip your head with his thumb at chin, forcing you to look at him, to say the things he’s said in his head before bed a couple nights a week for years.
Steve Harrington does not love by halves.
“You’d tell me if you were gonna leave again, right?” he asks.
“We are leaving.”
“I know, I know, but. You’re not gonna disappear in the middle of the night.”
“No, Steve. I’ll tell you before we go home. I promise.”
His shoulders relax. “Okay, then, I’ll keep bringing stuff you like, too. Trade deal.”
“Mutually beneficial. I won't kidnap your baby again and you bring me raspberry turnovers.”
“Exactly.”
You surprise him with a laugh. “Okay.”
“Okay, good,” he says, grinning, wondering if he’s finally paving a path into your lap again.
From the doorway of the kitchen comes a pleased gasp. “Daddy?” Leah asks, her eyes widening in delight, feet stomping on the spot, “Hi, daddy!”
He was supposed to give this up for community college? Steve squats down in a half-second and holds out his hands, ready for an armful of sleepy toddler. Her hair is all puffy and her pajamas big at the neck like she’d wriggled for hours, but she’s soft, smells clean as he wraps his arms around her and she burrows into his neck.
“Hi, Leah,” he says softly.
Leah hums her content.
“Good nap?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah? Did you have a good dream?”
She laughs as he strokes her back. He must’ve tickled her. “Da-ddy,” she says, a long, pulling word.
She’s so small Steve can’t hug her properly like this, so he hooks her in one arm and stands up to his full height, catching your unreadable expression from over her shoulder. Whatever you’d been thinking fades away, your smile strengthening as Leah pulls out of his neck to wave at you.
“Mommy,” she says, poking at Steve’s neck. “Look. Daddy’s for dinner.”
Steve laughs loudly. “I’m for dinner? You’re gonna eat me? I thought you liked me!” His head falls in a dramatic agony. “Leah wants to cook me up for dinner, I can’t believe it.”
“No!” Leah says, giggling as she grabs his face. She pulls at his cheeks, forcing his head up. “Not eating,” she says, like he’s silly.
Steve shifts her so she’s sitting braced on his lower belly, looking down at her. God, she’s so pretty. She’s perfect. She’s tiny, slim for her age according to you, but she isn’t weak. She holds herself up, her hands confident as they spread over his chest. Steve has to confess that this feeling is the strongest he’s ever experienced. Nothing compares to looking at this little kid who already treats him like he’s the best person she’s ever met, knowing that she’s his. He has to look after her. He gets to be loved by her without hesitation. Leah has no reason to love him, and yet here she is giggling in his arms from the excitement of seeing him. It’s like every day she likes him more, and every day, Steve gets to love her more. It’s so weird, but it's nice.
“I brought you something,” he says, shifting her again so he can cover her back with one arm, using the other to brush a stray bit of lint off of her face. “But– mommy, can she have it now?” he asks.
You flush. Steve recognises this look on you, pleased and startled. He’s seen it on you a hundred different times. You were always that girl who didn’t expect kindness, or to be considered. He remembers how endearing it was to surprise you with a kiss to say thank-you, or picking up the bill no matter how casual dinner felt, or something as small as helping you into your pajamas after you’d both showered. It was heartbreaking, but he’s never been unfamiliar with the bare minimum.
“Yeah, of course she can.”
“Alright,” Steve says, grinning. “Your Aunt Robin sent me with a gift for you, but daddy’s is better, so you can have mine first.” He twists for the bag it’s in and yanks it out, Barbie to him so she can’t see. “It’s only small, but I saw it and I thought you’d like it.”
“Can have?” she asks.
“Depends. Can I have a hug first?” he asks, checking your face to make sure he’s not being weird.
Leah nods erratically and throws herself forward. Steve gets a big kiss right on his smooth-shaven cheek, and he can’t stop himself from beaming, his punched out sigh poorly suppressed as he turns her to give her a much gentler kiss at the very top of her cheek. “Thanks, Lee.”
Her eyes squint with a smile. “Can I have, please?”
Steve brings the box up and tosses it to flip it, brandishing it right way round to her glee.
“Barbie!” she cries.
“With a puppy!”
“Oh gosh.”
Steve bursts out laughing. “Gosh! Should we get the box open? Then you can gosh at the accessories. She has two pairs of shoes, Leah. Two!”
Leah squirms to be put down, hands clenched tightly on each side of the box. You’re already grabbing scissors to get it open.
“Thank you.” You lean over Leah to start the dissection.
“Don’t,” he says, quiet but less shame-faced. “You don’t have to say thanks.”
You shake your head to yourself. “Yeah, well.”
“She deserves it, and it’s not up to you to say thanks. I’m serious.”
“It’s nice of you.”
He doesn’t know how to prove how certain he is about staying. He decides to keep his mouth shut for now, which is hard. Almost slips up that whole evening. You don’t look happy when he doubles back before he leaves that night with the bag of snacks and the huge box of diapers, but he catches you as you and Leah stand on the stoop waving at the bimmer. You’re smiling. A real one, teeth on display for the first time since you came home.
—
“Okay,” you say quietly, “up, baby. And another one. Good job.”
Leah demonstrates a unique level of concentration as she climbs up the stairs with you. You’d have carried her if she didn’t insist she could do it herself with a displeased squeal. Her eyes are nearly closed, her tongue slipping between her lips and a hand thrown out for balance, the other held in your own as she manages two, then three, the few shallow steps that lead into the WSQK building.
“Hi,” you greet a quiet man sitting at the door. “Is Steve in?”
“Think so. Why?”
“I wanted to talk to him, if that’s okay.”
The man gives you a suspicious look that eventually metes. “Sure. Gotta knock the booth before you go in, though, they might be on the air.”
“Sure. Thank you.”
Leah stumbles with you inside. There’s a wide wooden panelled room and smaller glass one within. You knock on it and wait for movement, too scared to look through the panels. You’ve learned that Robin has her very own radio show on the 94.5 called The Morning Squawk, and Steve, through best-friend nepotism, gets to be her sound guy. He has this WSQK van they drive around to do on the road interviews, and they’re both a hundred times happier here than they were rewinding tapes at Family Video.
It’s a pretty firm knot of roots to lay.
The door opens a good fifteen seconds after you’d knocked. You’re immediately greeted by a blondified Robin Buckley, her freckled cheeks slack with surprise. “Uh…”
“Hi, Robin.”
“Hi,” she says.
The last time you saw Robin, you’d been laying on Steve’s couch in his socks and what might’ve been Robin’s own sweatshirt, the three of you arguing on what movie to watch and what candy you were gonna tip into your popcorn. You’d laid your head in Steve’s lap.
“Leah,” you say, clearing your throat as subtly as possible, “say hi, bubby.”
“Hi, bubby,” Leah says.
Robin snorts.
“This is your daddy’s best friend ever, Aunt Robin,” you say, shooting Robin a sorry look as you mouth, “Is that cool?”
Robin culls your misery and manages a real smile. “That’s me, babe.” She bends at the waist. “Oh, you really do look like Steve. Shit, this is so cool.” Her awkwardness has melded to full-bodied delight. “You’re like his twin! Well, you do look like your mommy, duh, but this is trippy! Hey, did you get your books?”
Leah looks up at her with huge eyes.
“Did you like your storybooks?” you ask Leah, kneeling down behind her to hold her shoulder. “Aunt Robin gave you those ones, remember, daddy read one to you about the ugly duckling?”
“The duckies,” Leah says factually.
“Awesome,” Robin says. “I’m so happy you liked them, sweetie. And I’m so happy to meet you.”
You don’t question for a second that she means it.
You pat Leah on the shoulder. “Aunt Robin is your daddy’s best friend in the whole world.”
“Daddy’s here?” she asks Robin.
“Uh, not right now, he had to go get lunch.”
“Oh.”
“But you can totally come in!” she says, opening the door to the booth wide. “I can show you how the radio works! And then Steve– then dad can come back. I bet he’ll be here any second.”
“You’re not busy?” you ask.
“I mean?” Robin laughs, nervously incredulous, “if I ever have kids they’d be her cousins. That’s pretty important. And, like, she’s Steve’s, so? I’d die for her?” Robin scratches a hand through her hair. “Come on, baby Stevie, I’ll show you the keyboard. It’s your dad’s favourite gimmick.”
You hover in the middle of the small room as Robin slides a chair over to the desk with a keyboard and a mic balanced on top of it. She glances at you before she holds her hands out to Leah, and Leah goes into them willingly. Robin pulls her up and settles her in the chair. She can barely see the keys, but she’s already reaching for them as Robin starts to explain which ones do what, toggling a switch that you assume makes sure whatever sounds Leah plays are off air.
You sit yourself down on a loveseat by the door.
“We can play all of this stuff on the radio in the car,” Robin says, “do you listen to the radio?”
“The music, bubby,” you say.
Leah gives a neck-breaking nod.
“Well, me and dad choose what songs to play. Do you have a favourite song?”
“She loves ‘Save it For Later’ by The Beat. She gets super into it,” you say.
“Oh, we have that one! Let’s queue it up, Leah.”
Leah mashes the keyboard in a cacophony of introductions and funny sounds, then a long run of the Rockin’ Robin intro. She finds a sound bite of applause loaded up on the tape deck, hitting it over and over as she giggles.
“Be careful, Lee, don’t break it.”
Her hitting doesn’t slow.
“Lee,” you say more firmly, “baby, stop. You have to be nice. Don’t slap the buttons.”
Leah throws you a glare. “Mommy,” she whines.
“What? You have to be nice to other people’s things. Aunt Robin is letting you play with her keyboard, but it’s important. It’s okay to try all the buttons! But with nice hands. Yeah?”
The ajar door opens fully. “Is my Leah not being nice?” Steve asks, already beaming with all his teeth as he sees her behind the keyboard. “I don’t believe that for a second!”
Leah wiggles her excitement in the depths of the chair. Doesn’t bother calling out for him, there’s no need. Steve laughs, saying hi with a quick hand dropped on your shoulder, the gentlest squeeze anyone’s ever given with his thumb rubbing a half circle before he bends down by Leah’s chair. “Hi,” he says, your heart beating so loudly in your ears that you hardly hear him. “You’re at the radiohouse! Did Rockin’ Robin show you how to play a song? Do you wanna talk on the microphone?”
“Hi,” Leah says.
“Hi.”
“Hug me now?”
Steve’s like butter in the sun. He melts into nothing. “Yeah, babe, right now.”
She slinks forward and he picks her up, standing with a baby on his hip like he’s been doing it all his life.
“I’m gonna play her a song,” Robin says. “My queues almost empty.”
“Okay, thanks,” he says, to which Robin wrinkles her nose.
“Sure,” she says, sending you a look as she heads to her desk. Like, get a load of this idiot.
Steve presses his nose to Leah’s hair and smells her. Then he smiles, patting the small of her back.
Leah looks straight at you and says, “Daddy’s here,” in case you weren’t aware.
Steve blinks away a pained flutter, his brow pulling like he’d been in pain, quickly wiped away and hidden by the time Leah glances at him again.
You think maybe, for a second, he’d wanted to cry.
“Steve?” you ask quietly. “You okay?”
“Yeah. No, yeah.”
“You sure?”
He tugs Leah higher on his hip. “I’m okay,” he tells you, holding your gaze, his left sclera bloodshot but his nearly-tears blinked away. “I’m great, ‘cos Leah’s here,” he adds, pressing his mouth to Leah’s cheek, “at work! She’s a working girl now, we gotta get you on the payroll.”
It’s a little while later, sitting on the couch and waiting for Steve to ask you what it is you’re doing here, when the door opens. Leah perks up in his lap, the headphones she’d been wearing falling down around her neck in a heap that makes her cringe, giving a warbly cry as Steve offers assurances to her.
You’re focused on the teenager standing in the door. It’s the kid.
His eyes widen at the sight of you.
“Lucas Sinclair,” you greet, giving him a stony look. “You ratted me out.”
“Uh– did I?”
“I know it was you.”
Lucas grimaces. “Are we sure it was me?”
“I saw you.”
“Steve could’ve got the information from anyone.”
You glare for a few more seconds, then relax. “I’m messing with you, Lucas. I’m not mad. Even if you are a narc.”
“I am not! I told Dustin and it was Dustin that radioed Steve. He’s the narc. I said we had to wait for proof.”
“Well, thanks for trying.”
Lucas hesitates with you, though he comes further into the room and lets the door shut behind him. “I am sorry. Kind of.”
“We’re working things out.”
Leah tugs the headphones off of her head and out of the outlet in a great show of toddler rage, Steve laughing where he holds her. He grabs the headphones before Leah can throw them at the floor. “Hey!” he admonishes through laughter, “Those aren’t mine, babe. Should we put them on the desk?”
Steve takes them from her and sets them high. He moves the chair, bumping Leah on his knee, forcing her eyes to the new figure in the room. “Look, Lee, it’s your Uncle Lucas.”
Lucas gives an awkward, endearing smile. “Hi.”
“Hi!” Leah says.
“What’s up?” Steve asks.
“Can I get a ride, tonight? I asked my dad but he’s going to that miniature car thing.”
“Where to?”
“Max’s.”
“Why are you being cagey?” Steve asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“I’m not!”
“You so are, dude. What’s happening at Max’s?”
“Nothing! She doesn’t, like, know I’m going, that’s all.”
Steve leans in his chair in what would be a total act of casual derision if he weren’t also holding Leah to his front, his fingers waving patterns into her tummy affectionately. “So I’m gonna be on her shit list for whatever it is you have planned? No deal, dude.”
“I’m not in trouble. She’s not mad at me,” Lucas says.
“For once.”
“She’s not. I have a surprise planned? And it’s gonna get ruined on my bike, so.”
Steve’s suspicion wavers. “What sort of surprise?” he asks.
His smile is nice. Doesn’t it suit him? He’s calm where he sits despite the rumble of noise coming from Robin’s booth and Leah talking to herself in his lap. The red glow of the ON AIR light makes his brown hair nearly purple at the tops but leaves his face untouched, tan fading pale in the fall, his beauty marks the darkest bit of colour to him when you aren’t looking into the well of his eyes. His irises are like wet tree bark. His lashes look long from across the room.
And his biceps don’t look half bad when they’re wrapped around your baby. Her tiny stature emphasises the bulk he’s put on while you were in Portland. You’ve been noticing more of him lately—his weight gain, the change in his muscle, the cut of his hair, those reading glasses he keeps in the console of his car. But there are things about him that didn’t change. He’s pretty happy, as things go. He likes doing things for other people.
Their conversation drifts into focus. “…not too much, right?”
“Nah, I think that’s appropriate. Four years of dating is a long time.”
“Even if you’re broken up for half a year in the middle?”
Steve chuckles. Leah looks up at the sound. “I wouldn’t mention that part,” he says. “Look, I’ll come get you after I’m done here–”
“You’re not coming tonight?” you ask, entirely sincere in asking. Not a lick of judgement in it, but surprise, and a second emotion you aren’t eager to name.
“I was– I was gonna come,” Steve says. “If that’s cool.”
“Oh, sure. Sorry. I thought you were– Yeah, it’s fine,” you say.
Steve looks at you for a long second. “I can’t miss out on dinner,” he says, dipping down to speak in Leah’s ear, “can I? What am I making tonight, Lee, do you remember?”
“S’getti,” she says, with a vindication bordering evil.
Steve presses his lips together. Shrugs at Lucas smugly. “S’getti,” he says. “I’ll be there at six, okay?”
Lucas shoots an “Awesome, thank you, sorry,” over his shoulder as he leaves.
“Thank you sorry,” Leah repeats.
Steve has to lock into work and he doesn’t ask you to leave, moving Leah around in his arms and plugs the headphones in. She enjoys the novelty enough to sit there without complaining, bathed in attention. It’s weird to have Leah with you without having to look after her. Like, she gets uncomfortable and Steve moves her. She whines in his arm and he opens a drawer to uncover a bag of chips. He does ask if it’s alright for her to eat them, but you say yes and he doesn’t need guidance after that. He wipes her dirty face in his sleeve and twists a knob on the keyboard.
He is startlingly capable.
You are startlingly hot.
You pull at your neckline, wishing you’d brought a book to read or a zip tie to garrote yourself with for thinking such stupid shitty thoughts.
—
Steve packs his shit up at five with Leah on his hip, happy to stay with him. You’ve been quiet bordering silent and he hasn’t summoned up the bravery to ask why. He didn’t wanna look a gift horse in the mouth, ‘cos you’re here, and you brought Lee without any begging on his part. He shows her off to everyone they pass on the way out, less subtly to the smiley cleaner Cindy who loves to call him handsome in the morning. Who’s this? she asks.
This is my baby, Leah.
The problem arises when he’s trying to pass Leah to you to part ways in the parking lot.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard something that loud,” Robin laments, blinking fast. Because, despite years and time to learn, he’s her ride home.
Leah screams another ear-splitter. “No!” she’s shouting. “No, no!”
She sobs.
You try to disentangle her from Steve’s chest. He can feel your individual fingers pressing into his pecs. “Lee, come on!” you say, laughing nervously. “Daddy has stuff to do, we’ll see him for dinner!”
She sobs louder.
Robin shakes her head as though dislodging water from her ears.
“Baby, please,” you say, apparently possessing the patience of a god, “it’s okay, I promise, it’s not long. We’ll be okay for a bit.”
Leah sews her hands in his hair tightly, yanking until it stings. Steve flinches and you immediately stop trying to make Leah disengage.
“Sorry, honey,” you say, and Steve realises with a full body start you’ve spoken to him, your hand resting open on his upper shoulder. It’s an obvious slip of the tongue. You lean forward with a slight stammer, “I– Leah, don’t pull, you’re hurting.”
“Not going,” Leah says.
“Just for now!”
“No!”
You give Steve a wide-eyed frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s going on. She doesn’t do this… usually.”
“That’s okay, it’s fine, maybe you could come with me?”
You nibble your lip. “I gotta go check on my mom, I haven’t been home all day, I don’t know if she’s eaten yet.”
Steve tries to pass Leah into your arms with renewed purpose. The snap of hair behind his ear gives him pause. “Uh, can she come with me?” Steve asks, loud now, his head angled against her hand. “Ow, Lee!”
Leah stops pulling his hair with a sob.
“I’ll take her with me and I’ll drop Robin off, pick Lucas up early, and we’ll come straight to the house.”
You falter.
The thought of you not trusting him hurts his stomach, but you say, “Steve, can you deal with that? She might not get any happier for a while.”
“Sure I can, you’ve had to do it a hundred times. I’m mostly patient. If she doesn’t calm down, I won’t yell–”
“I didn’t think you would.” You pout, wrinkling your nose. “You’d have to move the car seat–”
“Yeah, I got one.”
“You got a car seat?”
“Installed it last week. Jesus Christ, Leah, not the hair!” He reaches up to force her hand as gently as he can away from his scalp. “Baby, owwww. Not the hair.”
Leah shudders away to check he’s not angry. He can see it on her tiny face, the worry. He brings his hand to her cheek, finds his hand is too big, and has to rub her cheek with his thumb alone. “You wanna come with daddy to drop off your Aunt Robin?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Come with you,” she says, a crocodile tear rolling down her cheek.
“But mommy has to go home, is that okay?”
Leah shudders again. “Y’okay.”
“Okay. Give mommy a big kiss,” he says, repeating one of your favourite lines when it’s time for Steve to leave.
You get a kiss. You’re startled, he thinks, almost expressionless in how slack you’ve gone, but Steve smiles at you and you smile in turn. “You know how to do the car seat?” you ask.
“Sure. It’s got the two mechanisms, right? Her arm goes through each of the triangle strap thingys?”
“Yeah. Okay. Are you sure you can manage?”
“Are you okay with me taking her?”
You shrug. He can see why Leah does it as much as she does. “I guess I am. I mean, when we go home… like, you’ll have to have her for summers, I guess?” you ask, and you’re as beautiful as you usually are, the awkward twist of you and your tired eyes don’t touch it. You were beautiful when he walked into the sound room and found you in the loveseat, beautiful when you told him you’d stay for now without saying goodbye, beautiful when he spotted you across the parking lot with his surprise on your hip. You’ve always been beautiful. He knows you don’t feel strongly about your looks, but he does, and now you made his girl? And she looks so much like the two of you?
Steve stares at you, not even in hopes of any realisation, but he stares at you and thinks I cannot let this girl go back to Portland without me.
He doesn’t expect you to stay. All he needs is to beg a ride.
Because yes, Steve will become your awkward cling-on. He’ll find a shitty apartment close to you and he’ll build his life around Leah if that’s all he can have.
But it’s not everything he wants.
“You go take care of your mom, and we’ll meet you for dinner at 6? 6:15 at the latest?”
“Okie dokie.”
Steve rolls his eyes to stop from kissing your cheek. “Say see you later, mommy,” he tells Leah.
“See you later, mommy,” Leah says.
You use his shoulder as an anchor to kiss her cheek. He swears you rub his arm as you pull away, but Robin would call that delusional thinking. “See you soon, bug.”
He watches you walk away. Every step is perfect. “Your mom’s such a bombshell,” he murmurs, “holy sugar, she’s everything.” You turn over the top of the car and give him a wave, blowing Leah a kiss. He wants to catch it. He finger waves back.
Then he spins and finds Robin judging him hard.
It takes them twenty whole human minutes to figure out how to get Leah safely secured in her car seat. Then he spends four minutes framing her face in his hands and kissing her cheeks, enamoured beyond anything to see her in the bimmer. Robin laughs at how lame he is and he strokes a hair off of Leah’s forehead rather than feed into her ridicule. His baby laughs up a storm as he chucks her under the chin.
“Steve, I’m gonna starve!” Robin warns.
“Right, right!”
He kisses Leah’s small forehead and clambers out.
Robin talks a big talk, but she bends around in the passenger seat to chatter to Leah the whole way to her neighbourhood. “And then dad got us stuck on the side of the road! It was crazy! I told him we were in trouble and he kept laughing! But nothing is that funny, Leah, nothing. I think it’s ’cos your dad has a bunch of screws loose from that time he slipped on melted ice cream at work.”
“Don’t listen to her, Lee!” Steve protests, laughing at her rolling giggles.
“He busted his head! Luckily I saved him, because I am very very smart and I went to camp–”
“You went to Girl Scout’s sleep away camp, that’s not real camp! You were there for a week.”
“But they taught me what to do when your dingus gets a concussion,” Robin says, in her silky radio voice that Leah’s magnetised to. “And that’s why dad only looks a bit wonky, as opposed to a lot.”
“I’m not wonky, am I, Lee?” Steve asks, checking the rearview for her.
“Wonky?” she asks.
“Does daddy look wonky?”
“Mm,” she says.
“What! That is so mean! Baby, I thought you liked dad?”
She giggles and goes all shy. Robin, bless her clumsy, alternative, mixed-up huge heart, goes soft as taffy against the seat. “We don’t like him at all, do we?” she asks, reaching out to rub Leah’s arm. Steve nearly hits a curb trying to watch. “Stinky dad. You can be my girl instead, if mom wants to share. I don’t mind your Harrington blood.”
He drops Robin off, but her mom comes out and wants to meet Leah and that’s a whole thing. She’s squarely heartbroken when she first sees her, going, “Aw,” and “Oh,” as her eyes fill with tears.
“Mom!” Robin says.
“Sorry, but she’s beautiful. Well done, Stevie.”
He murmurs a Thank you, Mrs. Buckley and gets the usual It’s Melissa, Steve.
It takes another ten minutes to get Leah in the car after her quick trip. He heads straight for Lucas’ and finds him freaking out about the bouquet he got Max —Erica told him to put salt in the water to keep them fresh. Steve drives him to the florists ten minutes before they close and they end up with two smaller bunches combined into a vibrant hodgepodge.
Steve buys a handful of daisies for Leah, tucking one behind her ear.
Max likes her flowers, but she’s far more interested in the baby. Lucas stands behind her rubbing his mouth.
“She does look like you,” Max says thoughtfully.
“Right? She has my eyes.”
“Yeah.” Max leans into the car. “Hi, Steve’s baby,” she says quietly.
“This is your Aunt Max,” Steve says.
Leah, who has taken all these new aunts and uncles in her stride (or is too young to get what the hell is going on), offers Max a huge smile with her tiny baby teeth. “Hi Am’ Max,” she says.
Max grins despite herself. “Hi. Are you having a good day?”
“Yessss.”
“Yeah?” She glares at Steve momentarily before standing in front of him, like she’s annoyed he’s seen her being normal, like he doesn’t catch her in a good mood all the time. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to lie. Did you have dinner?”
“Max, I am perfectly capable of looking after her.”
“I’m just checking!” She shakes Leah’s hand nicely. “This party had enough boys,” she says.
Steve ruffles Max’s hair, unbound and bouncing behind her. He’s lucky he makes it to the car with his hand.
Steve sighs when they’re on the road to your place. “Okie dokie,” he says, clenching the steering wheel to listen to the leather creak, “let’s go see your mom. It’s only–” He checks his watch. Blinks big and wide. It’s 6:37PM already, and it’s a five minute drive to your side of Hawkins. “Oh, my god. You’re mom is gonna kill me dead.”
“Kill?”
“Kiss!” he says, cringing. “Yep, she’s gonna kiss me! No other words.”
“Y’okay.”
“Who taught you to say that so cutely?” he asks, fully stressed now, the tightness in his voice surprising a giggle out of Leah. “Stop laughing!”
She giggles worse.
He can’t be more anxious as he pulls up to the house. He climbs out of the car, grabs Leah from her car seat, and in his rush to get her home before you murder him, slams his head so hard into the roof of the car he sees stars.
“Oh, fuck,” he says, holding Leah to his chest as his vision fades out.
Your laugh sounds out from behind him. “Every parent has to do it, Steve, I’m sorry to say,” you call, jogging down the path to the car. “I was wondering where you guys went. It’s… Steve?”
He blinks hard as he stands up, his arms around Leah shaky as his head pounds and pounds and pounds. “Sorry,” he says.
“Steve, what’s wrong?” You rest your arm behind his shoulders to hold him. “Hey, are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”
He urges you to take Leah.
The pain is radiating from the centre of his skull outward, into each eye and down the nape of his neck. It’s such a sudden sharpness he loses his breath, spotty vision fading in and out as he curls into himself.
“Lee, can you go inside, baby?” he hears you ask. There are a few steps, your dark shadows on the ground drifting further away before one returns, all alone. “Steve, what happened? How hard did you hit your head?” you ask softly.
“It’s– I got that–” Every word pulls at the nausea brewing in his stomach. “I’m gonna–”
Steve gags. He aims for the grass. Everything goes white.
—
Steve does a valiant job of keeping himself upright long enough for you to sit him down inside, but after that, he’s useless.
“Okay, it’s okay,” you’re saying, a ringing in your ears you can’t cope with, “it’s alright, Steve, you’re okay. Come forward, honey, let me see–”
You aren’t sure he’s conscious, but he slumps forward regardless to expose the back of his head. You feel through his hair and pull your hand out quick to check for blood on your fingertips, but they come away clean.
“Daddy?” Leah asks, wandering into the living room with her little smile and a daisy drooping behind her ear.
“How was meemaw, bub?” you ask.
“Sleeping.”
“Why don’t you go snuggle with her for a minute? I’ll bring you a buppy?”
Leah hugs your leg from behind. “Buppy?”
“Yeah, do you want one?”
Leah shoots for the bedroom. You take her absence as an opportunity to pull Steve’s head up, meeting his droopy gaze. “Steve, baby,” you say, so softly it’d be a wonder if he could hear you, “are you okay?”
He groans. “Just a migraine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Feels like one.”
“You get them a lot?”
“More since you left.”
You swallow roughly. “I’m gonna call an ambulance.”
“No.” At that, he sits up, holds his own head up to plead, “You don’t have to. I’m fine, this just happens sometimes. After I hit my head at the mall, I get these killer migraines.”
“You hit your head, though. I think you have a concussion.”
“Not my first one.”
You hold his cheek in your hand. Your thumb brushes over his beauty marks. “No?” you ask.
“Had three.”
“You never told me.”
“I know. Didn’t want you to think I was– some loser? I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know why it was hard to be honest with you, guess I thought– it’s not like it’s ever done any good before. I always say the wrong thing.”
You get on your knees in front of him. To cope with the strain of looking up at him, but more to see him face to face. “Steve, you nearly yacked in my yard. I think we’re past appearances.”
Steve covers his mouth with a big hand.
You tuck as much of his hair behind his ears as you can. “Can you look at me? I want to check your pupils.”
He opens his eyes properly, pouring his gaze into yours without hesitation. You check the size of each pupil and find them normal, though the longer he looks, the bigger they become. “I think there’s something wrong, Steve. Your eyes are blown.”
“It’s fine. It’s not ‘cos I hit my head. It’s a headache.”
“You almost knocked yourself out. You’re throwing up. What if I don’t call the ambulance and Leah’s dad dies on my couch?”
“I don’t need an ambulance. I barely puked, it was all spit.”
“Steve.”
“I’m serious. I didn’t even go for the first two concussions, and the third one, they said this could happen. Turns out that taking a couple of bad knocks to the head makes you fragile, I’m fine.” He cups your cheek. “Jesus, don’t feel sorry for me–”
“I do feel sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Seconds of stringy silence follow. He squints at you through the pain. “It’s okay,” he says, his own thumb rubbing at your veins. “I’m sorry, too.”
You pull his hand off your face. Not without care.
“…Can I please call an ambulance?” you ask, uneasy.
“I don’t need one.”
“How do you know?” you whisper.
He turns his hand in your grip to hold yours. His eyes are brown and teary with pain, but they’re so familiar. “I just do. Can you trust me, please?”
You try to stand. Steve squeezes your hand in his and makes you sit on the couch beside him as his eyes shutter closed and his head tips back, the column of his throat there and pale and working as he swallows his pain. You stare at the length of it with your hand too hot in his grip, wondering when it’s acceptable to pull your hand away, and if you’d even want to when the time came.
You told me you didn’t want this, you think, your two joined hands rising and falling where he’s pulled them to his chest. You swear you can see his heart in his chest. The gentle bump-bump of it against skin. A miserable wife.
“Can I get you anything?”
He croaks a hum. “Mm, no.”
“Are you sure? I have aspirin.”
His fingers flex. “It’ll go away.”
“When?”
“It depends. It can take a few hours, sometimes, but I don’t get the worst of the pain for long.” His voice is hoarse with its quiet.
“The other times?”
“They can last for days.”
You’d seen the physical change in Steve. He went weak and sweaty in seconds. His nausea was obviously extreme. You can feel the tremor in his hand as he talks like every word spurs pain.
“It won’t, though,” he says. “Don’t worry. I need five minutes and I can make dinner.”
“Uh, no you can’t. You can sit right here until you feel better, thanks.”
He sinks impossibly further into your mom’s old couch. “Okay. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” You lower your tone. “I don’t mind. I’m sorry if you thought I would.”
“I didn’t mean to–”
“To what? Give yourself a concussion on the roof of the car? I gathered that.”
“Didn’t mean for it to become your problem,” he says.
“You’re not a problem, Steve. I promise.”
You fight for better judgement and lose, letting yourself caress a piece of hair away from his pale neck.
“I think I really screwed up,” he says. “Think I made out all the wrong things. You didn’t think you could tell me about the baby–”
“We don’t have to do this again–”
“Yeah, we do. We do. Because I made you think I wouldn’t want you. I lied to protect my ego and I could’ve had everything I wanted,” —his brow pulls tight and glared, his jaw rigid— “and I hurt you.”
“I hurt myself. You didn’t make me run away, Steve. I did it all alone. I’m good at that.”
“I don’t want you to be alone.”
“I don’t want you to live a life that you hate.”
“I don’t. I won’t. How could I ever hate anything about her?”
You have to give him that. But. “I didn’t tell you for a bunch of reasons, Steve,” you confess, hardly wanting to let it out. “I was scared of everything, you and your parents, making you into the reluctant husband, or– or at the least the reluctant father. I didn’t want to deal with it. And I didn’t wanna be that stupid girl who got knocked up by the prom king. I ran away and nobody had to know.”
“It wouldn’t have been like that.”
“I realise that now.”
His head lolls to see you. He pulls his lashes apart enough to peek through them, that dark hedging a line you’d like to count. You tip your head toward his and face him across the couch cushions, hands joined and hot as a hearth.
“It was never messing around, to me,” he says quietly. Sweat wets the hair at his temples.
“You don’t have to–”
“I got my heart stomped on pretty hard over and over and I stopped trying. I put all my cards on the table every time. But with you, I couldn’t do it again. I thought I couldn’t, so I acted less into you than I was.”
You remember all his kisses and tight armed hugs, his affectionate nudges, his nose lined to your temple as he bore down. It hadn’t felt like less. But you’d never thought it was more, either.
“I pretended we were this summer fling, told you I didn’t want kids, that I wanted to live in the city and get a full time job at a firm with a company car, like that stuff mattered.” He frowns at you deeply. “I’m sorry. I wish I could change it.”
His throat bobs.
“S’it still hurting?” you murmur.
“So much,” he murmurs too, holding your hand against his heart. “I can’t get it to stop.”
“I can’t do this with you.”
He shakes his head minutely. “M’not asking you for anything you can’t give me. I’m just sorry.”
You want him to lean in and align his mouth to yours. You imagine it vividly, the press and taste of him, the scratch of the stubble on his upper lip and his hand slipping behind your neck, squeezing your nape gently, his thumb at the hinge of your jaw trying to open your mouth. You want him so badly it’s a palpable ache in your teeth, like he’s already kissed you harsh and quick, that clack of a collision and the subsequent metallic on your tongue.
But you aren’t lying. You can’t do this.
A thudding noise echoes from your mom’s room, compelling you up and away from his warm touch. Your hand sings with pins and needles as it falls out of his.
“Lee?” you call. “Sorry. I have to go make sure she’s okay.”
He frowns again as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s fine. I’ll be here.”
—
The bedroom throw blankets haven’t changed since you were here last. Your mom didn’t waste much time turning it into a guest room, but the sheets and blankets are the same, soft with wear in your hands as you lay them out. Leah waits for you to finish before climbing into bed, her bottle teat bitten between her teeth. It slips out of her hand with a rush of air as she slips into the pillows. You pick it up and offer it to her again, your shoulders aflame with the weight of an uncommon gaze.
“What side do you sleep on?”
Steve, at half-mast but less obviously pained, takes his time answering.
“Left.”
“Left side’s all yours.”
He shuffles forward in a polo and a pair of his old sweatpants. You, in a horrible stroke of great luck, had them in the bottom of the chest of drawers.
“Make room for me?” he asks Leah.
She grins around her bottle.
You’re pretty sure that if Steve can’t open his eyes for more than ten seconds at a time, he can’t drive, and you don’t want him to fall asleep at home and never wake up. Hence your impromptu sleepover. The bed is a queen and you have a shared child as a buffer, but you’re already annoyed with yourself. Your arms keep remembering what it felt like to stretch out over him whenever he ended up on his front. It is not helpful.
You put the big light out and the nightlight on, a ladybug on a mushroom that glows a warm orange on Steve’s side of the room. In your own sweatpants and a vest, you climb into the right side of the bed and nearly fall straight back out at the lack of space.
Steve curls an arm around Leah tentatively, encouraging her into his side to make room for you.
“You okay?” he asks Leah quietly.
“You okay, daddy?” she asks.
“I’m fine, beautiful. I’m good.”
“Sleep?” she asks.
“With you, if that’s cool?”
“Cool,” she says decidedly.
When you lie down, Leah immediately rolls out of Steve’s grip and makes herself comfortable in the curves of you, her nose digging hard in your arm, the bottle warm on your chest.
“I’ll move her when she falls asleep,” you whisper, nodding to the foldout cot next to the bed with its padded interior.
Sleeping in the same bed as Steve Harrington is a long gone artefact of the past. It’s odd to be face to face with him, to smell him so close, the toothpaste on his breath and the salty, earthy sting of sweat mixed with allspice. You don’t strictly mind it, but you didn’t think you’d ever be this close again. It hurries the heart. You miss him like a slap.
Refusing to think on it is the best way forward.
“You sure you’re okay?” you ask him under your breath.
Leah suckles at her bottle, breaking the quiet, though it’s a monotone sort of sound. Steve doesn’t answer. You glance at him and find him dozing already, not a blanket over him nor a sheet untucked.
“Steve.”
He blinks to attention. “Huh?”
“Pull the blanket up over yourself.”
He must like your tone. You’d gone soft by accident, too used to lulling Leah to sleep via sweetness and dulcet murmuring. He kicks it down and then pulls it up to his ribs, a tight white parcel with the pink throw laid over his feet.
“It’ll be cold tonight. Does that make the migraines worse?” you ask.
“No. I’ll be okay.”
You let him fall asleep. Leah snuggles under your chin. This isn’t the daydream. You aren’t being cuddled and coddled by warm kisses along the side of your face, his big arm around you, your baby between you. Steve keeps a good distance and he’s exhausted.
Leah takes a lot longer to fall, but when she does it’s for keeps. You give her ten minutes tucked up on your chest but decide to move her when you feel your own eyes drifting shut. A rush of unnecessary shushing and a soft kiss later, you creep toward the bed and lay down on your side. Steve sleeps as your mirror, one cheek and eye hidden by the pillow, the sheets pulled haphazard over his hip. You yank them from under you and pull them up to cover him to the shoulder, tempted to tuck his hair behind his ear again. It’s long enough.
“Can feel you staring,” he whispers.
Your heart leaps in shock, though thankfully you don’t jump. “Hm?”
“Staring at me.”
“Trying to gauge whether you died in your sleep.”
“Still ‘live.”
You do reach for him, then, stricken by how badly you want to take care of him. “I can see that.”
He peeks down at your hand on his cheek and grins dopily. “Missed you,” he says.
“Missed you, too.”
You wouldn’t tell him if it weren’t dark, if he weren’t in pain.
“You did?” he asks.
“I always miss you,” you say. You pull your hand away like it’s him that’s said the wrong thing, annoyed at your own boldness, moving onto your back to stare at the ceiling.
He feels at your wrist, up your arm. Steve slides his palm over your stomach and holds it there. When you’re starting to think he might’ve fallen asleep again, your breath aching in your throat to be expelled, he presses down carefully and sighs. “I wish I got to see it. Don’t know why you were alone.”
“I wasn't.”
“Would’ve looked after you, though.”
“Steve…”
“I would’ve.”
“I know.” You know now. You could’ve stayed here and had him look after you, but it’s not what you wanted. “I wanted… more, than that.”
He stares at you across the pillows. Your breath catches as he brings his hand up to your cheek and encourages your head toward him, as he lifts himself up off the pillows to bear down over you.
“Do you still want that?” he asks.
You laugh, weak and weary. “Not when you’re concussed.”
He laughs in your face. It’s quiet to leave Leah sleeping, and to stop from hurting himself again, but it’s a genuine laugh of joy leaning over you. His hair falls in his face and he’s beautiful. All freckled and gold in the dim amber light sunning in from behind him.
“I am not concussed,” he says, leaning down.
You don’t kiss. Won’t lift your lips to his where he waits, though waiting might not be the right word. It’s like he’s alright with anything you’re about to do, or not do, sharing your breath.
“I don’t believe you,” you tease lightly.
He’s moved so much to be over you. It is unquestionably the position of a man who’s going to kiss you.
You press your forehead to his chin.
“We should sleep,” you say, because you shouldn’t kiss.
Portland feels very, very far away as he trails his fingers down the front of you and takes a handful of your hip.
“I’m not concussed,” he says, though it’s not asking for anything; Steve’s already pulling away. He sits up and slightly away from you, rubbing a wave into your abdomen lovingly, like you never went to Portland at all. Like it’s the sleepover after a night spent kissing slow and watching shit TV. “Get some sleep, angel,” he adds, so quietly you’d doubt he spoke if you hadn’t watched his mouth shape the words.
—
In the morning, you wake to find Leah chest to chest with Steve, his hair like water on your pillows.
“An’ my hand an’ my nose as my mouth,” she says factually.
“And your ears,” he says back to her quietly, stroking a path from her shoulders to her lower back and up again. “Your eyebrows, and your hair, and your neck.”
“Yeah.”
“Your tummy, and your legs, and your little toes.”
“Am’ my toes,” she says.
“Even your toes are pretty,” Steve agrees. “‘Cos duh. Leah’s the prettiest girl I ever met, right?” His voice drops low enough to rattle hoarsely. “Just as pretty as mommy. I didn’t know that was possible.”
You hide your face in the pillows, pretending to sleep.
This is not going to go how you’d first thought.
—
thank you for reading!! so excited I love steve and I know he could be bitchier and angrier here but I’ve decided to make him whipped instead cos he’s cute when he’s in love and if it’s not implied enough he’s still whipped for the reader lol. hope you enjoyed it thank you very much for reading and taking the time
summary: after a devastating argument with your boyfriend, you’re left worrying about the future of your relationship.
warnings: angst, arguing, cursing, mean!reader, reader is lowkey emotionally unavailable but she’s trying, kinda mean!steve, steve is also stubborn but sweet, lots of crying, some mentions of suicide but also not really, talks of previous injuries, canon adjacent to season five, eddie is alive because i say so, i think that’s it!
word count: 5.2k
from jen: um hi? this idea hit me randomly and despite my incredibly long list of WIP’s, this is was the only one i managed to finish on a random friday night. i hope you guys like it! as always, with love <3
Steve Harrington had a knack for throwing himself onto the metaphorical grenade and you were sick of it.
You won’t lie, his instinctual nature of being the hero and protecting the people he loved was one of the things that drew you to him in the first place. But what first came off as charming, is now infuriating.
Every bone in your body is tense, fingers clenched tightly into fists at your sides, and your feet stomp across the grass outside the WSQK building as you speed walk inside. Without looking behind you, you know Steve is fast on your trail.
Nancy and Jonathan stay behind, clearly aware of the simmering tension between you and Steve, near the van and try to occupy themselves with talk but you know they must feel awkward at the argument they’re about to witness.
“Baby, will you please slow down and talk to me?” Steve begs from behind you. Rather than listening to him, your feet carry you up the three steps and you swing open the glass door and step inside.
The gesture is only enough for you to slip through and you hear Steve groan when his chest collides with the door trying to shut itself before he can stop it.
Good, serves him right after his stunt tonight.
You ignore the passive glances aimed towards you from Dustin and Lucas who are sitting on the couch in the middle of the common room. Despite not being there physically, everyone is aware of the events of tonight and you’d like to think they’re on your side.
But you’re also not in the mood to discuss them. You continue on your path, although you’re not even really sure you know where you’re planning to go but for now, you head towards the kitchen.
You’re ready for an argument with him, truly you’re craving it – maybe then you’ll have an outlet for the anger you’ve been feeling lately. Tonight marks the third time in a single month where he’s put himself in danger and you’re at your wits end. And while you have every intention of fully laying into him, you prefer not to do it in front of an audience.
Steve calls your name again, still carrying the most patient tone he always embodies when it comes to you. Tonight, it only angers you even more. How can he stand there and be so calm and sweet when he nearly died less than an hour ago?
Once you’re both away from the others, safely tucked inside the small kitchenette of the radio station, you spin on your heels to face him. His feet all but screech to a halt when he realizes you’re finally looking at him, but you don’t give him a chance to even be relieved before you’re speaking.
“Are you set on carrying out a suicide mission or have all those blows to the head you’ve taken over the years knocked some screws loose in there?” You demand.
Steve watches your arms cross tightly over your chest and your eyes blaze up at him. He’s a 5’11” man and looking down at you now, he knows it should be physically impossible for him to fear you and yet that look in your eye has him nearly cowering away.
“What?” He asks stupidly.
“I’m serious, Steve. You went way off track tonight and not only did you put yourself in danger, you put the rest of us in danger!”
Truth be told, you couldn’t care less about yourself being in danger. It was Steve you were worried about, he was the only one you were ever truly worried about but there was a stubborn part of yourself who was too scared to admit it, even now.
“I know, I know,” Steve sighed, taking a step toward you but you take one backwards, insistent on keeping the distance between you two. You watch his eyes sadden and fight the urge to run into his arms and make it better for him but damnnit, he gave you another memory of his near death and you needed him to understand that.
Steve swallows and doesn’t fight the distance. “I didn’t mean to, okay? I figured it was our last chance and I wanted to make it count. I’d never let you get hurt, or Nancy and Jonathan, you know that,” He pleads.
You shake your head. “That’s not the point, Steve. This is the third time this month you’ve done something so stupid and careless, and you still don’t seem to learn.”
It’s Steve’s turn to shake his head. “That’s not fair. I’m trying to keep everyone safe, I’m trying to get us closer to Vecna!”
“Using your body as a human shield isn’t going to do that!”
“Wha – I’m not using myself like that!” He argues. Based off his tone, you can tell he’s still not getting it. It seems like he has such little regard for himself that he can’t even recognize when he puts himself in harms way.
“You are! We all agreed going to that gate was only to make sure nothing could fit in or out, and what did you do? You –“ Steve cuts you off.
“I had to! The plan we ‘agreed on’ –“ He uses his fingers to make air quotes over the word – “was made when we didn’t know it was guarded with goddamn Demobats. Nancy and Jonathan were pinned, I was making sure they got out!”
“And your bright idea was sacrificing yourself?” You shout back at him. You’re aware of the increased volume of your voices and how the others inside the building no doubt are hearing your argument to some degree but that doesn’t stop you.
“Would you quit saying it like I was trying to kill myself? I wasn’t thinking about that, I was thinking of a way to keep everyone alive,”
“Exactly, you weren’t thinking about it. You never think about it! You just do stupid shit and expect me to be there to pick up the pieces.”
Steve’s expression pinches, and you can see the last of his patience begin to dissipate. “Hold on, I don’t expect anything from you. And again, what I did wasn’t stupid, I’m the one who kept us all alive tonight,”
You bark our a humorless laugh. “No, Nancy and her shotgun are what kept us alive tonight. If she hadn’t followed you, those bats would’ve tore you apart just like they did last year!”
It was a low blow, you know it was. Steve hated the reminder of his first time in the Upside Down – ironically, a time where you did exactly why you’re yelling at him for now and jumped through the watergate to save him – and he confided in you about that many times. He told you about his nightmares about that night, about how much he hates his scars and how scared he was and yet here you were, practically throwing it back in his face.
And you can tell the argument has hit a point of no return when his eyes lose all their softness. You hit the exact nerve you were aiming for but now, you’re not so sure you’re able to deal with the consequences.
“Right. I guess I should be thanking Nancy instead of wasting my time trying to apologize to you, especially after you did basically nothing the entire time tonight,”
Your eyes narrow at him and his implication. “Excuse me?”
Steve shrugs. “You heard me. You’re on my case about how I put myself in danger but at least I was doing something. Nancy was the one who followed after me, all while you stayed behind and pouted until I got back,”
A piece of heart splinters from itself and it lodges deep in your gut. Just as you were aware of Steve’s fears, he was aware of your insecurities when it came to Nancy. You’d been sort of friends with Steve growing up and were a distant viewer of his relationship with her. You knew of their history, something you didn’t share despite your relationship with him now and you’d done your best to be up front with him about it. Not once has he ever given you a reason to doubt him, his love for you, or his lack of feelings for Nancy. Until now.
In all fairness, you started the war below the belt so, you reap what you sow. But still, it stung. It really stung.
“Oh I see, you’re just reliving your glory days then, is that it?” You mock him and he’s quick to pick up on it. But you’ve started now and there’s no coming back. “Is this whole thing your weak attempt at regaining Nancy’s attention? You’re doing whatever you can to make yourself seem like the King Steve that Nancy Wheeler fell in love with three years ago?”
You see the way his jaw ticks when you say his old nickname and you know you’re heading in the right – wrong, really fucking wrong – direction.
“I hate to break it to you, Steve, but you were knocked clean off that high horse in high school. You’re so worried about being forgotten and replaced that you can’t even see how careless you’re being. You’re not in high school anymore and no matter how much you try and chase it, you’ll never be what you were back then and it’s embarrassing having to watch your pathetic attempts anyway!”
Your chest is heaving by the time you’re done and you’ve spent the last two minutes ignoring that small voice in your head telling you to stop, that you’re hurting him, that you’re ruining things. A voice you didn’t listen to even thought you know you should have.
Steve stands in front of you, shoulders tense and his hands loosely curled into fists but all you can focus on is his face. His irritatingly handsome face, usually covered with an even handsomer smile, is now covered in a look you can only describe as hurt. Pure hurt.
Your stomach twists with guilt and you know you have to apologize, but no words seem adequate enough to make up for the things you said.
In a matter of seconds, he pulls his gaze away from yours and casts his eyes at the ground instead. He shakes his head, biting his lip and when he looks back up at you, his face is stoic. He’s sealed you off from him and his emotions.
“I’m done,” He says suddenly and you feel your heart drop to the floor. He doesn’t clarify what he means, although you’re not sure there’s much clarity to give. You pushed him too far, something you’ve done plenty of times, and he finally reached his breaking point. He’s done with you.
He doesn’t wait for a response or offer anymore before he walks out of the kitchen and all you’re left with is the distant sound of his footsteps moving further and further away from you.
Your throat tightens and your eyes burn with unshed tears threatening to fall. Your mind tries to piece together how things got so bad so fast but you know exactly how – because of you. Always because of you.
You got what you wanted. You wanted him to hurt like you did, so why did you still feel so bad?
You’re not sure how much time had passed by the time you left the station. All you know is when you did, the building was clear. The kids weren’t occupying the common room like they were when you arrived, Nancy and Jonathan weren’t by the van and Steve was nowhere to be found.
The air around you was suffocating despite you being alone and you know it’s because you’re wallowing in a state of self hatred. You crossed a line tonight, and you were certain Steve would never forgive you. Not that you could really blame him.
Your drive home is silent, save for the sound of your own subconscious screaming at you for being so mean and stupid. There were some other things she’d yelled at you but vulgar enough you don’t care to repeat.
When you finally get home, it’s just after 8 o’clock and you feel like a zombie as you run through the motions of a bedtime routine. You don’t bother with dinner or a shower, and quickly change into pajamas – your bottoms and one of Steve’s shirts – before shutting all the lights out and climbing into bed.
You’re foolish enough to hope he’ll come over tonight. He’s spent the majority of your relationship here now that Dustin and Eddie have sort of moved into his house. It’s not like there wasn’t enough room for all of you, but Steve really enjoyed having space where it was you and him. Just you two.
It’s been a little over a year since you two became official, but you both know now how long you’ve spent secretly in love with each other. Your love for Steve has been something you’ve always been open about, something you’re proud of but there’s always been a distance you’ve kept with him.
Blame it on the dismissive approach your mother took to parenting, or the heartbreak from your father abandoning you as a child, or the bad luck you’ve had in your singular relationship before Steve that ended with him cheating on you – it didn’t matter. No matter how much you loved Steve, it was hard to trust him. Not his intentions or his loyalty, no there wasn’t a single part of you that worried he was a cruel man but who was to say one day he wouldn’t wake up and decide he didn’t want you anymore?
How could you know for certain that if you trusted him with every part of yourself, light and dark, he wouldn’t leave? You couldn’t be certain, that was the problem. And his instinct to hurl himself toward danger only made that feeling worsen. If he didn’t break up with you, he could leave you by dying and that was your worst nightmare. At least he’d still be alive if he didn’t love you anymore, but if he was no longer breathing? There’d be no reason left for you.
You’re tossing and turning in your sheets, clinging to his pillow that smells just like him, while your mind races and your chest aches.
You’re being unfair, and unreasonable. Steve’s never given you a reason to doubt him, as a matter of fact, he’s worked serious overtime to try and break down the walls you’ve spent years building. He’s kind, and selfless and so fucking patient it makes your heart bleed.
And in minutes, you’ve managed to break that. You’ve had exactly one good thing in your life and you broke it. You’ve broken him. The look on his face after hearing what you said is permanently etched in your brain and it worsens your guilt. Suddenly, you sit up in bed and you’re reaching for the landline on the bedside table. You don’t expect him to forgive you, you’re not even sure you want him to after the awful things you said to him, and you won’t try and change his mind on the breakup but he has to know everything you said tonight was a lie.
You’re dialing his number without a second thought and you ignore the way your hands shake with nerves. You’re not sure he’ll pick up, or that he won’t immediately hang up on you once he hears your voice but you need to try.
The line rings several times, all while you feel your body shake from anxiety. Your finger wraps around the cord, so tight you should worry about blood circulation. It’s still pitch black around you but all you can focus on is trying to find the right worlds.
None of it matters however, because after seven rings, you’re met with his parents voices on the voicemail.
And while you should take it as a sign to give him space, you’re shoving the covers off yourself and quickly slipping your shoes on instead. Your body is moving on its own accord, like a magnet being pulled to metal, you’re being pulled towards him.
You’re basically on autopilot as you drive to his house, still trying to find the right words to make it up to him. You’re pretty sure there’s nothing you could say to make it up to him but you’re determined to try.
The first thing you notice when you get to his house is the absence of his car, and then how dark it is – not even the porch light is on. When you glance at the clock in your car, it reads 1:03AM. You’re surprised he’s not home, and try not to think too hard of where he could be. You park on the curb across from his house and you’re hoping either Eddie or Dustin are here as you climb out of the car to knock on the door. Maybe waiting inside wouldn’t be such a good idea, but it increases the likelihood of him listening to you and not slamming the door in your face whenever he gets home. Not that you wouldn’t deserve it.
You walk up his driveway and knock on the door, nervously rocking on the balls of your feet. After a few moments and no answer, you assume either nobody’s home or whoever is must be asleep. Which means you either wait here for Steve to get home – if he comes home – or for one of the other two boys to potentially wake up and let you in.
Or go home.
With a sigh, you make your decision and sit on the second step of his porch. Your arms hug your knees to your chest and you rest your chin on the tops of them. With your decision made, you spend even more time internally berating yourself and trying to figure out what to say.
I’m sorry for throwing your worst fear and biggest regret in your face, I was being stubborn and instead of trying to ask for help, I acted like a bitch. Will you forgive me?
Yeah. That probably wasn’t going to work.
And anyway, this wasn’t about forgiveness. This was about making sure Steve knew he wasn’t pathetic and he’s so much more than who he was in high school. It was about making sure your own fears didn’t make him feel stupid or useless. He was none of those things.
Thinking back on it, there was probably a lot more truth to his words than you would’ve liked to admit. Nancy was the one who went after him, you did stay behind but it wasn’t because you couldn’t do something – it was because you were scared all you’d find was his body. But regardless of the reason, he was right. Tonight, you were the useless one and he made the call to try and protect everyone else, yourself included, when the group was faced with a threat. That was more than you did.
It’s relatively dark along his street and the lack of light on his porch makes it worse. There’s a breeze in the air and you’re beginning to regret not bringing a jacket in your quick frenzy to get here.
Suddenly it hits you.
Five hours ago, you said some of the worst things you could think of and without insulting you back, Steve walked away and ended things. He didn’t want you anymore, he couldn’t handle it and instead of listening to him and respecting his choice, you showed up at his home in the middle of the night. With what – a demand that he listens to you, all to appease your own guilt?
Oh God, you should not be here.
Just as you’re ready to scramble upright and head back to your car, headlights cover the pavement and you recognize them almost immediately. Your breathing has shallowed and your anxiety spikes. You’re still not set on what you’re going to say to him but it doesn’t seem like you have much of a chance to rethink anything – or leave like you’d now like to.
Steve cuts the engine off, returning you into darkness before he steps out of the car. He doesn’t seem to have noticed you or your car as he makes his way up the driveway. He’s lazily spinning his keys around his fingers, eyes trained on the concrete beneath him.
As he gets closer to the porch, his head lifts and it’s only when he’s a few feet away from you, that he finally notices you. He freezes almost instantly and at the same time, you practically jump to your feet.
For a moment, you both just stare at each other. He’s still in the same clothes from earlier, but his hair is messier than he’d ever kept it and he looks tired. You’re not sure if you’re to blame or because the late hour. Surely a mix of both.
You’re visibly nervous as he quickly takes in your appearance. Your pajama bottoms that are too long for you, one of his old favorite t-shirts you stole from him, and some random shoes that aren’t even laced all the way. Your hands are in front of you, wringing together and once he sees that, Steve realizes you’re here.
He finally meets your gaze and you watch his face twist from surprise to .. worry?
He says your name quickly, almost a breathless sound. “It’s 2AM, what’re you doing out here?”
You swallow and your throat suddenly feels dry. You’ve been trying to answer that exact question to yourself for the past hour. But despite his worrisome expression, you notice his words and it’s pretty easy to think your earlier assumptions were right, he doesn’t want you here.
“I.. I was waiting for you,” You offer softly.
It’s lame is what it is.
His brows furrow, and you’re both unsure what to say next and you figure it’s best if you start.
“I got here but you weren’t home, and nobody answered the door, so I-I just thought I’d wait here,”
Steve nods once. “Was at Robin’s. Eddie took Dustin to Mike’s, probably decided to stay,”
You don’t miss the shortness in his words and your heart pinches, but you have nobody to blame by yourself for that. After all, that’s why you’re here.
“Oh.” You nod, trying to give a smile but you’re sure it ends up looking more like a painful grimace.
Without you really noticing, Steve’s eyes drop down to your hands in front of you again. He watches the way you’re wringing them together so roughly and it’s your tell tale sign of not just how nervous you are, but how scared you are.
Unbeknownst to you, Steve is five seconds away from rushing towards you and forcing you into his arms. He hates seeing you scared, much less being the cause of it. He’d just spent the last five hours with Robin trying to come up with a plan to fix things between you two.
He hated what you said, of course he did, and he knows there’s absolutely no truth in the things you said about him and Nancy but maybe you weren’t so far off from the other things. Maybe he does the dangerous jobs because he has something to prove, something to fix, but not because of Nancy. Because he spent years being the worst version of himself and he’s desperate to make up for it.
He knows he’d be just as upset, if not more, if the roles were reserved and he was constantly watching you put yourself in danger, no matter the reason. He also knows you well enough to know the anger and mean words were your way of telling him how you really felt.
You were scared to lose him. He couldn’t fault you for that.
Just as he’s ready to break the silence and ask for forgiveness, you beat him to it.
“Listen, I just wanted to apologize for the things I said,” You’re avoiding eye contact and Steve can already feel his heart constricting in his chest. He knows how hard it is to be vulnerable with him, and especially how hard it is for you to apologize and yet, you’re doing it anyway. For him.
“Breakup or not, I don’t ever want you to think any of that was true,”
Wait, what?
Your words are nice and your tone is so kind, but they fall on practically deaf ears because all Steve can focus on is the word ‘breakup’. It’s ringing in his ears, practically taunting him.
“Hold on, hold on,” He rushes, shaking his head. “Who said anything about a breakup?”
He sure as hell didn’t. He wouldn’t let you go even if his life depended on it. Not unless you told him you no longer loved him and wanted him to let you go. Even then, he wasn’t sure he’d actually listen. But he was sure you hadn’t said that tonight. Sure, you were angry – so was he – but that wasn’t a breakup. Was it?
It’s his turn to internally panic but you only blink at him.
“Earlier, y-you said you were done. I get it, I really do, I-I was awful to you and you didn’t deserve that,” Your stuttering is hard to control and it’s only making your anxiety all the more obvious.
You shake your head, force your eyes to the ground and before your brain can tell your heart to shut up and protect itself, the words are spilling from your mouth.
“You never deserved that. I was just scared. I was scared that one day you’re going to do something and you won’t come back to me and instead of admitting that, I got mean and pushed you away but I swear, I didn’t mean any of it. Everything you do is from the most selfless parts of yourself,”
You still haven’t met his gaze.
“You’re so good, Steve. Too good for me, and I just proved that even more tonight. I’ve never been easy to be around, let alone be easy to love, but you did, and I want – no, I need you to know nothing I said was true. None of it,”
With your eyes trained on the floor, you see his shoes suddenly appear in your vision. He’s so close you can smell him, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, and just as suddenly, you feel the softness of his palms cradling your face.
You nearly sob at the contact. Your eyes squeeze shut and it’s only then that you realize your cheeks are wet from tears, while more continue to fall freely. His warm hands hold your face, and you feel the light touch of his thumbs brushing away the tears.
Steve says your name so softly, so full of love and it nearly overwhelms you. It’s an encouragement for you to look at him and so helpless for him, you listen and finally meet his gaze. The look in his eyes match the softness of his voice.
“Baby, that wasn’t me breaking up with you. I just didn’t want to make it worse, I was saying some pretty bad things,”
Relief sits heavy in your heart but it’s short lived.
He was saying bad things? You were the awful one.
“I’m sorry for storming out like that. I should’ve told you what I meant, not let you think I broke up with you all night,”
Immediately, you protest in his arms.
“Steve, you don’t have to apologize for anything. I was so awful to you,”
His expression shifts and his shakes his head. “Hey, stop. None of that. You’re not awful, baby. And I’m not too good for you,”
You hear in his tone how you speaking those words really upset him and a small part of yourself is happy to hear the disagreement, even if you don’t really believe it. He knows you’re ready to argue but he cuts in.
“I’m serious. I don’t wanna hear you talking badly about yourself. I don’t care what it is, there’s nothing you could say that would make me believe you’re not enough for me. You’re everything to me.” Steve leaves no room for arguing and the weight of his words sink into your bones.
Even after everything, he’s still so sweet to you. What the hell did you do to deserve him?
All the love and adoration seeping from his tone and eyes finally overwhelms you and you don’t even bother stopping yourself from launching into his arms completely. You jump to the tips of your toes, wrap your arms around his neck tightly and bury your face into his shoulder. Your chest is pressed firmly against his and he can feel the way your heart races. He catches you easily, one large hand cradling the back of your head and the other anchored around your waist.
You cling so tightly, Steve almost worries you’re about to merge into one being. Not that either of you would care.
He continues to hold you as you cry, and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. He’d take a lifetime of nasty arguments with you over a life without you.
“Sweetheart, I know it’s been hard for you to trust people before, and I’m sorry I wasn’t always around to protect you..” You’re unsure where he’s going with this but you don’t move from your place at his neck. “But I promise, I’m not going anywhere. You were right earlier, I throw myself into danger and didn’t stop to think about how that would affect you, I’m sorry,”
Gently, he pulls you from his skin so he can look at you. Despite all the heavy tears, your puffy eyes and reddened cheeks, you’re still the most beautiful girl in the world. He smiles despite himself.
“Please don’t apologize anymore,” You say softly. “I’m sorry for everything,”
His thumb strokes across your wet cheek. “I know, sweet girl,”
When you move to bury yourself into him again, he notices the way you shiver and he remembers how you’re still outside in the middle of the night.
“Come on baby, let’s go inside, yeah?” He murmurs. You nod immediately but make no movements to separate. A smile reappears on his face and without a second thought, your hands wrap around the back of your thighs and he effortlessly lifts you into the air.
You let out a startled gasp and instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist. You feel the rumble of his chest when he chuckles and he quickly kisses the top of your nose.
“Don’t worry baby, I won’t drop you. Trust me,”
You smile at him, you own palms coming up to cradle his cheeks this time. “I trust you, Steve, I promise.”
His handsome face mirrors your smile and you know without a hint of doubt that nobody has ever loved anyone the way you love him.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
moonie rambles: i loved guilty as sin so much i wanted to do some small drabbles of steve and reader's life together after the series. original series listed below!
guilty as sin
➜ two-part series [complete] | you can’t stop thinking about steve harrington when having sex with your boyfriend | ‧₊ ♪˚⊹ guilty as sin by taylor swift
⤷ part one | 7.0k words
⤷ part two | 11.6k words
‧₊˚ 💌 ⋅ ☆ inbox always open for guilty as sin drabbles!
Your secret, annual summer fling with your best friend’s brother was never meant to last — but when his mother catches you in his bed, everything changes. Cornered, he does the only thing he can think of: he tells her the two of you are engaged.
▸ PAIRING: Clark Kent x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, secret fwb to lovers, best friend's brother (kara is clark's sibling), fake engagement, hurt/comfort, fluff, semi-public sex (three smut scenes), thigh riding, so much miscommunication (guilty pleasure), insecurities on reader's part, jealousy, clark dirty talks, inaccurate portrayal of smallville (picturing super small town), reader has a shit ex
▸ WORD COUNT: 14K
▸ A/N: second and final part to my submission to @elixirfromthestars' arcade! thank you so much for the incredible response to the first. i hope this one lives up to your expectations sweats. thank you to every single person who sent me a message about the fic, i adore seeing your thoughts and it means the world to me that you took the time to talk to me about it!!!! <3 this one goes out to all of you
↤ main masterlist | part one
Once you’ve washed off all the grime, you plant yourself on Kara’s bed with a deep sigh.
“You know, you’ve been spending more time with Clark than me,” Kara points out. “I’m almost hurt.”
You turn to face her, her blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think I’d have to do that any longer.”
That has her squinting at you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
It means Clark probably already has feelings for someone else. His time of finding distraction in you is coming to an end, which means that whatever you and Clark have — this strange, unlabeled, annual thing — will also conclude.
The thought has your stomach twisting.
“Nothing. What should we do today? What’s fun around here?”
Kara gives you a look. “My idea of fun is getting drunk and it’s impossible to do on Earth. How about we take you somewhere else? A planet with a red sun?”
That doesn’t sound too bad. Maybe then she can leave you there so you don’t have to ever face Clark ever again. Or your stupid feelings. This stupid crush.
Yes, in the time that it took you to bathe and reflect on your quote-unquote relationship with Clark, you’ve established that you may have formed some feelings for him. An unhealthy, unreasonable attachment. You see now that it’s impossible not to fall for Clark Kent; you’re just like all those other girls in college who threw themselves at his feet for even a chance.
Clark is perfect. Tall, smart, sweet. Thoughtful. He’s everything everyone could ever ask for wrapped up in a perfect little bow. The invisible cherry on top of him being Superman is a nice little addition that you feel territorial over.
No one else knows him like you do.
Except Lois — and how could you ever compete with Lois?
“When can we go?” You blurt out.
“Okay, you’re freaking me out. What’s going on with you? I’ve joked about that before and you always tell me that you’d rather go skydiving without a parachute than go to outer space.”
“Maybe it’s time for a change,” you mutter.
As if summoned by your own despair, Lois appears at the door. Her eyes look brighter, her smile wider. Your heart squeezes, wondering what’s brought about that expression.
You hate yourself for feeling this way — you should be happy for them; your two good friends finally finding each other after years of pining. Instead, that ugly green monster has reared its head and is now driving the ship of your emotions.
“What’re you two talking about?”
“She wants to go with me to a planet with a red sun,” Kara gasps. “We have to go before she changes her mind.”
Lois would absolutely love that. She’s an adventurer. A risk taker. A bold soul. Perfect for Clark.
She is also incredibly perceptive.
“You said you’d rather swallow hot coal before you ever let Kara do that. You doing okay?”
Why does everyone have such a good memory?
“I’m fine! Let’s not fret over a perfectly normal character development. I am still at an age where I want to experience new things.”
Kara looks at you incredulously. “I wouldn’t worry if you didn’t sound like you got lobotomized in the past few days. Did all that farmwork finally get to your head?”
“Or Clark’s dick,” Lois adds with a laugh.
“Gross!”
“Look at the three of you ladies.” The new voice has the three of you whipping your gazes to the door. Ma Kent stands at the door, hand on her chest as she stares at you all in awe. “I’m so happy my dear Kara has found such great friends.”
“Ma,” Kara groans.
“You should’ve seen her growing up. She was always getting into fights, would come home bleedin’ and all scratched up.” She shakes her head, which earns another protest from Kara. “Now, Pa and Clark are fixing up the roof, why don’t all four of us go into town for a little bit of shopping? I could use help picking out things for the house.”
“Just because we’re women doesn’t mean we want to go shop—”
“We’d love to, Mrs. Kent,” Lois intercepts with a smile.
She glows at Lois. “Please call me Martha.”
As the group of women fills the car, Clark is waving at all of you from the front porch. His eyes move towards you, then stay. It’s like he’s reading you and you feel as if all of that bitter jealousy is written all over your face. So you look away, missing the way his gaze cracks with your dismissal.
You’re keeping yourself sidetracked from all these stupid feelings by exploring the town. Ma Kent takes you on a full tour of the tiny village, which all of you cover in basically an hour. It doesn’t have much, but it’s cute. Homey. Everyone seems to know the Kents around here, much to Kara’s dismay as she gets her cheek pinched one too many times by people noting how she grew up so pretty.
Luckily, before Kara can direct her laser eyes at the latest woman to do just that, Ma Kent’s exclamation has all of you turning.
“Well, I’ll be darned.”
You look up to find that she’s stopped in front of a shop. That marvel in her eyes should be signal enough for you to run for the hills. She’s then grabbing your hand and pulling you in.
White. White is all you see.
Racks on racks of wedding dresses and all sorts of bridal wear. If you didn’t know any better, you were blinking away the glare of the sun in this shop. Kara snorts next to you. “Better get ready. Ma loves weddings.”
“Sweetheart, have you thought about what wedding dress you want? Are you and Clark going to do something small? Big? Should we go for something simpler? No matter, we should try on everything until you find the right one.”
You don’t have time to argue because then Ma Kent is now speaking to the shop owner.
The lie is quickly spreading with her now telling the shop owner that her dear son Clark is getting married. Gossip undoubtedly spreads quickly in a place like this and you’re already dreading the day Clark has to tell her and them that none of this is real — that this wedding will never happen.
“It’s fine, you should go try some on,” Lois says, nudging your shoulder with a reassuring smile.
“I can’t do this. I’m lying to that poor woman who’s gonna get her heart broken when Clark and I eventually break it off,” you add with air quotes and a wince.
Lois mumbles something that ends with not happening, but you don’t catch her actual words. Then you’re getting whisked into the dressing room, handed one dress after another. You squeeze into one with the help of the owner — Mrs. Mills as you now know — and step out.
It’s a more old-fashioned number taken probably from the Cold War. Puffy sleeves, extra heavy-duty lace, and a neckline that’s choking you. You look like an antique.
Ma Kent is immediately on her feet. “Oh, look at how wonderful you look. Beautiful, absolutely beautiful. How do you feel, sweetheart?”
“Um,” you pause, gaze flying over to Kara and Lois for help.
Kara is too busy snickering but thankfully Lois has some sense. “She looks gorgeous but I don’t think this dress is her.”
So then you’re in and out of dresses until your limbs are aching from the weight of some of these gowns. You nearly give up hope — maybe you really aren’t meant to be a bride — until you find this next one.
They say that when you find the dress of your dreams, you just know. It’s like everything just clicks. You don’t need to look at another dress.
This is it.
This dress knocks the breath right out of your lungs. You’ve never once thought of yourself as a bride, but this one makes you feel like you could actually be one. You could picture yourself walking down the aisle, surrounded by family and friends. Bouquet in hand, big smiles all around.
At the end of that aisle — Clark.
You don’t even register the curtains being parted until you hear the gasps behind you. Then you turn and you swear you see Ma Kent shed a tear. She’s got a hand over her mouth, a tear rolling down her cheek.
“Honey, oh, sweetheart. You look beautiful. You look positively perfect. The most beautiful bride-to-be.”
There’s thickness in your throat that you can’t seem to swallow down. Because you agree. You don’t think you’ve ever looked — or felt — prettier in your life.
Ma Kent puts her hands on your shoulders as she smiles at you. “You know, before you, I’ve never seen my boy with anyone like this. Sure, he’s had his crushes growing up, but the way he looks at you — like you carry the moon and the stars in your hands — it’s how pa looks at me too. I’m glad he met you. I’m glad that he brought you to us.”
The guilt hits you in full force, like a truck running over you. It’s a fresh wave of new emotions that tides over you, mixing in with the heartful words that strike you to your core. You can’t even find the right words to say as tears well up in your eyes.
“Gosh…”
You briskly wipe away your tears, clearing your throat as your eyes go to the door. The door where Clark stands.
He’s just… standing there. His blue eyes drag from the tip of your toes, up the curve of the dress, the bodice, and then your face. You watch as his throat moves when he swallows. For a moment, you think you also see his eyes glisten.
Then it’s as if it’s just you and him. The air sucked out of the room. You and Clark in a bubble shielded from the outside world. This distance makes it feel like you’re both standing on each end of the aisle. Suddenly, you can see all too clearly Clark in a custom fitted tux. You in this dress, your hair done up, face painted.
Just you and him, minutes away from forever.
Clark opens his mouth, but the words don’t come.
Instead, the illusion is shattered when Ma Kent shouts at him. “Clark! This is bad luck. You can’t see the dress — let alone the bride in the dress — before the day!”
He burns red to the tip of his ears as he flounders, focus bouncing between his mother and you. Mostly you. He can’t seem to stop staring at you, gaping at you. The more he looks at you, the redder he gets. “Sorry, sorry!” He flusters, “Mr. Morris told me you were here, I didn’t realize—” Ma Kent whacks him on the shoulder but he still can’t seem to decide whether to look away or keep staring at you. “You look—”
Jimmy beats him to it. “Whoa, you look good. You know for a prete—”
Clark interrupts him this time, slapping a hand over his mouth before he can finish the sentence. Then he looks at you again — awe and wonder and what you may mistake as adoration. “You look…” he swallows, “really good. Beautiful. Just so—”
This group seems to make a habit out of interrupting each other. Ma Kent takes her turn. “Out! Both of you!” She’s using all her might to push the two boys out of the store.
Still, the last thing Clark sees before he gets shoved out is you.
A night out is exactly what you need. One night of drinking and dancing to get your mind off the fact that you’re slowly falling in love — or maybe have been in love — with your best friend’s brother — your annual situationship. With Clark Kent.
A night of drinking yourself into oblivion in the one place you never thought you’d come to and the one place you least expected to fall in love.
Kara is flicking through her closet when she notes, “I don’t know what’s going on between you and my brother, but if he’s got you down, we’re going to change that tonight. He either needs to get his shit together or we’ll find you someone new.”
But then she pauses and she turns to you, an uncharacteristically soft look on her face. One that is both sympathetic towards you but also firm.
“But I also know my brother and he’s soft at heart — and I know you and the walls you’ve put up around yours — so I need you to also be sure before the rest of us are left here to pick up the pieces.”
You don’t know what that means. If anyone’s getting their heart broken, it would be you when Clark eventually turns you down for the girl of his dreams. You’re a blip in the grander scheme of his life, perhaps it’s time for you to learn your place.
You haven’t had a moment alone with him since this morning. Not that you want it. You haven’t been able to look him in the eye after the wedding dress incident.
The look in his eyes, the lines carved onto his face, when he saw you, is engraved in the back of your mind. It’s an expression that constantly flashes every time you close your eyes. Some silly part of you mistakes it as love. That foolish part of you thinks that there might be hope with Clark. Maybe he could feel the same way.
But that hope is dashed when your mind also reminds you of how he shifted away from you that morning, how he looked embarrassed next to you with Lois before him.
So perhaps Kara is right — either you find a middle ground with Clark or — you hate the thought — you find a rebound.
Kara puts you in a pair of cowboy boots and a sundress, topping it off with a Stetson to match. You look cute — a far cry from your usual corporate getup. A light touch of makeup, enough to make you look somewhat alive, and you’re good to go.
The plan is to go bar hopping tonight. One drink (or two) at each bar before you go to the next. You do that until you run out of bars to go to which is apparently a big fear out here when there are not too many around.
As you’re putting on the finishing touches, the engagement ring — the fake one — that Clark bought for you seems to taunt you from your dresser. You don’t have to put it on. Not tonight when his parents aren’t around. Not when you think you’re out to find someone to mend your Clark-shaped broken heart.
But you can’t resist and slide it onto your ring finger. It still glimmers just as bright.
When you finally step out of the room, your eyes first land on Clark. His focus previously on Jimmy immediately moves towards you, towards the sound of your thundering heartbeat. There’s a flicker in his eyes — a flame that lights as he assesses you from head to toe. The following movement in his throat is oddly reassuring.
He’s making his way towards you, long legs moving fast to make sure you can’t escape again — not like the last few times. Then you’re tilting your face up to look at him.
“You look… wow,” Clark breathes out, “uhm, it looks good on you.”
“Thanks,” you cough awkwardly.
Unfortunately for you, Clark has also gone full cowboy with his double denim look and a hat that pairs well with yours. Broad shoulders stretching out the light-wash blue of his shirt, the color that makes his eyes pop even more. You can practically see a button straining to keep his shirt together across his chest.
God truly isn’t fair, but you suppose you’re not sure what god created a specimen like Clark Kent.
“You look good too,” you murmur quietly.
Clark’s eyes shine with the compliment, his charming smile stretching an inch wider. “Thank you. Listen, about today, you—” he stops himself, teeth catching his bottom lip. “I’m sorry ma made you do that.”
That’s not the reaction you were hoping for. Your smile wobbles as you wait for him to continue.
“I’ll have a chat with her not to rush you into this. I know this is all… pretend,” he enunciates slowly, eyes gauging your response, but you don’t move an inch.
“Right, it’s all pretend,” you echo numbly.
You don’t know what you were expecting—
This is a lie. You knew exactly what you wanted to hear from Clark.
You wanted to hear a repeat of this afternoon. A confirmation.
You look beautiful. Perfect. I’m actually in love with you. Will you marry me for real?
Your rational brain slams onto the brakes of your imagination. You shouldn’t let your fantasies run amok, lest they get lost in bouts of insanity.
“I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” Clark says softly, “so if things get too far and you want to stop this, I completely understand. I put you in this situation and that’s unfair to you.”
“It’s okay. I get it. We’ll… figure it out,” you mutter.
“I—” he starts again but stops himself. You could see his eyes swirling with a thought, a conflicting one by the look on his face. Apparently, he decides against it and shakes his head, instead offering his arm. “Shall we?”
You nod and loop your arm through his.
The problem with Clark is that he can’t seem to say no — and that he doesn’t get drunk. So when others ask to drink with him, he tries to deny them politely, but then they only insist harder. It gets to a point where Clark just has to drink with them to get them to leave him alone. But once one succeeds, that means every girl in the damn bar is trying to get with him too.
All of this to say is that he is constantly being dragged away from you.
First bar, one girl approaches him as he’s getting drinks for the rest of the group. She keeps him preoccupied as he throws awkward glances seeking help in the group’s direction. Every attempt to save him is foiled by said girl who keeps him trapped there. So you throw back your first shot of the night.
Second bar, it’s one girl after another once Clark caves to the first drink. You didn’t know that the number of attractive bachelors in Smallville added up to one Clark Kent, so he seems to be the only desirable man in the entire place. For some reason, the women here are immune to Jimmy’s charms, much to his relief. You down two additional shots here, followed by a cocktail with double tequila. Then you dance with Lois and Kara.
Third bar, you’re the one getting approached. Kara gives you two thumbs up while Lois stares at him skeptically. Clark is being cornered by yet another woman. So you take that man’s hand and dance with him. When you chance a glance at Clark, he looks a little ticked off but he doesn’t do anything. He just sits there and glares. So you keep dancing. But then Clark gets up and offers his hand to Lois and that is when you choose to turn your back on him and accept this stranger’s offer for another drink.
Fourth bar, you’re sufficiently sloshed.
On the bright side, you’re definitely enjoying yourself and you’re definitely not paying attention to Clark getting flirted with for the thousandth time that night. He barely looks at you too, too busy trying to be nice and reject this onslaught of advances. Sometimes, you wish he could be more assertive, put his foot down when he has no interest.
Sometimes, you wish you had put a stupid label on your thing with Clark so you could freely stake your claim on him. But as it stands today, you have no right to be jealous. You have no right to deny him the pleasures of other people’s company.
Your irritation boils over into pettiness, which is a terrible shift when you hear an all too familiar voice calling your name in the crowd.
It’s a voice you haven’t heard in years but one that still sends chills down your spine. Not the good kind.
You’ve managed to avoid this man for most of your adult life; how is it that you managed to bump into your douchebag of an ex, who had you swearing off relationships forever, in this bumfuck town of all places?
“You look incredible,” Patrick beams, pearly white gleaming underneath the bar’s dim fluorescent lights.
“You look like you don’t belong here,” you deadpan, whirling around in search of your friends.
Patrick catches you by the elbow. “I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Aw, why are you being so cold to me? We haven’t seen each other in a while.”
You don’t care about him, you haven’t thought about him in years, but the audacity of this man to act like this when he was the one who dumped you through text with two words. “Seriously, piss off, Patrick.”
“One dance, then you can tell me to go to hell. Just one.”
“Patrick—”
He’s already taking your hand. You blanch and end up trapped in the crowd on the floor, Patrick’s palms on your waist as he begins to move his body. You feel your dinner coming back up at the touch of this man. You can’t believe this loser really had that much of an impact on you, enough for you to forsake any romantic relationships.
Every time you try to leave, Patrick’s twirling you around and bringing you back to him. At some point, he’s got his front pressed up against your back, arms wound tight around your body. His breath is warm on the back of your neck and you feel repugnance crawl up your throat.
Just as you’re about to try and make your fourth escape attempt, you’re wrenched out of his hold and into the hands of another. You tip your face up to see Clark.
He’s looking at you warily but you know better; there’s a hint of a flame in his gaze — anger. It’s not directed at you but you have a pretty good idea who it’s for.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine,” you clear your throat, drawing yourself away from him too.
Despite being irrationally annoyed with him — somewhat reasonably considering he’s been practically ignoring you all night, you are thankful to see him. You slacken against him and he softens a tad as he wraps his arm around you.
“Clark, buddy! I haven’t seen you in a while too. You two a thing now?” Patrick taunts, words slurring together into a jumbled mess as he trips forward. Clark is quick to shove him away from you, hauling you closer towards him. “Oh, come on. We can share. She’d like that too.”
Your blood runs cold as you seethe at him. “Go to hell, Patrick.”
Clark doesn’t say a word but you can sense the rage roll off him in waves. He proceeds to use his massive frame to split the crowd and drag you off the dance floor and out of the bar. You’re about to stomp your way back inside when Clark catches your wrist and pulls you off to the side.
“Clark, let me go.”
“You’re drunk.”
Your irritation spikes. “So what?”
He grits his teeth and inhales deeply. “Why’d you let him touch you like that?”
“I didn’t let him do anything,” you snap, “I got stuck in there.”
“Because you weren’t being careful,” he snips.
You cross your arms over your chest. You roll your eyes. “Since when do you care?”
He narrows his. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t you have other women to entertain?”
Clark’s jaw shifts. “Are we really talking about this again? I thought I made it very clear to you that I only want you.”
“Sure didn’t seem like it,” you mutter, “whatever. You can do whatever you want. We’re not dating.”
A look flits across his eyes, too fast for you to decipher, but then his gaze hardens again. “So what do you want from me?”
One thing. There’s only one thing you can ask from him. One thing you have any right asking of him.
“I want you to fuck me.”
“Really?” He laughs, “Out here?”
“Never stopped you before.”
Countless nights fucking outside beach houses and bars, or that bistro in New York, or the boardwalk in LA. You’ve ticked off a lot of places in your list of the most risky locations to have sex, so this shouldn’t be any different.
For some reason, it feels like it is.
Clark lets out one final grunt before he pounces on you. His mouth slants over yours, tasting of liquor and something syrupy in whatever cocktail girl number ten probably bought for him. The thought irritates you and you end up nipping on his bottom lip particularly hard. He yelps and jolts back.
“What was that?”
“Felt like it.”
He blinks at you, confused, annoyed for a moment, before he breaks into a chuckle. “You look cute in green.”
“I’m not wearing—” you stop yourself when the realization dawns on you. “Funny.”
“I try to be,” he grins, dimples carving onto his cheeks.
Clark doesn’t give you a chance to bite back another stupid retort before he’s kissing you again, deeper, harder. He presses you against the wooden walls as his mouth wanders south along the column of your neck, leaving wet welts in his path. His teeth nibble tiny constellations on your skin, like he’s mapping out the sky above you. The stars begin to blur when he tugs your sundress down to free your tits, nipples practically aching for attention.
“Missed me?” Clark teases.
“No,” you answer tersely, shoving his head back down to your chest. He doesn’t need to be asked twice before he’s giving you all the attention you need. His mouth is warm as it latches onto one nipple, hand overpowering as it palms your other breast. His knee nudges between your legs until his thigh is pressed up against your barely-covered pussy.
“No panties?”
“Thong.”
He curses under his breath. You smile to yourself. A rare occurrence. You always give yourself a mental pat on the back when he does.
“Remind me to kill Kara,” he grumbles into your chest.
“Can you not talk about your sister when you’re sucking my tits?”
“Fair point.” Clark pushes his thigh higher until he’s grinding his muscle between your legs.
A moan pours out of your lips at the friction — the firmness of his leg combined with the scrape of the denim against your pussy. Your underwear is practically buried in your cunt as his hand wanders to grab a handful of your ass.
“Perfect,” he mumbles, “you’re too perfect.”
Your heart melts with his words. How could he be so soft with you when he doesn’t even want more? You urge those selfish thoughts of your mind, instead focusing on the delicious heat building between your legs.
“Does my thigh feel good on her, honey?”
With your eyes closed, you nod. Your teeth catch your bottom lip to stop another moan from spilling out but you feel Clark’s hand on your cheek, his thumb on your chin to free it.
“I wanna hear you.”
“C-can’t be too loud,” you stutter when he bounces his thigh.
“No one’s going to hear. Everyone’s too busy inside,” he insists as he positions you atop his thigh. “Use my leg. Can you get yourself off for me?”
You shake your head, tears pricking your eyes at how intense the feeling is in the pit of your stomach. You’re already always so aroused with Clark around, but it’s amplified tenfold when you’ve got alcohol in your system, your inhibitions and guard completely lowered.
“Yes, you can,” he coos, squeezing your hips. “I know you can, honey. Just gotta grind on my thigh. Just like that. That’s a good girl.”
He doesn’t need to ask you twice. When Clark uses that voice on you, you know you’re a goner. You’ve started rutting yourself on his thigh, feeling pathetic and ashamed, at the same time completely empowered by how much this is affecting Clark. He’s watching you with those dark eyes, drinking in every inch of you as you grind your cunt down on his leg. You tug the gusset of your panties to the side so you have more of your skin rubbing directly on him, leaving a dark pool of your juices on his leg.
“‘M making a mess,” you whine quietly.
“It’s okay,” he soothes you, “keep going. I want you to make a mess on me, want you to mark me. Need you to know that I only want you, need everyone to know that I only want you.”
And it’s definitely the liquor that’s making you vulnerable because you’re then looking up at him, doe eyes pleading, when you ask him, “Promise?”
Clark’s eyes flutter at the expression on your face. “Promise, honey. I’m all yours.”
With that in mind, you begin to mindlessly grind your hips down on him. Every shift of your hips chases a friction that fuels the fire burning inside you. When you tilt your hips in a particular direction, his thigh bumps up against your sensitive clit. You end up leaning forward to get more and more of that feeling, adjusting yourself until Clark doesn’t try to smother your moans, instead he drinks in every little noise that leaves your lips.
He continues to bury his face in your neck, breathing in your scent and lapping at those marks he’s left behind. All the while you’re humping him pitifully, hips stuttering when you get a little too close. Clark’s hand buries in your hair, yanks your head back until you let out a cry.
“Let them hear you. Come on. Let yourself go for me. She likes my leg, doesn’t she? It feels good for her. Keep rubbing her on me.”
It’s almost embarrassing how quickly you cum all over his leg. You nearly slide off his thigh but Clark moves faster to hoist you up against him, letting you ride out your orgasm scraping yourself against his thigh.
“Good girl,” he mutters, “my turn now. Can you take me?”
Your nod is weary but it’s enough for Clark to slowly ease you off his leg and turn you around, forcing you to plant your hands against the wall.
“Going to need you to hold yourself up. I’ll be here to catch you okay,” he reassures you, lips gentle against the back of your shoulder, before you hear the clink of his belt and the hiss of breath past his kissed teeth as he buries himself inside you. The stretch is mind-numbingly delicious, particularly as he grabs onto your hips and pushes your leg closed together.
His grip is bruising as he begins to piston in and out of you, blissfully ignorant of the muffled thumping music behind those walls. He doesn’t falter when the front door to the bar opens and chatter spills out with drunk guests exiting. The two of you are cloaked in the shadows as Clark continues to drive his cock deep inside your pulsing cunt.
However, the harder he fucks, the louder you get. At some point, one of the patrons does turn and your heart stops, thinking you’ve finally been caught.
But Clark slaps a hand over your mouth while the other grabs your breast as he fucks up into you in earnest. Every stroke feels intentional, every stroke feels like it’s designed specifically for you. He knows how to angle his hips just right to hit all those sensitive, electrifying spots inside of you.
“Perfect puffy pussy,” Clark groans. “You’re too good to me. I never want to be inside anyone else. I never want anyone else to be inside you. Will you promise me that?”
You blather your agreement, words barely coherent with the force of his thrusts and the hand covering your lips. Your fingers slip against the wall, you’re pretty sure the wall itself is rattling with how hard he’s jerking his hips forward.
“You’re perfect. Perfect for me. Pussy’s shaped to my cock now,” Clark moans. “Need to teach her who she belongs to. Whose cock she can take. I’m gonna make sure this pretty pussy knows every inch of me.”
His balls slap up against the back of your thighs as his length sinks over and over again inside you. Clark’s always had both length and girth, but this position has you feeling more of him. He treats you like a ragdoll, a fleshlight, for him to fuck and use. He gropes you all over, exploring every curve and dip on your body like he’s committing it to memory.
You bump your hips back as you grow impatient, that second flame scorching every one of your nerves as you try to stop your knees from buckling. Clark holds onto you tighter, presses you against him as he whispers promises into your ear.
I’m always going to catch you.
I’ve got you, you can let go.
I’m going to keep you full.
Clark’s body tenses and you know the telltale signs by now. You arch your back a bit more, enough for him to grab your hips again, thumbs digging into the swell of your ass as he plunges into you a few more times before he spills inside you.
Warmth coats your insides as Clark’s forehead presses against your shoulder blades, his hands trembling with the weight of his climax. It’s as if he’s been holding back, his cum filling you up and beginning to leak from where the two of you are connected. It’s thick and sticky and you feel it cling to your walls. Your breathing is labored as you try to regain your bearings, as you remember where you are.
“Shit,” you huff in a laugh.
“Got that right,” Clark chuckles behind you. “Are you okay?”
Always so careful.
“I’m fine, Clark. I’m not fragile.” You bump your ass backwards against him.
Clark grunts when he feels him push deeper inside you again, spurring his cum back in you. “I know, I just want to be sure.”
When he finally pulls out, the cum leaks down your legs and thankfully Clark has a few napkins handy. He drops to his knees and cleans you up, just enough to make you presentable. You slide the straps of your dress back onto your shoulders as you lean up against the wall.
“He didn’t tell you anything, did he?” Clark asks warily.
You cock an eyebrow. “Who? Patrick? What would he tell me?”
He searches your eyes for a second, swallowing thickly. “Nothing. I was hoping he wouldn’t say anything stupid to you.”
“Aside from forcing me to dance with him, I don’t think he can do anything dumber than that. For now,” you add casually.
Clark’s lips pinch together. “Stay close to me. I don’t want him catching you off guard again.”
“Okay, guard dog.”
His mouth finally quirks up into a smile, his hand reaching out to pinch your hip. “Should I bark for you?”
And you laugh.
When you return to the group, clearly much less presentable than you were earlier, Jimmy is the only one who points out the dark stain on Clark’s jeans.
“Must’ve spilled on myself.” Clark shrugs.
None of them looks like they believe it.
“So,” Kara begins. Her eyes are avoiding you, which is never a good sign. “You and my brother.”
Flames lick up your neck again and you hide your embarrassment behind your cup of tea. Your head is still pounding with the aftermath of your mistakes last night. Everyone else is fast asleep, hoping the liquor wears off eventually. Clark is already up and running, nodding his head at you with a smile before he disappears into the barn.
Kara is sulking because she still can’t feel the alcohol on this planet. So now, she’s taking that out on you.
“Are you guys a thing now?”
The words you shared last night are a blur, your inebriated state amplified by you being absolutely cockdrunk, but your best friend doesn’t need to know that.
“I don’t know,” you mutter honestly.
“Really? That stain on his jeans wasn’t you marking your territory?”
“Kara!” You snap, cheeks warm.
“Hey, there are things I wish I could unsee. If I had to see that, you have to have the tough conversations.”
Pursing your lips, you look down at your mug again. The tea ripples with your sigh. “I honestly don’t know, it’s a weird situation.”
“You’re both adults. You can talk.”
She’s not wrong, but you’ve never been good at dealing with emotions. Exhibit A: Clark. Exhibit B: the nearly permanent toll you took from your very minor breakup with Patrick.
“I don’t know how to start. Also,” you pause, that familiar sinking feeling returning.
You hate to call it insecurity, because the last thing you want to be worried about is a man. But you can’t help yourself when it comes to Clark — it’s easier to pretend you don’t care than face the possibility of him rejecting your feelings. Unless you’re a hundred percent certain he feels the same way, not even a shred of doubt, you can’t seem to muster up the courage to say the words out loud.
Because if he’s in love with someone else, if he chooses someone else, then you don’t have to think of the alternative — that you are simply not good enough to love even after all this time.
Kara peeks at you, eyebrow raising.
“Nothing, never mind,” you clear your throat.
The corners of her lips tighten. “I’m your best friend, you know this, right? I’m your best friend first regardless of whatever you have going on with my brother. Whatever it is that’s bothering you, you should be able to trust me with it.”
Your face softens as you slide an arm around her shoulder. “I know and I’m thankful for that.”
“Don’t get all sappy on me now, I’m just here to make sure you’ll be my sister-in-law someday. For real. Not some fake story Clark made up so ma still thinks he’s her golden boy.”
Her name rolls off your tongue again in a scold.
As if summoned, the front door creaks open and out pops her mother. “Just the person I’m looking for. Kara, I’m out of milk, can you run into town and grab some?”
“What’s the point of having cows if we still have to buy milk?” Kara grumbles under her breath.
“You know you can’t drink raw milk,” she chides.
“We can do that, Mrs. Kent,” you smile, elbowing your best friend. “Anything else you need?”
The older woman’s face practically melts and that guilt sucker punches you in the gut again, especially when she says — “You can call me Ma, we’re going to be family soon.”
Thankfully, before your conscience has you confessing the god-honest truth, Kara jumps in. “We’ll go now. See ya later, Ma.”
You shoot her an appreciative look.
The two of you make a pit stop for a treat-yourself coffee in town. While you enjoy the Kents’ instant coffee, nothing beats a fresh cup doused in all sorts of syrups and creams (at least that’s what you tell yourself when you swipe your credit card for the overpriced beverage).
Kara is telling you about her latest research project at the university where she’s completing her PhD. Neither of you expected her to go down this route, but she enjoys experimenting and torturing professors, so the two vices combined make for an interesting educational experience.
That’s when you hear your name again — and it’s not the barista.
Your blood runs cold the moment you register the voice. Twice in less than twenty-four hours after years of absence has to be some cosmic joke.
Patrick sidles up to you, a little too close for comfort. Apparently, Clark’s warning does nothing to deter him from bothering you.
“Fancy seeing you again,” he grins.
You feel that expensive coffee coming back up. Kara immediately slides between the two of you, a glare set in the firmness of her eyes. “Didn’t know this place let dogs in.”
“You’re still funny, Kent,” Patrick muses, unfazed as he redirects his attention to you. “You disappeared last night.”
Clark’s face in the darkness flashes before your eyes, the press of his fingers in your hips.
“What’re you even doing here?” You snap.
He seems to think about it for a moment. “Visiting a… friend,” he notes. Kara stiffens next to him.
“Why don’t you go back to them then? I don’t think we need to see each other.”
“That’s cold,” he juts his bottom lip out.
You can’t believe you once found this man attractive. You can’t believe you banned all romantic relationships because of him.
“You’ve got some fucking nerve acting like this when you’re the one who dumped me.”
His eyes spark with surprise. “Hey, that wasn’t my choice.”
Your glare only deepens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“This guy is insane,” Kara mutters, latching onto your elbow. “Let’s just go.”
“Oh, come on, Kara, you were there too.”
Your confusion shifts to your best friend, who bares her teeth at Patrick. “What?”
“Kent told me to break up with you.”
Your heart stops.
“Clark. Remember the guy who pulled you away from me last night? It makes sense now why he told me to end things with you. He wanted you for himself. Didn’t think he had it in him but I have to give him credit for that,” he whistles low with a chuckle.
You’re not laughing. You’re not even thinking.
Your mind is reeling with a million thoughts, a million memories. Your young, stupid self crying for hours about Patrick ending things, your first relationship. Months you spent blaming yourself for unanswered questions. You cried with Kara — hell, you’ve cried in front of Clark.
All this time—
“You knew?” You whip around to face your best friend who now has guilt written all over her face.
“Look, he did it for a reason.”
“A reason you didn’t bother to tell me.”
“You should talk to him,” she winces.
“Hey, if you’re still interested, I wouldn’t mind reconnecting. We can pick up where we left off,” Patrick offers you that grimy smile.
You’re too nauseous to even process the ridiculous request.
“Patrick!”
The three of you look up and all color drains from his face when he sees the woman approaching him. She seems sweet. Her eyes glitter when she sees the two of you.
“Hi! Are you Patrick’s friends? It’s so nice to meet you.”
It dawns on you then that this isn’t just a friend, not with the way she wraps her arms around Patrick’s bicep. Not with the way she leans in to peck him on the cheek.
You’re about to hurl.
“You’re fucking disgusting,” you spit at him and turn to her with a sympathetic look. “You deserve better than him, trust me.”
Before any of them could respond, you’re already hightailing out of there.
Kara doesn’t breathe a word the entire ride home, but neither do you. You’re too busy fuming.
To think that your very first heartbreak was caused by Clark. It doesn’t even seem plausible. He would never do that; he’s not the type to. But you need to hear the words directly from his mouth.
You’re on a path of rage when you stomp through the house looking for him. You call out his name over and over until he sticks his head out of the bathroom, hair wet sticking to his forehead and a befuddled expression.
He smiles only for a second before he sees the look on your face. His eyes dart to Kara behind you before flicking back to you.
“Uh, hi?”
“You told Patrick to break up with me sophomore year. Yes or no?”
Clark pales. His lips part and close.
“Clark,” you grit out.
“Yes.”
The disappointment hits you like a bullet train. You didn’t want to believe it but deep down, you knew the truth; Kara’s face said it all, you were just hoping that Clark would at least provide some sort of explanation. Rationalize why he did what he did. It isn’t the fact that he told Patrick to break up with you that upsets you, it’s the fact that he watched you despair over this man for months and never said a word — and to then start this with you, albeit unintentionally, and agree to your no-strings-attached conditions knowing full well where that condition is rooted — is what devastates you.
“That’s it?” You whisper, “You’re not going to tell me why you did it?”
Clark’s gaze merely shifts away. An abandonment of accountability.
“Clark, you’re not that type of guy. I just need to understand why you would do something like that.”
“He wasn’t good enough for you,” he quickly breathes out.
“That’s not your call,” you grit out.
“I was trying to protect you.”
That’s where he gets you. This supposed moral high ground. Clark has always been the good guy, the one who’s polite and sweet, the favorite. But saying this when he barely knew you? Saying this now? You can’t help the frustration that explodes in your chest.
“I don’t need you to protect me. I’m perfectly fine on my own.”
“So you’ve said,” he mutters under his breath.
“Jesus, Clark, we weren’t even doing anything back then and you felt it appropriate to intervene? Were you going to intervene with any guy you also deemed not good enough for me now too?” The words that come out of your mouth are hurtful; they have the intention to hurt. You see the impact you intend flicker across his eyes.
Your brain is telling you to stop but you’re no longer listening to that part of you. Instead, you cave into the demands of your fragile, wounded heart.
“You’re not my boyfriend. You don’t get to do these things if you’re not even in a relationship with me. At this point, I’m not even sure if you’re my friend.”
His blue eyes snap towards you — cold, faltering with the sting. “That’s not fair. I’ve always been your friend first — before all this.”
“A friend wouldn’t have done that without reason. Without telling me.”
He takes a deep breath. “You’re right. I should’ve told you. But it isn’t fair that you’re making all these assumptions about me based on what he said. You know me. You should know better.”
“Well, maybe I don’t.” Your voice fractures, betraying the sorrow simmering under all the anger. “Maybe this was a mistake.”
The moment you say it, you regret it.
Clark has never been a mistake, not to you. He’s one of the best decisions you’ve ever made — becoming his friend, starting this thing with him, falling in love with him. You don’t regret a single moment; if not for the memories you now hold close to your chest, then at least it reminds you that you are capable of love. That it is still possible for you.
But you know that you’ve crossed a line now with the expression etched onto his face. You look away.
“Ma’s just come in, we shouldn’t do this out here,” Kara coaxes gently, “come on.” She guides you to her room, where she proceeds to let you cry into her sheets.
It seems rather silly when you think about it — you started this with no commitments with Clark to avoid crying over a man, and yet here you are today, doing exactly that. Part of it is you mourning what you’ve just lost, this conversation has changed everything between the two of you. Part of it is remorse after the fact — words you can’t take back, words you don’t mean.
“I’m an idiot,” you rasp, rubbing your eyes furiously. “I shouldn’t have said all that. I was just upset.”
“He knows that,” Kara murmurs as she tugs you into a hug, your head instinctively fitting into the curve of her shoulder. “Clark understands. The two of you just need room to breathe and process all this.”
You draw away from her. “You’re really not going to tell me?”
She sighs your name in a way that does not reassure you. “It’s not my place.”
“You were there.”
“Clark made me swear and, as much as I love you, I also love my brother and I keep my word.”
Your eyes narrow at her and you can see her resolve crumbling in real time. It’s not visible to the naked eye but you’ve known Kara for far too long to see her giving in. “Kara…”
“Stop. Don’t give me that face.”
“Kara, I need to apologize to Clark. I need to have a reason to apologize to him.”
She groans, “You’re the worst. You know you’re the only one who can bully me into doing anything. Not even Lois can do it. I’ll bite her before she tries.”
“She would wear tactical gear before she does anything like that.”
“Right,” she grunts, “I hate you.”
“You absolutely love me.”
“I do,” she relents, “which is the only reason I’m telling you this.”
You cock an eyebrow, waiting.
“Alright, so, this was probably a month into the two of you dating. I never liked him by the way, but you were all starry-eyed because it was your first relationship and I didn’t want to say anything.”
“Please don’t remind me of my poor decisions, I have enough of them keeping me up at night.”
“Right, so I was hanging out with Clark in the library—” you give her an incredulous look, “—okay so Clark was in the library and I went to find him to figure out vacation plans. We were walking and that’s when we saw Patrick with that blonde girl from statistics making out against one of the shelves.”
Fucker. You should’ve known, especially after today. All those times you brushed off his constant need to hide his phone when you come into the room, or leaving you at night because he has to meet his friends, or constant excuses to go to the library when he barely passed any of his classes. The signs were there and you chose to put on blinders.
“Clark saw red. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him move that fast. One second Patrick was there and the next he was up against a wall. Mind you, Clark wasn’t even into you back then — not like he is today. He’s always been protective of you, you know.”
It’s not surprising. With Kara practically adopting you as a sister, Clark always was thoughtful with you. When he thought of something for Kara, he would always consider you as well. It’s nice, particularly as you’ve never had a big brother protecting you.
But you suppose your attraction towards Clark was never a surprise either. You never considered him a real brother, not when he looked like that.
“Anyways, long story short, he basically told Patrick to break up with you, told him not to give any stupid excuses. Made me swear that I wouldn’t tell you either.”
“But why wouldn’t he tell me? It was Patrick’s own mistake!”
“You should’ve seen yourself back then. You acted like Patrick was the be-all end-all. You called that sleaze perfect once and I nearly gagged.”
“That’s all the more reason to tell me!”
Kara sighs and shrugs. “In Clark’s mind, he probably thought he was protecting you. He didn’t want you to think it was your fault. You have a way of taking responsibility for things that aren’t yours to stress over. He likely thought you were going to blame yourself.”
“Jokes on him, I did that anyway,” you mumble.
“Well, we thought that asshole would at least do it nicely. Didn’t think he would do it over text with two words.”
We’re done.
And then he didn’t pick up your calls or answer your devastated texts. You cringe thinking about how embarrassingly desperate you were back then to get answers. What a waste.
Knowing all this, you feel even worse. Clark was only trying to protect you; you had a feeling it was something along those lines. It’s Clark after all, he wouldn’t do such things for selfish reasons. He was thinking of you. He’s always thinking of you.
“I need to suck up my pride and apologize, don’t I?”
Kara’s lips twitch. “I think he would appreciate it. Though, I suppose he also does owe you an apology — knowing him, he’s probably already preparing a speech on what to say to you too.”
Clark disappears for the remainder of the day. In fact, he really only comes in for dinner. He looks worse for wear with the shadows under his eyes and the exhaustion that hangs heavy in his gaze. When he sees you, there is a brief moment when light enters his eyes, brightening his baby blues, but then they quickly dim again as he throws his face away.
Fuck. Have you really screwed this up beyond repair?
The meal is only awkward for those who know. Lois and Jimmy sense trouble in the air but, aside from some confused looks, they don’t voice their concerns — not publicly at least. Clark is quieter than usual and Lois, who sits next to him after you sat down next to Kara, nudges him subtly.
He softens for her.
The interaction across from you has your heart aching. After what you said to him, you have no right to be jealous. Clark deserves better than an emotionally unstable person like you who can’t even tell right from wrong, who can’t even apologize. He deserves someone good, someone strong. Someone he doesn’t need to constantly protect.
The realization sinks into your bones, integrating itself into your very being. That little voice inside your head that tells you to worry only grows louder. It tells you that there’s probably a reason why Patrick cheated on you, why Clark would prefer Lois or that girl from the carnival over you, and why love isn’t meant for you.
It’s irrational. It’s stupid but you can’t help it when your heart is already breaking.
After dinner, you offer to help with the dishes but Ma Kent tells you not to worry and to go wash up for bed. You do as you’re told, but, after you’re dressed in your pajamas, you go looking for Clark. You have to tell him now — apologize, beg for his forgiveness, and maybe, maybe tell him how you really feel. Rip off the band-aid now.
Unfortunately, by the time you find him, he’s chuckling with Lois next to him. They’re washing the dishes, making conversation over suds between their fingers. You don’t mean to eavesdrop; you just happened to be there when they were talking.
“Well, that’s because you’re the idiot who waited this long!” Lois laughs, the sound is affectionate. Delighted.
Your stomach twists.
“I can’t help it,” Clark grumbles, “I was too scared to ruin it.”
“Let’s be honest. You had nothing to worry about, Clark.”
The puzzle pieces slot together in your mind. They click into place. The conversation, their interactions, the smiles they share. You’ve always known that Clark admired Lois, it appears as if he’s finally made his feelings known.
And Lois feels the same way.
You had nothing to worry about.
I was too scared to ruin it.
Waited this long.
God, how could you be so silly? To think Clark Kent would love you. To think you had a chance with him.
You turn on your heel, ready to escape the scene before you can break, only to run headfirst into another solid, soft body. You look up to find Clark’s dad looking at you.
“Will you spare me a minute?”
This can’t come at a worse time.
But you nod and you follow him into the living room. His fingers run over the picture frames — family photos of the four of them, Clark and Kara, some individual photos. There are some photos of Clark you haven’t seen before, boyish smile at his elementary school graduation, pearly whites at his college graduation, sun-kissed skin of him in that field out back. Pa Kent smiles almost sorrowfully at the memories before he turns to you.
“I just want to say — I think you’re a good thing for Clark. He clearly loves you very much. I can see it in his eyes. He’s never been like this with anyone else.” Your throat tightens as you bite your lip to stop the tears from falling. “He’s always been a good kid, tried to do right by everyone. Definitely tried to be so good to us. Keeps threatening to come home,” he chuckles, “but I want to know that he’s in good hands. That you’ll take care of him.”
He chokes on his words, tears welling up in his eyes. You flail, unsure of what to do, searching the room for a napkin for him even as you feel the wetness on your cheeks.
“Oh, you silly, soft man,” another voice interrupts gently, and a tissue appears before him. Ma Kent pats her husband on the back as he sobs quietly into the cloth. “Don’t scare her away before she’s officially part of our family.” She smiles in teasing apology when she turns to you. “He’s all mush when it comes to Clark. The same thing will happen when Kara finds someone too. Clark may seem strong, but he’s also all heart like his dad here. It seems Earth has given him another weakness beyond Kryptonite.”
The knowing look she gives you nearly shatters you. The truth hangs on the tip of your tongue. You could tell them right now. Save them the suffering from the secret, but you can’t do that to them — and not to Clark. This is something he has to tell his parents. When he eventually breaks the news to them that this engagement has fallen apart, maybe he has his new, real relationship to show.
And they’ve met Lois, so naturally they would fall in love with her. They already adore her. It’s hard not to love someone as wonderful and smart as her, so you can’t blame them.
For now, all you can do is nod and smile. “He’s my weakness too.”
Your week with the Kents comes to an end much too soon. Kara’s preparing to jet off back to her city while you’re on the first flight out that day. You had switched to an earlier flight, save yourself the pain and the heartache of having to face Clark and his parents for a second longer.
When you come down that morning with your suitcase packed, everyone’s at the breakfast table. Your eyes land on Kara first who you informed of your flight change. She doesn’t look surprised, but the rest of them do.
“I thought you were going to fly back with us,” Lois frowns.
“I have, um, a work thing, so I booked an earlier flight. Don’t mind me though, you all enjoy your breakfast. I’m going to call a cab.”
Clark is quick on his feet to approach you. You haven’t really seen him the last couple of days. You spent most of it avoiding him after all. He doesn’t fight it; instead, he seems to be maintaining a respectable distance too. Probably out of consideration for his new, actual relationship.
You’ve moved back to your original plan to crash with Kara as Jimmy joins Clark and Lois takes the extra guest room. All of this you do after their parents are asleep to avoid suspicion.
The lines on his face deepen as he comes up to you. “Don’t be silly, I can drive you.”
“It’s a far drive, you really don’t have to. I don’t mind. I’ll take—”
“I want to,” he interrupts softly.
“Let him take you, sweetheart,” Ma Kent insists as she comes up to you, pulling you into a tight hug. “It’s been so nice to meet you. I’m happy I finally got the chance to see the woman who stole Clark’s heart.” Your smile wanes for a moment. “I’m sure Clark would want to take you to the airport and spend some quality time in the car.”
Crap, you didn’t even think about the extremely long drive to the airport. Whereas before you had plenty to distract you, this time, you’re left in the tense aftermath of your conversation — and your lack of apology.
You haven’t even agreed when Clark’s already throwing on a cap with the car keys jingling in his hands. He once again takes control of your suitcase. “I’ll put this in the truck while you say goodbye to everyone.”
Again, no room to protest.
Jimmy sends you off with a big smile and another teasing remark about you and Clark. “Maybe we’ll see you around Metropolis more often now.”
You doubt that.
Lois is the only one who flags your red-rimmed eyes. “Are you sure you want to leave so quickly? I’m sure work can wait. We’ll miss you around here.”
Again, you doubt that.
“It’s okay, I have to catch up, otherwise it’ll be a rough week for me. I’ll miss you guys too.”
“Clark and I are going to do a piece on elections in your city so maybe we’ll come visit you at some point?”
We. You didn’t think it would sting despite what you’ve already heard, and yet here you are kicking yourself once again. All you can do is nod and murmur an of course.
Pa Kent is next and he’s practically pouting at you. “I hope I didn’t scare you off last night. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, please,” you smile, “I thought it was very sweet. Thank you. I would stay if I could. I promise.”
“Well, you’re welcome here anytime, alright? With or without Clark.”
“Seconding that.” Ma Kent holds you at arm’s length again. “It’s been such a joy having you here, sweetheart. We can’t wait to see you again soon.”
You bite your tongue and nod just as Kara wrangles you into a headlock and ruffles your hair. A laugh bubbles up your throat. “You better come visit me before our annual pilgrimage next year. I expect lots of gifts.”
“You fly for free, mine involves torturing myself through TSA and paying for tiny seats. I think you should be visiting me.”
“Touché, I’ll see you in a month or so,” she grins, “also, I can come with you, so you know, it’s not awkward with Clark.”
You shake your head, giving her arm a squeeze. “Thanks, but it’ll be fine. I need to talk to him anyway.”
She doesn’t look appeased but nods.
By the time you step outside, Clark is leaning against the truck. His arms are crossed over his chest, biceps stretching that t-shirt, strong brows puckered in a deep frown. Any other day, you’d ask him for a quick pit stop on the way to the airport, promising you have more than enough time to get through security. However, things are different now.
“Ready?” You ask, drawing him out of his thoughts.
He seems caught off guard that you’re already in front of him. That’s surprising, he usually hears you coming. Guess he’s stopped tuning in to the sound of your steps.
Clark clears his throat and swings open the passenger door for you, holding out a hand.
You slide your palm over his, a peace offering, before hopping into the seat.
The air is thick with tension you couldn’t cut through with a band saw. You have to roll down the windows to let some air in to cool your stiff shoulders and the heat up your neck. Time passes by quickly and slowly all at once. The world outside blurs before your eyes as Clark peels down the highway.
This is your chance. You can apologize now, keep things polite and concise. This can be an amicable end to this arrangement you have, so he can have a clean slate to start with Lois.
But the words are stuck in the caverns of your chest and it’s beginning to irritate you how cowardly you’re being. Perhaps there’s a piece of you that’s also dreading this conversation, knowing that this would finally end this years-long adventure you two have had. Even with the gaps in between, Clark has been a steady presence in your life.
“It’ll be a real awkward drive if you’re this quiet the entire way,” Clark breaks through the silence first. His smile is light, almost in jest.
You offer him a wry smile in return. “You’re right. We don’t have to make this weird.” With a deep breath, you begin. “I’m sorry. For all the things I said. That was unfair to you and you’re right, I do know you. I don’t think you’d do anything without reason. I was just hurt that you and Kara kept this from me all this time, you both knew how horrible that breakup was for me. Still, it’s no excuse for my words. You’re my friend and I love you immensely. I know you had my best interest in mind.”
Clark reaches over and squeezes your leg. It’s meant to be a comforting gesture but you can’t help the way your core pulses on instinct, years of trained response. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I should’ve told you — I assume Kara did…” You nod. “I thought I was doing what was best, I didn’t want you to get hurt. It’s not your fault that he’s an absolutely terrible person. You deserve better than that. You always have.”
“Thank you,” you murmur, “for protecting me then and protecting me now.”
“You’ll always have me, I promise you that.”
A laugh of disbelief slips past your lips. “I was pretty stupid, falling for his charm like that. I should’ve known that he was too good to be true. He was always showing up with flowers and gifts and would say all these little lines that seemed so sweet at the time. So stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” Clark corrects you, “you just… believed in love. You believed in a love that you deserve, because you do deserve all those good things. You deserve someone who means it when he tells you that you’re beautiful and wonderful and smart. You deserve someone who makes you a fresh cup of coffee every morning with an abysmal amount of additives and remembers your favorite treats and gets them for you just because. You deserve… good. A good, grand kind of love.”
Curse your silly little heart. Just when you think you’ve reached the bottom, you find new depths of your heart for you to fall into with your love for him.
Many say that if you love something, then you let it go. You should know when to let it go — and you love Clark and this is one of those moments. Despite what Clark said to you in the throes of passion — I only want you, his conversation with Lois that night has made it clear where you stand.
You were always meant to be a temporary distraction. Not someone’s forever. Not Clark’s.
While you make small talk the rest of the ride, you settle on a decision that both weighs heavily in your gut but frees your heart.
Clark guides you to the very last point before he has to leave you. He’s silent for a while and you can tell he’s deep in thought. However, before you can let yourself chicken out again, you finally muster up the courage to tell him.
“Hey, listen,” you swallow, “I don’t want things to be awkward. We have a great group of mutual friends, we have this trip we do every year. We had a good thing.”
His eyes squint, noting the use of past tense. He’s always been observant.
“But I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you blurt out, “like you said, we deserve love. Maybe it’s time for us to finally pursue it, right? We’re not getting any younger.” Your attempt at an awkward laugh is drowned out by the quiet hustle and bustle of the tiny airport.
Clark still isn’t saying anything. So you continue to ramble.
“And you know, same goes for you, you should be able to be with someone you love—” Lois’ face flashes in your mind, “—and you deserve someone who treats you right, who loves you, who understands you. And I just don’t think either of us can get there if we keep this up.”
“Is that really what you want?” Clark asks quietly.
It’s not, because all you want is him. But when you look at him, all you can see is the love he is capable of, the love he deserves — and you aren’t on the receiving end of it.
“Yes,” you simply say.
He searches your eyes for a moment then gives in. “Alright. If that’s what you want.” His arms draw you into a hug and you hide your quiet tears in his chest. You don’t know if he feels it dampening his t-shirt, but he doesn’t say a word. You never liked it when someone comforted your tears. “I’ll see you soon, okay? Safe flight. Let us know when you land.”
You nod and pull away from him, swiping away at your eyes before he can notice. “Thanks, Clark. For everything.”
With that, you turn and make your way further inside. You don’t look back once.
Rain hasn’t stopped pouring since you came back from Smallville. Fall comes early. Everyday you look out the window from your tiny cubicle and watch the drops roll down the glass. Everyday you pop open an umbrella to grey skies and make your slow walk home. It’s like whoever is up there is mocking you for the very position you’ve put yourself in. Sad and alone.
You’re officially back to your humdrum life.
As promised, you text the group the moment you land safely. You get quick miss you’s from everyone and Clark reacts to your message with a thumbs up. You don’t know what to make of that. The group has been relatively quiet as everyone settles back into their daily routines. There are occasional pictures from Jimmy of the Daily Planet office and these are the only times you get glimpses of Clark.
There are, of course, photos of Clark and Lois — she did mention that they’re working together on a new piece, so that shouldn’t be surprising, but you put away your phone and instead turn on the television to the most depressing romance movie you know (if you didn’t think of Me Before You, then you’re wrong). You cry and cry and cry. At least you can blame it on something other than your fragile heart.
Your auto-generated playlists on the way to work reflect your mood — yearning, miserable, heartbroken. It doesn’t help so you’re quick to switch to AC/DC before your feet reach the office lobby.
Your coworkers pepper you with questions about your vacation.
“Didn’t you say your best friend had that cute brother? How was he?” One of them teases.
You can’t bring yourself to answer, simply laughing and waving it off. He’s in love with someone else, you want to say.
After work, you join your colleagues for the occasional happy hour. It distracts your mind for a few hours until the buzz is the only company you have in the quiet of your apartment, then it only makes you spiral further. You close your eyes to sleep and you see Clark. You have wet dreams like a pubescent teenager, except they aren’t fantasies, they’re memories.
You wake up drenched in sweat before you splash your face with cold water and a good dose of reality.
All in all, life is the same — slightly worse, but, as they say, it’s always the darkest before the dawn.
You make the mistake of signing up for dating apps. Men with terrible pick-up lines, men with terrible mustaches, and terrible men in general are the only ones in your messages. It doesn’t help when you compare each one to Clark and none of them come close.
You agree to one date and, while he was pleasant, you can’t help but be preoccupied with your own self-pity.
The two of you thankfully part ways at the restaurant and you make your way home with your feet aching in your heels and your back sore from slouching in your own misery. You’re rummaging through your purse for your keys when you hear the sharp intake of breath.
A familiar breath.
Your head whips up to find Clark standing there. His eyes rake over you and something you mistake as awe descends on his face. He looks adorable, positively edible in a trench coat and a bright yellow umbrella next to him. He’s still in his suit which means he probably came straight from work; you wonder if he flew here.
“Clark, what are you doing here?”
“That’s a nice welcome,” he drawls sarcastically.
You give him a look but smile anyway. “You know what I mean.”
“Lois and I are in town for work. I, uh, came to give you this,” he pulls out a shirt from his satchel. It’s one you had left in Clark’s room in your hurry to leave one of those nights. “You left it at my parents’ place.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to bring it back. I would’ve seen Kara eventually.”
“It’s no big deal.” He shrugs. Squirms.
“Well, thank you,” you breathe out, accepting the shirt from him.
Your fingers brush. Electricity zings through you like a warning.
You’re not sure what to say now. He’s not leaving but he’s also not saying anything more. He seems conflicted for a second, looking at you, at the floor, then at the elevator. He’s probably itching to leave to avoid how awkward this is.
“I should, uh, I should go,” Clark coughs.
You pause, hesitating. “Did you want to come in for coffee or something? It’s still pouring out.”
His tongue presses against his teeth, lips stretching out a bit wider on the brink of a yes, but then he stops. “Oh, that’s okay. I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding, I’m inviting,” you smirk. He’s shuffling his feet like he’s nervous.
“Is this an invite for—” he stops himself, biting his bottom lip. “I don’t want to be presumptuous.”
It wasn’t. However, now that he’s mentioned it, you can’t get the idea out of your head. One last time. One last night to relive the memories. One last night to act upon the dreams that have plagued you these past couple of weeks.
“You look beautiful, by the way,” Clark croaks, hand reaching up to scratch the back of his neck.
You look down at your dress and your heels, splashes of rain dotting your stockings and shoes. “Oh, thank you.”
“Anyway, I shouldn’t bother you any longer, you must be busy.”
He turns. Your hand darts out, fingers catching his sleeve.
Clark turns back, eyes wide.
“Stay,” you find yourself saying.
His eyes look torn, blue flickering into something darker. Sadder. “You said you couldn’t do this anymore.”
“It’s still summer,” you try to reason — both with him and yourself, “maybe one last time for old time’s sake?”
Clark’s chest rises with the hitch of his breath.
The two of you are at a standstill.
With every passing second, embarrassment sinks deeper into your skin. It’s as if he’s prolonging the rejection, dragging out this moment to find a way to politely turn you down when—
“I can’t do this. Not anymore.”
Your hand drops, heart plummeting. You should’ve known better. Stupid, stupid.
“O-oh,” you stutter silently, wringing your fingers together on your purse handle. Perhaps he and Lois acted on their feelings already. More than the confession you overheard weeks ago. You can’t help yourself, you’re a glutton for punishment. “Is— is it because you’re in love?”
His eyes widen, surprise coloring his face. “How, wait, how’d you know?”
“It’s pretty obvious,” you force out a smile.
Be happy for him. Be happy for them. This is a good thing.
Clark groans, hand reaching up to run over his face furiously. He goes underneath his glasses before he looks sheepish, cheeks flushing a deep scarlet. “Am I really that transparent? Gosh, I’m sorry. I really wanted to tell you a different way.”
“No, god, no, it’s fine,” you cut him off, “I mean, it’s a good thing, right?”
He perks up, ears pinking. “Is it?”
“Yeah, I mean, I’m happy to hear it.”
Are you? Liar, liar. You will be eventually. You can’t wait for him to leave so then you can burrow yourself in bed in the pity party you’re throwing for yourself.
“Are you really?” Clark looks shy, his face alight.
Clearly, you’re not a very good liar because the smile wipes off his face quickly. You realize then that you don’t look like you mean what you’re saying. Your lips are pressed together in a thin line to stop your tears, your throat is dry like sandpaper.
“Wait, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing!” You busy yourself with zipping up your purse, anything to stop him from looking into your eyes. You may actually burst into tears on the spot.
“You look upset. Did you… not want it?”
“No, I just—” you gasp and you can’t stop it now. The dam has broken and you can feel the saltiness on your tongue. Clark looks very concerned, hands moving around like he’s trying to help but doesn’t know how. “I’m fine. I’m just fucking selfish, I guess, I’m glad you and Lois are together now and—”
Clark blanches. “What? Me and Lois? What are you talking about?”
Your cheeks are still wet when you tilt your head in puzzlement. “Aren’t you two… together now?”
He looks positively aghast, nearly gagging. “No, why would you think that?”
“Back at the farm, you two seemed really close.”
“We’re friends!”
“But I heard you talking,” you start and his face twists further, perplexed. “She said something about you waiting too long and that you shouldn’t have worried. You said you were scared to ruin it.”
Genuine confusion is all over his face before it melts into understanding. “Oh. Oh gosh. No, that wasn’t about— no, that wasn’t her. Lois is like the older sister I never had. That— the idea of it would be… gross. Not that there’s anything wrong with her! I just don’t see her that way.”
“Wait, so who were you talking about?”
Clark moans, doing a full turn in a pace. “Do I really have to spell it out for you?”
Your brows pinch.
“I love you. I’ve always loved you.”
The gears in your brain stop turning. Your lungs stop working entirely. Your entire circulation is cut off. You’re trying hard to process this but you can’t seem to connect the dots.
He takes a step forward, hands reaching up to cup your cheeks. His umbrella falls with a thud somewhere in the back but you don’t even hear it. All you can hear is the thundering in your ears. “Thought you said it was pretty obvious,” he gives you a wry smile, “I’ve been in love with you for years.”
“That’s not—” you choke, “that’s not possible. We’ve been fucking for years, sure, but you weren’t in love with me.”
“No, you weren’t in love with me,” Clark huffs out a laugh, “I wouldn’t have agreed if I wasn’t completely head over heels for you.”
You balk when you look up at him, eyes shining. “So you let me sleep with you all these years because you were in love with me? And I just — what — used you for your body?”
He laughs again, brighter and louder this time. “Yes, that’s exactly what I did, because I’ll take you any way that I can get you. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it,” he grins, cheeks dimpling with that mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I did. Thoroughly. Each time.”
“You’re insane.”
“Is that what you really want to say to me?”
You shake your head, face aching and you realize you’ve been smiling so wide this entire time. “I love you. I love you so much. Love you so much that it hurts. I missed you.”
Clark groans and crashes his lips down on yours, tightening his grip around your face. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that.”
“You never said anything,” you whimper when he begins kissing along your jaw and down your neck.
“I didn’t want to scare you. I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”
“Lois knew,” you mutter in realization.
“Lois has always known,” he makes his way back up to you, kissing your lips then your cheek then your eyes. “She knew the moment I met you, I was a goner. I couldn’t think of anyone else but you.”
“We met like five years ago, Clark.”
He grins unapologetically. “Then I’ve been in love with you for five years.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, embarrassed.
“No, I just love you. Now, will you let me in? I want to take care of you. Missed you too much. You left too fast.”
He doesn’t have to ask you twice. Your key is in your door and then it’s open and Clark’s toeing off his shoes quickly, messily, so unlike him in his rush to pin you up against the door. He intertwines your fingers together and presses them into the wall.
Then he pulls back, staring at your left hand. His lips pinch. “You’re not wearing it.”
You look at your bare hand. “Oh. I didn’t think I’d need it. I was— I need to also tell you I was on a date before this.”
Clark’s face sours before he settles on bitter understanding. “We weren’t… together, so it’s not like I have any right. I should’ve told you at the airport, should’ve stopped you the moment you told me you wanted to end this.”
“I was thinking of you the entire time, if that helps,” you add sheepishly. “I was trying to get over you. I’ve been moping for weeks, crying to myself.”
His expression thaws as he kisses you again, gentler this time. “I never want to be the reason you cry ever again. Only happy tears.”
“We were both silly.”
“Yes, yes, we were,” he murmurs against your lips. “Where’s the ring?”
“Um, that drawer.”
You’ve started keeping it in your kitchen because your desperate self, the one with zero self-control, tried it on every night before you go to sleep, tormenting yourself with what could’ve been until you finally shoved it under your extra kitchen towels.
Clark separates from you only briefly to dig through the pile and pull out the silver band. He practically flies back to you, taking your hand and slipping it on your finger. Right where it belongs. His lips twitch into a smile as he lifts your eyes to meet his.
“So everyone knows you’re mine,” Clark whispers, “until I can make it real.”
Your lips tug into a smile. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
+ sam: aaaaah it's done!!!! thank you so much for tuning in. i really hope you've enjoyed this little journey with these two. i've grown so fond of them <3 if you liked it, i really do appreciate any reblogs / comments / likes!! and ofc my inbox is always open if you wanna come yap about them hehe
please could we see clark getting all happy and giggly when shy!r is giving him loaadssss of attention and affection without overthinking it for once ! :,))
fem, 1.1k
Clark is aware of himself. He is always the tallest man in the room and often the heaviest. His glasses soften the more severe effects of this, but he intimidates people —despite a remarkably genial demeanour. He knows he scared you, once upon a time. Knows sometimes you aren’t sure of yourself.
You aren’t worried for your safety when you’re with him, so Clark worked with that, worked hard, talked to you a lot but never loudly, brought you the smallest of flowers and expressed his wants with linked pinkies or light squeezes, building trust and affection at the same time.
And Clark doesn’t cuss, but fuck, it went better than he ever could’ve imagined. One day your timidity turned to a tentativeness, like you wanted to try with him, just to see how things went. He wasn’t subtle about pursuing you, but he didn’t up and say that he had a crush either, couldn’t ask you for that when sometimes all it took for you to stammer through bad nerves was a cup of coffee placed silently on your desk. But enough cups of coffee and pretty thank yous turned to dinner together in the Planet canteen, then dinner together in better places.
Dinner together at home. In his lap.
(In his lap!!!)
You sort of slumped into his thighs a couple of minutes ago and he’d not thought it through as he pulled you into an arm. It took literally no effort to have you seated there, never does, but most days you waver or apologise before he can hold you as though you could ever be an imposition. “Look at that, you have rice in your moustache,” you murmur, eyes lit up with love as you rub at his upper lip.
“I don’t have a moustache.”
“Stubble.” You scratch the corner of his mouth. “You eat like a baby, you have stuff everywhere.”
He is immediately hot at the teasing. You never tease. “I’m mid meal!” he says, reaching around you to gather another spoonful of rice and sliced pork belly with a Chinese inspired glaze. You helped him make it, and he knows it tastes better for it.
“It’s on your chin, too,” you say.
“Try to sound less pleased!”
He’s lucky rice doesn’t fall out of his mouth. If you’re disgusted by his bad manners, you don’t show it, wiping at his chin and wrapping your arm tighter behind his neck as you kiss his cheek. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, with all the fondness of a compliment.
“Kiss me again.”
You kiss him again. His stomach is molten. He is insanely turned on for such a small thing, and he ignores it because he doesn’t (solely) want this to be a sex thing (unless you’d be interested). You’re being so… carefree. Whatever libido you’ve multiplied in him is honestly overshadowed by excitement, like, you’re so cutesy he needs to gather you up and squeeze you until the feeling abates.
“You are so scratchy, what happened? You never let it grow like this,” you say, still teasing and touchy, your knuckles tripping down his neck.
“I got busy making your dinner,” he says.
“Yeah, right, I’m the one who made the rice, and I made the pork marinade. You just cooked it.”
“That’s what I said. Busy cooking your dinner.”
“Shut up, you did not!” You squirm a little in his arms, the other coming up and trapping him, his empty fork stuck in an upright hand. “You’re not funny, Clark.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
You laugh anyways, worse when Clark takes back control and shoves his fork on the plate, two hands open again to take your back into his hands, big hands, encompassing and dragging you closer until there’s no air between your two bodies, just t-shirts soft from the wash.
“You’re not hungry?” he asks, wondering why you’ve wandered out of your chair and into his.
“I figured I better save you from the embarrassment of a rice-moustache, baby, and you’re distracting me now.”
“I’ll warm it back up for you,” he promises.
You take his face into your hand before he can move, rubbing your nose and mouth into his cheek. He clenches his jaw under the plush little dip of your mouth, lest he moan like a freak and send the whole boat tipping over. You laugh breathlessly.
Clark’s halfway to a white out and your giggling makes it a thousand times worse. You kiss his tight jaw again quickly before going back to your nose rubbing. “I love you.”
He laughs. Giggles. “I love you too.”
“So much.”
“So much they don’t have a word for it,” he says, clasping the back of your neck in his hand gently, encouraging you to stay right where you are for as long as you’ll allow it. “Didn’t even know I could love someone like this.”
Your breath warms his skin. “Me neither.”
“But with you it’s all just–”
“Perfect.” You sink until your face is in his collar, your hands braces on his shoulders, barest caress of your fingertips against the underside of his jaw.
He takes an indulgent sniff of the top of your head.
“My dinner really is gonna be cold,” you say.
“I know. I can make it fresh, if you want.”
“Would you do that?” you ask.
Clark would climb a mountain with bare hands. He’d hike Mount Everest, from the chilly bottom to the frozen top, ten times over. If that was what you asked him to do. If it meant you’d end up boneless and giggly in his lap for no discernible reason afterwards. It’s so nice to see you free of your own inhibitions.
“Baby, I think I’d grow the rice myself if you wanted me to.”
“You’d look good as a farmer.”
“Yeah? Should’ve seen me back home, bubby. I’m a total hick. Grow you whatever you want.”
You lift your face up, all smiley and light as you turn your head, your lips at his ear. “From the sticks? That how you put on all this muscle?”
He wants to cover you up in bubble wrap. He wants to lay you out on the table and kiss every inch of your stomach, your thigh, your knees. Even your elbows. Maybe tonight you’re feeling blithe enough to let him.
Your secret, annual summer fling with your best friend’s brother was never meant to last — but when his mother catches you in his bed, everything changes. Cornered, he does the only thing he can think of: he tells her the two of you are engaged.
▸ PAIRING: Clark Kent x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, secret fwb to lovers, best friend's brother (kara is clark's sibling), fake engagement, hurt/comfort, fluff, semi-public sex (three smut scenes), thigh riding, so much miscommunication (guilty pleasure), insecurities on reader's part, jealousy, clark dirty talks, inaccurate portrayal of smallville (picturing super small town), reader has a shit ex
▸ WORD COUNT: 12.9K
▸ A/N: this fic was truly self-indulgent, all of my fave tropes in one place. this is part of @elixirfromthestars' arcade! i played elixir's hold 'em and ended up with a four of a kind (best friend's sibling, summer fling, sworn off relationships, and fake engagement). thanks for such a fun event mel <3 this is my longest work to date so splitting it into two parts - final one coming next week!! i love seeing your responses so any reblogs/comments/likes are always greatly appreciated mwah!!!
↤ main masterlist | part two ↦
Whoever thought it would be a good idea to spend a week of your precious and extremely limited paid time off in Smallville, of all places, should be pulverized. You could’ve been sipping margaritas in the Bahamas or traipsing around Miami Beach with a scrumptious cubano in hand. You could’ve been sitting at home in your perfectly comfortable couch with your perfectly comfortable air conditioning.
But no, you love your best friend Kara dearly, and she managed to convince you and a few of your friends to do the group’s annual trip in her hometown in Kansas. Oh, how you wish you could be Dorothy in that moment and find yourself on a yellow brick road rather than this sweltering airport.
Smallville in the summer is a far cry from your ideal vacation. The closest airport is two hours away and you’re greeted by the sight of a building that looks like it barely functions and hasn’t been upgraded since the Middle Ages. You had been cramped into a small airplane that you’re convinced does not have all of its nuts and bolts considering how much it rattled (you don’t want to think about the strange tilt of the wings). It takes you a full hour to get your suitcase from baggage claim that has no air conditioning; mind you, it’s because there is no overhead compartment, so they forced you to check your carry-on into cargo (an equally cramped space).
To make matters worse, Kara’s work forced her to delay her trip by one day which means you’re already locked in to arriving a full day earlier than everyone else, thinking that you’d get to spend some quality time with her after being separated for nearly an entire year (it’s been a rough year for both of you).
“How am I supposed to get to your house?” You had asked — more like whined after she told you the bad news.
She sounded even more upset than you. “Don’t worry, Clark will be there!”
Your heart had leapt to your throat at the thought.
Now, you’re faced with this incredibly difficult, exceedingly troubling situation. Said situation is basically being stuck in a car for two hours with Clark Kent.
Clark Kent stands at over six feet tall, sticking out like a sore — but stupidly delicious — thumb outside the airport. He’s in a pair of denim jeans and a t-shirt that appears to be fighting to keep its threads intact around his bicep. His long frame is leaning against a rusty red pickup truck.
The moment you push the doors open to step outside, his eyes spot you. Brilliant, bejeweled blue even from this distance. He covers that distance in no time with his ridiculously long legs, barely breathless as your name falls from his lips.
“It’s been a while,” he beams softly. His hand immediately commandeers your suitcase like the caveman-gentleman that he is. “How was your flight?”
You shudder at the sound of the tumbling cogs still echoing in your ear. “Terrifying,” you mutter, “how do you even fit in those tiny planes?”
The question sounds foolish now that you’ve said it out loud.
“Forget I asked.”
His smile is shy and sheepish as he blinks down at you. “Perks of the job, I guess.”
“I hardly think being an unpaid superhero should count as a job. Otherwise, I’d be reporting… someone to the Department of Labor for withheld wages.”
Then he laughs and the sound is buoyant and clear in this empty parking lot. You feel it spark warmth, tingling to your fingertips.
Girl, get a grip.
You fan yourself a little under the pretense of the disgusting heat. At least the air is cooler out here than inside that sauna. Your bare legs that stretch out from under your shorts certainly appreciate the kiss of the wind. You’re able to breathe a little easier despite the humidity.
An act that is short-lived when you notice how his gaze flickers to your exposed skin.
Clearing his throat, Clark stops when he reaches his truck. He carefully lifts your bag to the bed of his truck and straps it down. You eye it suspiciously.
His lips twitch with the threat of amusement. “It’s not going to fly out. Promise. Flat roads from here on out.”
“Don’t mean to be rude but might be faster if you just flew both of us back to your home,” you suggest with a raised eyebrow.
It would make it easier for you too to avoid being trapped with him for a full hundred and twenty minutes in a car with nowhere to go.
Clark chuckles as he swings open the passenger seat for you, even going as far as to offer you a hand to help you climb the height of the vehicle. You almost imagine the ghost of his hand pushing you up by your ass, but that’s just distasteful dreaming.
“I’d rather keep our mayor in the dark about how Superman had landed and was raised in Smallville. I don’t think that’s the kind of marketing the other guy would be interested in.”
“The other guy is really only popular in Metropolis so maybe he could use a bit of a boost from a bumfuck small town.”
He laughs again and you have to stomp on those ridiculous little flutters.
The drive is peaceful. With both hands on the wheel, Clark taps his finger against the leather to the rhythm of some pop song crackling through the speakers. He makes small talk to fill the silence. He asks you about life, about your job, about the tiny apartment you’ve been trying to furnish for the last few months. Cordial. Polite. Safe. All conversational topics that are reasonable for two friends.
That is, until he asks whether you’re seeing anyone.
It should be a normal question to ask a friend. Hell, even a stranger. But you know Clark better than that and you know the underlying curiosity underneath.
Heat creeps up your neck again. You feel as if you’re back in that cursed airport as you find your voice to respond to him. “No, not seeing anyone right now.”
He doesn’t even look at you when the corners of his lips tip up into a pleased smile. You knew what he was asking — and you basically gave him the green light. He takes your confirmation as permission.
His right hand slides off the wheel and lands on your thigh. His very large palm stretching across your leg.
You swallow thickly.
“This okay?” His voice is soft. Genuine worry laced into his question.
Instead of verbalizing your response, you only manage a nod as you prop an elbow on the door. Your face turns towards the deserted road outside to hide your embarrassment. To hide the racing of your heart. The anticipation bubbling beneath your veins.
It doesn’t take him long for his hand to slide higher and higher until you feel his fingers toying with the button on your pants. Deft fingers that pop it open easily. It’s terribly sexy how good he is at that.
He reaches down your pants, fingers skimming over the thin fabric of your panties until he finds your clothed slit. A delighted hum slips past the seam of his lips when he finds you already damp. His fingers trace along your sensitive lips, featherlight, but you’re eager enough that you find your hips jerking upwards in search of his touch.
Your chest rises and falls with the breath that hitches in your throat. “Are we really doing this already?” You rasp, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to prevent the moan from escaping.
You hate how responsive you are to him. How your body’s been trained to respond to him. That familiar touch eliciting those familiar sparks of electricity. No matter how many times he’s done this, how many times you’ve fallen apart in his hands, you’re no less receptive than the first time.
Clark chances a glance your way and simply murmurs, “Missed touching you.”
A whimper actually does crawl its way out of your throat this time. How are you supposed to say no to that? You let your legs fall open, hips lifting off the seat just enough so he can tug your pants a little lower, sneak his fingers in even deeper. He applies a little bit more pressure on your slit, you can feel your panties soaking up your juices.
“So wet already, honey,” he whispers.
Honey. The first time Clark used that pet name on you, you’d told him absolutely not. However, like everything else he’s done, you’ve grown used to it. Your insides turn gooey when he uses that sweet little nickname. Something so syrupy when he’s doing something oh so filthy.
“It’s been a while,” you mutter under your breath.
“Were you waiting for me?”
At that, you can’t help the defensive scoff that spits out of your mouth. “No.”
Maybe.
“When was the last time someone touched you?”
You don’t want to answer that. It’s an embarrassing answer — one that you fear will inflate his ego too much.
Unfortunately, your non-answer is answer enough.
“Been a while,” he echoes your earlier sentiment.
“Don’t get too full of yourself.”
“Why? Didn’t find anyone you liked these past few months?”
You press your lips together. The day that you admit you can’t seem to finish with anyone else, not when you’ve already had a taste — or ten — of Clark, is the day this world comes to an end. Not even Superman can pry this information out of you.
“No,” you answer easily.
Clark’s thumb presses down on your clit and you immediately jolt forward with a groan. His fingers tug the gusset of your panties to the side as he slides his fingers easily along your slick folds. He moans when he finds how quickly you coat his fingers.
“Me too,” Clark admits. “Haven’t been — gosh, you’re dripping — haven’t been with anyone since, you know, last time.” Whether it’s to save you from your own confession or Clark is just being his honest self, you don’t know. Still, you appreciate the thought.
Your face warms again with his words and maybe any other time, you would have the self-control or decency to stop him. However, in that moment, when you’re pent up from your frustrating flight and months of reaching your orgasm only by your fingers alone, you can’t help but appreciate his fingers on you.
You slide down a little further on your seat, granting him access to finally push his fingers inside you. Thick, long fingers that curl that delicious flash of friction in your pulsing cunt.
It’s criminal how good he is at this. At sex in general, really. You know that it’s partly attributed to his superpowers. Clark knows the rhythm of your heartbeat like it’s his own. It’s how he knows exactly when whatever he’s doing is working on you. How he’s learned what your body loves, what makes it burn. He can hear how your heart rate skyrockets when he slides his fingers deeper, when he does a slow drag out to pull a moan from your chest. He knows when he’s doing a good job, but it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t enjoy hearing you admit how much you want him out loud anyway.
He takes some sick satisfaction in making you ask for it.
“What do you want? Tell me.”
“You know what.”
“I need you to use your words, honey.”
Curse whoever ever said Clark is the good boy next door, the one who buys you flowers and opens your door. He does all that and can be so sweetly condescending in the sexiest way possible. While you’re usually irritated by any form of male patronization, there’s something about the way Clark does it.
Like he’s doing it for you because he knows you like it.
“Fuck me with your fingers, Clark,” you gasp as he begins to pump his fingers in and out of you.
Your vision of the road is a blurry mess, greens and browns melting together as your eyes roll to the back. Your head slams against the chair as your hands curl around his wrist. Clark doesn’t miss a beat, keeps stroking you with his fingers like it’s his purpose.
His eyes dart between the road and you, conflicted now that he’s started this game that he has to finish. He drinks you in, the sight of your neck stretching out as you tip your head back, as your hips lift to chase his fingers.
“I can’t— I’ll finish you when we get back. I need to drive—”
“Pull over.”
“What?” He balks.
“Pull over somewhere,” you pant, tightening your grip around his wrist to keep him there. You roll your hips to rut against his hand. The ball of his palm pressing against your clit as he finger fucks you until your brain is turned to mush. “Clark, please.”
You swear you hear him curse before he takes a turn down an abandoned dirt path. He uses his hand covered in your slick to put the car into park and, before he can utter anything, you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and climbing over to his seat, straddling his thick thighs.
Clark’s eyes widen, pupils blowing up as he looks at you. He groans almost painfully. “I’m so hard. I’ve been thinking about this all night.”
“All night?”
He eagerly nods as he helps you shimmy out of your shorts, leaving you in your drenched panties on top of him. “Knew Kara and the others were coming later. I couldn’t stop thinking about having you like this. Or at home. Wherever you’ll let me have you. Missed this pussy of yours.”
Your heart slams against your chest as your cunt traitorously throbs with the kind of desperation that would be concerning to feminism. “Yeah? Did you jerk yourself off thinking about me, Clark? Hope you kept your voice down so your parents wouldn’t hear you stroking this fat cock of yours to the thought of my cunt.”
“You—” he growls, “Sometimes I wish I could just slide myself down your throat to stop you from saying such filthy things.”
A smirk curls on your lips. “You like me filthy. You like me dripping all over you.”
Your fingers fumble with his pants this time, hurriedly yanking the fabric down to free his cock for your access. You’re quick to position yourself on top of him, tip hot red and angry dipping into your entrance. Your slick is already rolling down his length when Clark’s hand squeezes your hip.
“C-condom?” He asks. The reluctance in his voice is obvious. It’s not that he won’t fuck you without one. It’s that he doesn’t want to.
“I’m clean, are you?”
Clark nods and his expression morphs into parted lips and blue eyes blown wide as you sink on him. With your hands planted on his broad shoulders, you begin to ride him — slowly at first as you adjust to his size again.
He’s big. Too big sometimes. You’re lucky with how wet you are right now that the slide eases the burn of the stretch. His thick cock has your pussy tightening in resistance, but you keep going, all the way until he’s buried deep inside you.
“Feels so good,” he moans, “you’re always so tight, but you always make it fit, don’t you? You take my cock so well.”
Your pussy clamps down around him, your pace faltering with his words.
“Look at her. She’s swallowing me right up. She’s greedy, always taking me all the way in,” Clark coos as he watches his cock disappear into you over again, each time you burrow him deeper and deeper inside you. “My favorite pussy. She’s so pretty taking me in like this.”
You lean back and place your hands on his thighs as you roll your hips to drive him in deeper. “Fuck, Clark. Every time I see you, feels like you've gotten bigger.”
“No, honey, it’s just because your pussy tightens up,” he chuckles, fingers brushing your hips. “She just has to get used to me again. I’ll stretch you out, don’t worry. ‘M gonna make you feel so good.”
“Play with my tits,” you rasp. “Want your hands on my tits.”
You know what you’re doing. This is both for you and him. You’ve always loved seeing how big his hands are, how they cover your breasts entirely. How he can be both delicate and rough when he toys with your nipples.
His fingers unbutton your shirt slowly and, the more he does, the wider his eyes go.
Clark lets out a moan when he sees your nipples in the open air. “No bra?” He squeaks. “You went through TSA like this?”
Your lips tip up into a smirk. “Don’t worry, nobody gave me a pat down.”
“Better not have,” he growls low, “these are mine.”
Your pussy and heart flutter with his possessive declaration. You nearly bite out a snappy retort, asking him since when am I yours but the words fizzle out behind your ribs when Clark grabs your hips and begins to earnestly fuck up into you. He’s careful not to hurt you, but tests your limits with how hard he’s gripping you. You’re sure to bruise but these kinds of marks, he knows you don’t mind. You like when he stakes his claim.
His head dips to take one nipple into his mouth, one of his hands rising along your torso, thumb brushing the underside of your breast as he lifts it slightly. His tongue circles the peaked bud, hot and wet until you’re throwing your head back in ecstasy. He nibbles lightly on the sensitive skin, enough to draw out another whine from your throat.
“So pretty. You’re always so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin. “Pussy feels like heaven. So tight around my cock, honey. All mine. Tell me your pussy is all mine.”
You gasp when Clark thrusts up particularly hard, keen eyes searching yours. Swallowing, you hold on to the last thread of your pride as you resist the urge to cave into him.
“Come on, tell me. I won’t let you cum if you don’t say it.”
“Clark,” you whimper, “don’t be mean.”
“Not mean,” he murmurs, “just want you to tell me that this pussy is mine. That nobody else has touched it. That nobody else will ever touch it.”
It’s a terrifying admission, even in the heat of the moment. Deep in your gut, you know that no one else will ever feel as good as Clark. No one else will ever get you to finish the same way he does. Fireworks and heat streaking across your skin.
But you give in to him so he will give in to you.
“My pussy’s yours,” you cry out.
“Say it again.”
“My pussy’s yours. Only yours.”
“No one else can touch it. You’re always saving this pretty, tight pussy for me.”
“Fuck, it’s yours, Clark. Please, please, fuck— hnng, need to— I want to cum, please.”
Clark groans as he angles his hips just right so that he’s fucking into that delicious spot inside of you over and over again until you can’t find it in you to think or even breathe. The gasp is wrangled from your throat as he rips the orgasm straight from under you, your back arching as your fingers dig into his shoulders, the pleasure crashing over you in waves. Your body shudders against him as you feel him spill inside you, warmth painting your walls as he jerks a few more times.
You slump forward, forehead against his shoulder as he continues to cum inside you. You can feel the cum leaking from where you’re joined, too much for you to keep inside yourself. It trickles down your thighs, dripping onto Clark’s jeans as evidence of your little tryst.
A giggle slips past your lips as you sigh against him.
His clean hand (he knows you have a thing against it otherwise) reaches up to stroke your head as he turns to press his lips on your temple. “What’re you laughing about?” He mumbles against your skin.
“Just— this. We really couldn’t wait to find a bed to fuck.”
His chest rumbles with his laugh. “Well, my ma and pa are home too so we wouldn’t have had a chance until tonight.” He pauses, then says, “And we both know you can’t keep your voice down.”
You launch yourself back with a glare, hand weakly swatting his chest. “Hey, speak for yourself. If I sucked your dick, you’d be crying and begging for me to stop because you can’t handle it.”
“That’s just because I want to cum inside you instead of your mouth.”
Your cunt pulses around him, squeezing. Traitor.
“You like that, don’t you?” He grins easily.
“Whatever,” you mutter. Wincing, you extract yourself from him and feel more of his cum leaking from between your puffy pussy.
Before you can move back to the passenger seat, Clark sits you down on his lap. His hand settles on your inner thigh, thumb pressing against your swollen pussy lips to open you up to him. He watches as his cum dribbles out of your cunt, before he uses his fingers to fuck them back into you.
“Don’t want to waste it,” he smiles boyishly.
This fucker.
“You’re the worst.”
“You won’t be saying that when I tell you I’ve figured out the many other stops we can have along the way — you know, if you wanted a second or third round.”
You’re warm to the tips of your ears. “You’re insatiable.”
“It’s been a while,” he chuckles.
Clark’s parents greet you with a good dose of midwestern charm, followed by a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and Earl Grey tea. He regards you with mild amusement as you glance at him in alarm when his mother wraps you in a massive hug, telling you that she feels as if you’re one of her own.
“Oh, I’ve heard so much about you from Kara and Clark! It’s such a joy to finally meet you, honey. Come on in. Are you hungry? Did you want to clean up first? I’ve got some extra towels in Kara’s room for you. Clark, be a dear and show her around, will you? I just need to pull out the cinnamon loaf from the oven.”
It’s like a tornado, a whirlwind of movement all at once. A very pleasant tornado. Clark ends up giving you the comprehensive tour of the farmhouse. The Kent house looks fully lived in — well-worn vintage furniture with stitched florals, family photos dotting the walls and shelves to show any guest how loved the two Kent kids are, and touches of an old-fashioned home with typical cliché quotes hanging in frames or sewn onto throw pillows.
Clark blushes when you stare a little too long at the live, laugh, love painted onto a piece of wood above the toilet. “Ma loves that kind of thing. She buys a new one almost every time she goes into town.”
“Wish I had known, I could’ve gotten her another one for her collection,” you grin. “It’s sweet, Clark. Very charming.”
His smile softens slightly as he guides you to Kara’s room. “I’ll let you get settled in then. I have to help pa out with a few things, but let me know if you need anything. You have my number.”
Kara’s room is similar to the one she had in college. Posters of her favorite rock bands, pink wallpaper painted over with abstract murals that you find all too familiar. There’s a queen-sized bed in the middle of the room with frilly pink sheets that you doubt she picked herself. For the next hour, you unpack all your belongings, finding yourself dreading stepping outside and facing the music.
You had met Kara in college, freshman year, and the two of you were bonded for life. It started with a snooty remark from another student, and you and Kara had intervened at the same time, finding your sister-in-arms on day one. Two of you were similar in that you were both bull-headed, a little bit temperamental, but fiercely loyal. You loved her the moment you met her.
Sophomore year found the two of you unsurprisingly rooming together. The two of you were truly inseparable then. You thought you knew everything about her. That was until she said—
“My brother needs to come by,” she groans.
“You have a brother?”
That was when you were introduced to Clark Kent. Before you even met him, you had a strong inkling that you wouldn’t be a big fan of the guy. He was a year older than Kara but he was in a frat. Not that there’s anything wrong with participating in social activities on campus, but Greek life? Yes, you had formed your own preconceived notions about him.
So when Clark finally “swung by” to pick up one of his jackets while Kara was gone, you were caught off guard by the sight of this bumbling six-foot-four-mess who kept fidgeting with his thick-rimmed glasses. Clark, with his nervous smile and constant shifting, was a complete antithesis to Kara who had a permanent scowl and a sharp tongue.
Then you started seeing him everywhere on campus. You’ve seen him around before but now you can’t stop noticing him. He’s the mop of curls trying to shrink himself at the front of your English literature classroom, he’s the light laughter ringing across the dining hall, he’s the designated driver who physically gathered up the drunkards and piled them into the group’s car to send them home at the end of the night.
But he’s also the guy who’s always surrounded by some of the frattiest guys on campus and the guy who’s constantly swarmed by women grabbing at his biceps and running their hands down his chest.
“Your brother’s a bit of a player, huh?” You pointed out once to Kara, your eagle eyes focused across the room on Clark, who was humoring Bonnie from psychology as she yapped his ear off.
He didn’t seem to mind, laughing at whatever she was saying, which had her beaming.
Kara turned around, eyes following yours as you witnessed the atrocity that was Bonnie straight up flattening her manicured palm on his left tit. “Who? Clark?” She snorted, “The furthest. You can’t see it but that man is plotting the most polite escape route. Give it a second.”
Sure enough, the moment his eyes landed on you, they burned a brighter blue. He said something to Bonnie that had her pouting, turning to look at your table, before he made a beeline in your direction, sliding into the empty seat next to you.
“What happened with Bonnie?” You cocked an eyebrow.
“You know her?” Clark raised one right back. “She was, uh, talking about the frat’s winter gala thing.” His face distorted in a wince. “Asked me if I had a date.”
“Oh, while groping you?” Kara snickered.
Clark threw her a look. “Be nice. She meant well.”
“She meant she wanted your dick,” Kara noted then winced, “I don’t know why I just said that. I take it back. I don’t want to know about your sex life.”
His neck flushed a deep red as his eyes darted toward you for a brief second before he whipped his gaze away with a cough. “Anyways, I didn’t want to lead her on. So I told her I was already going with someone else.”
“Well, now you have to show up with a date,” Kara noted.
“Yeah.” Clark scratched the back of his ear then flicked his gaze towards you again. “Funny story.”
Dread sank into your gut. “Clark, no.”
“I’m sorry,” he flinched, “but she wanted to know who and I saw you and obviously I couldn’t say Kara so… here we are.”
“I have to go to your frat’s winter gala? Over my dead body.”
“It’ll be fun! Drinks and food. I’ll cover your ticket, obviously,” Clark pleaded. His blue eyes were shining in a way that made you melt. It was hard to say no to Clark Kent.
That was how you ended up as Clark’s date. That was how you ended up meeting your first ex in college. A fratboy of all people but he won you over with his sense of humor and charming smile. That was how you ended up with the most devastating heartbreak with a breakup that lasted all of one second over a text.
That was how you ended up swearing off relationships forever.
That was how you ended up in Clark Kent’s bed the summer you graduated college. One time turned to two turned to fucking on the kitchen counter while the others were asleep upstairs on your group’s annual trip. This “summer fling” became a recurring, annual rendezvous. As long as the two of you were single, you somehow always ended up in each other’s beds — or any other viable surfaces.
However, what was made very clear from the very beginning was that you were not looking for a serious relationship whatsoever. The last thing you needed was to get your heart broken again when you promised to focus on your career.
So this arrangement works.
You’re brought out of your reverie when a knock sounds on your door. Clark pops his head in, curls damp and glasses sliding down his nose again. He’s a little pink when he catches you midway through changing into a comfy t-shirt. A smirk curls on your lips. Even after seeing you naked all this time and talking like a fucking porn star during sex, Clark still blushes whenever he unintentionally catches you in a… compromising position.
“Um, ma wanted me to tell you to come down whenever you’re ready. We usually eat dinner as a family. If that’s okay with you.”
You finish shoving your arms through your shirt before bending down to reach for a pair of shorts. You hear the hitch of his breath behind you. Smirking, you slowly roll yourself back up. “Like what you see, Kent?”
“Don’t tempt me,” he grumbles under his breath. Your eyes fall to his sweats where he’s currently adjusting his not-so-little problem. “I can be quick. And quiet. If you want to.”
A laugh rises from your chest. “Keep it in your pants. I don’t want to be late for my first dinner with your parents.”
With a slightly disappointed sigh, he nods and guides you downstairs.
Dinner is as you expected — delicious food with a side of chaos. While Clark’s dad keeps mostly to himself, nodding along to whatever his wife is saying or whispering with Clark, his mother peppers you with endless questions about your life, your job, and your relationship with her children. “I’m so sorry we’re only meeting now! I hear so much about you from both of them. It’s such a shame.”
“I hope Kara only has good things to say,” you tease.
“Oh, Kara adores you but Clark also won’t stop talking about you.”
That catches you by surprise and you shift your attention to Clark with a curious look. “Is that so?”
There’s that pink again. Endearingly embarrassed. “Oh, yes,” his mom gushes, “tells me all the time what a sweetheart you are and how smart you are, how he enjoys watch—”
“Ma, how about some more mashed potatoes, hm?” Clark distracts her, offering a massive dollop of her potatoes. “How about you tell me what’s going on with the kitchen sink? Thought you wanted me to take a look.”
His mother is successfully distracted when she instead begins to fuss over everything wrong with the farmhouse. His father tries to reassure Clark that he’s got it under control and that he should just enjoy his vacation. Clark only nods along, partially listening. You know the look he has when part of his mind is far away from the conversation.
You can’t help but wonder what his mom was going to say.
After dinner, you insist that his parents get some rest while you and Clark do the dishes. It’s a back and forth for a bit, debating on whether guests should be doing chores, debating on whether you’re guests at all. Thankfully, you win when Clark manages to urge them out of the kitchen. Unfortunately, Clark is the actual winner when he also pushes you out of there for you to get cleaned up
You do a full scrubdown, washing away all the grease from the flight. The water is warm on your skin, much needed after a long day. You almost slide yourself into Kara’s mattress to sleep when you realize Clark missed one part of his tour.
So you tiptoe down the hall, careful not to wake the Kents with the creaking beneath your footsteps as you sneak into Clark’s room, closing the door behind you.
He has a towel wrapped around his waist, chiseled, bare chest on full display, as he frowns at his phone. He looks up, fumbling with the device when he sees you. His arms quickly go to cover his stomach and his legs, as if he’s at risk of exposing an ankle to a Victorian lady.
You roll your eyes. He clears his throat. “What’re you doing here?”
“You never showed me your room, I wanted to see if you had anything embarrassing in here. Like Superman plushies or something. Or your old porn collection. Maybe a Playboy or two.”
“I don’t… have any of those,” Clark says, pink to his ears.
“Sure, you’re telling me if I look in that drawer over there that I won’t find a couple of risque magazines?” You begin drifting in that direction and Clark is immediately in your path. You’re face-to-face with his pecs.
“Take my word for it.”
Sighing, you cave and instead wander around the rest of the room. It’s a quaint room. Small bed that you’re not even sure would fit him. Two small bookshelves with some reference volumes and novels you’ve heard him talk about before. Giant poster of the Mighty Crabjoys who Clark insists is very punk rock. Then there are a few trophies for a spelling bee, debate club, and a science fair — none for his athleticism, because you know for sure Clark would never use his gifted powers for selfish purposes. His desk has an ancient monitor that looks like a stack of brick and more books — comic books, more novels, and CDs (no doubt of the Mighty Crabjoys).
It’s simple and sweet. Kind of like him.
While you’re busy absorbing every inch of his bedroom, Clark has crept up behind you. His arms wind around your waist, lips pasting on your neck. You instinctively tilt your head, a moan bubbling up your throat. “Clark, your parents are down the hall,” you murmur.
“I can be quiet. I’ll make sure you are too,” he whispers as his hands begin to wander. One to cover your mouth and the other going between your legs. “I’ll make you feel good, honey.”
And that he does.
Your second day in Smallville starts off early. And warm. Incredibly, horribly warm. Your eyes flutter open to the wide expanse of creamy skin. Creamy skin on a very, very wide chest. Grunting, you try to push against him, to get his hefty arm off you, but he doesn’t even budge.
Clark grumbles quietly, tucking you deeper into his chest. “Sleep.”
“Clark,” you whisper-yell, “come on. I gotta get back to the room.”
“You’re already in a room,” he mumbles.
You peek up only to find him still with his eyes closed. “Your parents—”
As if on cue, your worst nightmare plays out in real time. You hear the creak first. You try not to panic, praying that it’s someone walking away from the door rather than towards it. But then you hear the knob twist. You feel Clark stiffen in real time, his entire body going taut like a board as his eyes slam open. The two of you don’t move fast enough; in fact, your legs are still tangled together when the door swings inwards.
“Clark, honey—” his mom’s words die out, undoubtedly when her eyes land on not one but two bodies in the very tiny bed that barely fits her son. Clark holds you in closer, tugging the blanket higher to cover your bare back. Your shirt is abandoned somewhere in the room — along with your underwear that hopefully isn’t visible to his poor mother’s eyes. Thankfully, you’re not facing the door, so you don’t have to subject yourself to whatever disappointed face she’s making. “What in the—”
“Ma! Why didn’t you knock first?” Clark coughs, sliding up only to bury you deeper under the blanket.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to have company at this hour, Clark.” There’s a sternness to her words that sends shivers snaking up your spine.
Not even a full twenty-four hours and you’ve managed to ruin your entire reputation with his mom. But if you could just explain this, then maybe—
“We’re engaged, Ma. Alright. We’re engaged!”
What the ever-loving fuck—
“Engaged?” Her tone has shifted significantly, delight clinging to every letter. “Oh my, oh goodness, what wonderful news! I want to say I didn’t see it coming but I did! My boy did talk about you all the time so it’s not much of a surprise.”
“I do not, Ma,” Clark retorts quickly.
She barely pays him any mind. “I have to tell your pa. This is exciting news! My first son! Engaged!” Then she’s scampering out of the room and Clark can only call out, “I’m your only son, Ma!”
The moment she’s out of earshot, your hands immediately fly.
“Ow! Ow! Stop that! Come on, stop it!” Clark flinches as you continue to barrage him with smacks from all angles. Not that it actually hurts. His hands immediately whip out to pin you down, his body hovering over yours. Your chest rises with every heaving breath while Clark just frowns at you, probably concerned that you’ve hurt yourself in your fruitless attempt to hurt him. “Are you done?”
Even in this situation, you can feel that familiar heat stirring between your legs. Clark’s handsome face above you, his one hand pinning you down, the other one on your hip, his stupid, big, beefy chest in front of your face. You hate it.
Unfortunately, this means Clark picks up on your heartbeat, the way your blood rushes beneath your skin at the sight of him.
His lips tip up. “Good?”
“Why in the hell would you tell your mom that we’re engaged?”
“I love my ma. Wonderful woman. Loves everyone dearly. Love is love, she believes in. She’s all about love.”
“So you tell her we’re engaged?"
Clark sighs, “Even with all that, she is very much still an old-fashioned woman from the Midwest. She would not approve of me… bedding a woman outside of wedlock. She would never forgive me if she knew what I’ve been doing.”
Or who he’s been doing — you.
“Oh my god, Clark.”
“I’m sorry!”
“Because you don’t want your mom to know that you stick our dick inside girls before marriage, you drag me into this and act like we’re getting married?”
Clark frowns, lips pinching together disapprovingly. “Girl. One girl. You. And yes, I panicked, I’m sorry. It’ll just be for this trip, alright. We’ll… explain it all away after.”
Another protest sits on the tip of your tongue, but the look on his face reduces you into a puddle. A puddle that molds according to whatever container Clark pours you into.
“Fine, okay, but what are we going to tell Kara? Or Lois and Jimmy when they arrive?”
He opens his mouth then promptly closes it. Thought so.
“We should think fast because I know for a fact Kara’s supposed to come in anytime now—”
Then you hear the screech, followed by the hurried footsteps, followed by the door once again banging open against the wall with the brute force of her strength. You’re surprised it’s still on its hinges.
And there she is.
“What the hell, dude? You’re engaged to him?”
Clark gives the two of you some space; that is, after he kicks Kara out long enough for the two of you to be decent.
This is the first time the two of you have ever woken up together.
In the years you’ve slept together, the countless nights you’ve spent in a pile of messy limbs, this is the first time.
The awkwardness that follows hangs heavy in the air.
“I’ll, um, I’ll give you time with Kara. I’m going to calm my parents down first, tell them not to overwhelm you. I’ll see you later?”
He says it like a question, like he isn’t sure if you would even see him again after this incident. And you know that it’s mainly his fault but you should’ve also been more careful. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you snuck in, you knew what you were looking for when you went to find him last night.
“Yes, Clark, I’ll see you later.”
Mild relief sinks into his features as he nods and exits the room.
It takes a bit of time to get Kara to stop hyperventilating or talking for even a second for you to get a word in. She’s still reeling at the fact that she saw her best friend and her brother in bed. Together. Naked. She may have also attempted to rinse her eyes with bleach.
After talking her off the ledge, you finally give her the basic answers.
“Yes, I’ve been fucking your brother.”
“No, we’re not dating.”
“No, Kara, how would we be actually engaged if we weren’t dating?”
Lois and Jimmy arrive shortly after and you thankfully get some reprieve from Clark when he goes to pick them up. Fortunately, Clark gives them the quick SparkNotes version of what transpired this morning. Unfortunately, you have to do the full run-down to once again emphasize that you are not actually engaged to Clark Kent.
Dinner is only an awkward affair for the people in the know. Clark’s parents remain blissfully ignorant, instead focusing on gushing about how thrilled they are that Clark has found somebody.
“You’re the first girl he’s ever brought home. It’s only right that you’re his fiancée! Now, I want to hear it from both of you — when did this all start? How did you know you were in love?”
Kara chokes on her chicken. Lois and Jimmy share wary looks. You shoot her a dirty look. Clark coughs, eyes sliding over to you for a nanosecond before returning to his mom. “Love at first sight when I saw her that first time.” Clark should be an actor, he sounds terribly convincing.
All you can say is “same.”
Clark kicks you under the table and you have to swallow your yelp. A dirty glare his way does nothing to deter him when he gives you a look that insists you give his mom an “actual” answer.
You wrack your brain. Beyond the good sex, Clark has mostly existed in your periphery. He’s Kara’s brother. Lois’ best friend. Jimmy’s partner in crime.
But he’s always been just Clark to you.
You just happened to be smart enough to put two and two together on him and Big Blue and, for some reason, that brought you closer.
But if you were to pick a point in which you could were to fall for Clark Kent, it would be that.
“I think it was around the same time. A first year was struggling through orientation week. First week jitters. Clark was an orientation leader at the time. He didn’t have to but he stuck with that kid almost that entire week. Saw him invite the kid to join for lunches with his friends, encourage him to make friends. It was sweet.”
Mrs. Kent looks absolutely awed. She whispers about how endearing that is.
However, all you can feel is the weight of Clark’s gaze on you. Steady, heavy. You risk a glance up.
His eyes are soft, a little misty if you squint. Lips with a slight up curve.
“I don’t know if I remember you back then.”
Heat kisses your cheeks. “That was before we were introduced.”
“You knew me?”
“Hard for you to not stand out as a six-foot non-football player.”
Clark chuckles.
“That’s so very romantic, dear. I’m so glad to hear,” his mom coos, “now all of you off to bed. It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it? So much good news! And you two should stay together — future newlyweds!”
You choke the same time Kara protests. “But she’s rooming with me!”
Needless to say, Kara doesn’t win this fight and, while Lois gives you a sympathetic look as she enters Kara’s room, you’re suddenly being shoved back into Clark’s room. The same room that got you into this mess to begin with.
“Clark, we need to get our stories straight if we want to be convincing.”
“Hmm, sure.”
“We need to talk about when we started dating and when you proposed — not to mention how you proposed! And the details matter, you know, so we should— are you even listening?”
Clark hums again, clearly not listening. “Sure, yeah. We should talk about it.”
He’s taking one step towards you then another and another until the back of your knees hit the bed. “Clark,” you warn, “talk.”
He ducks his head, brushing his lips against yours. His proximity is intoxicating. What were you saying again? Something about talking.
“Fell in love with me before you even knew me, huh? That’s cute,” he murmurs in a breath that you sharply inhale.
You bite back your embarrassment. “It’s just a story.”
“But you—” kiss “—noticed—” kiss “—me.”
“It was just, um, I was only, mmm, answering…” Your words trail off as Clark navigates his mouth south along your neck, laying you down on his bed, as he drops to his knees, hands parting your legs. “Clark, we need— ah.”
“Did so good today, honey,” Clark mutters, pressing wet kisses up your bare inner thigh. His teeth nip at your skin. “Now, let me take good care of you tonight.”
Your body is still sore and tingling when you wake up the next morning. When you stretch your hand over, you find the other side of the bed cool.
You pad out through the creaky front door to find three of your friends enjoying the crisp, unpolluted air of Smallville with cups of coffee, ones that Lois doesn’t have to douse with a whole can of sugar. Clark is still nowhere to be seen.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Kara yawns.
“Morning,” you mumble quietly. “Has anyone seen Clark?”
“He’s helping out at the barn,” Lois answers first, eyeing you with a strange twinkle in her eye. “Better yet, how about you tell us how long you and Clark plan on being engaged? Are we invited to the wedding?”
You give her a look. “If I ever get married, please know I’ve been kidnapped and cloned.”
“Is it really so bad?”
Cocking an eyebrow at her, you ask, “You of all people are saying that? Miss Independent?”
“Hey, I am voluntarily a solitary creature.”
“That’s because she bites the head off anyone who tries to approach her,” Jimmy chimes in, then turns back to you, “Clark’s not a bad pick. You know, if you were to get married.”
“No, he’s not,” you mutter — and it’s a truth that just slips out.
When you look up, Kara’s got her eyes narrowed at you but Lois — she’s got a curious yet strangely warm look in her gaze. It’s not an expression that you expect to see from her.
And Jimmy, well, he’s still half dizzy over the fact that you and Clark are fucking.
“I need to talk to him, we need to get our stories straight,” you clear your throat, glance wandering over to the barn some distance away.
“You guys still haven’t discussed that?”
“No, I tried talking to him last night but we got—” The ghost of Clark’s curls between your legs, soft strands tickling your inner thighs. The hot, wet drag of his tongue between your folds. His muffled moans, nose glistening.
“You taste like nectar from the gods.”
“I don’t wanna know!” Kara yelps, slapping her hands over her ears. “I see your face and I don’t wanna hear it. While I enjoy hearing about your sexual encounters, I don’t want to hear about my brother’s.”
You cough again, ignoring the warmth that’s flooded your cheeks. “Right, anyway, I’ll go look for him.”
While you’ve never experienced country living, you imagine this is close to what it’s like. The unappetizing aroma of manure, the constant croaking of nature, and the sight of Clark Kent in overalls.
Nothing but overalls.
Shining golden skin. Not a single drop of sweat. Curls mussed up only from the heat, but his breathing is stable even as he lifts bags of soil on his shoulder. Hundreds of pounds. Biceps flexing, veins taut.
Fuck.
“You’re awake,” he brightens when he sees you, dropping the bags off to the side. “How’d you sleep?”
Your brain short-circuits when he dusts his hands off. Now that there are no bags in the way, you can see everything. Broad, round shoulders. The curves of his arms. Lines running down the length of his forearm, you can practically taste the texture on your tongue. When his overalls shift just right, you get a glimpse of his dusky nipple that you’re desperately needing to wrap your lips around.
All you can picture is how good it would be to put your hands on his shoulders, bolstering you up while he presses up against you.
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking.”
Clark’s in front of you. His fingers curving around the back of your neck, thumb on your jaw to tilt your face up. His usually bright blue eyes are dark, pupils swallowing his irises.
“We should—” your breath hitches as his thumb goes down, pressing down on your pulse point on your neck. It jumps. You know he feels it.
“I can hear your heart racing,” Clark murmurs. “I like hearing it. I like knowing what you like — and you like my hand on you.”
“Clark, please,” you rasp.
“What do you need?”
“You.”
“How do you want me?”
You swallow, the image so vivid in your mind, like it’s a memory. “Holding me up.” You barely get the words out when Clark wrangles your legs around him, holding you up firmly with one arm as his other hand touches your cheek.
“What now?”
“I want you. Inside.”
“I can do that,” he smiles, leaning down to suckle lightly on your neck. “Anything else?”
“Must I tell you everything?” You grunt.
“I know what you want. I just like hearing you ask for it.”
With your lips pursed in defiance, you cross your arms over your chest. “If you ask me one more time—”
A yelp is wrenched from your throat when he finally (finally) brushes his thumb over your sensitive nipple peaking through the thin cotton of your shirt.
He gropes you gently, somehow manhandling you in a way that makes you feel desirable rather than disgusting. His blue eyes are shadowed, drinking in the way you shiver with every tug, every pinch.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs to the wind.
Clark tugs the shirt over your head, leaving you completely topless. Your arms immediately wind around your body in embarrassment, but he moves faster to extract them and deliver you a chiding look.
You’re sheepish when you tell him, “Someone might see us.”
“Mhmm, let them. I’m taking care of my fiancée.” His lips tug into an amused smirk when you roll your eyes. “Don’t be a brat.”
“Please, you like brats.”
“You know me so well.”
He dives forward and takes your tits into your mouth, showering them with cautious but delicious attention. His tongue is hot on your skin. You throw your head back as he drags his lips across your neck.
With swift hands, your shorts join your shirt in the pile of hay and Clark has unbuttoned his overalls to fall at his hips. His mouth stays on you the entire time — sweet and spicy at the same time.
Greedy hands lift you slightly higher, only to position you right above his straining cock. The vein in his neck jumps as he grits his teeth.
Clark eases you onto his cock, moving you up and down along his length like a toy, like you’re his personal fleshlight. Your pussy stretches around him, soaking his cock until you’re a whining mess.
“‘M gonna need you to keep it down,” he grunts quietly, neck flushed red as he bites down his own moan.
On cue, and as if to prove a point, a moan crawls up your throat. Clark’s hand flies up to slap over your face. Large palm over your mouth, your eyes wide at him. A whimper slides up your throat at the stern, scolding expression on his face.
“Honey, what did I just say?”
Your pussy clenches around him. His words are almost demeaning, but the gentleness with which they are delivered has you shivering and melting into his touch. “S-sorry,” you stutter pathetically, “I‘m sorry.”
“I know,” he whispers, “I know, but I need you to be quiet, okay. I don’t need my parents coming out and seeing us like this. They might make us marry on the spot.”
Heat spreads throughout every nerve in your body at his comment. It’s a joke, you know it is, but the idea of Clark claiming you as his with his cock buried inside you, painting you in bridal white inside out, has you tightening around him.
“Is that what you want?” Clark murmurs softly, his blue eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that has your fingers tingling.
“No,” you scoff a little too quickly.
“Could put you in a dress. Marry you in this barn right now. Afterwards, I’ll take you outside against the walls while my family’s in here celebrating us. We’ll consummate our marriage.”
The image is painted so vividly in the back of your mind. You in a simple dress, hiked up, Clark fucking you into oblivion against the walls outside. Good god.
“I can feel her tightening around me, honey,” Clark chuckles. “She likes the idea.”
“Stop being silly,” you clear your throat, “you gonna fuck me properly or what?”
He mutters something about your mouth before fucking you in earnest once more. His thrusts are sloppy but no less powerful, his desire leaks through his stuttered hips, the uneven staccato of his breaths.
Pleasure builds and twists, coiling tight inside your stomach as Clark’s grip remains firm on you. Moans continue to pour from your lips like prayers to the god before you. He slides his hand up your throat again, squeezing gently, before bypassing it and covering your mouth once more.
“Gonna need you to keep quiet, okay. I love hearing your pretty moans but I can’t share that with anyone else. Can’t have my parents coming out here and seeing you like this. I can’t have them thinking you’re a filthy little minx, spreading your legs for me anytime, anywhere.”
Your eyes roll to the back of your head as another groan chases your tongue. His name is muffled behind his hand and you gasp for breath when Clark gives you some room to inhale.
“She feels so good around me. So tight. She’s been waiting for me all morning. Greedy thing, isn’t she? Fed her so much last night and she still wants more.”
“C-Clark, please. Shit. Oh fuck.”
“So good to me. I have so much to give her, she knows that, doesn’t she? That’s why you came looking for me. Wanted one more time even after last night. Maybe I’ll taste myself on you later.”
Jesus Christ. This man has a way of making you picture the most deliciously repulsive images in your mind. Him cumming inside you, his face between your legs, licking you clean until there’s no trace of him left. Maybe even coming back up and kissing you. The taste of him tangled in your tongues.
Clark’s hands tighten. His grunts shorten. His pleas desperate.
Before long, you’re coming apart in his hands, Clark tightens his hold around your jaw to muffle the sound of your cries as he spills inside you. He buries his own moans into your neck as he presses you deeper against the wooden beam. With how hard he fucked you, you’re surprised this barn is still standing. You had felt the pillar rattling behind you.
He huffs a breath before leaning backwards. His hand reaches up to brush away the sweat-dampened strands of your hair from your face. “Are you okay? Did I go too hard?”
Even after years of this arrangement, Clark is always so careful. You know he holds back his strength when he’s screwing your brains out. He could go a lot harder and sometimes you wonder what it would feel like for his patience to snap, for him to fuck you with no abandon.
You don’t think you’ll survive that.
But you also think you would deliriously enjoy that.
“What’re you thinking about?” Clark murmurs, “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” you swiftly say, “just— nothing.” Warmth floods your cheeks again. You’ve only just finished getting your brains turned to mush and here you are thinking about how much harder he could go.
“You’re thinking about something.”
“I’m thinking how we should really get our stories straight.”
Clark regards you thoughtfully, a contemplative expression carved into the creases on his forehead. Then he presses into you more, cock pushing back in. You can hear the squish of his cum inside you, an indecent little sound in the quiet of the morning.
“Okay, do you wanna talk now?”
“Clark,” you deadpan.
“What?”
Your cheeks are hot again. “Obviously not like this.”
“Alright, later then.”
Clark doesn’t look the least bit remorseful, lips stretched into a wide grin. He’s much too gleeful for a man who’s foiled your plans to be responsible again — with his dick.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Instead of spending the day puttering around the farm and watching Clark do manual labor in nothing but overalls (which isn’t necessarily the worst way to kill time), the Kents propose going to the fair that’s in town.
Clark insists that his parents could use his help while he’s around.
They insist that he should spend time with his fiancée.
The five of you pile into Clark’s truck; to avoid suspicion, you ride up front with him, throwing his parents a tight smile as you wave at them as the car treks down the dirt path. The three of them are bickering about something related to agriculture in the backseat while you — you find yourself once again distracted by Clark who looks far too good driving.
Sometimes, you think you need to get your brain rewired for being too easily stimulated by the sight of him. It’s like your brain is wired to tune into him, to every little detail from the way his eyes crinkle, how his lips pucker when he whistles, or that one vein along his arm that jumps every time he turns the wheel.
Your plan backfires when you stare at him a little too long, trying to think of how you could get the two of you to talk to get your stories aligned, and Clark ends up noticing how your eyes never stray too far from him. The corners of his lips tip up, pleased, then his free hand slides over your thigh once more.
It doesn’t do anything. It just stays there. A grounding presence.
The back of your neck warms and you blame it on the mid-morning sun.
The fair is nothing too crazy, you didn’t expect anything grand from a small town near Smallville. It’s more like a community event, with faces familiar to the Kents dotting the crowd. A small market lines the entry area, selling all sorts of trinkets and knick-knacks. Clark bumps your shoulder with his arm as you walk down the path.
“Don’t you like those things? You wanna take a look?”
You cock an eyebrow. “I do like them, how do you know that?”
“I see them all over your apartment,” he shrugs, “especially the flowery-looking ones.” You’ve started collecting miniature toys and figurines with flowers on them. Since you can’t seem to keep plants alive, your little addiction to buying the most useless pieces of paperweight is fulfilled by the replacement of real live decor.
“Oh. Yes, well, I have too many now so I don’t think I should even look at them. Otherwise, I’ll be tempted to buy.”
Beyond that, the fair opens up to game booths — your classic ring toss, darts, and shooting a water ducky — and attractions like pony riding, a petting zoo, and so on and so forth. It’s cute. It’s quaint. Nothing like what you see in the big cities. In fact, big cities have no carnivals like these. So maybe you’re a teensy bit excited.
“Wanna play?” Clark smiles at the obvious enthusiasm on your face.
Before you can answer, a shrill voice calls out to Clark. Well, it’s not really shrill, it actually sounds rather sweet — like the tinkling of bells — but you see the source of that sound and you feel an irritating itch in your chest.
“Willow! I haven’t seen you in a while.”
Oh, so he knows her. That ugly part inside of you wonders if he also has the same arrangement with her. But no, she seems nice. Like the girl next door. The kind of girl you marry — and not with a fake engagement.
They chat for a little bit and you’re on the sidelines watching them. Kara nudges you by your side. “We’re going to try the dunk tank. Jimmy has agreed to be dunked as long as we can aim. Wanna come?”
Your gaze flicks over to Clark for a second but find that he’s still eagerly chatting with this girl, so you put on your biggest smile and turn back to your best friend.
“Let’s do it.”
The four of you busy yourselves with the various games. Lois manages to dunk Jimmy four times. Jimmy then proceeds to win a free t-shirt to change into from the ring toss. Kara absolutely destroys Lois at basketball and you absolutely annihilate all of them at darts (pub nights are coming in handy after all).
You’re having a great time — a wonderful time — until you realize that Clark still hasn’t caught up. Every time you look over in search of him, he’s there helping a new person. First, it’s the old lady with her bags of groceries. Then it’s the little boy with his cat in the tree. Next, it’s the farmer who needs to unload his van of dozens of boxes.
And then it’s that girl — Willow, was it? — who is apparently a florist and is setting up the most beautiful little booth in the market.
It’s thoughtful, it’s kind. That’s who Clark is. But then you see him laughing and smiling and just being Clark and all you can feel is pissed. He’s here for you — all of you — so why is he busying himself with others? It’s incredibly selfish and guilt gnaws at your chest.
So you bite down that terrible feeling and instead focus on the others. You’re fine with this. It’s not as if you have anything with Clark, really. You’re friends who happen to fuck every summer. That’s all.
Maybe Clark is simply looking for something more long-term.
Your eyes wander to Lois. You’ve always thought that they would be a thing. Two incredibly smart people who work together, who have great chemistry. You know that Clark respects and adores her deeply, as evidenced by how much he talks about her. It seemed to be a matter of time.
Your anger doesn’t ease. Instead, you channel that rage into this shooting game. Clark has only just shown up, standing next to Kara with his gaze on you, a dopey smile in place.
You hit the target dead center again and again and again.
“That’s the first time today! You’ve got quite the skills, miss.” The guy at the booth says, both impressed and terrified. “You can pick any prize you want from the top.”
Clark whistles with his fingers and grins. “Good job, that was incredible.”
You hate yourself for immediately blooming with excitement at the compliment, especially when he’s left this group to tend to other people. How pathetic can you be?
The next words out of your mouth are not your best moment.
“Well, seeing as my fiancé is too busy to get me anything.”
You can see the moment your jab lands and the smile wipes off his face, replaced by a look of sheer surprise. You turn on your heel and make your way to the next game, teddy bear tucked safely in your arms.
It’s not that you’re immature. You’re not. You’re an adult. But it doesn’t mean that you can’t be a teensy bit petty.
Every time Clark tries to come close to you, you’re linking arms with Kara and traipsing off. When he calls your name, you pretend not to hear by cheering for Lois as she slams a hammer down on a strength-based game.
It’s an exhausting endeavor and you’re this close to giving up. Plus, the heat isn’t exactly letting up and you’re starting to feel a little woozy.
So when Clark approaches you again, you almost cave and lean on his broad frame for support.
“Hungry?” He asks carefully as his long legs finally catch up to you alone.
Your stubbornness nearly denies him once more but your stomach wins out when it growls. Loud.
Clark doesn’t tease you; he simply takes your hand and whisks you away to the little makeshift food court. He sits you down and begins going from stall to stall, collecting one dish after another until you’ve got a spread in front of you.
It’s all your favorite things — or similar ones that he thinks you’ll enjoy; he would be right.
You’re too busy stuffing your face to notice Clark wringing his fingers in front of you, fidgeting as he tries to get your attention.
“What?” You finally ask when you peer up after his nth time repositioning himself, shrinking so he would be in your line of sight.
“Can you tell me why you’re sulking?”
“I’m not sulking.”
He gives you a look.
“I’m not! I don’t care who you spend your time with.”
“Who?” Clark perks up, irises bright with curiosity.
Shit. You and your big mouth. Now you’ve gone ahead and given away too much, so you clamp your lips shut and shake your head. You shut down his every attempt to pry by focusing on eating instead.
He only seems to relent when he thinks he’s pushed hard enough, but, knowing Clark, he isn’t going to let the matter slide so easily.
You continue your day unscathed for the most part. You cling close to Kara who doesn’t seem to mind that you’re sticking to her instead of her brother. Of course, she shoots you questioning looks but the shake of your head prevents her from pushing.
You’re in the middle of cheering for Lois and Kara when a cloud of pink appears before you. You blink at it before you trace back the source of the dessert. Unsurprisingly, Clark stands at the other end of the cotton candy.
“You like this, don’t you?”
You mentioned once that you’ve always liked cotton candies. It’s all sugar, but that childish part in you relishes the way the fluffy treat melts on your tongue.
“I do, thank you,” you confirm, ripping apart a piece before popping it in your mouth. The strands dissolve into syrup on your tongue.
Clark looks at you expectantly, a tinge of anxiety in the slight fold of his brows. “Good?”
“Good,” you smile at him.
Perhaps you’ve been too hard on him today. He’s being a good neighbor and you’re giving him shit for talking to someone else.
The two of you aren’t exclusive. That’s the whole point of this arrangement. If he happened to find someone that he wants to actually date seriously, then you’d let him go.
Somehow, the thought makes your stomach churn.
“I got you something else.”
You look up at him and he digs around in his shirt pocket and pulls out a thin silver band. A crystal sits in the middle of it, sparkling no less brightly than a diamond. It’s simple, it’s sweet. It’s characteristically you.
“It’s nothing extravagant but you wear silver jewelry, right? I think this should fit.” Then Clark is taking your left hand and sliding the promise over your ring finger. The band sits perfectly snug. The crystal catches light and twinkles like it’s winking at you.
For all your pouting, Clark seems to know the perfect remedy.
“Just, you know, until the trip is over,” he adds nervously. “If that’s okay with you.”
You bring your hand up, watching as the ring glimmers underneath the afternoon sun. Your lips tip up in a small smile.
“Yeah, that’s okay with me.”
“And, if it’s any reassurance,” Clark adds, quieter, low enough that the others can’t hear — eyes trained solely on you, sharp and honest, “I only have eyes for you.”
Your heart beats against your ribs. Heat frames your face at the same time he smiles softly at you.
You don’t respond, but that’s answer enough.
The chill beneath your fingertips rouses you from sleep. When your eyes flutter open, Clark’s big, warm body is nowhere to be found. You remember falling asleep cuddled up to a living, breathing heater and now you’re shivering as you tug on an extra sweater. Your footsteps are quiet as you pad out into the hallway in search of him, navigating through the darkness until your eyes land on him, bathed in the moonlight on the bench outside.
Clark turns before the door even swings open. He must’ve heard you.
“You’re up early — or late,” he notes.
“So are you, what’re you doing awake?”
“Couldn’t really sleep, you?”
“Must’ve been all the cotton candy,” you say as you slide into the seat next to him.
The midnight air in Smallville is brisk, you’re beginning to regret not throwing on an extra layer. Clark senses your shivers and immediately scooches closer towards you, draping his flannel over your shoulders and tucking you in close. The draw of his warmth is too tempting to resist and you end up nuzzling into his shoulder.
“Could’ve stayed inside,” you flag quietly.
“The fresh air helps me think. Plus, it’s nice to take advantage of this away from Metropolis. Breathing in fumes doesn’t seem conducive to my health.”
“Good thing your only weakness is extinct,” you tease, bumping shoulders gently.
Clark smiles at you, soft and knowing. “It’s not my only weakness.”
You raise an eyebrow but he doesn’t elaborate, so you don’t press. Instead, you ask him what’s plaguing his mind.
“My parents,” he begins, “I worry about them. They’re getting older, things with the farm aren’t easy and we’re not in a position to hire any extra hands.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m thinking if I should move back.”
Your heart plummets, all amusement evaporating. You don’t know why you’re so disappointed by the thought. Although you don’t live in Metropolis, although you don’t see Clark very often, you’re only a city away, and even then, he still feels light-years away. “Move back?”
“Here to Smallville. I’m not sure yet.”
Your throat is tight when you attempt a joke, “What? And leave your fiancée behind?”
Clark’s lips curl. “Never. I’ll take you with me.”
Oh. Your chest warms. “What makes you think I’d go with you?”
“I’d just have to convince you,” he whispers, tilting his head to press his forehead against yours. His next words are soft, but they have your heart pressing against your ribcage. “And I can be very persuasive.”
A giggle falls from your lips. Clark shrinks himself, bending himself at a slightly odd angle to accommodate your height as you lean your head on his shoulder. The quiet moon is company you don’t want to humor tonight and Clark seems to agree when he rises to his feet and offers his hand.
The two of you drift back into his bedroom. Light still spills across his hardwood floors that whine below his heavy footfalls. But Clark shields you from the stark brightness, engulfing you in a comfortable night against his chest.
When you tip your face up, he’s already looking down at you. For a moment, he only searches your eyes. Looking for something you’re not sure you can provide.
However, he seems to find whatever it is he wanted when he leans down and slides his mouth over yours.
The kiss is soft. Slow. None of the usual heat and messiness that leads to hours of tangled legs and sweaty limbs. This one is patient, it’s kind. Clark tastes like tea and sugar, the kind of concoction that lulls you slowly back to sleep.
Before your consciousness slips away again, Clark murmurs a promise of sweet dreams.
You think you may already have that.
This farmlife experience is much more taxing than you expect. Hours of Harvest Moon on your old game consoles do nothing to prepare you for the ache between your fingers and the soreness of your shoulders. However, you suck it up and keep going because there’s no greater sight than Clark who delights in showing you the ropes.
You’ve fought off chickens all morning to feed them and take their eggs for breakfast. You’ve milked cows, delicate fingers wrapped around the hefty udders until you fill a whole pail. You’re grooming the horses and trying not to get your hair chewed out.
Again, it’s all worth it when you see Clark beam at you like the morning sun.
His eyes also keep wandering to your finger where he has already pointed out — “You’re wearing the ring.”
You blame the fever on your neck on the sun that’s barely risen. “I thought it would be best to wear it so your parents don’t get suspicious.”
The two of you do end up talking, agreeing on points in time that align for your supposed romantic development. It isn’t a hard task, not when you actually do remember those moments when you felt your strongest attraction towards Clark. The first time you slept together was redesigned as your first date. The arrangement of your… arrangement was reconfigured into a conversation about official labels.
Clark is close to your side, arms brushing as the two of you make your way back to the house. The basket of eggs hangs from Clark’s hand as his other one shifts to the small of your back — it hovers, present, but doesn’t touch.
He’s telling you a story from his days of youth and you’re throwing your head back in laughter. The emotions come easy here — honest in the early hours of dawn when it’s only you and him.
When you arrive at the house, you two spot Lois already nursing a steaming coffee mug in her hands. Her eyes dart between the two of you carefully, curious — almost calculating. Her lips quirk upwards at the sight and you’re almost shy by her response.
Unfortunately, Clark’s reaction has you stiffening. He clears his throat and takes a step out to the side. Away from you. Distance. You try not to let your hurt show but it feels as if there’s a giant stone sitting in the pit of your stomach that’s weighing you down, slowing your steps.
“What’s going on?” Clark asks, brows puckered.
It’s your turn to regard the two of them. Clark has always been comfortable with Lois. Kara’s teased him before for having a crush on her; perhaps that feeling still lingers. Worse yet, perhaps those feelings have only strengthened.
Once again, you reckon with the fact that Clark Kent is not yours. You have no right to be jealous, to feel possessive over a man who doesn’t belong to you. You were the one who put your foot down and swore off any actual romantic relationships, and Clark was never an exception.
If Clark wanted Lois — and if, by some luck, Lois wanted Clark back, who were you to stand in the way of true love?
So you force a smile and shake your head. “Nothing. I’m going to get cleaned up. I’ll see you later.”
“Wait—”
But you’re already turning on your heel and heading back inside the house.
+ sam: tumblr hit me with the block limit for the full fic so i figured this is a good separation point while i edit the second half!! happy ending i promise <33
— steve harrington is only scared of two things: clowns and chief hopper’s gun. unfortunately he is also deeply, hopelessly in love with you, hopper’s daughter and convinced he isn’t good enough for you. when he turns you down to 'do the right thing,' you end up heartbroken but after one rainy confession later you both realize the obvious: you were idiots in love the whole time.
🚛 9.1k — steve harrington x fem!hopper!reader, so much narration it's crazy ( but also if you've been here for some time you'd know how much i love narrations ), fluff, erica and dustin being the ultimate life savers, mutual pining but they share one brain cell, yearning steve harrington, steve “i’m not good enough for her” harrington, hopper being overprotective, reader with a very obvious crush, awkward rejection at family video, rain confession trope, kissing fixes everything, friends to lovers, star wars references ( from someone who has never watched it ) because steve cannot help himself
author's note — the result of me being bored of studying economics and procastinating successfully. hope it still makes you cry when i fail the exam. enjoy <3
masterlist : navigation
gif by @acecroft | divider by @/lavendergalactic
Steve Harrington had only been scared of two things his whole life: clowns, and Chief Hopper’s gun.
The clown thing was ridiculous and he knew it. He had known it since he was eight years old and had cried at a birthday party because a man in a red polka-dot suit made a balloon dog and then smiled at him with too many teeth.
It was embarrassing, deeply uncool, and very much the kind of secret that could destroy what little remained of his reputation if it ever got out.
Still, that fear was manageable. Steve could work around clowns. He could avoid circuses, look away from creepy posters, and pretend those terrifying red noses were part of some joke he simply did not get.
Hopper’s gun, on the other hand, was not something he could avoid so easily. Mostly because it was real, loaded with bullete, and always, always being cleaned in Steve’s general direction whenever he came over to your house.
It did not help that Hopper made a whole performance out of it.
Every single time Steve came over, Hopper was suddenly sitting in the living room cleaning the gun. He would take it apart, put it back together, check it, wipe it down, and then look up just long enough to pin Steve with a stare that said, you know what this means.
Steve, for a fact, did not know what that meant, except if it meant him dying by it, then he was pretty sure he knew what it meant.
But you had reassured Steve at least a hundred times that your dad was not actually going to use it. Still, Steve had his concerns. Very valid ones, in his opinion. Because there was intimidating, and then there was Jim Hopper leaning back on the couch with a firearm in his lap while Steve sat on the opposite end trying to keep a respectable three inches between himself and you like that tiny gap was the only thing preserving his life.
The rule, oh god, the rule itself was torture. If Steve’s hand got too close to yours, Hopper cleared his throat. If Steve leaned in to hear you better, Hopper shifted in his seat. If your knee brushed Steve’s for half a second, Steve could actually feel Hopper’s glare hit the side of his face like heat from the sun.
It was not like you didn’t try to defend his honour. You did, every time. You would roll your eyes and tell your dad he was being overprotective, that Steve was nice, that Steve had literally helped save the world more than once, which should have earned him at least a little trust and maybe the right to sit next to his friend without being treated like a criminal.
But Hopper was persistent in the way only fathers of daughters could be, especially daughters they loved enough to terrify teenage boys over. He would grunt, mumble something about manners and boundaries, and continue staring Steve down like he was waiting for him to do one wrong thing.
Steve, for his part, tried very hard to never do the wrong thing. He was so polite at your house it was actually pathetic. He sat up straight, said sir more than he had ever said it in his life, and once thanked Hopper for passing the salt which very clearly was pepper. And the worst part was that none of it helped.
Still, Steve kept coming over.
Because of you.
Because you were, very simply, the most amazing person Steve had ever met. Ever seen, ever heard about, ever talked with, ever laughed with, ever cried with, ever fought monsters beside, ever bled beside, ever stumbled out of the end of the world beside.
You made Steve feel seen in a way that still startled him sometimes. Like you had looked past all the old versions of him, the ones he was embarrassed by and the ones he still did not fully know what to do with, and decided he was worth keeping anyway. It was a terrifying thing, being cared for by you. Not bad terrifying, not Hopper’s-gun terrifying, but the kind that made his chest ache because he wanted to be worthy of it all the time.
Steve, for his part, liked to think of what he felt for you as admiration. Friendly admiration.
The kind a person might feel for someone they happened to enjoy spending every possible second with, someone whose voice he could pick out in a crowded room without trying, someone whose bad moods he could sense before you even said a word.
It was probably just admiration that made him remember every little thing you told him, like how you hated orange candy but liked orange juice.
It was definitely just admiration that made his chest go warm and oddly tight whenever you smiled at him. And if he thought you were the bravest girl he had ever known, if he found himself wanting to make you laugh even when he was exhausted, if every near-death experience only seemed to increase the thought that being near you mattered more than he knew how to explain, well, that was probably still friendly.
Steve was pretty sure. At least, he was sure enough to keep telling himself that, because the alternative felt a little too big to look at directly.
A hand suddenly snapped in front of Steve’s face, dragging him clean out of the mess of his own thoughts.
“Steve. Hey, Steve. Earth to Steven.”
He blinked hard, like he had just been caught doing something illegal, and turned to find you standing there with your eyebrows raised and your mouth twitching like you were trying not to laugh. “Huh? Hey. What?”
You tilted your head at him, amused in that easy way that always made him feel both warm and deeply ridiculous. “I need to go somewhere. It will only take half an hour. Do you want to stay here, or are you going home?”
Steve glanced automatically toward the living room and narrowed his eyes a little. “If I say stay, is your dad going to kill me?”
You huffed out a laugh. “No, I don't think so. And besides, he is not here today.”
And just like that, the relief on Steve’s face was almost embarrassing. His shoulders dropped, his whole expression loosened, and a smile came over him. “Oh. Okay. Then yeah, I can wait here.”
Your eyes brightened at once, pleased in a way that made something in Steve’s chest do a stupid little flip. You grinned at him, quick and pretty and impossible not to stare at. “Okay. I promise I will come quick. Also, Jane may come in between from school, but I think she will leave for Max’s immediately after. Could you just make sure she has her lunch first?”
Steve nodded without hesitation. “All right.”
You smiled even wider. “Thanks. I will be back. Watch a tape in the meantime?”
He gave you a small nod, still looking at you with a loopy smile. “Yeah. Sure.”
Steve had been sitting there for a while, half-watching Star Wars and half-thinking about you (in a friendly way, of course), which was lately how most of his afternoons went.
Then he heard the clicking at the door.
He barely looked up at first, just assumed it was Jane coming in from school. So he kept watching the tape, eyes still on the screen, waiting for the door to open fully. But when it did, the light from outside was mostly blocked all at once, swallowed by a figure much bigger than Jane had any business being, and Steve knew immediately that it was definitely not her.
For one brief, insane second, he secretly hoped it was a demogorgon.
At least with a demogorgon, he knew where he stood.
But the universe was clearly not on his side, because when he turned, it was Hopper.
Steve swallowed so fast it almost hurt and lunged for the remote, pausing the tape just as Hopper stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Hopper’s eyes landed on Steve in that exact way they always did, like he had come home and found a raccoon in his kitchen trying to act natural. He stared for one long second before grunting, “Where are my daughters?”
Steve opened his mouth. “Out.”
The second the word left him, he knew it was the wrong answer. Too vague. Too much like something a guilty man would say right before being buried in a shallow grave. He corrected himself so quickly he almost tripped over the words. “I mean, Jane is at school. Or at Max’s. And, uh, Y/N is out for some work.”
Hopper narrowed his eyes. “What kind of work?”
“I did not ask,” Steve said, trying for honesty and landing somewhere closer to panic.
Hopper kept looking at him for another second, then walked farther into the room. Steve followed every movement.
Hopper came over and sat down on the seat adjacent to the couch, close enough that Steve could smell cigarettes and general parental disapproval.
Steve stood up on instinct almost immediately, because that seemed like the safest thing to do, maybe the smartest, maybe the thing most likely to save his life expectancy.
Hopper looked up at him. “Sit down.”
Steve froze. “What?”
“I said sit down. I want to talk.”
“Cool,” Steve said, nodding too much, as he sat down and looked around. “Cool, cool. Uh, so. Crime, huh? Terrible.”
Hopper did not blink. “I want to talk about my daughter.”
Steve nodded immediately. “Oh, yes. Jane is a lovely girl. Very. . .” He faltered for a second under Hopper’s stare. “Sweet?”
Hopper’s face did not change. “My other daughter.”
Steve’s stomach dropped. “Y/N?” he said, then attempted a smile that came out strained and weird. “Oh, yeah. Y/N is amazing too. Really smart.”
Hopper leaned back slightly, still watching him with that unreadable expression that made Steve feel like he was being measured for a coffin. “There’s the problem.”
Steve stared. “Her being smart?”
“You.”
Steve went quiet, which for him in a bad situation was saying something. Hopper rested his forearms on his knees and looked straight ahead for a moment before speaking again.
“I don’t like you,” he said.
Steve let out one awkward breath. “Yeah, no, I got that.”
“I don’t like you around her. I don’t like how much time you spend here. I don’t like the way she looks at you.”
Steve’s hands tightened together. He looked down at them, then back up, then down again, unsure where it was safest to look. “We are just hanging out. As friends.” He added the last part quickly although he didn't believe it enough himself.
Hopper let out a humorless little sound. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
Steve did not answer, mostly because he had the strong feeling there was not a single correct answer available to him.
For a moment Hopper said nothing. Then, he continued, “You know why I don’t like it?”
Steve swallowed. “Because you think I am a bad influence?”
“No.” Hopper’s eyes moved to him. “Because I think you and me are too similar.”
That, somehow, was not what Steve had expected, and the confusion must have shown on his face because Hopper kept going.
“You walk around like you are trying real hard to be useful,” he said. “Like if you keep helping, keep showing up, keep making yourself necessary, nobody will notice all the things wrong with you. You act like a kid who already decided what kind of man he is and does not think much of the answer.”
Steve opened his mouth and then shut it again.
Hopper looked away for a second, jaw working. “And I know that look because I know what it feels like. Thinking you care about somebody enough should be enough. Thinking maybe if you want to do better bad enough, that counts for something. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t.”
Steve’s throat felt dry. “I care about her. . .”
“I know,” Hopper said. “That’s not what worries me.”
Steve frowned a little. “Then what does?”
“Because I'm not good enough for my little girl,” he said. “And if you’re anything like me, then you’re not good enough for my little girl either.”
The words hit hard enough that Steve actually felt his chest go tight. Like he had reached down into the very worst place inside Steve and pulled out the thing Steve already feared most.
Steve laughed once under his breath, except there was nothing funny in it. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
Hopper looked at him then, maybe expecting an argument, maybe expecting Steve to push back, to insist he was better than that.
Steve did not. Because the awful part was, he did not really know how to.
He thought about you laughing with him, trusting him, calling him when things went wrong, smiling like he belonged in your life, and all at once that felt less like something lucky and more like something temporary. Like maybe Hopper was just the first person cruel enough to say out loud what Steve should have figured out sooner.
“I am trying,” Steve said after a long moment. “I mean, I know I screw things up sometimes, but I am trying.”
Hopper shrugged. “Trying is a start.”
That was not comfort. That was barely even mercy.
Steve looked down at the paused television screen, at his own faint reflection in it, warped. “She should get somebody better than me,” he thought to himself.
The front door opened.
Both of them looked up at once just as Jane stepped inside, backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Hello,” she said.
By the time you got back, the first thing you noticed was Steve’s car was gone.
You slowed in the driveway, frowning as you looked at the empty spot where it had been parked earlier, a small, confused crease forming between your brows.
For a second you just stood there with your keys in hand, staring at nothing, like maybe if you looked long enough the car would magically reappear and Steve would climb out with one of his sheepish smiles and some rambling explanation that would somehow make perfect sense because it was him. But the driveway stayed empty, and that strange little disappointment settled heavier in your chest than it probably should have.
When you stepped inside, you could smell the dinner, and the sound of conversation from the kitchen.
You slipped your shoes off and headed in, only to stop slightly when you saw your dad already there with Jane.
You looked at Hopper. “Hey. Uh, Dad, you’re early.”
Hopper just nodded once. “Come sit for dinner.”
You glanced between him and Jane, still half-thinking Steve might somehow appear from another room, but when he did not, you pulled out a chair and sat down. “Right.”
For a minute, you tried to ignore the odd feeling curling in your stomach. Then you leaned a little toward Jane and lowered your voice. “Hey, where’s Steve?”
Jane looked at you, then flicked her eyes over your shoulder in a quick glance toward Hopper before answering. “He left ten minutes ago.”
Your face fell before you could stop it. “Oh.”
It came out smaller than you meant it to. You sat back in your chair after that, quieting down a little, your earlier ease gone fuzzy around the edges.
It was not like Steve had to wait around forever for you, obviously. He had his own life. You knew that. Still, he could have stayed. Or at least left a note. Or told Jane something more than that. The whole thing sat strangely with you, like a sentence missing its last word.
Later, shut inside your room with the door closed, you called him.
The phone rang just long enough for you to start thinking maybe he would not pick up, and then there was the familiar click of the line connecting. “Hey,” you said at once, tucking one leg under you on the bed. “You left.”
There was a pause.
Then Steve said, “Yeah. Uh, Henderson called me with code red.”
You furrowed your brows immediately. That made no sense. You had literally been with Dustin earlier because he had forgotten something at home and needed it at school, and he had seemed perfectly fine. Nothing about him had said emergency.
Still, all you said was, “Oh.”
The word sat there between you, uncertain.
You stared at the wall across from your bed, turning the phone cord around your finger. You wondered, not for the first time, why Steve was lying to you. Because he was. You knew he was.
But you pushed the thought aside, deciding for the moment not to make something out of what might be nothing. Maybe there was a reason. Maybe he had just had one of those weird Steve moments where his brain tripped over itself and produced nonsense.
You took a small breath, already getting ready to ask him about the movie, already knowing the answer was probably Star Wars because Steve’s devotion to those tapes bordered on religious, but before you could say anything else, he cut in.
“Can we talk later?” Steve said quickly. “I need to go somewhere.”
You blinked. “Oh. Uh.”
The disappointment hit sharper this time, quick and stupid and annoyingly difficult to hide, but you swallowed it down anyway. “Okay.”
And before you could say bye, or even soften it with a laugh or ask one more question or make sense of the strange distance in his voice, the line clicked dead.
Your bye stayed there, useless, hanging.
The next day, you told yourself Steve had probably just been tired.
That was the easiest explanation, and the one that annoyed you the least, so you held onto it all the way to Family Video.
By the time you pushed open the door and stepped inside, you had managed to convince yourself that everything was normal, that you were not thinking too hard about the awkward phone call, and that Steve would take one look at you and immediately go back to being his usual sweet, slightly frazzled self.
Robin looked up from behind the counter when the bell above the door jingled. “Hey.”
You smiled and wandered over. “Hey.”
She leaned her elbows on the counter and gave you a look that was far too knowing for ten seconds into a conversation. “You here to see Steve?”
You widened your eyes in fake innocence. “I could be here to see you too.”
Robin raised one brow.
You lasted about half a second. “Yeah, I’m here to see Steve.”
“Thought so,” she said, not even pretending to be surprised. Then she jerked her thumb toward the back. “He’s in the back. You could wait here for some time.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
So you stayed there at the counter, trying very hard to look casual and very obviously failing, because every few seconds your eyes drifted toward the back room like maybe Steve would appear if you stared hard enough.
Robin noticed, of course. Robin noticed everything, which was one of the many reasons she was so deeply annoying.
“You know,” she said after a moment, “you’re not really subtle with your whole crush thing.”
Your head snapped toward her so fast it was a miracle your neck survived. “What crush thing?”
Robin looked at you like you were the dumbest person she had met all week, and she worked with Steve, so that was saying something. “The whole you having a crush on dingus thing.”
You let out an offended laugh that was entirely too loud. “I do not have a crush on Steve. Pfft. You’re delirious, Robin.”
She said nothing and kept looking at you with that patient, unbearable expression of someone waiting for you to finish lying to yourself in public. You crossed your arms, then uncrossed them, then sighed.
“Fine,” you muttered. “Ugh. I have a crush on Steve. Is that what you want to hear?”
Robin’s face lit up in immediate satisfaction. “Totally.”
You groaned, but now that it was out there, the words just kept coming, all tripping over each other in one giant embarrassing rush.
“I mean, it’s not like I planned it, okay? It just happened. He’s just. . .” You exhaled and glanced away, suddenly very interested in the tapes behind the counter.
“He’s Steve. He’s sweet, and stupidly brave, and always there when it matters, and he does this thing where he acts like he’s joking even when he’s being really sincere, and I know people think he’s all hair and idiot energy, but he’s not. Well, he is, a little, but he’s also so good. Like actually good.” Your voice softened without your permission. “And he cares so much. About everyone. About the kids. About me.” A dreamy sigh escaped you before you could stop it. “He just makes everything feel easier.”
Robin stared at you for a long second. “And you see all that in Steve Harrington?”
You frowned at her. “Yeah.”
She made a face. “Disgusting.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling a little despite yourself.
Then Robin’s gaze shifted past you, toward the back, and her expression changed into one of immediate delight at the chance to make things weird. “Anyways,” she said, “looks like he’s free.”
You turned and there was Steve, stepping out from the back.
You did not even think about it before you started walking toward him.
“Hey, Steven.”
For a second, you thought you imagined it. Hoped you imagined it, really. Because the moment he heard your voice, Steve tensed. Just for a second. A tiny thing most people probably would not notice. But you noticed. Your steps faltered slightly, that strange feeling from yesterday creeping back up your spine.
Steve turned to you, and the tension smoothed out so quickly you almost convinced yourself it had never been there.
“You’re here,” he said.
You nodded, smiling the way you always did when you saw him. “Yes. I wanted to see you.”
Steve blinked once. “Why?”
The question landed strangely, like a step where the ground was not quite where you expected it to be. Your smile stayed in place, but you suddenly felt awkward, unsure what exactly had happened between yesterday and today.
“Do I need a reason?” you asked lightly.
“No,” Steve said quickly. “No, of course not.”
The awkwardness eased immediately hearing his normal response, and you felt your shoulders relax again. That was the Steve you knew. The one who would never make you feel weird for showing up.
Then he added, a little too quickly, “I was just busy today. Rush hour, you know.”
You glanced around the store.
There were maybe five customers total, and two of them were arguing near the Holiday movie section.
You looked back at him. “Five is a rush for you?”
Steve paused. “. . . Yes?”
You tilted your head, concerned now. “Steve, is something wrong? Did I do something?”
His face softened instantly. “No. Of course not. You are perfect.”
The words came out so fast they almost tripped over each other.
You felt heat rush to your face before you could stop it, and you looked away quickly, trying very hard not to blush like an idiot in the middle of Family Video.
Unfortunately, Steve noticed.
Which made him immediately start stammering. “I uh well, I just—” He grabbed a stack of tapes beside him like they had personally called for help. “I just need to organize these tapes.”
You pointed at them. “I could help.”
Steve blinked. “Uhhh. . . okay.”
So the two of you ended up in the back room, standing side by side with shelves of tapes between you and the rest of the store.
At first the conversation was normal. Mostly. You talked about school, about Dustin complaining about science homework, about how Steve had apparently rewatched Star Wars again the night before because he was physically incapable of not doing that at least once a week. For a few minutes it almost felt like everything was back to normal.
But the strange tension never really left.
It hovered there, uncomfortable, like a conversation waiting to happen.
Eventually you took a breath. “Hey, Steve?”
“Yeah?”
You kept your eyes on the tapes in your hands. “Do you maybe want to go out sometime?”
Steve stopped moving.
You continued quickly, words tumbling out before your courage could disappear. “Like a date. Nothing big. We could just get milkshakes or something, or watch a movie that is not Star Wars for once, which I know is a big ask—”
Steve did not say anything.
The silence stretched.
Your stomach twisted.
Suddenly you were not sure why you thought this was a good idea. Or why you thought the signs had meant what you thought they meant. Maybe you had just imagined it all. Maybe you had read too much into the way he smiled at you, the way he always showed up when you needed him, the way he said your name in that soft manner.
You let out a small, nervous laugh. “Or not. I mean, that’s fine too, I just thought—”
“No.”
You looked up.
Steve’s eyes were fixed on the shelf in front of him.
“No?” you repeated quietly.
He swallowed. “We can’t.”
Your fingers tightened around the tape case in your hand. “Why?”
Steve finally looked at you then, and something in his expression made your chest drop. “It’s just. . . a bad idea,” he said. “Us dating.”
“Oh.”
The word felt small leaving your mouth.
Steve looked miserable. “We shouldn’t be more than friends.”
The embarrassment came all at once. You laughed a little under your breath, even though you could already feel your eyes starting to sting.
“Right,” you said quickly. “Of course. That makes sense. Totally makes sense.”
You cleared your throat, trying to blink away the stupid tears that were threatening to show up at the worst possible time.
Steve shifted awkwardly. “We can still be friends?”
Even he grimaced a little when he said it.
You forced a smile. “Actually, I think I’m going to need some space,” you admitted.
Steve took a step toward you immediately. “Hey—”
“No, it’s alright,” you said quickly, waving him off before he could say anything comforting that might make you cry for real. “I just feel a bit silly, that’s all.” You attempted another small smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll get back to normal and we can go back to being. . . friends.”
The word caught slightly in your throat.
You looked down at the tape still in your hands before setting it on the shelf. “I just. . . I need to go.”
And before he could stop you, before he could say anything else that might make it harder to leave, you turned and walked out of the back room.
You rushed past the counter.
Robin looked up instantly. “What did you two finally—”
She stopped mid-sentence when you hurried past her, wiping quickly at the tears on your cheeks.
Robin’s expression immediately shifted to concern and she slowly turned her head toward the backroom.
Steve was standing there just inside the doorway, his head in his hands and Robin sighed at the sight.
“Oh, Harrington, what did you do?”
By the time Nancy came over, you had already cried enough to make your head feel heavy and your eyes sore, but the second you saw her standing in your doorway with two tubs of ice cream and that calm look on her face, it all came rushing back again like you had just opened the floodgates.
Now you were sitting cross-legged on your bed with the blanket tangled around your legs, clutching a spoon like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality while Nancy sat across from you with the other tub of ice cream resting in her lap.
“I just feel so stupid,” you said for what had to be the twentieth time, your voice thick as you scooped another bite you barely tasted. “Like actually stupid. It's not even the cute kind of stupid where I can laugh about it later. It's just. . . painfully, humiliatingly stupid.”
Nancy took another spoonful of ice cream, watching you.
“I mean,” you continued miserably, waving your spoon around, “who does that? Who just assumes someone likes them back without actually asking first? Me. Apparently. Because clearly I just decided to invent an entire romance in my head like some delusional idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot,” Nancy said.
“Yes, I am,” you sniffed immediately. “I asked him out. Out loud. With actual words. And he just said no.”
Nancy winced a little in sympathy but let you keep going.
“Like immediately. Just no. Like it was obvious that it was a terrible idea.”
Nancy leaned back against your headboard, passing you another napkin. “Boys are idiots.”
You nodded emphatically, your voice breaking. “Boys are idiots.”
You took another shaky breath and stared down into the melting ice cream. “But he was my idiot,” you said weakly.
That was apparently the breaking point because suddenly your face crumpled and you leaned sideways until your head dropped into Nancy’s lap, clutching the ice cream tub as you started crying again.
Nancy immediately set her spoon aside and started absentmindedly running her fingers through your hair in soothing motions.
“I just feel so embarrassed,” you groaned into her sweater. “Like what if he tells everyone? What if Dustin finds out? Oh my god, Dustin is absolutely going to find out. He’s going to tell Mike and then Lucas and then they’re all going to look at me like I’m some pathetic lovesick idiot who can’t take a hint.”
“He won’t tell them,” Nancy said.
“You don’t know that,” you mumbled miserably. “He might. He might accidentally say something to Robin and then she’ll accidentally say something to someone else and suddenly the entire town knows that I asked Steve Harrington out and he rejected me in the back room of Family Video next to the horror tapes.”
Nancy huffed a laugh despite herself. “It sounds excessive.”
“But it could happen,” you said.
You sniffed loudly and wiped at your face again before continuing.
“And the worst part is that I really thought he liked me,” you said, your voice softening into something more wounded now. “Like actually liked me. I mean he’s always there, you know? And he remembers things I say and he always sits close to me and he smiles at me like. . .” You trailed off, your throat tightening again. “Like I mattered.”
“You do matter,” Nancy said immediately.
“I know,” you said weakly. “But apparently not in the way I thought.”
Nancy sighed softly but kept smoothing your hair.
“And now I feel like every moment I thought meant something was probably just him being nice,” you continued miserably. “Like maybe he was just being friendly this whole time and I turned it into this huge thing in my head and now he probably thinks I’m insane,” you groaned.
Nancy paused. “You just asked him on a date.”
“And got rejected,” you muttered.
There was a quiet moment while you both abe more ice cream and then another thought hit you.
“And he lied to me,” you said suddenly, lifting your head slightly from Nancy’s lap.
Nancy looked down at you. “What?”
“He lied yesterday,” you said, frowning as the pieces rearranged themselves in your mind. “When I called him. He said Dustin called him with some code red emergency.”
Nancy raised an eyebrow.
“But I had literally been with Dustin earlier that day,” you continued, sitting up now, your frustration rising again. “He just forgot something at home and needed it for school. There was no emergency. Nothing was wrong.”
Nancy frowned thoughtfully.
“So he just made something up,” you said slowly, realization dawning in a way that made your chest hurt all over again. “Which means he probably didn’t actually want to stay. Which means he probably left my house on purpose.”
You swallowed hard.
“And I should’ve known,” you whispered miserably. “That should’ve been the sign.”
Nancy reached over and squeezed your hand.
“I mean think about it,” you said, your voice cracking again. “He left early, he lied about it, and then today he basically panicked the second I showed up. I just didn’t want to see it because I liked him too much.”
Nancy squeezed your hand again, her thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“You know,” she said, “we could go out tomorrow. Just the two of us. Get dinner somewhere. Somewhere far away from Family Video and idiotic boys.”
You let out a weak laugh, even though your eyes were still wet. “That’s really sweet, Nance.”
Your voice wobbled halfway through the sentence and suddenly the tears were threatening again, welling up despite your best efforts to keep them contained. You sniffed hard and pressed the heel of your hand against your eyes, shaking your head like you could physically shove the embarrassment away.
“I just can’t believe I asked him out,” you muttered miserably. “I feel like I should move to another country. Or at least another state.”
Nancy opened her mouth to say something else, but the door to your room creaked open slowly before she could.
You immediately buried your face back into her lap as Nancy looked up toward the door. “Hey.”
Jane’s head slowly poked into the room, her expression curious and slightly concerned as she looked between the two of you. “I heard crying.”
You groaned quietly into Nancy’s sweater.
“Why is she crying?” Jane asked.
Nancy glanced down at you before answering, but you spoke first.
“Steve rejected me,” you said miserably, your voice muffled.
Jane blinked. “Oh.”
There was a small pause as she processed that.
Then she turned to Nancy with complete seriousness. “What does that mean?”
You lifted your head just enough to glare weakly toward the doorway, your eyes still red and puffy. “It means he dumped my ass but we weren’t even dating.”
Jane stepped further into the room, clearly trying to piece together the logic of that statement and not having much success after the 'dumped my ass' part which she had learnt from Max.
Nancy gave a small shrug and then patted your shoulder. “She’ll be fine.”
You sniffed loudly.
Nancy turned back to Jane and lifted the ice cream tub slightly. “You want some ice cream?”
Jane’s face immediately brightened, and she opened her mouth to say yes but you suddenly peeked your head up from Nancy’s lap just enough to cut in. “She can’t,” you said hoarsely. “She’s having a cold.”
Jane narrowed her eyes at you instantly. “Buzzkill.”
Nancy blinked. “Did Dustin teach you that word?”
Jane smiled proudly and nodded.
You groaned and dropped your forehead back against Nancy’s leg. “He is a terrible influence on her.”
Nancy glanced between the two of you and smirked slightly. “I don’t know. They look cute.”
Jane’s smile widened at that.
You lifted your head again slowly, squinting at Nancy in disbelief through your tear-streaked face. “Oh my God.”
Nancy raised an eyebrow. “What?”
You stared at Jane like you had just noticed something deeply disturbing about the universe.
“Oh God,” you said weakly.
Nancy frowned. “What?”
You gestured vaguely between Jane and the doorway, your voice cracking again in fresh disbelief. “I just realized my little sister is in a relationship. And I’m not.”
Steve was not doing any better.
He was sitting at Dustin’s desk, elbows planted on either side of a half-finished science project involving wires, cardboard, and something that looked mildly capable of exploding if handled incorrectly.
Dustin had been talking for at least ten minutes straight about voltage and signal amplification and something about how if they adjusted the coil just right it could pick up radio chatter from three blocks over.
Steve had not heard a single word.
He was staring at the same screw on the table. Every few seconds he would pick it up, rotate it between his fingers, then put it back down again like his brain had temporarily lost the ability to perform any more complex function.
Dustin finally stopped mid-sentence and leaned back in his chair and squinted at Steve. “Okay,” he said slowly, dragging the word out. “You have not been listening to a thing I’ve said for the last ten minutes.”
Steve blinked like he had just returned from another dimension. “What?”
“Exactly,” Dustin said, throwing his hands in the air. “What is wrong with you?”
Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “Nothing.”
Dustin stared at him. “Steve.”
“I’m fine.”
Dustin stared harder.
“It’s Y/N,” Steve muttered.
Dustin immediately leaned forward. “Oh, what happened?”
Steve dropped his head back against the chair. “She asked me out.”
“Wait,” Dustin said slowly. “Wait, wait, wait. Y/N asked you out?”
“Yeah.”
“And you look like this because. . . ?”
Steve stared at him. “I said no.”
There was a long, stunned silence, then Dustin slapped both hands on the table. “You what?!”
Steve winced. “Keep your voice down.”
“Why would you say no?” Dustin demanded, his voice climbing an entire octave anyway. “That is literally the opposite of the correct answer!”
Steve rubbed his temples. “It’s complicated.”
“It is not complicated!” Dustin said incredulously. “She’s amazing, you like her, she likes you back, that is what we call a win!”
Steve shook his head, his expression tightening again as the memory of Hopper’s voice crept back into his head. “It’s not that simple.”
Dustin crossed his arms. “Explain.”
Steve hesitated for a long moment before speaking again. “Hopper talked to me.”
Dustin made a face immediately. “Oh great. The chief himself.”
Steve let out a quiet breath. “He told me he doesn’t like me around her.”
“Well that’s obvious,” Dustin said. “He doesn’t like anyone around her.”
Steve shook his head again. “That’s not what he meant.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees as he stared down at the floor. “He said we’re too similar,” Steve said quietly. “That he knows what kind of guy I am because he’s the same kind of guy.”
Dustin frowned.
Steve shrugged weakly, but there was no humor in it.
“He said he wasn’t good enough for his daughter,” Steve continued. “And that if I’m anything like him, then I’m not good enough for her either. And the worst part is I kind of get what he meant,” he said. “I mean. . . look at me, man.”
Dustin frowned immediately.
Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he was trying to physically hold his thoughts in place before they ran off in ten different directions.
“I screw things up,” he said. “All the time. I mean, yeah, I try to help, I try to do the right thing now, but you remember how I used to be. Everyone remembers. Half the town probably still thinks I’m the same idiot who peaked in high school and can’t figure out what to do with the rest of his life.”
Dustin opened his mouth to protest, but Steve kept going. “And she’s. . . ” Steve exhaled. “She’s Y/N.”
He said your name like it meant something big, something impossible to explain in one sentence.
“She’s smart and brave and she actually knows where she’s going in life,” Steve said. “She walks into a room and people listen to her. She stands up to Hopper like it’s nothing. She makes everyone around her feel like things are going to be okay.”
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
“And me?” he muttered. “I work at a video store and accidentally adopt children who get chased by monsters.”
Steve shook his head. “That’s not the point. The point is she deserves someone who doesn’t. . . mess things up.”
Dustin leaned forward, staring at him, frustrated. “So your solution,” he said, “was to break her heart before you had the chance to?”
Steve winced. “I didn’t break her heart,” he muttered weakly.
Dustin stared at him in disbelief. “Steve.”
Steve groaned, dropping his face into his hands. “Okay maybe a little.”
“A little?” Dustin said. “She literally asked you out and you rejected her.”
Steve peeked through his fingers. “I was trying to protect her.”
Dustin threw his arms up. “From what? Happiness?”
Steve rubbed his face again, looking completely exhausted now. “From me,” he said.
Dustin leaned forward again, squinting at Steve with the same expression he usually reserved for explaining extremely basic concepts to Lucas.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to explain something to you very slowly.”
Steve sighed. “Great.”
“You are being,” Dustin continued, pointing at him for emphasis, “an idiot.”
Steve didn’t even argue.
Dustin leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “When Hopper tried to intimidate me,” he said, “I shrugged him off.”
Steve blinked. “You what?”
Dustin nodded proudly. “Yeah. He did the whole ‘I’m a scary dad with a gun’ thing and I just kept dating Jane.”
Steve stared at him. “You’re insane.”
“And guess what happened?” Dustin said.
Steve sighed. “What?”
“He gave up,” Dustin said simply. “Because that’s what Hopper does. He acts scary and protective and eventually realizes he can’t control everything.”
Steve frowned.
Dustin leaned forward again, lowering his voice slightly. “Also, you realize Y/N isn’t Hopper, right?” he said. “She gets to decide who she likes. And she likes you,” he contined. “You like her. The only person ruining this situation right now is you.”
Steve slumped back in his chair.
For a moment he just stared at the ceiling, letting Dustin’s words bounce around in his head along with Hopper’s and your tearful voice and the look on your face when he’d said no.
“I think I really screwed this up,” he muttered.
Dustin nodded. “Oh, absolutely.”
Steve dropped his head back down. “Great.”
“But,” Dustin added quickly, leaning forward with a spark of determination in his eyes, “that doesn’t mean it’s over.”
Steve looked at him warily.
Dustin grinned slowly. “We just need a plan.”
Steve frowned. “A plan?”
“Yeah,” Dustin said, already getting excited. “And I know just the someone who’s great at them.”
Steve should have been suspicious the moment Dustin said that sentence with that much confidence. There were only a handful of people Dustin trusted to solve complicated situations, and somehow every single one of them was either a genius, terrifying, or both.
Which was how Steve found himself half an hour later sitting stiffly on the Sinclair family couch while Erica Sinclair leaned back like a queen being forced to listen to the complaints of particularly stupid peasants.
The moment Steve finished explaining the situation, Erica slowly dragged a hand down her face and sighed the way someone did when their patience had been tested far beyond reasonable limits.
“Oh my God,” she said flatly. “You’re an idiot, you absolute dingbat.”
Steve turned toward Dustin who gave him a small nod that clearly translated to see, I told you.
Steve looked back at Erica. “That was unnecessarily aggressive.”
Erica crossed her arms and stared at him. “No,” she said. “Unnecessarily aggressive would be me throwing you out of my house for wasting oxygen with that story. What I said was a fact.”
Steve sank a little deeper into the couch.
Erica leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. “The girl likes you. You like the girl. And when she asked you out, you said no because some grumpy middle-aged man scared you with his feelings.”
Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “I had other reasons.”
Erica leaned forward slightly. “Were those reasons stupid?”
Steve hesitated.
Dustin answered immediately. “Yes.”
“You made her cry?” she asked.
Steve winced. “Probably.”
Erica clicked her tongue in disappointment. “That’s bad.”
Steve blinked. “Bad?”
“Well yeah,” she said. “I actually like her.”
Steve and Dustin both looked at her.
Erica shrugged like it was obvious. “She’s cool. She brings snacks. And she doesn’t treat me like a child.”
“That’s because you are a child,” Steve muttered.
Erica pointed at him without even looking. “See? That attitude right there is why she deserves better.”
Steve slumped further into the couch.
“But,” Erica continued thoughtfully, tapping her finger against the armrest, “she also clearly has terrible taste in men.”
Dustin coughed to hide a laugh.
“So,” Erica said, straightening up slightly, “I will help you.”
“Okay,” he said cautiously. “What’s the plan?”
Erica leaned forward with a slow smile that immediately made Steve nervous. “The problem,” she began, “is that right now she thinks she imagined everything. She thinks you never actually liked her.”
Steve nodded slowly.
“So the solution,” Erica continued, “is not some big dramatic speech where you try to explain your feelings like a sad puppy because you will mess that up. So what you need,” she said, “is proof.”
Dustin leaned forward eagerly. “Proof?”
Erica nodded. “You’re going to show her that you pay attention to her.”
Steve frowned. “I already do that.”
“Good,” Erica said. “Then this won’t be hard.”
She began counting on her fingers.
“You’re going to bring things she’s mentioned liking before. Specific things. Maybe some flowers or something.”
Steve blinked. “You know a lot about this.”
Erica shrugged. “I read.”
Dustin coughed under his breath. “Nerd.”
“You’re going to apologize,” Erica continued, ignoring him. “And then you tell her the truth.”
Steve hesitated slightly.
Erica narrowed her eyes. “All of it.”
Steve sighed. “Yeah.”
“And if she still wants space,” Erica added, “you respect that.”
Dustin frowned slightly. “That doesn’t sound like a winning-her-back plan.”
Erica rolled her eyes. “That’s because the goal isn’t to trick her into dating him,” she said. “The goal is to prove he’s not the complete idiot he pretended to be.”
Steve looked at her for a moment. “. . . You really think that’ll work?”
Erica shrugged. “If she likes you as much as you claim,” she said, “then yes.”
Steve nodded, hope and nervousness mixing together in his chest in a way that made his stomach flip.
Dustin grinned. “See?” he said. “I told you she’d have a plan.”
Erica stood up and stretched slightly. “Well, that will be a month of free video tapes.”
It had been raining for hours by the time the tapping started at your window.
You almost ignored it at first, buried face-down in your pillow with the lights off, the room dim except for the occasional flash of lightning slipping through the curtains.
You had told yourself you were not crying anymore. Technically that was true. You had stopped. Mostly. But the dull ache sitting behind your ribs had not gone anywhere, and every time you thought about Steve’s miserable expression in that back room, your chest tightened all over again.
The tapping came again.
You frowned into the pillow, lifting your head slightly. For a second your brain, still fuzzy with disappointment and lack of sleep, tried to convince you it was just the rain hitting the glass.
Then it tapped again.
You sat up.
When you pushed the curtain aside and opened the window, you nearly jumped out of your skin.
Steve was halfway through climbing in and he was completely soaked.
Rain clung to his hair, dripping down the ends and onto his jacket, his shirt, the floor under the window. His sneakers made a soft wet sound when he stumbled inside, holding a slightly crushed bundle of flowers in one hand looking like they had barely survived the journey.
You stared at him and he stared back, breathing a little hard like he had run here. “Hi,” he said.
You blinked at him. “You climbed through my window.”
Steve nodded once, like that was a normal thing to do on a rainy night after rejecting someone earlier that day. “Yeah.”
“You’re soaking wet.”
“Also yes.”
You looked at the flowers. “Did you steal those?”
He glanced down at them like he had forgotten they existed. “Technically I paid for them.” He hesitated. “I think the cashier pitied me.”
You stared for another long second, trying very hard to make sense of the situation. “Steve.”
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing here?”
Steve swallowed, suddenly looking much less confident than he had climbing through the window in the rain like some kind of very soggy romantic idiot. He ran a hand through his wet hair, immediately messing it up further. “I messed up,” he said.
You crossed your arms, still sitting on the edge of the bed. “You did.”
“I know.”
He stepped a little closer, careful like you might disappear if he moved too fast. The flowers were still clutched awkwardly in his hand, slightly bent but determinedly bright against the dim room.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this without sounding like a complete idiot,” he admitted. “But it turns out that’s kind of unavoidable.”
You watched him, your heart already starting to beat faster in a way you did not want to acknowledge yet.
Steve looked down at the floor for a second before continuing. “Yesterday. . . your dad and I talked.”
Your brows pulled together slightly.
“And he said some stuff,” Steve went on. “Stuff that kind of stuck in my head. About how I’m not good enough for you. And the stupid part is. . .” He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “I already thought that.”
Something in your chest tightened.
Steve looked back up at you then, eyes honest and a little raw. “You’re amazing,” he said simply. “Like, ridiculously amazing. You’re brave and smart and kind and somehow still patient with people like me who forget basic things like how tapes work or how to act normal when someone pretty, someone just like you, walks into the room. You save the world and then go home and help your sister with lunch like it’s nothing. And you laugh at my dumb jokes like they’re actually funny.”
Your throat felt tight.
“And I’m just. . .” Steve gestured vaguely at himself. “This guy who spent most of high school being a jerk and now works at a video store.”
“You’re more than that,” you said.
Steve shook his head a little. “Maybe. But when you asked me out today, all I could hear in my head was Hopper saying you deserved someone better. And the worst part was I believed him.”
He stepped closer again, placing the flowers on your table like they were something fragile.
“I said no because I thought it was the right thing to do,” he continued. “Like if I stepped back first, maybe I wouldn’t screw things up for you later.”
Your voice came out softer than you meant it to. “Steve. . .”
“But then you left,” he said. “And you looked so hurt, and Robin spent the next hour telling me I was the dumbest human being alive, which, fair, but also I realized something.”
He took another small step toward you.
“I realized that trying to stay away from you hurts way worse than any mistake I could possibly make.”
Your heart stuttered.
Steve rubbed the back of his neck nervously, water still dripping from the ends of his hair onto the floor. “I like you,” he said, voice almost shy now. “Like. . . really like you. In a way that makes me forget how sentences work and stare at you like an idiot whenever you walk into a room. In a way that makes every near-death monster situation a little less terrifying because at least you’re there too.”
You felt a small, disbelieving smile pulling at your mouth.
“And yeah,” Steve continued, glancing at you again. “Maybe I’m not the guy who deserves you. But if there’s even a tiny chance you’d still want me anyway. . . I’d really like to try to be that guy for you.”
For a moment you just looked at him standing there, soaked through, nervous, holding onto hope with the kind of stubborn sincerity that was so unmistakably Steve.
“You climbed through my window,” you said again.
Steve nodded. “Romantic, right?”
You shook your head a little, smiling now despite everything. “You rejected me six hours ago.”
“I know.”
“In the middle of Family Video.”
“I am deeply ashamed.”
“And now you’re telling your feelings in the rain.”
Steve hesitated, then cleared his throat slightly. “Actually I had a quote prepared.”
You raised an eyebrow.
He shifted awkwardly. “It’s from Star Wars.”
“Of course it is.”
Steve took a small breath, then said, very seriously, “You’re the Obi-Wan for me but in a less mentor and more girlfriend boyfriend way.”
You stared at him. “That’s not even—”
“I panicked,” Steve admitted quickly. “The other one was Han Solo.” He glanced up at you, a little sheepish before adding, “You know. . . the ‘I love you.’ ‘I know.’ thing.” He huffed a small laugh. “But that felt way too confident for someone currently dripping rainwater all over your floor.”
You tried very hard not to laugh.
Steve looked at you with a hopeful little shrug. “What I meant was. . . I can’t imagine a life where you’re not in it.”
Your heart softened so fast it almost hurt.
You stood up slowly from the bed and walked over to him, stopping just close enough that you could see the nervous flicker in his eyes. “You’re an idiot,” you told him.
“Yeah,” Steve said immediately. “That checks out.”
“But you’re my idiot.”
His breath caught slightly.
You reached up and brushed a drop of rain from his cheek with your thumb. “And for the record,” you added, “I never asked you to be perfect. I just asked you to be you.”
Steve looked at you like you had just handed him the entire universe. “You still want that date?” he asked.
You pretended to think about it for a second. “Maybe,” you said.
Steve’s shoulders sagged in relief.
You smiled and leaned forward, closing the distance between you and Steve froze for half a second before kissing you back, one hand lifting uncertainly to rest against your waist like he was still not entirely convinced this was actually happening.
When you finally pulled back, he was smiling in an amazed way he sometimes did after surviving something impossible.
helloooo!!! can i req a steve fic where him and reader are at a party and she's like super drunk but steve still kind of have a trauma bc of nancy?
SPILL
steve harrington x reader
desc - steve thinks when you're drunk history will repeat itself, and he can't loose you.
val speaks - thanku soooo much for this req i loveee n i hope u like how it turned out !
the house is already glowing when you pull up.
music spills out into the street, bass heavy enough that you can feel it in your chest before you even open the car door. there are people on the lawn, red cups in hand, laughing too loud like they’re trying to prove something.
you glance at steve.
he’s staring at the house like it personally offended him.
“last chance to run” you tease gently.
he exhales through his nose, then looks over at you with a small smirk. “you’d chase me.”
“obviously.”
that earns you a real smile. softer than the old cocky ones you’ve seen in pictures, but better somehow.
he reaches for your hand before you can get out of the car. his fingers lace with yours, firm. grounding. you squeeze back.
“we’re just going for a bit,” you remind him. “we said we’d try.”
“yeah,” he nods. “we’ll try.”
inside, it’s warm and chaotic. lights dimmed low, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. someone shouts steve’s name almost immediately, and you feel his grip tighten instinctively.
he lifts a hand in acknowledgment but doesn’t let go of you.
you stay tucked into his side as you weave through the crowd toward the kitchen. that’s always where the drinks are.
the counter is lined with bottles and cheap mixers. someone hands steve a cup without asking what he wants. he takes it automatically, polite smile in place.
you reach for one too.
his eyes flick to you.
it’s quick. almost nothing. but there’s a flicker there.
“you sure?” he asks, casual. too casual.
you blink at him. “about…?”
“just-” he gestures vaguely to the cup. “it’s strong. probably tastes like gasoline.”
you grin. “i can handle gasoline.”
he doesn’t laugh right away. his jaw shifts slightly, like he’s debating something.
“you don’t have to drink,” he says. “we can just hang out.”
you tilt your head at him, amused. “steve, it’s one drink.”
“yeah. i know.” he nods quickly. “i know.”
he finally takes a small sip of his own, like he’s proving something to himself more than anyone else. you watch the way he swallows carefully, not eager. not like someone trying to get drunk.
you take a sip of yours too and immediately make a face. “oh, that is awful.”
that pulls a breath of laughter out of him. “told you.”
you bump your shoulder into his. “don’t look so worried. i’m not about to start dancing on tables.”
“i wouldn’t let you” he mutters, but there’s no edge to it. just instinct.
you study him for a second.
he’s not judging you. not controlling. just… tense. like something about this feels unpredictable and he doesn’t like that.
“hey,” you say softly, leaning closer so the noise doesn’t swallow your words. “i’m fine.”
his eyes meet yours instantly.
“i know,” he says. “i just- yeah. you’re fine.”
before you can ask what that almost was, a group of guys barrels into the kitchen.
“harrington!” one of them shouts, grabbing his shoulder. “no way, man!”
steve stiffens for half a second before sliding into that easy charm. “hey, man. it’s been a while.”
they start talking over each other immediately. old stories, half-remembered jokes, invitations to join something happening in the living room.
one of them gestures with his cup. “c’mon, we’re setting up a game.”
steve hesitates.
you see it. the flicker of indecision. his eyes dart to you.
“go,” you say lightly, smiling. “i’ll survive five minutes without you.”
“you sure?” he asks quietly.
“yes.” you nudge him with your hip. “i see jess and amanda over there anyway. haven’t talked to them in forever.”
as if on cue, one of your old friends spots you and waves dramatically.
“see?” you grin. “perfect timing.”
his hand lingers at your waist for a second longer than necessary. thumb brushing absently like he’s memorizing the feeling.
“don’t-” he starts, then stops himself.
you raise an eyebrow. “don’t what?”
he shakes his head. “nothing. just… don’t disappear, okay?”
you soften. “i won’t.”
and you mean it.
he studies you one more second, like he’s checking for something, steadiness, maybe. then he nods and lets his friends drag him away.
you watch him go.
he laughs at something one of them says, but it’s quieter than theirs. he still holds his drink, barely touched.
you turn as your friends engulf you in hugs. someone presses another cup into your hand and you take it without thinking, caught up in the moment. but even as you start talking, you feel it, that awareness.
across the room, steve glances back, just to make sure you’re still there.
and when your eyes meet, you lift your cup in a small salute, smiling like see? i’m okay.
he doesn’t smile right away, but he nods, and that’s enough for now.
-
somewhere between the kitchen and the living room, you lose him.
it isn’t dramatic. just bodies shifting, someone pulling you into a hug, someone else handing you another drink. you turn to say something to steve and he’s just, gone.
you assume he’s still with those guys.
it’s fine.
you’re laughing with jess, yelling over the music, retelling some old story from sophomore year that probably isn’t as funny as you’re making it. your cheeks feel warm. your head feels light in that floaty, pleasant way.
you don’t realise how much you’ve had until you stand up too fast and the room tilts slightly.
“whoa” you mumble, grabbing the counter and giggling. “okay.”
across the house, steve is very aware that you are not next to him.
he tries not to panic about it. he told himself he wouldn’t hover. you said you were fine. you looked fine.
but when he finally breaks away from the guys and scans the room, his stomach drops.
he spots you near the living room couch.
you’re laughing. swaying a little. cup in hand. and you’re definitely drunk.
he freezes for half a second.
the noise around him dulls. the music turns distant and muffled in his ears. his chest tightens so fast it almost hurts.
he walks toward you immediately.
“hey” he says, a little too sharp at first.
you blink at him, then your face lights up. “steeeve.”
you reach for him and nearly miss, and he catches your hands automatically.
“okay,” he says quietly, studying your face. “how much did you have?”
you squint at him like that’s a ridiculous question. “i dunno.”
he swallows.
you’re smiling. you’re happy. but there’s something about the glassiness in your eyes, the looseness in your posture, that makes his heart start racing.
“we can go,” he says suddenly. “we don’t have to stay.”
you frown a little. “why?”
“just-” he gestures vaguely. “we’ve been here a while.”
“have we?” you laugh. “we’re having a good time, aren’t we?”
he hesitates. the words feel loaded in his throat.
“i guess. yeah.”
before anything else can be said, someone stumbles backward into him.
hard.
he loses his balance for half a second, his drink jerking forward, and it spills straight down the front of your shirt.
time stops.
dark liquid soaks into the fabric. cold against your skin.
steve’s breath leaves him in one sharp rush.
“shit,” he breathes. then louder, frantic. “shit, shit, i’m so sorry. oh my god.”
you look down at your shirt.
he’s already spiralling.
“i didn’t mean to- they shoved me, i’m so sorry, i swear, i’ll fix it. i’ll buy you a new one. i’ll buy you like five new ones, okay? i didn't”
you’re still staring at the stain.
he’s talking too fast now, words tripping over each other.
“i didn’t mean to ruin it. i know you liked this one. i’ll pay for it, i promise. we can leave right now, i’ll-”
you slowly lift your head.
he stops mid-sentence.
your expression isn’t angry. it isn’t hurt. it’s confused.
“steve,” you say, and you let out a small, slightly tipsy laugh. “this shirt was like ten dollars. max.”
he just stares at you.
“why are you so worried?” you add, brows pulling together.
he blinks. “what?”
“it’s a shirt,” you say, gesturing down at yourself. “i’ll live.”
he searches your face like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
waiting for your smile to twist.
waiting for your voice to change.
“you don’t… care?” he asks carefully.
you squint at him, genuinely baffled. “about what?”
your not yelling at me? you not saying you don’t love me? is everything going to blow up in my face?
but he doesn’t say any of that.
you shake your head a little, still tipsy and bewildered. “i’m sticky. that’s the only problem.”
then you turn and start toward the hallway. “i’m gonna rinse it off.”
his heart is pounding so loud he can hear it.
he follows immediately.
“wait, i’ll help-”
“steve,” you laugh over your shoulder, wobbling slightly. “it’s a sink, not open-heart surgery.”
but he’s right behind you anyway.
you push open the bathroom door and flick on the light. it’s quieter in here. muffled music through the walls.
you lean over the sink, trying to dab at the stain with a paper towel.
he stands in the doorway like the world is ending.
“i’m really sorry,” he says again, softer this time.
you look up at him through the mirror.
his face is pale. tense. terrified in a way that doesn’t match what just happened.
you straighten slowly.
“hey,” you say, your voice gentler now despite the alcohol fuzzing your edges. “why are you acting like i’m about to dump you over a ten dollar shirt?”
the words hang there.
and for a second, he doesn’t know how to answer.
you don’t understand it. you’re a little dizzy, a little sticky, very confused, but you know that look. it’s not about the shirt.
so you step closer.
and because you’re still warm and fuzzy from the alcohol and your heart is softer than usual, you open your arms.
“you don’t have to” you mumble lightly. “i’ll probably get you all sticky too-”
he doesn’t let you finish.
he steps forward and wraps his arms around you so tight it almost knocks the air out of you.
it’s not casual, not playful, it’s desperate.
you blink, surprised, but you hug him back anyway. your arms slide around his waist, your cheek pressing against his chest.
he’s holding you like he thinks you’re about to disappear.
“steve” you murmur into his shirt, half-laughing. “i’m covered in alcohol, remember?”
he just tightens his grip.
for a second, neither of you move. the muffled bass thumps through the bathroom walls, but in here it feels small. contained.
slowly, he pulls back.
his hands linger on your arms.
“please let me help” he says quietly.
you don’t argue this time, you just nod.
he turns you gently toward the sink, grabbing paper towels and wetting them under the faucet. he dabs at the stain with intense focus, like this is a life-or-death situation.
“it’ll come out” he mutters to himself. “it has to.”
you watch him through the mirror, the stain doesn’t budge.
he presses harder, jaw tight. his breathing shallow.
“steve” you say softly.
“i’ve got it,” he insists, voice fraying. “i just need-”
it’s not working. you can see it in the way his shoulders tense more with every failed attempt. like each second it stays there confirms something awful in his head.
so you gently grab his wrists.
he freezes.
you pull his hands away from your shirt.
“it’s fine” you say.
he shakes his head immediately. “it’s not-”
“steve.”
you’re still tipsy. still a little unsteady. but your voice is clear enough.
“we can just go,” you tell him. “i’ll throw it away. it’s not a big deal.”
he stares at you like you’ve just spoken another language.
“you’re just… going to throw it away?” he asks slowly.
“yeah?” you shrug lightly. “it’s not sentimental. it’s literally from the sale rack.”
he looks almost upset, like he can’t process what you're saying.
“why don’t you care?” he asks, and it slips out before he can stop it.
that makes you pause.
you step closer again, your expression softening.
“why would i?” you ask gently.
he doesn’t answer, he just looks at you like he’s bracing for something. and even in your slightly drunk state, you see it now. the fear.
you smile at him. not teasing, not confused anymore. just sad and soft.
you lift your hands and cup his face.
his breath stutters.
his hands come up automatically, covering yours, pressing your palms more firmly against his skin like he needs the contact.
“steve” you whisper.
his eyes search yours one more time.
“i love you” he says.
it sounds like a confession. like a risk. like he’s waiting for the echo to come back empty.
there’s a split second where he holds his breath.
“i love you too” you say immediately. easily. like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
his face changes.
shock first, like he genuinely didn’t expect it.
then something warmer. something that almost makes his knees buckle.
“yeah?” he breathes.
you smile a little, thumb brushing under his eye. “yeah. obviously.”
he lets out a shaky laugh that sounds half like relief.
then he pulls you into another hug, not as desperate this time. just close. steady.
“let’s go home” you mumble against him.
he nods immediately. “yeah. yeah, okay.”
he keeps one arm around you as you leave the bathroom, guiding you carefully through the crowd. he doesn’t care about saying goodbye to anyone. doesn’t look back.
in the car, he glances at you like he’s still not fully convinced you’re real.
you lean your head against the window, sleepy and content.
he reaches over and takes your hand again.
and this time, when you squeeze it, he squeezes back without hesitation.
like he finally believes you’re not going anywhere.
clark request! maybe an insecure!reader branches out and buys cute underwear to try on for clark... can be fluffy Or smut! your choice my queen!!!!!!!!! 🫶🏻
thank you for requesting! ★ fem, 2.1k
cw suggestive themes
The noise Clark makes when he sees you is a shriek, but that’s getting ahead of things.
There are many wonderful aspects to having a boyfriend. Being doted on, kissed and hugged and cared for, it’s all worth the awkwardness of being known. But! That does not mean the awkwardness is no longer awkward. It’s borderline painful.
It starts one night (or, another night, down the line, when Clark has already complimented your slight plain panties with little adornment) laying in bed beside him. You’re wondering if Clark would want to fuck you and if there is a less strange way to ask then how you’d proposed it the last time you wanted him with a whispered question. He’d very obviously been into it, but you’re not stupid to the world of sex, only shy —there are subtler methods of seduction that you and Clark can enjoy together. Clark himself can be terribly seductive, usually by turning a small kiss into a better one, or occasionally suggesting ways to warm you up that don’t involve clothes after showers. He’s always charming, and kind, and surprisingly dirty-mouthed in murmurs (though he never calls you anything worse than perfect, and he doesn’t cuss). You are gosh darn gorgeous in his lap.
The spurring thought isn’t particularly sophisticated. Clark’s stretched out beside you with his shirt riding up and his sweatpants low on one hip and he looks sexy. That’s all it is. He’s hot, and he isn’t putting a ton of effort in, but you know that the underwear he’s wearing beneath his sweatpants are expensive and fit him well. He takes care to look good.
You think about your white plain panties, and begin to debate how you can make him think like this about you. You know Clark finds you beautiful, if not for how often he tells you, then the simple basics of a relationship.
Clark could have anyone and he chose you, so you’re not not beautiful in his eyes. But you probably aren’t sexy. And you realise that, despite the little trip of nerves at the idea, you’d like to be. Maybe you can present yourself to Clark in something nice for once to wind him up.
Maybe you can pull this off.
You spend time with your heart in your mouth at Victoria’s Secret. Clark calls you while you’re there having just gotten out of work. He likes to know where you are, only to know, for mild peace of mind and the curiosity that comes with loving someone. It’s alright. You like knowing where he is, too.
“Where are you?” he asks warmly.
“Did you call me earlier?”
“Yeah, I was thinking about you. It’s alright, I didn’t have anything important to say, I was just stealing a break.”
“Oh, okay, good. I’m at the mall. King’s Arcade. Just… clothes shopping.”
“Great, can I come meet you?”
You squeeze the phone, turning away from the lingerie you’d been eyeing in a rush as though Clark will catch you immediately. “Sure,” you say, slightly breathless, “how far are you? I can come meet you at the front?”
“No, don’t worry about that, I’ll come find you, I’m like five minutes out. What store are you in?”
You turn back to the polka dot panties with the lettuce hem and the tiny black bow and its matching bra decisively. There’s a Bath and Body Works right next door. “By the candle shop,” you say, snagging the panties in your size. Baby steps.
You pay for the panties and shove them with the receipt in your bag as Clark turns the corner.
He squeezes your hand in hello. Asks if you’re thirsty and buys you a drink. Then you sort of follow one another around for a bit until Clark spies your lack of clothes and encourages you into a store with your style in the front window.
Could he get any more perfect? (Yes! He pays for the two things you picked up, swiping his card before you can get yours out of your purse like he’d been waiting with it between his fingers.) You flush all over thinking he’s seen the panties in your rush to get your purse out and ruin his plans, which doesn’t help.
“I’m sorry if I undermined your independence, but you have to let me pay for you sometimes. It’s more for me than it is for you,” he says, having noticed your displeasure, your joined hands swinging gently.
“You didn’t undermine my independence, Clark.”
“Is that sass? Are you sassing me?”
You recognise his teasing as something that could spiral out of your control and try to duck away, but Clark pulls you right back in.
“You’re being mean to me,” he says into your cheek.
“You’re mean to me!”
“I’m not trying to be!”
Giggly and content, you make your way out of the mall, the short walk to his apartment becoming dawdlingly long. You’re tired as you shuck out of your shoes. Clark palms briefly at your back before throwing himself ahead. “I’ll make dinner,” he says.
So he does. You eat dinner with your heel pressed to the top of his foot, and share an ice cream for dessert from the same bowl with two spoons.
You shower first. Clark kisses your cheek when you return to the bedroom wrapped in a towel, eager for his own, and leaves you with pajamas he’s laid out including a simple pair of pink panties and a soft bralette for sleeping. Just a suggestion, never expected, which is good. You swap the panties out for your new polka dot ones and get dressed, fix your hair, laid up at the top of the bed scrolling down your phone by the time Clark comes in dripping wet. He sits down on the end of the bed, taking the towel from around his shoulders to scrub at his curls.
Even his back is rippled with muscle, the skin tight as he leans forwards.
Okay. So. Your seduction was mainly panties-based and you’re not sure how to show Clark that they’re new without initiating. The point was that he’d see your new panties and the effort you’re making and start salivating in a more casual situation. You should’ve waited to get dressed until he was in the room, but it’s too late now.
Clark tips backwards, his hair hanging in wet, dark coils behind him. “What’s wrong?”
“Huh?”
“I had a funny feeling about you.”
Or he’s using his super senses for personal gain. “I’m fine, just thinking.”
“Yeah?” he asks.
You shuffle down the bed to be closer. “I had this idea…”
Clark spots your timidity a mile out. Usually he’d reach to comfort you, but perhaps there’s more in what you’re not saying, because he bites down a smile that’s surprisingly amorous. Maybe he’s just wires-crossed, what with his lack of pants. “What was your idea?” he asks quietly.
What to tell him? You nibble the inside of your lip.
“It’s okay, you can tell me,” he says.
“It’s not working out how I imagined.”
Clark’s eyes go wide. “What’s not working out? Me and you?”
“No.” You smile at him, then shrug diffidently. “I was trying to be cute, I guess, but I didn’t–”
“Sweetheart, you are adorable,” Clark says, twisting so you can see the defined ridge of every abdominal muscle, better to see you, and better to look at him.
Your mouth goes dry. All you can think of is how you want him to see your new panties, and instead you’ve trapped him in reassurances.
“You’re perfect,” he says, grabbing your knee. “You don’t have to try to be cute, you’re already the cutest girl I know.”
Well, cute was a cop out. Saying sexy out loud felt silly in the moment. This is the messiest of messes.
You let your head hang, defeated. Morose. “Thank you, Clark.”
You are kissed and cuddled, left dampened by his wet hair.
You aren’t brave enough to ask Clark to watch you strip, nor are you eager to stand in the middle of the room and do it. The panties feel soft but too warm all night, every shift a pull of elastic against your skin. You’re a little wet and a lot warm, wanting Clark but not knowing how to ask, and he’s so worried about your self esteem that he doesn’t try to kiss you long enough to let you respond and prompt any action.
It gets to the point where you’re thinking a white lie is in order. You let your heart calm down, and then you get out of bed pretending that you’re gonna turn up his AC. “If that’s okay?”
Your asking helps trick poor Clark. “Obviously you can,” he says, frowning at you where you linger by the door. “You don’t have to ask stuff like that, baby, just go ahead and do it. This is your place too.”
It’s really not, but you like how he says it like he believes it, offering him a bright smile. You practically skip to his thermostat and mess with things, then shuffle back far more calmly, stopping again in the door.
Clark lays against two plush pillows, sheets down, t-shirt ridden up to show his abs again, like he’s trying to drive you crazy. He turns his head against the pillow, brow nearly quizzical at your hesitation.
“What?”
“It’s so hot, do you– am I weird if I strip down?”
Clark sighs, pained again. “What did I just say? This is your place, as good as. Treat it like your own home.”
You take your shirt off first, meandering toward the bed, then pause to shuck it on the bed. Clark picks it up and folds it, but you can see him slowing in your peripherals as you hook your thumbs in the waistband of your pants and bring them down your thighs. You bend to grab them, but then you have nothing to hide behind, dropping them on the bed and climbing back where you’d been, legs up and knees pressed together.
This is when Clark shrieks.
It’s like– quite girly. You imagine he’d make a similar noise when winning the lottery. Multiple lotteries.
“Baby, what are you wearing?” he asks. “Oh my gosh!”
He sounds so, so happy, you are immediately hot from top to toe. “What?” you ask, failing to maintain even a semblance of calm.
“Can I see?” he asks, gentling. “Please?”
You let your legs fall flat without rush nor reluctance.
Clark peers down at you like this is deathly important.
“They are so– you’re so sweet, look at those, you’re so pretty,” he breathes. “When did you get these? I’ve never seen them.”
“Uh. Today, actually.”
“Yeah?” Clark goes to touch you, then hesitates. “Can I?” he asks.
“Of course you can, Clark,” you say, trying not to fall into whispers, “this is your place.”
He grasps the curve of your hip and the silky fabric of your new panties, pressing it down to see the front of you, the bump of your cunt hugged by softness, better displaying the polka dot pattern and the lettuce edged hemming that kisses your inner thighs and tummy.
“I’d say something about your joke if there was enough blood left in my brain,” he says, then blanches, “I mean– darn, you’re so pretty, I’m being too much, I’m sorry.”
“I got them for you. Wore them for you. It’s okay if you like them.”
Clark Kent looks close to tears.
“I love them,” he says, “you are the most beautiful thing, and this is–” He swallows. Shakes his head. Maybe Clark’s laying it on thick, but if he is, you like it. “This is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. You really got them for me?”
You turn toward him slowly, letting your leg fall onto the other, and covering his hand with yours to press slowly to the apex of your thighs. “I got them for you,” you confirm. Your heart races, but your voice doesn’t tremble. You’ve wanted him to touch you for hours. “Something fun.”
Clark feels the warmth there under his fingers and closes his eyes, groaning quietly, right from the depths of his chest. “You’re gonna kill me,” he says.
You move very gently against his hand. “Please don’t die right now.”
His eyes flutter open, pupils like dimes and a pretty pink flush spotting up his neck. “I almost don’t wanna take you out of them.”
“You could pull them to the side?” you whisper. “I mean– if that’s– you know, if that’s not weird.”
Clark pulls you in for a kiss before he can make any more agonised sounds, the rush of his deep sigh slipping into your mouth as he widens the kiss, his tongue a sudden heat.
summary: you accidentally overhear steve calling you “clingy” 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, it’s 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 didn’t mean to eavesdrop.
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.
You’d 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.
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.
You’d told yourself you could handle it, that you were fine and you weren’t helpless, but you still asked Steve to accompany you home anyway, too afraid to go on your own.
“Can you come with me?” you’d asked casually, “or at least drive me home?”
Steve frowned, glancing at Robin. “Baby, you’ll be fine. You can go on your own. I’ll be back in like an hour, okay? ”
You nodded and kissed him goodbye, then you walked out to your car telling yourself you weren’t 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 shouldn’t have listened, you knew that. You were raised better than to hover at doors and steal pieces of conversations that weren’t yours to hear, but your body didn’t 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 weren’t 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.
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 bloodbloodbloodbloodblood—
—the combined screams of yours and Eddie’s. 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 couldn’t even scream.
You remember the way you’d thought you were going to die there with your throat ripped open and your bones scattered across that fucked-up place.
You hadn’t felt safe since.
Four months, five months? however long it had been, it didn’t 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 didn’t feel like that.
Steve made it quiet. Steve made it stop.
You hadn’t even realized you’d 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.
And now you were standing outside a door, listening to him talk about you.
“I don’t know, Robin,” he says again, voice rough and worn down, like he’s been chewing on the same thought for weeks and it’s finally gone bloody. “She’s just… different. Ever since.”
Robin leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching him carefully. “Yeah,” she says, slow and measured. “No shit. She went to literal hell, Steve.”
“I know that,” he snaps too fast, immediately regretting the edge in his voice. He exhales, drags a hand down his face. “I know. I do. That’s the problem. I know, and I still feel like shit about how I feel.”
She waits. Robin’s good at that. At letting him talk himself into the truth.
“It’s like,” he starts again, quieter but faster, words tumbling over each other now, “she’s everywhere. All the time. Wherever I go, she’s already there or tryin’ to be. If I grab my keys, suddenly she needs to leave too. If I’m sittin’ down, she’s sittin’ down. If I say I’m tired, she’s tired. It’s like she can’t exist unless I’m right next to her.”
Your stomach drops where you stand, frozen just outside the door, fingers clenched tight around the strap of your bag.
“I’m serious,” Steve keeps going, oblivious, frustration bleeding through every word. “If I’m goin’ to see Dustin, she’s got a reason to come. If I’m headin’ to the Squawk, somehow we’re paired up for drills again. She doesn’t do anything alone, Robin. Never. She’s just… latched onto me.”
He laughs humorless. “And I sound like a dick sayin’ it, I know I do, but it’s fuckin’ suffocating.”
Suffocating. Like he’s drowning because of you.
Robin doesn’t answer right away. When she finally speaks, her voice is softer, more careful. “Steve. That’s not weird, matter of fact it's a normal response given what she's been through. That’s her brain trying to keep her alive.”
“I know,” he says, rubbing at his neck like it physically hurts to admit it. “I know she’s not doing it on purpose.”
“She nearly died,” Robin presses. “She 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. You’re the only thing that makes her feel safe.”
“I didn’t say she was the bad guy,” he snaps, voice cracking despite himself. “I’m just sayin’ I’m overwhelmed. She’s so clingy, Robin. You saw her tonight. She didn’t wanna leave without me. I had to practically beg her to go first.”
Your vision blurs. You press a hand to your mouth, swallowing hard.
“It’s like I gotta make up excuses just to be alone,” he admits, quieter now, stripped bare. “I need space. I need to breathe. And I can’t say that without soundin’ like a heartless asshole because yeah, she’s traumatized, and then suddenly I’m the villain for wantin’ five goddamn minutes to myself.”
Robin scoffs, pushing off the counter. “Steve, you idiot. You said it yourself. Your girlfriend is traumatized.”
“Yeah,” he shoots back, voice rising, “but how the hell do I tell my traumatized girlfriend to back off without destroyin’ her. How do I say ‘hey, I love you, but you’re smotherin’ me,’ and not absolutely fuck her up more than she already is.”
“You don’t call her clingy,” Robin says immediately. “For starters. That word is banned and most girls, including Vickie, hate it.”
Steve lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Well, she is.”
Robin gasps dramatically, clutching her chest. “Oh nooo,” she mocks, voice high and obnoxious. “I’m Steve Harrington and my girlfriend loves me so much. Oh noooo, she feels safe with me. My life is helllll.”
“Shut up,” Steve mutters, shoving her shoulder.
“Oww, you asshole!” Robin shoots back, swatting him in return, then sobers as she gets all serious again. “You’re not wrong for being tired. You are wrong for talking about her like she’s a burden.”
Steve goes still. “I don’t think she’s a burden,” he says quietly, and this time it sounds like the truth. “I just… I don’t wanna be the only thing keepin’ her together. What happens if I fuck up? What happens if I leave?”
Robin sighs. “Then you talk to her. You communicate, dingus.”
You step back before they can see you, heart pounding, every word replaying in your head on a brutal loop. Suffocating. Clingy. Everywhere.
You don’t grab your coat when you leave.
You don’t even realize you’re driving until you’re 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.
Steve’s words had been like a bucket of ice water dumped on you, shocking you into clarity whether you wanted it or not.
Maybe you had been too sensitive. Maybe you had been unbearable. Maybe you had been so clingy that it wasn’t fair for him, and maybe you needed to let go, at least a little.
It wasn’t 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 couldn’t even muster.
Dustin had lost Eddie too, but he hadn’t latched onto anyone, hadn’t 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.
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.
By the time Steve arrived, the house was quiet. You were already in bed, tucked under the covers, something you hadn’t done alone in months because for months you hadn’t slept unless his arms were wrapped around you.
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 weren’t 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 couldn’t name at first.
You were already dressed, shoes on, ready to leave.
“Where are you heading?” he asked, voice rough.
“Going to get some stuff from the store,” you replied dryly.
“Want me to come with you, sweetheart?” His words carried that familiar gentleness, but you couldn’t look past it without feeling like a burden.
“No,” you said simply.
It was such a small, simple word. It shouldn’t 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 don’t 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 wouldn’t think about anymore. The second the lock clicks and the door opens, he’s there, crowding your space before you can even hang up your coat.
“Where the hell were you?!” he blurts, voice tight and frantic, eyes scanning you like he’s checking for blood. “You’ve been outta the house for nearly six hours. Six. I was losin’ my goddamn mind. I thought somethin’ happened to you.”
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.
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.
“I was out, Steve,” you say quietly.
“Yeah, no shit,” he fires back, following you as you walk toward the kitchen. “Out where?”
You open the fridge, more for something to do than because you’re hungry, and shrug. “With Nancy. We hung out and I accidentally lost track of time.”
The tension drains out of him immediately, shoulders sagging in relief. “Jesus,” he breathes. “Why didn’t you tell me, huh? I was freakin’ out. Is everything okay? Did somethin’ happen?”
You shake your head. “No, nothing happened, don’t worry.”
He nods quickly, like he’s trying not to push. “Okay. Okay. I won’t pry.” He hesitates, then softens. “Hey, I was thinkin’ dinner. You want lasagna or pizza?”
“I’m not hungry,” you say, already turning away. “I’m gonna go sleep, okay.”
He frowns. “But I thought we could just hang out a little, I mean we barely saw each other toda—”
“Maybe another time, alright? Goodnight, Steve.”
He exhales, defeated. “Goodnight,” he says softly. “I love you.”
You pause just long enough to whisper it back before disappearing down the hall. “I love you too,”
The days after are worse.
Steve wakes up and barely gets a word in before you’re already pulling on shoes, mumbling something about a jog. If he waits, you need a shower. If he waits longer, you’re late to see your nana.
If he suggests the Squawk, you’re already going with Nancy. It’s 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 doesn’t know where you go or what you do, only that the house feels emptier even when you’re technically still there.
That’s how he ends up sitting on the edge of the bed tonight, waiting for the bathroom door to open, heart pounding like he’s bracing for bad news. When you finally step out, hair damp, towel slung over your shoulder, he looks up like he’s been holding his breath.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says gently, like he’s 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. “Hi, Steve.”
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.
“I missed you,” he murmurs. “You’ve been out all day. Didn’t even see you at the Squawk.”
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 it’s a shield.
“Yeah,” you say lightly. “Nancy asked me to go shopping with her again.”
“Oh.” He straightens, nodding, trying to keep his tone easy. “Was it fun? I figured you’d come back with, like, ten bags or somethin’.”
You shrug, brushing through damp hair. “Didn’t need anything.”
He watches you in the mirror, the way you won’t 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. “Uh. We trained today. Me, Hopper, and El. She shaved her time down again.”
You pause only briefly, tugging at your hair with the brush.
“Thirty-three seconds,” he continues, a little brighter despite himself. “Last week it was thirty-six. She’s pissed about it too, which I guess is good. Means she knows she can do better.”
“That’s good,” you say quietly.
He nods, even though you’re not looking at him. “Yeah. She’s gettin’ scary strong again. In a good way.”
“Mhm.”
Steve frowns. He leans back on his hands, searching your face even though you’re facing away now. “We could all hang out this weekend. Just us, or maybe the kids too. Whatever you want. Thought it might be nice.”
“I’m actually quite tired,” you say quietly.
“Okay,” he says quickly. “Yeah. That’s fine. We don’t have to do anything big.” He pauses, then softly asks. “Hey. Are you okay? Like, really okay?”
You swallow. “I’m fine, Steve.”
There’s a beat of silence where he clearly wants to say more as his mouth opens and closes like he’s rearranging words that never come out right.
He tries again, desperate now. “Did I do somethin’? Because if I did, I swear I’m not tryin’ to mess this up. I just need you to talk to me, okay.”
Your chest tightens. You squeeze your eyes shut.
“Steve,” you say softly, cutting him off before he can dig himself deeper, “can you turn off the light, please?”
He gets the hint; you don’t want to talk.
He freezes for a second, then nods once. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
He stands, reaches for the lamp, and the room falls into darkness. He lingers there for a moment longer, like he’s hoping you’ll turn back around, say his name, give him something to hold onto.
You don’t.
“Night,” he says quietly.
“Night,” 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.
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 nana’s 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
You had been gone all day again, supposedly with Nancy, doing whatever it was you told him you were doing now.
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?
“Where is she?” he blurted out, voice sharp and scared. “Is she okay? What happened?”
Nancy blinked in shock at his reaction, taking in the way his shoulders were tight, the way his hands were already shaking like he’d been holding himself together by sheer force of will. “Whoa, Steve, hey,” she said quickly. “Slow down. What’s going on?”
“What,” he shot back, breath uneven, eyes already scanning the driveway behind her like you might suddenly appear. “Where’s she? Why are you here without her, Nancy?”
Nancy frowned. “Without who?”
“Y/N,” he snapped, panic bleeding into anger because fear always did that to him. “I’m talking about Y/N.”
Her expression shifted immediately. “Yeah,” she said slowly, “that’s actually why I’m here. I haven’t heard from her in weeks. I just wanted to check in.”
The words hit him like a punch straight to the chest.
“What do you mean you haven’t heard from her?” he said, quieter now, like saying it louder might make it real. “You were literally together today?”
Nancy let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Steve, no. I’ve been with Jonathan all day. He’s waiting in the car right now. I just stopped by because I was worried about her.”
The color drained from his face so fast it scared her.
“Steve,” she said carefully, stepping closer, “you’re freaking me out. What’s going on?”
He swallowed hard, throat tight like it was closing in on itself. “She’s been telling me she’s with you,” he said. “Every time she’s gone. She says she’s with you.”
Nancy stared at him. “Why would she lie about that?”
“I don’t know,” he said, voice cracking despite how hard he tried to keep it together. “That’s the thing, Nance, I don’t know. One day she was everywhere. Everywhere. I couldn’t turn around without her being there, couldn’t breathe without feelin’ her next to me, and then suddenly it’s like she vanished. We didn’t fight. I–i didn't do anything. At least not that I remember.”
Nancy sighed, rubbing her forehead, her tone firm but not unkind. “Steve. You don’t just wake up one day like that. Something must've happened.”
“No, no, no” he said immediately, shaking his head. “No, I would know. I would remember if I fucked up that bad.”
“And you didn’t think to ask her?” Nancy pressed.
“I did,” he snapped. “I tried. Every time I tried she’d shut it down, say she was tired or busy or fine. What the hell was I supposed to do, corner her?”
“She was clingy, okay. I’ll say it. I couldn’t go anywhere without her, couldn’t get a second alone, and then suddenly it’s like she was gone.”
Nancy’s head snapped up. “Don’t,” she said sharply.
“What?” he shot back.
“You do not call her clingy, Steve!” Nancy said, anger flaring now. “You don’t get to use that word with Y/N out of all people!”
He bristled. “Oh come on, Nancy. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yeah, you did,” she said. “And even if you didn’t, it doesn’t matter. In case you’ve forgotten, Harrington, we’re 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 doesn’t have to be involved in it!”
Steve opened his mouth, then stopped.
“That girl is fucking traumatized, and she went through that shit because you dragged her into it!” Nancy continued, voice steady but fierce.
“She nearly died. She was attacked by monsters that shouldn’t exist. She watched Eddie die just like the rest of us, and she doesn’t get to talk about it with anyone outside this circle. She can’t go to her friends or her family and say, ‘hey, I got slimed by an interdimensional monster and almost got ripped apart.’ The only person she feels safe enough to lean on is you!”
His jaw tightened, guilt creeping in through the cracks.
“So yeah,” Nancy went on, “maybe she leaned too hard or she didn’t know how to be alone after that. But that doesn’t make her clingy, Steve. That makes her scared.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
“I know,” Nancy said. “But intent doesn’t 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.”
Steve let out a shaky breath. “She’s been lying to me, Nancy.”
“She’s protecting herself,” Nancy said. “You need to see things in her light”
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
“So what,” he said finally, voice raw. “What if she’s just… done? What if she realized she doesn’t need me?”
Nancy softened then, stepping closer. “Steve. She needs you. She just doesn’t think she’s allowed to anymore. And that’s on you to fix.”
He looked at her, eyes glassy. “How?”
“You talk to her,” Nancy said simply. “Really talk. Don't accuse her or get defensive. Listen to her.”
She glanced back toward the driveway. “I’ll stop by tomorrow and check on her too, okay? But you can’t let this sit. Whatever’s going on, it’s clearly eating both of you alive.”
Steve nodded faintly, chest aching. “Yeah.”
Nancy opened the door, then paused. “And Steve.”
“Yeah?”
“Snap out of it,” she said firmly. “Before you lose her for real.”
With that, she left, heading back toward Jonathan’s 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 you’d trained yourself not to think about came crashing in all at once.
“Steve?” 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.
“Hey,” he said, like nothing in the world was wrong.
You froze for half a beat. “Oh. Hi.”
There was something awkward in the air instantly, like you’d both stepped into the same room carrying entirely different weights. He leaned against the counter, trying to look casual.
“How was your day?” he asked.
You shrugged, slipping your shoes off. “It was… alright.”
His eyes drifted to the bag clutched in your hand, the crinkled plastic catching his attention. “What’s that?”
“Oh,” you said quickly, glancing down at it. “I stopped by the pharmacy to get the cream. For, uh… you know. The scarring.”
He nodded, softer now. “That’s good.”
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.
“Um,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you want me to help you apply it?”
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 scar—deep, jagged reminders carved across your back and abdomen from the demogorgon attack. Old wounds, but never really gone.
Steve didn’t 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 it—
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.
“Uhm, Y/n.”
You turned. “Yeah?”
He reached out, fingers wrapping gently around your hand, and tugged you a step closer. “Can we talk?”
He keeps hold of your hand when you hesitate.
“Talk about what?” you ask quietly.
Steve doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the familiar gravity that’s always pulled you in whether you wanted it to or not. His hand tightens around yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.
“I know I’ve been shitty,” 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. “I know I’ve been so far away from you. I know you felt it. I saw it, even when I pretended I didn’t.” He swallows hard.
“And I know you’re going through things—things I can’t even fully understand—and I hate that instead of being the person you could come to, the person who made it easier, I—”
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.
“I panicked,” he rushes on, panic bleeding straight through his words now. “I didn’t 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.” His voice wavers. “I 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.”
He laughs once, sharp and broken. “God, I thought I needed space. I thought if I pulled back, things would calm down, that we’d both breathe easier. But fuck—” His voice cracks hard on the word. “This is so much worse. You being gone is so much worse than you being everywhere. I’d give anything to have you hovering around me again, asking if I’m okay, touching my arm, sittin’ too close on the couch.”
He steps closer, hands shaking as they come up to your sides, not quite touching like he’s scared you’ll flinch away.
“Please,” he whispers, forehead nearly brushing yours now, eyes glossy and wrecked. “Please, sweetheart. Don’t stop being dependent on me. Don’t stop needing me. Don’t stop loving me.”
Your breath stutters, a broken sound caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.
“I need you to need me,” he says, the words spilling faster, desperate and unfiltered. “I didn’t realize it until you pulled away, but I do. I need it. I need you. Because I can’t do this anymore. I can’t wake up every day wondering if you’re okay and knowing it’s my fault you don’t tell me.” His voice drops to a whisper.
“I can’t do this without you.”
That’s 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.
Steve reacts instantly, arms wrapping around you tight, crushing you to his chest like if he lets go you’ll disappear for real this time.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair, voice breaking completely now. “I’m so sorry. Fuck—fuck, baby, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”
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 it’s 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.
“I heard you, Steve,” you say, the words tripping over themselves.
He freezes. “You… heard what?”
Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms like you deserve the sting. “A few weeks ago. At the station. I left early and forgot my coat.” Your voice wobbles badly now. “I came back, and I heard you.”
The color drains from his face so fast it scares you.
“You were talking to Robin,” you continue, tears spilling again. “You said I was clingy. You said I was suffocating you.”
“Oh—no,” he breathes, panic exploding across his features. “No, no, no, baby, please—”
“I didn’t mean to be,” you sob. “I swear I didn’t. I wasn’t trying to trap you or make you feel stuck. I just—” You choke on a breath. “I only felt safe with you. And everyone else was doing okay. Everyone. And I wasn’t. I was falling apart and I didn’t know how to be alone with that.”
Steve’s hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your tears away like each one physically hurts him.
“Baby,” he says fiercely, voice shaking as his arms tighten around you. “You cling to me as tight as you want and as long as you want. I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to pull away to protect me.”
His voice drops, thick and aching, the words pressed straight into your hair. “I 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.”
He presses his forehead to yours, breath shaky. “You were never suffocating me. I was just scared of how much I needed you back.”
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 he’s ever built has finally come down.
“It’s okay, Steve,” you whisper, even though the words wobble on the way out, even though they don’t quite feel solid yet.
He shakes his head immediately, curls bouncing with the movement. “It’s not. It’s really not.” His hands slide up your back, holding you close. “But we’re gonna fix it, okay? I will fix it. I promise. I don’t care how long it takes.”
His forehead presses against yours again, like he’s grounding himself. “Just… don’t pull away from me ever again.”
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 they’re reminding you that he’s real, that he’s here.
You breathe him in.
And then—
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 laughing—broken, hiccupy laughter that comes out of you mid-cry.
“Are you—” you sniff, laughing harder, “—are you hungry?”
Steve’s face goes bright red.
“I—” he stammers, mortified. “I was gonna wait for you to come back, okay? I didn’t wanna eat without you.”
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.
“God,” he mutters. “Timing, huh.”
You tilt your head up and kiss him. He kisses you back immediately, like he’s 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. “Missed kissing you.”
You smile. “Me too.”
He exhales, then straightens suddenly like he’s had an epiphany. “You know what?”
“What?” you ask.
“I am starving,” he says, dead serious. “And I’m pretty sure you are too.”
You blink. “Steve—”
“Come on,” he says, already grabbing your hand and tugging you gently toward the door. “Grab a coat.”
“Wait,” you laugh, stumbling after him. “Where are we even going?”
He grins over his shoulder, that familiar boyish smile you fell in love with. “Enzo’s.”
Your eyes widen. “What? No, Steve, that place is expensive. And you need a reservation and— I can just heat something up, it’s fine—”
“Nope,” he cuts in immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Steve—”
“I gotta spend the next year or so making it up to you,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Minimum.”
You gape at him. “But—”
“Too late,” 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. He’ll wait while you heal. He’ll hold you steady until you’re strong enough to take steps on your own.
And Steve knows, wholeheartedly, that he’ll be the one clinging to you just as tightly. Because you’re the only one he’s ever loved enough to spill his heart to.
And, apparently, spend three hundred and ninety dollars on at some fancy restaurant without even blinking.
summary: when borrowing steve’s car ends in an accident that destroys his darling car, you’re left shaken and terrified of his reaction. except when he finds you, it’s painfully clear he couldn’t give a fuck about the car.
word count: 2.1k
warnings: car accident, totaled car, panicked sobbing, slight bleeding minor injuries, blood on face/hair, guilt, hurt/comfort, comfort, reassurance, overthinking.
“He’s going to kill me.”
The words spill out of you before you can stop them, thin and shaking, ripped straight from your chest.
You barely recognize your own voice. You’re staring ahead, eyes unfocused, fixed on nothing and everything at once. Not the spiderwebbed windshield. Not the hood crumpled inward, steam ghosting up into the air.
All you can see is Steve’s face when he finds out. When he sees the car. His precious car.
“Oh, sweetheart,” the older woman says gently. “Try not to worry about that right now.”
You shake your head, breath hitching. “No, you don’t understand. He’s—fuck—he’s going to lose it.”
Because not even twenty minutes ago, you’d been driving just fine. Careful and hyper-aware, even, because it was Steve’s car. His stupid, perfect red BMW that he loved more than most people, the one he washed by hand and showed off whenever he got the chance to.
The road had been clear, that’s until a cat darted into your headlights, and your body reacted before your mind could, wrenching the wheel to avoid it—sending the car headfirst into the tree instead.
If it weren’t for the passing car that saw the whole thing, for the woman and her daughter pulling over without hesitation, you don’t know what you would’ve done.
Steve’s car, though, was completely fucked. And that thought keeps looping in your head, loud and relentless, drowning out everything else around you.
The woman sighs and gives your shoulder a careful squeeze before stepping away. “I’m going to call for help, all right? My daughter’s a nurse. She’ll look at you.”
She hurries across the road toward the phone box, sensible shoes crunching against gravel.
You’re still trying to slow your breathing when the car door opens again.
“I need a number,” she says gently, already leaning across the seat. “Who owns the car?”
Steve’s name sticks in your throat, except you can’t even pull the words out. You point instead. “Glove compartment.”
She finds it quickly — a worn little address book, containing numbers and details— and flips until she nods. “Got him.”
“Hey,” a voice says nearby. “I’m Vickie.”
You look up to find a girl. She can’t be much older than you, short hair pulled back, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. There’s something steady about her, practiced, and it almost makes your chest cave in.
“Can I take a look at you?”
“I’m fine,” you say immediately, the lie automatic. Then your mouth trembles. “I mean—I’m not fine. But I don’t think I’m that injured.”
Vickie gives a small, understanding huff of a smile. “Okay,” she says gently. “Still gonna check you.”
She guides you toward the back seat of the car—which is much less damaged than the front, one hand hovering near your elbow like she’s afraid to startle you. The air smells like antiseptic and gasoline, sharp and overwhelming your senses.
“I swear I wasn’t speeding,” you blurt, words tumbling over each other. “The road was clear, and then there was a cat, it just ran out in front of me and I didn’t even think, I just—”
“Hey,” Vickie says softly, crouching in front of you. “Pause. Breathe first. Then talk, alright?”
You try. The breath stutters anyway.
“That’s okay,” she murmurs, already pulling gloves on. “We’ll take it slow.”
She tilts your chin carefully, eyes scanning your face. “You’ve got a split lip and a cut on your temple.” Her voice stays calm. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”
“I feel sick,” you admit. “But I think that’s just because of… everything.”
“That makes sense.” She presses gauze gently to your forehead.
You hiss despite yourself, tears spilling hot and fast. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she says quickly. “Glass scratches bleed a lot. It always looks worse than it is.”
“It is worse,” you choke. “Steve’s going to see this and he’s going to lose it. God—the car—”
She stills, eyes lifting to meet yours. “Steve’s your boyfriend?”
You nod, but it only makes the lump in your throat worse. The words spill out before you can stop them. “It’s his car. His brand new BMW—which he, by the way, saved up forever for it. He literally washes it by hand, like it’s some sacred thing, and shows it off every chance he gets.”
A laugh slips out despite the fear and guilt coursing through you, and you hate it. “I’m dead. I’m actually so dead.”
Vickie gives a small, incredulous smile. “I don’t know your boyfriend, hon,” she says, smoothing the tape down with careful fingers, “but cars can be fixed. People can’t. I really don’t think he’s going to care about the car when he sees you like this.”
“He will,” you say immediately, shaking your head. “He’s gonna take one look at it and just—God. I shouldn’t have borrowed it. I shouldn’t have touched it at all. I should’ve just walked, I—fuck.”
“Well, my mom already called him,” Vickie says softly, not stopping her work. “And she called your friends too. He’s already on his way.”
Your chest tightens at that, panic blooming fresh and hot. “No. Oh my God.” You drag a hand under your nose, trying to breathe around the pressure. “You should go, both of you. You’ve done more than enough, and I really don’t want you here when he—when he sees it.”
The image won’t leave you alone: Steve’s face hardening, his jaw tight, disappointment cutting deeper than anger ever could. Your stomach twists, nausea rolling up hard enough to make you swallow.
Vickie shakes her head before you’ve even finished. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
From across the road, her mom’s voice carries over, firm and unmistakable. “None of that, honey!”
Mrs. Dunne walks back toward you, arms folding like she means business. “We are not leaving you stranded and scared on the side of the road. Not for a second.” She softens just a touch as she looks at you. “We’ll stay right here until your boyfriend or one of your friends gets here. That’s that.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dunne.” you smile warmly at her despite the worry churning in your guts.
Time stretches thin and horrible. Every passing car makes your heart jump. Your thoughts spiral tighter and tighter, replaying Steve handing you the keys earlier, the grin on his face, the way he’d said, Be careful, okay? like it was a joke, like nothing bad could ever happen to you—
A sharp screech of tires cuts through the air.
You flinch hard, breath catching painfully in your throat as a truck skids to a stop on the side of the road, door flying open before it’s even fully parked. Steve steps out, and the look on his face steals the air from your lungs completely.
You’ve never seen him look like that. Not angry, smug, or teasing.
Terrified.
His eyes scan the wrecked car, the tree, the road, wild and frantic, until they land on you. His face goes slack with shock and then he’s moving, fast, running like the ground is on fire beneath his feet.
Vickie and her mom both straighten. “Well,” Mrs. Dunne says softly, already reaching for you. “That’ll be him.”
They each pull you into quick, careful hugs, murmuring reassurances you barely register. Then they step back, giving you space, watching until Steve reaches the door and drops to his knees in front of you like his legs have given out.
“Oh my God,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Hey. Hey—look at me. Fuck—are you okay?”
The Dunnes’ car pulls away slowly, tires crunching over gravel, taillights glowing red before disappearing down the road. The quiet that follows is almost worse as you try to register Steve’s frantic words.
He keeps saying your name, softly at first, then a little louder, but it barely reaches you through the ringing in your ears.
“Hey. Hey—look at me, okay? Baby, c’mon.”
You can’t.
Your eyes stay glued to your shaking hands, to the dark flecks of blood dried beneath your nails. Your chest heaves in sharp, ugly bursts as the sobs finally tear loose, choking and uncontrollable.
“I’m sorry,” you manage, words tripping over each other. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to, I swear, it just happened so fast and I tried to stop and—and I know how much you love it and I shouldn’t have taken it and—”
“Hey.” His voice cuts through, “Hey. Stop.”
Your voice cracks completely. You hiccup on a breath as the words choke out, panic spiraling tighter.
“I know it was stupid,” you ramble, tears blurring everything. “I know it’s your car and it’s new and you worked so hard for it and I ruined it and I didn’t mean to, Steve, I swear it was an accident—”
“—look at me,” he says, low and steady. “Hey. Look at me.”
Steve’s hands come up suddenly, firm and warm, cupping your face on both sides. His thumbs press just under your cheekbones, forcing your head up despite your instinct to pull away.
Your eyes flicker up at last, red and glassy, breath stuttering.
“Breathe, baby,” he says immediately, softer now. “Just breathe with me. In and out. Come on.”
You suck in a shaky breath.
“Good. Out. Yeah, that’s it. Again.”
You follow him, lungs burning as you inhale and exhale in uneven pulls, his thumbs brushing lightly under your eyes, grounding you.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. You’re here.”
Your body trembles again as he studies your face, eyes moving fast, cataloging every mark and every scrape.
“Now,” he says, voice firmer, sharper, like he’s trying to anchor you to reality. “Are you hurt?”
You swallow hard, your throat tight, and the words come out all wrong, tripping over themselves. “No—but your car, it’s—”
Steve’s jaw snaps tight, his hands gripping your face just tight enough to make your skin tingle.
“Did I ask about the goddamn car?” His voice cuts through the trembling air, sharp enough to make your chest ache.
You freeze, the panic climbing higher, and he steps closer, pressing just slightly, like he’s trying to pin you in place—but it’s not dominance, it’s urgency.
“I asked if you’re hurt,” he says again, softer but no less intense.
You look up at him, and it hits you as your stomach drops. The expression on his face, the tension coiled in his body, the raw, frantic light in his eyes—it isn’t anger. It’s terror. Pure, unfiltered, all-consuming fear of losing you.
His hands tremble as they cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tracks of your tears, and for a second, you see the world mirrored in his eyes—a world where nothing matters but you, and every fierce, frantic care he holds is yours alone.
You shake your head slowly, trembling. “No,” you whisper, voice barely audible over your racing heartbeat. “M’not.”
He exhales hard through his nose, “Does your head hurt? Your temple?” he says gently now.
You sniff, shaking your head again. “No. It stings, but—there was an old woman and her daughter. They stopped. The daughter’s a nurse. She helped me.”
Steve nods. “I know. She called me.”
Before you can say anything else, he pulls you into his chest suddenly. His arms wrap around you in a bone-crushing hug, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing you so tight to his chest it knocks the air from your lungs.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes into your hair. You cling to him, fingers twisting into his jacket as the last of the sobs shake out of you.
“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You hear me? Don’t scare me like that. I thought something much worse happened to you.”
In truth, the moment he’d gotten that phone call, his heart had dropped straight through the floor. He hadn’t thought about the car. Not even for a second. He’d pictured you bleeding, broken, not breathing. He’d borrowed a truck, hands shaking so badly he could barely turn the key, every worst-case scenario slamming into him one after another.
He pulls back just enough to look at you again, forehead pressing briefly to yours. Then he kisses you, quick and desperate, like he needs to feel you over and over again.
You blink up at him, voice small. “So… you’re not mad about your car?”
His expression softens instantly, the tension melting out of his features. “Mad?” he echoes. “No. God, no.”
He shakes his head, a small, breathless laugh escaping him. “I don’t give a damn about the car. I can replace it, sweetheart—hell, I can buy another one tomorrow if I wanted.”
You laugh against his chest, still sniffling. “I don’t think you’re that rich, Steve.”
He snorts, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “Oh, come on. I might not have a Scrooge McDuck vault full of coins, but I can definitely scrape together a replacement BMW. You? Not so lucky.”
You pull back a little, squinting at him through your tears. “Are you seriously laughing right now? I just totaled your baby!”
“I’m laughing at the ridiculousness of you panicking like this,” he says, voice shaking with relief and amusement. “You looked like someone had just told you the world was ending.” His hand slides to your cheek, thumb warm against your skin. “Besides. You’re my baby. Not that damn thing.”
Your throat tightens all over again.
“Come on,” he murmurs, shifting closer, careful as he helps you to your feet. “Let’s get you checked out at the hospital.”
You hesitate, glancing down at the gauze. “But Vickie already wrapped me up—”
“I know,” he says softly, squeezing your hand like he needs the contact as much as you do. “I just need to hear it from a doctor, alright? Humor me.”
You nod, letting him guide you toward the truck, his arm never leaving your back, like if he does you might disappear.
WOOOOHOOOO CONGRATS ON 10K 🍾🍾🍾 the 🧸build a blurb workshop sounds so fun could i pretty please request #34 and/or #90 with stevie?? maybe a hurt/comfort situation where reader’s used to silent treatment after arguments ORRR honestly whatever your lovely brain cooks up 🙂↕️🙂↕️ and no stress at all if you don’t feel like doing this prompt <3 <3
yes! thank you, lovely! hope i did it justice <33
Steve Harrington x reader after their 1st fight [1.5k words]
step right up to elle's celebratory 10k circus
CW: ³⁴⁾ “come here, idiot.” ⁹⁰⁾ “you’ve been crying.” no gender markers used for reader, their 'fight' happens off screen, discusses crawl planning, implied newer relationship, hurt/comfort
You feel horribly foolish, anxiety sitting heavy in your stomach as you twist the office chair one way and then the other as you pretend to read your book.
But said foolishness and anxiety does nothing to inspire you to leave your little hideout.
You and Steve got into a fight earlier. You’re not even sure it can be described as a fight, seeing as the two of you barely raised your voices and only volleyed maybe three arguments between the two of you before you shrunk in on yourself to accommodate the feelings in the room and Steve took a steadying breath.
“Hey, look I- I’m sorry, alright?” He offered as an olive branch. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. That wasn’t fair of me, okay?”
It had been so far from what you were expecting to come out of his mouth that all you could do was nod at him.
“We’ll talk more after, alright?”
And that had been it. That was your first fight as a couple.
There’d been little time to talk about it at the moment, seeing as the group was in the process of organizing a crawl, but you – in typical fashion – did your best to ensure there’d be no time to talk about it after. You don’t imagine he meant it anyway.
From your experience, you’re sure ‘we’ll talk about it later’ is just something he said to save face in front of the Party, to get back on the task at hand instead of arguing with you.
It’s not even a very good hiding spot if you’re being entirely honest with yourself. You’re sitting in the sound booth at the WSQK, a windowed room that sits in the centre of the building. Out in the open enough that you could feign ignorance if accused of hiding, secluded enough to find you alone.
It doesn’t last very long, though.
Two quick raps on the door sound before it inches open, exposing Steve as he leans against the doorway.
“Hey.” He shoots you a careful smile. “You hiding from me?”
Once again, it’s not at all what you were expecting him to say, nor how you expected him to say it – quiet and sweet like it was a loving caress instead of an accusation – meaning your retort flies out of your mouth without preamble.
“No,” you lie.
Steve nods, eyeing you carefully with a slightly upturned lip. “You lying to me?”
His tone has melted from what was earlier sharp and brittle to something soft and warm. The anxiety in your stomach sours as a result, curdling into something much closer to shame knowing that he’s making an attempt to appease you.
Your eyes well up again. “No.”
“Liar,” he huffs, but it’s so thick with fondness that it can’t possibly be anything but a term of endearment.
Steve lets himself into the sound booth and closes the door behind him before pulling up the second office chair and taking a seat in front of you.
“You ran off quickly after the meeting,” he comments gently, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he considers you.
“M’sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?” he nearly laughs. “That’s why I came to find you; to say sorry.”
“You already said sorry,” you remind him in case he might’ve forgotten. You’ve been replaying the conversation over and over again in your head ever since; could probably recite it verbatim.
“Okay. And you heard me, when I said I was sorry?” he clarifies, continuing when you nod your head yes. “And you believed me, when I said I was sorry?”
You try to say yeah but it comes out as a keening sound. You find yourself too embarrassed to witness the way Steve must be looking at you, holding your book up to hide your face when you begin to cry in earnest.
“Hey, hey, come on. What’s all this, huh? I didn’t say sorry enough, did I? Is that it? I should grovel more.”
“M’not mad.”
“No?” he murmurs. Damn him and his softest tone. “What’s with the tears then, hm?”
You try to collect yourself, hating yourself for picking a hiding place that’s all windows. The last thing you need tonight is for Hopper to walk past and think you’re too soft to continue helping.
“I don’t like when we’re not on the same side,” you whisper eventually, lowering the book from your face.
Steve shifts in discomfort in his chair. “We are on the same side, baby. Always. I’m always on your side.”
He lets that sit in the air for a few moments as you continue to calm down. “Thats- that’s why I got upset, yeah? Not with you but…I get scared. Okay? I know, it sounds crazy. But I do. Don’t tell Robin, she’ll never let me live it down.”
That manages to surprise a brief chuckle from you.
“It scares the shit out of me thinking about you anywhere that I can’t, that I can’t protect you. Maybe that’s gross, alpha male bullshit on my part but we’ve… we’ve been doing this for years, babe, and not all of us have come back. Okay?”
You look up to notice the way his eyes shine with unshed tears. “We’ve left people behind more times than I’d like to admit and I…I can’t do it again. Not if it’s you. I think it might actually kill me if something happened to you.
“So, yeah. I got spooked and I raised my voice and snapped at you because- well, it doesn’t matter why. It wasn’t the right thing to do, and I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. Especially not in front of everyone, regardless of the way I was feeling. Okay? I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.”
“I’m sorry too,” you tell him in turn. “For worrying you.”
“I love worrying about you,” he counters quickly, “it’s my favourite. I look forward to one day only worrying about whether you remembered to bring a jacket with you or if the store is stocked up on your favourite treats. But it’s an honour to worry about you, got it?”
You laugh, surprised at his intensity. “Yeah. Yeah, I got it.”
The two of you sit in a sniffly sort of silence for a few moments before you speak up again. “Steve, can I ask a dumb question? I…I know it’s a dumb question but I think I need to hear the answer anyway.”
Steve leans back in his chair like he’s in it for the long haul. “Lay it on me.”
“Do you still love me?” You sound so small; feel even smaller when the sound-proofed sound booth falls deadly silent.
“Jesus, babe,” Steve hisses, looking at you like you’ve grown three heads. “Do I still- you know, I wanted to be all sweet and assure you that there’s no such thing as a stupid question and be boyfriend of the fucking year, but then you come up with that and, yeah, you know what? There are dumb questions. That’s by far the dumbest thing you’ve ever said to me. You’ve been spending too much time in my company; the stupid is contagious, Dustin was right.”
“Hey,” you protest, laughing even as you wipe fresh tears from your eyes feeling slightly hysterical in your current state.
“Come here, idiot,” Steve sighs fondly. You go willingly, standing and allowing him to maneuver you into his lap.
You’re too big to be held like this – anyone older than eight years old is too big to be held like this – but Steve makes it look like easy work. He pulls your legs up to lay over the armrest and positions your hips between his thighs, tucking your head under his chin as he sinks back into the office chair.
“F’course I still love you. That’s why I got upset; I wouldn’t have gotten upset if I didn’t love you so much. It’s embarrassing, really. It’s doing awful things to my street cred.”
You swat a hand at his chest with no heat behind it; he catches your wrist and brings your knuckles up to his lips for a kiss. “You don’t have any street cred.”
“Exactly,” he agrees. “I did before we started dating. You’ve turned me into a lovesick loser; no one respects me anymore.”
You huff a laugh through your nose and look up at him, hit with a new wave of emotions as he gazes down at you, deep, dark eyes pooling with affection.
He tsks at you, bringing a thumb up to wipe at dried tear tracks on your face. “You’ve been crying.”
“I feel better now, though,” you assure him.
“Yeah, promise?” he asks, tucking you back under his chin when you nod your head yes. “Okay, good.”
