dad!eddie taking care of you after a fainting spell? and hugs from both munsons please ♡♡ tysm
dad!eddie x reader my love <3 not quite a fainting spell but he takes care of you after a shock!! (almost step mom!reader) 2k
Eddie's daughter, Roan, is screaming from the very top of her lungs. You shoot up in bed, your heart racketeering out of your chest, just begging to burst you open and have you dropping dead right there in the bedroom as you shoot onto your feet. You rush to the top of the stairs, and the closer you get the more distinguishable her words are.
"We will ROCK!" she's shouting, accompanied by punctuating metallic thuds, wooden spoons against pots and pans. "Because that is what rockstars do! Hold on to your SOCKS!"
Eddie chuckles from somewhere near her, though through his laughter he says, "Ro! You'll wake Y/N up, baby, you can't be shouting!"
"She needs to get up already it is nearly the afternoon," she says, with a fierceness only harmed by her disjointed pronunciation.
"But she was up last night with you, you meanie," Eddie says.
Roan bangs a pot. "Dad, it's not nice to call people names. You'll give them a col- a compel- a complex," she insists.
"It's not nice to wake people up when they're sleeping."
"You wake me up every day."
You make your way down the stairs as they talk, your heart thud thud thudding against your ribs even though the danger you'd imagined is firmly non-existent.
"And you keep me up at night. Wanna call it even?" Eddie's asking her.
You walk past the front door and turn down the hall leading to the kitchen. Roan is sitting on the kitchen floor surrounded by all your pots, and Eddie's sitting at the small dining table with a mug between his hands. He's looking at you before you make it into the kitchen. He must've heard your steps down the stairs.
"Hey, what's with the face?" he asks. "Are you alright?"
Are you? Your heart is pounding still, it won't slow down, and your head feels heavy like all the blood has rushed and stayed there. You turn your face to Roan on the floor, in her darling, purple silk pyjamas, her hair nicely brushed. Eddie's bathed her and changed her: last night she looked like a wreck, cotton jammies stained with milk dribbles and melted chocolate chips, her hair a frizzy halo.
"Roan," you say, "are you okay?"
"I'm rockin'!" she cheers. She stretches a little foot your way, frilly socks to the ankle.
"Hey," Eddie says gently, standing up from his chair, coffee mug set aside. He crosses the kitchen, stepping carefully over Roan and her drumset, an expression you've never seen before on his face. "What's the matter?" he asks, hushed, his face hidden from Roan's view.
"Nothing, I–" Your head throbs with a sharp pain, an ache behind your eye socket. You duck your head. "I don't know what's wrong," you admit.
"Hey, hey, hey," he says, still so gently. "It's okay. You're okay. Come and sit, okay? I got you."
You cover your eyes with your hand. Eddie leads you swiftly to a chair in the kitchen, pushing you into it by your shoulders.
"Roan, baby," he says, "do daddy the biggest favour in the world, yeah? Will you go and get that big fluffy blanket from the living room?"
"It's so heavy," she says dubiously.
"Drag it, baby."
Roan jumps up to leave, accidentally kicking one of her drums as she goes. The sound is like an ice pick right into your soft brain.
"Hey," Eddie murmurs, running a cautious hand down your back. He's bent awkwardly, trying to meet your eyes. "What's wrong, babe? Are you faint?"
"I don't know what happened. I heard the shouting," you say, licking your lips. "I thought something happened, so I got up, and I realised it was just her having fun but my heart won't stop."
Eddie puts his hand down your shirt without comment. It's big and warm, covering the top of your breast methodically. His thumb rubs at your collar, one slow steady line.
"Take a deep breath, baby. It's not too fast right now."
"Sorry," you say, and maybe you're freaking out more than you thought 'cause his comfort makes your eyes water, your apology strangled and weak.
He shushes you. You'd feel guilty for making him worry if you weren't so conscious of your aching head.
"It's okay. She's fine, she was shouting about making music like I used to. Roan's okay, and you're okay." His hand presses firmer to your chest.
"I know, I'm sorry."
He wipes your tears before they can fall. He isn't as gentle as he usually would be, the few times you've cried in front of him marked by the lightest of touches, and that's your only clue that he's panicked too.
Roan moans and grumbles as she pulls the blanket into the kitchen, having carried it across the back of her shoulders, a length of it falling into her eyes.
"It's sooo heavy, daddy," she says.
"And you're soooo strong." He holds your eyes for a second, an unspoken promise that he's not going anywhere for long.
He turns to Roan and pulls the blanket off of her head. He kisses the top of her head twice, says, "Thank you muchly," in his Animal voice to make her giggle.
You don't realise you're shivering until he's wrapped the blanket over your thighs and around your sides. He tucks it between your back and the back of the chair to keep it up, and he stays squatting in front of you with a searching gaze.
"You're okay." He waits for you to respond with nothing but patience in his eyes. "Hey," he says, tone infused with lightness, hand rubbing roughly at your covered thighs, "it happens to me. It used to happen to me all the time, when she started walking and she'd get out of bed by herself in the mornings before I was awake, she'd climb and she'd– she'd fall." He laughs happily. "She got hurt sometimes and I hated myself. But I got better at knowing when she was up, my amazing dad senses would kick in. I'd get an itchy arm in my sleep and I'd know she was doing something she shouldn't be doing. I think you got a couple of years worth of that all in one go."
You exhale hard, your head falling toward his. Your foreheads smush together none too gently, but he doesn't say a word after that. He curls his hands behind your neck.
"What's wrong?" Roan asks quietly.
Eddie gives your neck a squeeze. "Nothing," he says, leaning back. Roan's looking at you both with a concern too old for her face.
"You guys look 'spicious. Are you having the bad head ache again?" she whispers.
"A little bit," you tell her, not really lying.
"Sorry, was it my music?"
"No. No, princess, it wasn't your music. I woke up with it."
Eddie licks his lips. He sits down on the floor from his squatting position, hand around your ankle, and doesn't have to beckon for her. Roan drops into his lap and gets immediately hugged to his chest.
"It's not your fault, but when we were shouting we woke her up, and she thought something bad happened," he explains.
"Oh. Sorry."
"No," you say quickly.
"It's alright," Eddie seconds. "It's nice to say sorry when we make mistakes, but you didn't mean to, and it's not your fault that it scared her, you know? I just want you to know what's wrong."
"It wasn't you, Roanie," you say, frowning at her crestfallen expression. "Promise. Pinky promise."
You hold out your pinkie. Roan takes it. You shake your joined little fingers together gently.
"Well, I won't play any music again," she says.
"Maybe not for now," Eddie agrees. "But if her headache goes away quick then we can play tonight. Maybe we'll do karaoke!"
"Yes," she says, though she goes shy, and turns around in Eddie's arms to wrap herself around his neck. Her face dissapears into his long hair. She whispers something you can't hear.
Eddie lets go of your ankle to pull her in tightly, his hand big enough to cover the majority of her small back.
"I'm not mad at you," he says, like he's answering a question.
"I didn't mean to make her feel sick," she whispers.
"You didn't. It's just a shock sometimes, hearing big noises when you're sleeping. Like when you fell down the step outside of Uncle Wayne's trailer last week. You remember how weird that felt? You didn't hurt yourself, but you were scared. It's like that."
"Oh, right."
Roan pulls away from her dad and moves to stand up, but she changes her mind and gives him a quick second hug before she does. Then she climbs off of his lap and turns on the spot to you, her puppy dog eyes wide and soft at the edges, her eyebrows pulled up at the starts. She looks so much like her dad.
"Is it a dark headache or a light one?" she asks.
You blink at her. "Um…"
"'Cos sometimes you turn the lights off. Dad can put the shutters down."
"Oh," you laugh. "No, babe, it's not that bad. The lights need to stay on, anyway, so I can see your beautiful, gorgeous face." You push a curl behind her ear. The older she gets, the straighter her hair becomes, like the weight of it is pulling it down. The ends curls up still, and it looks lovely when it's freshly washed like this.
"You're beautifuler," Roan says, blushing at the attention.
"No way, you're the most gaw-juss girl in the world." Prettiest, loveliest, smartest. Isn't that why you'd been as terrified as you were, worrying something bad happened to her?
"Isn't she prettiest?" you ask Eddie.
"Why do you girls do this? You have arguments and then I end up in trouble. If I say it's Roan, you'll punch my guts, and if I say it's you you'll both punch my guts. Either way, I get a gut punch and you guys make me grovel."
"So choose the right one," you say, easing your hands under Roans armpits.
You pull her into your lap and twist her so you can put your chin over her head. Your eye still aches with a constant shooting pain, but it’s not so bad, and Roan's nice-smelling hair and tiny fingers petting your arm makes it manageable.
"No. I refuse to choose."
"So neither of us are pretty?" you ask lazily, hiding your face in Roan's downy hair.
He gasps. Roan gasps. He knows you've set him up and he flicks your ankle. It's code for I'll get you back.
"Dad, we are pretty!"
"I know you are! I never ever said you weren't, mom's setting me up!"
You beam. Mom, interchangeable to both of them with your name, not always used, is a delight to hear. You certainly feel like her mom when you're having conniptions over her safety.
"No," Roan says loudly. You tamp down a wince. "Mom's sick, you're settling up yourself!"
Eddie grabs your ankle again, his fingertips breaching the cuff of your sweatpants to feel your calf.
"You're both equally gorgeous. Now don't ask me again, I need to make breakfast."
"Okay," Roan says, turning in your lap to push her face against your collar. "Make breakfast. We are hungry."
You look down at her with a bunch of different feelings. Happy she's alright, entertained by her delivery even if she doesn't mean to sound so deadpan funny. And astonished, most of all, that she loves you. That they love you.
Eddie kisses the top of your head. "Feel better?" he asks.
"Yeah," you say. You feel much better now.
—
more eddie and roan ♡ pls reblog if u enjoyed love u!!
hi pretty! how u doing? could i request a jason t x reader where they have a girl born in secret and only when the baby is born that jason tells the batfam, either through just a picture or telling them to hush over the hospital just to see a baby??
The Secret
navigation , dc navigation
requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
The family group chat had been quiet for exactly four hours—a record, honestly—when Jason's message came through.
It was a photo. Just a photo, no context, no explanation.
A tiny baby, wrapped in a pink hospital blanket, sleeping peacefully. Dark hair, scrunched up little face, impossibly small.
The chat exploded.
DICK: IS THAT A BABY
DICK: JASON IS THAT A BABY
TIM: Why are you sending us random baby pictures
STEPH: Okay but that's a REALLY cute baby
DICK: JASON ANSWER YOUR PHONE
DUKE: Did you kidnap a baby???
DAMIAN: Todd, explain yourself immediately.
TIM: Why is no one else concerned that Jason just sent us a photo of a random infant
DICK: JASON PETER TODD
Jason's response came five minutes later, while Dick was probably having a minor breakdown:
JASON: Her name is Catherine. She's mine. Come to Gotham General if you want to meet her.
Then he went offline.
The chaos that followed was legendary.
Dick was the first to arrive at the hospital, having broken approximately fifteen traffic laws to get there. Tim was right behind him, looking like he'd run the entire way (he'd grappled; his car was in the shop). Steph and Cass arrived together. Duke had called Bruce, who was currently in the Batmobile with Damian, both of them looking equally shell-shocked.
They found Jason's room number from a nurse who looked deeply amused by the sudden influx of Waynes, and Dick didn't even knock before bursting in.
"JASON PETER—"
"Shhh!" You hissed from the hospital bed, and Dick stopped dead.
Because there you were, looking exhausted and beautiful and very much holding a newborn baby. And there was Jason, sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand on your shoulder, looking at Dick like he might actually murder him for being loud.
"She's sleeping," Jason said quietly, voice hard. "You wake her up, you leave."
Dick's mouth opened and closed several times. Tim pushed past him, staring.
"You have a baby," Tim said, like he was testing the words. "You—Jason—you have an actual human baby."
"Yeah, Tim. That's generally what happens when—"
"When were you going to TELL US?!" Dick's voice rose again, and the baby—Catherine—stirred slightly. Jason's glare could have melted steel.
"I'm telling you now."
"The baby is already BORN, Jason! That's not telling us, that's INFORMING us after the fact!"
"Can we not do this here?" You said tiredly, adjusting the baby in your arms. "I just gave birth. I'm exhausted. Can the family drama wait?"
That seemed to remind everyone that you existed. Dick immediately looked guilty.
"Sorry. Sorry. I'm Dick. We—I guess we haven't met?" He looked at Jason accusingly. "Because SOMEONE didn't tell us he had a girlfriend."
"Wife," Jason corrected, and held up his left hand where a simple gold band sat.
The room went dead silent.
"WIFE?!" Dick's voice cracked.
"Oh my god," Steph breathed. "Oh my god, Jason secret married someone AND had a baby and didn't tell anyone?"
"I'm telling you now," Jason repeated, maddeningly calm.
"THE BABY IS ALREADY BORN—"
"Dick, you're going to give yourself an aneurysm," Tim said, though he looked pretty close to one himself. "Jason. Buddy. When did you get married?"
"Eight months ago."
"EIGHT—" Dick caught himself, lowered his voice. "Eight months. You've been married for eight months."
"Technically nine, but who's counting."
"I'M COUNTING! I'M VERY MUCH COUNTING!"
Cass had moved closer to the bed, studying the baby with soft eyes. "She's beautiful," she said quietly. "Congratulations."
"Thank you," you said, relieved that at least one person was being normal about this. "Would you like to hold her?"
Cass nodded, and you carefully transferred the tiny bundle into her arms. She held Catherine like she was made of glass, a small smile on her face.
"I can't believe you kept this secret," Tim was saying. "For nine months. How did we not notice?"
"Because I didn't want you to notice." Jason's hand found yours, fingers intertwining. "We wanted to do this privately. Without the whole family hovering and interfering and making it about the mission."
"But we're your family," Dick said, and he sounded hurt now rather than angry. "We should have been there for you. For both of you."
"You're here now," you said gently. "That's what matters."
The door opened again, and Bruce walked in with Damian. Both of them stopped, taking in the scene—Cass holding a baby, you in the hospital bed, Jason looking defiant and protective.
"Jason," Bruce said carefully. "Is that—"
"My daughter. Catherine. She was born this morning at 6:47 AM. Seven pounds, three ounces. Healthy." Jason stood up, moving to stand between his family and the bed like a guard. "And before you start, yes, I'm married. No, you didn't know. Yes, I kept it secret on purpose. Any questions?"
Bruce looked at you, then at the baby in Cass's arms, then back at Jason. Something complicated crossed his face—hurt, maybe, but also understanding.
"Congratulations," he said finally. "To both of you."
"That's it?" Damian said incredulously. "He keeps a wife and child secret for months and you're just—congratulating him?"
"What would you have me do?"
"I don't know, express some concern that Todd hid something this significant? Demand an explanation?"
"I think," Bruce said quietly, watching Jason, "that he had his reasons. And that pushing will only make him more defensive."
Jason's shoulders relaxed slightly.
"Her name is Catherine?" Bruce asked. "After—"
"After my mother. Yeah." Jason's voice was rough. "We—it felt right."
Bruce's expression softened completely. "It's a beautiful name."
Dick had moved closer now, looking at the baby in Cass's arms with wonder. "Can I—can I hold her?"
Jason looked at you. You nodded.
"Wash your hands first," Jason said. "And support her head. And be gentle—"
"I know how to hold a baby, Little Wing."
"This isn't just a baby. This is my baby."
Despite the tension, you smiled. Jason had been like this with the nurses too—hypervigilant, protective, determined to ensure everyone who touched Catherine did it correctly.
Dick held her like she was the most precious thing in the world, which, to be fair, she kind of was. His eyes got suspiciously shiny.
"Hi Catherine," he whispered. "I'm your Uncle Dick. And I'm going to spoil you so much. I'm going to be the favorite uncle."
"You're going to have competition," Tim said, moving closer. "I'm bringing educational toys."
"I'm bringing weapons," Damian announced.
"You're not bringing our daughter weapons," Jason said flatly.
"She should learn self-defense early—"
"She's six hours old!"
Watching them, Bruce moved to your bedside. "How are you feeling?"
"Tired. Sore. Happy." You glanced at Jason, who was now arguing with Damian about appropriate gifts for infants. "A little overwhelmed by the sudden family invasion."
"I apologize for that. We're... enthusiastic." Bruce's lips quirked. "And Jason's right to have kept this private, even if it hurt some feelings. This is your family. You deserve to have it on your terms."
"Thank you." You hesitated. "I know he gave you all a shock. He wanted to tell you sooner, but—"
"He was protecting you. Protecting her." Bruce glanced at the baby, now being carefully transferred from Dick to Tim. "I understand. I might not like it, but I understand."
Steph had pulled up a chair next to your bed. "Okay, so I need details. How did you two meet? How long have you been together? How did he propose? I need all the information Jason definitely won't give us."
You laughed. "We met at a bookstore. I was reaching for a book and he was reaching for the same one. Very cliché."
"Jason reads?" Duke looked skeptical.
"Jason reads constantly," you corrected. "He proposed three months after we started dating. It was pouring rain, we were walking home, and he just—asked. No ring, no plan, just 'marry me.'"
"And you said yes to that?" Steph asked.
"I said yes to him." You watched Jason, who was now showing Tim the correct way to support Catherine's head. "He's different than you probably see. Softer. More open. He didn't want to tell you because he was afraid of—"
"Of us ruining it," Dick finished quietly. "Of making it about the mission or Bruce or the family drama."
"He wanted something that was just his," you confirmed. "Just ours. And I understood that."
"But you're telling us now," Bruce observed.
"Because she's here. Because she's real. And because—" You smiled as Jason brought Catherine back to you. "—because she's going to be part of this family whether we planned it or not. Might as well make it official."
Jason settled on the bed beside you, and you leaned into him, exhausted and content. Catherine made a small noise, and both of you immediately focused on her, checking, adjusting, making sure she was okay.
"They're going to be so overprotective," Tim said to Dick.
"They're going to be nightmares," Dick agreed. "It's going to be amazing."
The first few weeks were chaos.
Not just the normal chaos of new parents learning to care for an infant, though there was plenty of that. But also the chaos of integrating a secret family into the existing Batfamily structure.
"I'm just saying," Dick said, holding Catherine while you tried to eat something, "you could have invited us to the wedding."
"It was at city hall. Three witnesses. Very small."
"I could have been a witness!"
"You would have cried."
"I—okay, yes, I would have cried. But that's beside the point!"
Jason took Catherine from Dick, checking her over like he hadn't just been holding her five minutes ago. "The point is we wanted it private. Can you let it go?"
"Never. I'm going to bring this up for years." But Dick was smiling. "She's beautiful though. Really. You guys did good."
You'd moved into Jason's safehouse—bigger than his apartment, more secure, better for a baby. The family had immediately tried to get you to move to the manor.
"We have space," Bruce had said. "Alfred could help. You wouldn't be alone—"
"That's exactly why we're not moving in," Jason had replied. "We need space. Boundaries. Time to figure this out ourselves."
But they visited. God, did they visit.
Dick came every other day, bringing gifts and volunteering to babysit. Tim brought books about infant development. Steph brought clothes. Duke brought a security system that was definitely overkill for a two-month-old. Damian brought a knife ("She needs to learn proper blade grip early") that Jason immediately confiscated.
Even Bruce visited, usually in the evening, sitting quietly and holding Catherine with a gentleness that made your chest ache.
"I wish I'd done more of this," he admitted one night, Catherine asleep against his chest. "With all of you. I was so focused on the mission, on keeping you safe, that I forgot to just... be present."
"You're present now," Jason said quietly. "That counts."
Alfred came weekly, bringing food and wisdom and an endless supply of patience for Jason's paranoid safety protocols.
"Master Jason, the baby does not need a panic room."
"She might."
"She is two months old."
"Dangers don't care about age, Alfred."
But the biggest adjustment was Gotham itself.
Because word had gotten out—not about Catherine specifically, but about Red Hood having a family. And that made you a target.
The first threat came when Catherine was six weeks old.
Jason found the note on the safehouse door: Nice family you have. Would be a shame if something happened to them.
You found him in the nursery at 2 AM, standing over Catherine's crib, guns out, looking ready to burn Gotham down.
"Jason," you said softly.
"I should kill them." His voice was flat. "Everyone who even thinks about touching her. I should end them before they become a problem."
"That's not who you are anymore."
"Maybe it should be. Maybe I've been too soft, too comfortable. Maybe I need to remind Gotham what happens when people threaten what's mine."
You moved to stand beside him, looking down at your sleeping daughter. "You know what I think? I think you're scared. And that's okay. I'm scared too. But we can't protect her by becoming the thing we're trying to protect her from."
"I can't lose her. I can't—" His voice cracked. "She's perfect. She's innocent. She deserves better than this city, this life, this constant threat—"
"She deserves you. Both of us. Loving her, protecting her, but also letting her live." You took his hand. "We'll keep her safe. Together. But we can't do it by locking her away or eliminating every possible threat. That's not living."
Jason pulled you both close—you and the crib, as if he could shield you from the world by sheer force of will.
"I've never been this scared," he admitted. "Even dying wasn't this scary. Because this—losing her—that would actually destroy me."
"Then we make sure it doesn't happen. We're careful. We're smart. We use all these overprotective family members who keep showing up. But we don't let fear control us."
He nodded against your shoulder. "Okay. Okay."
But he still put extra security on the windows. And tracked your phone. And made Dick promise to be on call 24/7 in case something happened.
Some battles, you knew, you weren't going to win.
Catherine's first real family gathering happened at three months old.
Alfred had insisted. "Master Jason, she is part of this family. She should be introduced properly."
"She's three months old. She can't even hold her head up fully. What's she going to do at a family dinner?"
"Be adorable. Steal everyone's hearts. Allow her grandfather to dote on her properly." Alfred's expression was gentle but firm. "She belongs here. As do you and your wife."
So you'd agreed. One dinner. At the manor. With the whole family.
You were already regretting it.
"Remember," Jason said as you pulled up to the manor, Catherine in her car seat. "We can leave at any time. You say the word, we're gone."
"Jason, it's dinner with your family, not a hostage situation."
"Have you met my family?"
Fair point.
Alfred greeted you at the door, and his face absolutely lit up when he saw Catherine.
"Miss Catherine," he said softly. "How wonderful to finally have you home."
"We're just visiting, Alfred," Jason said.
"Of course, Master Jason. Visiting." But his smile suggested he had other ideas.
The family was already gathered in the dining room. Dick shot up the moment you entered.
"Baby!" He announced. "The baby is here!"
"Yes, thank you for that announcement," Jason said dryly. "I'm sure she appreciates being announced like a visiting dignitary."
But he carefully extracted Catherine from her carrier, and you watched as your normally tough, dangerous husband transformed into a gentle, protective father, cradling her like she was made of glass.
"Who wants to hold her first?" Jason asked, though his tone suggested he'd rather no one hold her at all.
"Me!" Dick, Tim, and Steph said simultaneously.
"Oldest gets priority," Dick argued.
"That's not a real rule—"
"I called it first—"
"Children," Bruce interrupted. "Perhaps we should let her parents decide."
Jason looked at you. You looked at the eager faces around the table.
"Dick," you decided. "But everyone gets a turn."
Dick looked like he'd won the lottery. Jason carefully transferred Catherine into his arms, hovering anxiously.
"I've got her," Dick promised. "Hi sweetheart. Hi beautiful girl. Uncle Dick missed you."
"You saw her three days ago," Jason pointed out.
"That's basically a lifetime at this age. She's probably grown since then. Developed new skills. Changed completely."
"She's three months old, not a Pokémon."
But watching Dick with Catherine, seeing the absolute adoration on his face, you understood why Jason had been scared to share this. Because this was his family now—not just his brothers and father, but his daughter. And letting them in meant risking them getting hurt, or her getting hurt, or everything falling apart.
It meant vulnerability he'd never allowed himself before.
Catherine got passed around the table like a very precious football. Tim held her while reciting developmental milestones. Steph cooed and took approximately a thousand photos. Duke was surprisingly natural with her. Even Damian held her, though he looked terrified the entire time.
"She's quite small," he observed.
"She's a baby," Jason said. "They're generally small."
"I was larger."
"You were also raised by assassins. Different standards."
Cass held Catherine the longest, just sitting quietly with her, and Catherine—who'd been fussing slightly with everyone else—immediately calmed.
"She likes you," you observed.
Cass smiled. "I like her."
Finally, Bruce held her. And watching Batman—the Dark Knight, the terror of Gotham's underworld—holding your infant daughter with such infinite gentleness made you understand exactly where Jason got his protective instincts from.
"She has your eyes," Bruce said to Jason. "And your stubborn expression."
"She's three months old. She doesn't have expressions yet."
"She's scowling at me right now. That's definitely your scowl."
Despite himself, Jason smiled.
Dinner was surprisingly normal. Catherine slept through most of it in your arms, occasionally waking to look around with unfocused baby eyes before drifting back off.
"So," Tim said carefully. "Are you guys... okay? Financially, I mean. Babies are expensive."
"We're fine," Jason said, in a tone that suggested the conversation was over.
"Because if you need anything—"
"We're. Fine."
"Jason," you said gently. "They're trying to help."
"I don't need help. I can provide for my family."
"No one's saying you can't," Bruce interjected. "But there's no shame in accepting support. That's what family does."
Jason's jaw was tight, but he nodded stiffly.
"I've set up a college fund," Bruce continued. "For Catherine. It's already established, you can't refuse it, it's done."
"Bruce—"
"You can be stubborn about everything else. But let me do this. Please."
Jason looked at Catherine, sleeping peacefully against your chest, and something in his expression softened.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Thank you."
"And I've prepared a nursery here," Alfred added. "For when you visit. Or if you need somewhere safe to stay."
"We have a safe house—"
"With respect, Master Jason, a manor full of vigilantes is considerably safer than any safe house." Alfred's expression was gentle. "I'm not asking you to move in. I'm simply ensuring you have options."
Jason looked overwhelmed. You squeezed his hand under the table.
"Thank you, Alfred," you said. "That's very kind."
As the evening wound down, you found yourself in the library with Bruce while Jason was changing Catherine.
"Thank you," you said. "For being patient with him. I know the secrecy hurt."
"He was protecting what matters most. I can't fault him for that." Bruce looked at you carefully. "Are you happy?"
"Very. Even with the chaos and the threats and the constant fear. Yes."
"Good. He deserves happiness. More than he believes he does." Bruce paused. "If you ever need anything—not just money or resources, but support, advice, someone to call at 3 AM when you're overwhelmed—you have family now. All of us."
Your throat was tight. "Thank you."
Jason appeared in the doorway, Catherine against his shoulder. "Ready to go?"
You nodded, standing. Bruce walked you both to the door.
"Come back soon," he said. "Please."
"We will," you promised.
In the car, Jason was quiet. You let him process, knowing he needed time.
Finally, he said: "That wasn't terrible."
You laughed. "High praise."
"They love her. All of them."
"Of course they do. She's perfect."
"She is, isn't she?" Jason glanced in the rearview mirror at Catherine's car seat. "I still don't want to move into the manor."
"I know."
"But maybe... maybe we could visit more. Let her know them. Let them be part of her life."
"I think that's a good idea."
"I'm still installing more security at the safe house."
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
He reached over, took your hand. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For this. For her. For understanding why I kept it secret and not being angry about it. For being patient with my paranoid bullshit. For—" His voice roughened. "For everything."
You lifted his hand to your lips, pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "We're a family now. That's what family does."
"Yeah," Jason said softly, looking at Catherine sleeping peacefully in her car seat. "Yeah, we are."
And for the first time since Catherine was born, you saw him truly relax. Saw him believe that maybe—just maybe—this could actually work.
Secret or not, hidden or revealed, they were his family.
All of them.
And that was more than he'd ever thought he'd have.
The second photo Jason sent to the family group chat showed Catherine at nine months, sitting up on her own, grinning at the camera with two tiny teeth visible.
JASON: She said "Dada" this morning.
The responses came immediately.
DICK: AHHHHHHHHHH
TIM: That's developmentally appropriate for her age
STEPH: I'M CRYING
DUKE: That's adorable
DAMIAN: Acceptable first word
BRUCE: I'm very proud of her. (And of you.)
DICK: When can I teach her to say "Uncle Dick"???
JASON: Never. She's never learning that.
DICK: You can't stop the inevitable, Little Wing
JASON: Watch me
You looked over Jason's shoulder at his phone, Catherine on your hip babbling happily.
"They're never going to leave us alone now," you observed.
"Probably not."
"You okay with that?"
Jason looked at Catherine, who was reaching for his phone with grabby baby hands. He let her take it, watching as she immediately tried to put it in her mouth.
"Yeah," he said, catching her before she could succeed. "I think I am."
And that, more than anything, told you just how far he'd come.
From secret-keeper to sharing.
From isolated to family.
From protected to protecting.
It was beautiful to watch.
Even if it did mean dealing with Dick stopping by every other day.
jason todd x fem!reader
summary: jason can't seem to understand why you keep talking about "your" wedding
contains: fluff, established relationship, pet names
word count: ~600
You and Jason laid in bed, morning light shuffling in through the blinds and illuminating the soft bedding. Jason had one arm around your waist as his head was tucked into the crook of your neck, eyes shut contentedly. Your eyes were open, staring blankly at the page of your book as you listened to Jason’s soft breathing mix with the morning birdsongs that rolled in with the light.
“Jay?” you whispered quietly, testing to see if he was awake.
“Hm?” he grunted in reply, nose nestling further into your neck.
You kept quiet for a moment, hesitant to bring up such a topic before finally asking, “Do you ever think about what you want your wedding to be like?”
Jason was silent and you felt his arm subtly tense around you. You started to worry you had crossed some line you didn’t know existed before he replied, “What do you mean?”
“I mean like how many people, what type of cake, the venue…that stuff. How do you picture your future wedding?”
You felt Jason’s brow furrow against your skin. “I’m still confused,” he mumbled, lips brushing ur neck and placing a soft kiss there.
You pursed your lips, puzzled at how he could be confused by such a question. “What are you confused about? When I picture my wedding I know I want—”
Jason abruptly sat up straight, causing you to stop speaking and stare at him in confusion. He was really starting to freak you out.
“Why do you keep saying it like that?” he asked, looking at you with a mix of annoyance, confusion, and a hint of hurt.
“Saying it like what?”
Jason looked away for a moment, letting the sunrays filtering in illuminate his features. His scars were highlighted and when his eyes met yours again, you could see them so clearly, their mix of green and blue capturing you before he spoke again.
“Saying ‘your wedding’ or ‘my wedding’. Why do you keep doing that?”
“Um…” you paused, laughing nervously. “What am I supposed to say, Jay?”
“Doll,” he brought his hand up to cradle your face. “There’s not gonna be a ‘my wedding’ or a ‘your wedding’...only ‘our wedding’. I’m not getting married unless it’s to you, princess.”
“Oh.” Your face flushed and your eyes widened, a soft smile breaking out across your lips before you buried your face in Jason’s chest in embarrassment.
Jason laughed, bringing his arms up to envelope you and leaning down to place a kiss upon your head. You were consumed by his intoxicating scent - the expensive cologne Dick had bought him for Christmas, gunpowder from last night’s patrol, your favorite shampoo he swore he never used, and the fresh smell of clean linen sheets.
“Yeah, ‘oh’.” He smiled as you brought your head back up to meet his. Jason kissed you softly and sweetly, still sluggish from sleep. “What, were you plannin’ on marrying someone else?”
Your eyes widened as you pulled back. “No! No, of course not! I just…didn’t know if you wanted that.”
He looked at you with a gentle, lovesick expression on his face. “I never thought I did either, doll.” He paused which made your heart pick up nervously again. But he just brought his hands to yours and raised one to kiss it tenderly. “Until I met you.”
You flushed again, swatting him away playfully. “Who knew you were such a romantic, Todd?”
“Always have been,” he pulled you back into his arms. “Just hadn’t met the right girl until now.”
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader
Summary: The lock is checked, and checked, and checked again—but it's Steve, patient in the dark hallway, who finally makes it feel safe enough to stop.
Tags: reader has ocd, intrusive thoughts, compulsive checking, hurt/comfort, steve harrington is so steady it aches, late night, hallway scenes, the ritual and the waiting, shame and being held through it anyway, he sat in a chair just to be near you, no sighing no eye rolls just steve, quiet reassurance, he's proud of you for walking away, nonsexual intimacy, soft domesticity, the doubt doesn't disappear but it gets quieter, you don't have to do it alone, no use of y/n, bedtime, being known without having to explain, love as presence not solution
Word Count: 3k words
11:57 PM, and the house is quiet in the way that feels almost accusatory—like the silence itself is waiting for you to fail, like even the walls have noticed how long you've been standing here and are holding their breath.
You're standing at the front door.
You've been standing here for eleven minutes. You know because you checked your phone after the fifth check, and you've done at least six more since then, the numbers blurring a little at the edges the way everything blurs when your nervous system is running this hot.
Your hand hovers over the deadbolt, not quite touching it, the way you might hover over a hot stove after you've already burned yourself once—aware of the heat, braced for it, unable to make yourself pull back. The lock is a small brass thing, ordinary and unremarkable, bought from a hardware shop and fitted on a Tuesday afternoon. You were there for that, too. You remember it. And yet right now it's the most significant object in the entire world, the axis the whole night is spinning on, the thing everything else has collapsed down into.
"Locked," you whisper. "It's locked. It's locked."
Your voice is barely there, a thread of sound in the dark hallway, and the words dissolve the moment they leave your mouth—thin as smoke, carrying nothing with them on the way out. You know you locked it. You watched yourself do it, your own hand turning the key, heard the clean mechanical click of it, felt the solid resistance when you first tested the handle. You know. The evidence is there, stacked up like bricks. And yet the knowing sits inside you like a stone at the bottom of a river, distant and unreachable under all that rushing water, all that noise—present but weightless, unable to do the one thing you need it to do.
You jiggle the handle.
It doesn't budge.
Of course it doesn't budge.
What if you missed something?
The thought arrives the way intrusive thoughts always do: not as a knock but as a battering ram, sudden and enormous, filling every available space inside your skull before you've had a chance to brace for it. What if it's not really locked. What if you only think you heard the click. What if there's a flaw in the mechanism you can't see, a gap between what happened and what you believe happened, a crack wide enough for something terrible to crawl through while you're asleep and Steve's asleep and neither of you hears it happening until it's too late.
You check it again.
Still locked.
Still not enough.
You press your palm flat against the door, then the heel of your hand, then the tips of your fingers, testing for give that isn't there, reading the surface the way you might read braille—as if there's an answer hidden in it that the lock itself can't provide. Deadbolt. Handle. The gap between the door and the frame, which is sealed shut, which has always been sealed shut, which will be sealed shut when you check it again in thirty seconds.
The shame arrives right on schedule, familiar as an old wound—this sick, crawling heat beneath your sternum, a tide of it, hot and humiliating, that says you are ridiculous, you are broken, you are standing here in your socks at midnight wasting the night on a door that is already, demonstrably, locked. And underneath the shame, deeper and quieter, the fear: not just of the unlocked door but of this. Of the fact that you're still here. That you'll be here at one in the morning, at two, that this particular current is too strong to swim out of tonight and you'll just keep circling.
"Hey."
Steve's voice comes from the hallway behind you, low and careful, worn soft at the edges with sleep like a river stone worn smooth. You didn't hear him get up—he moves quietly when he wants to, which still surprises you sometimes, given how much noise he makes the rest of the time. You turn partway toward him, not quite fully, because some part of your brain insists that if you fully leave the door, if you take your attention off it entirely, something will—
He doesn't make you explain. He reads the whole picture in a single glance: your hand still on the handle, your shoulders up around your ears, the particular set of your mouth that you know by now is unmistakeable. He's seen this before. He's learned the shape of it.
He doesn't wince at it.
"Still checking?" he asks.
You nod. Your throat is too tight for much else.
He pads a few steps closer, bare feet on the floorboards, and stops. He's still in the t-shirt and boxers he went to bed in, hair doing something soft and chaotic from the pillow. He looks half-asleep, and he's here anyway, standing in a dark hallway at midnight, and that fact is too large to look at directly right now—if you look at it directly you'll cry.
"How long have you been up?" he asks.
"A while." You pause. "Like—I don't know. A while."
"Okay." He doesn't push it. "Has it been bad tonight, or is this just—" He makes a gesture that somehow manages to communicate the usual degree of difficult without making it sound dismissive.
"Bad," you admit, and admitting it out loud feels like something tearing, a little. "I thought I'd be okay. I did everything right. I just—I can't get it to feel like enough."
"I know," he says. Just that. Not I'm sorry or that sucks or well have you tried—just the two plain words, set down gently, like he's sitting with the reality of it rather than trying to fix it.
"I just—" You turn back to the door without meaning to, your hand finding the handle again, automatic and helpless as breathing. "What if I didn't actually lock it? What if someone breaks in because I—"
"It's locked," he says, and his voice is gentle in the way that means I'm not saying this to end the conversation, I'm saying this because it's true and I want you to have the true version of it. "I watched you lock it earlier. I was right there—I saw you do it, and then I saw you check it, like, five times."
You know.
You know you know.
And the knowing still doesn't reach whatever part of you needs to hear it. It slides off the surface like water off glass, and the handle is still in your hand, and the doubt is still there, enormous and patient, outlasting you.
"Why doesn't it help?" you say, and you hate how small you sound, how stripped-back. "Like, logically I know—"
"Hey." His voice is still gentle. "You don't have to logic your way out of it right now. That's not what this is."
A pause.
"You're not doing anything wrong," he adds.
He can see that the reassurance isn't landing the way he means it to—you can tell by the way his expression shifts, just slightly, taking in this new information without fighting it. He doesn't push it. He just absorbs it, this fact about tonight, about you, the same way he takes in other facts about the world: without flinching, without making it mean something bigger than it is.
He steps a little closer. Not too close—there's still a foot of space between you, an easy, uncrowded distance, and he keeps it there like an offering. He's learned where the line is, not through you having to manage him or issue careful instructions, but just through watching. Through being someone who pays attention.
You turn back to the door.
He doesn't leave.
You hear him behind you—the scrape of the little wooden chair from the hall table, the one you use for piling keys and post and things that don't have a home yet, dragged a few feet back from where it usually lives. He settles into it. Not too close. Not too far. Not watching you in a way that feels like scrutiny or waiting-for-you-to-finish, just—there. The way a lamp is there, steady and undemanding and warm without asking anything in return for the warmth.
"You don't have to sit there," you say.
"I know," he says.
"It might be a while."
"That's okay."
You check the lock again. Handle, deadbolt, the gap at the frame. Your lips move around the words but you don't say them out loud this time—there's something almost private about the ritual when Steve is watching, not in a bad way, just in the way that makes you more conscious of its texture, this strange exhausting ceremony you didn't ask to perform.
And again.
The ritual unfolds the way it always does, a loop with its own internal logic that you didn't choose and can't quite exit: handle, deadbolt, handle again, the whisper or the half-whisper, the quiet desperate wait for the feeling to come—for the rightness, that elusive sense of completion that's supposed to arrive and settle everything—and then the feeling not coming and the handle again. Each repetition loosens something slightly and tightens something else, a debt that pays itself off and reinflates simultaneously, always another inch further away than it was before you started. You're aware of how it looks from the outside. You're aware of what time it is. You're aware of Steve sitting behind you in the dark, patient as earth, patient as season change, as something that has simply decided to wait.
He doesn't sigh.
He doesn't roll his eyes—you'd know, somehow, you're tuned to that frequency whether you want to be or not.
He doesn't say again or come on or how much longer.
"You doing okay?" he asks, after a while.
"Not really," you say. Honesty is all you have left at this point, the only currency you can manage.
"Okay." A beat. "Do you want me to talk? Or quiet?"
You consider it. "Quiet," you decide. "But stay?"
"Yeah," he says. "Obviously."
He waits.
And eventually—not because the feeling lifts, not because the OCD releases you with any particular grace or mercy, but because you're exhausted and the exhaustion is finally louder than the doubt, a tide finally stronger than the current it's fighting—you let go of the handle.
One step back. Then another.
You turn around.
The shame is already waiting for you, a full-body wave of it, hot and total and humiliating. You can't quite meet his eyes.
"Sorry," you start, the word coming out rough. "I know it's late. I know this is—I know you were already in bed, I know—"
"Hey, stop." He's already on his feet, crossing the distance in two steps, and his arms come around you slowly enough that you can see it happening, gently enough that the instinctive stiffening of your body doesn't make him pull back. He holds the hug steady, arms loose and warm, and waits—just waits—for your shoulders to drop. For the stiffness to go somewhere it can't hurt you as much.
"You don't have to apologise," he says, into your hair.
"I kept you up."
"I kept myself up. I wanted to be here."
You make a sound that isn't quite a laugh. "That's a very diplomatic way of—"
"I mean it." He pulls back just enough to look at you properly, and there's nothing in his face that reads like frustration or exhaustion or I can't believe we're doing this again—just this uncomplicated steadiness, the same steadiness he was offering from the chair for the last however-many minutes. It's the same face he had when he first came out into the hallway. It hasn't changed. "I'd rather be out here with you than in there wondering how you're doing."
Your throat tightens again, differently this time. Not the tight of shame—the tight of something else, something that doesn't have a simple name.
"I'm proud of you," he says, and steps back into the hug.
You blink. "For what? I was standing there for like twenty minutes, minimum. That's not exactly—"
"Yeah," he says. "And you walked away anyway."
You press your face into the warm curve between his neck and his shoulder and you breathe, and the terrible itching pressure behind your sternum doesn't disappear—it doesn't do that, it rarely does that cleanly, it doesn't work that neatly—but it quiets down a little, like a radio turned to a lower volume. Like something given a little room to be what it is without being the loudest thing in the space.
"It doesn't feel like anything," you say, muffled. "Walking away. It doesn't feel like I did something."
"Doesn't have to feel like it," Steve says. "You still did it."
He holds you in the dark hallway at twelve-something at night, unhurried, not tracking the time, not angling toward bed. Not reassurance, not rationality—just the plain solid fact of him, the warmth and weight of it, and somehow that's the thing that finally lets you unclench your hands. Not the evidence. Not the logic. Just this.
You stay there for a while. Long enough that your breathing evens out. Long enough that the hallway, which has felt like a trap for the last twenty-something minutes, starts to feel like just a hallway again—narrow and ordinary, a bit draughty at the skirting boards.
"Come on," Steve says eventually, quiet. "Bed."
"Yeah."
He keeps an arm around your shoulders as you walk—not steering, just there, a warm point of contact—and you pass the door on the way and the urge flickers, automatic, just one more check, just to be sure, just to—
You keep walking.
"Good," Steve says, low, like he knew.
"Did you see that?"
"Mm-hm."
"I hate that you saw that."
"I know." He doesn't sound like he's going to stop watching. You find, somewhere beneath the embarrassment, that you don't entirely mind.
Eventually, you make it to the bedroom.
You both move slowly, the way you move when you're wrung out and the night has grown late enough to feel like a different kind of time—amber-soft and forgiving, the kind of late that asks nothing of you. You sit on the edge of the bed and Steve sits beside you, close but not crowding, and neither of you says anything for a minute. Just the two of you on the edge of the mattress while the adrenaline finishes burning itself out of your blood, while your nervous system slowly, reluctantly, starts to get the message that the emergency is over, that the door is locked, that the world outside is just the world.
"Do you want water?" he asks.
"No. Maybe. No."
"I'll get you water."
He comes back with a glass from the bathroom, sets it on your nightstand without ceremony. You drink some of it. Cold, ordinary, good in a way that's almost embarrassingly simple.
"Thank you," you say.
"Obviously," he says, and sits back down beside you.
The room is dark except for the thin pale stripe of streetlight coming in beneath the curtain, painting a quiet line across the floor. Somewhere outside, a car passes, headlights briefly sweeping the ceiling and then gone. The house settles with a sound like a slow exhale, the whole structure breathing around you.
You lie down finally, and the pillow is cool against your cheek, the mattress familiar and solid beneath you, and Steve pulls the duvet over both of you in the easy unconscious way of someone who's done it hundreds of times—he knows exactly where your shoulder is in the dark, exactly how much to tuck in at the sides, the particular geometry of sharing a bed with you.
He leans over and presses a kiss to your temple, slow and deliberate, like punctuation. Like he means it specifically for tonight.
"If you need to check again," he says, his voice soft in the dark, "wake me up, okay? I mean it."
You open your eyes just enough to look at him.
"You don't have to do it alone," he says.
You look at him for a moment—this person who came out of a warm bed at midnight and sat on a hallway chair and waited for you in the dark without sighing, without making it something you owe him for—and something in your chest shifts, settles. Makes room.
"Okay," you say.
"Okay," he echoes, and lies back, and tucks himself against you the way he does, one arm loose across your waist, an unhurried and certain weight.
Outside, another car passes. The curtain shifts in a faint draught from somewhere, a slow breath of cool air. Down the street, something rustles—a fox, probably, picking its way through someone's bins with that particular brand of shameless 2 AM confidence, or the wind moving through next door's garden—and it's just a sound, just the ordinary world going about its ordinary business, indifferent and continuous and unthreatening. The lock is still locked. Steve's arm is warm and present and heavy in the best way, grounding you to the mattress, to the room, to this specific moment rather than the next one or the worst possible one.
You close your eyes.
The doubt is still there, a low hum at the back of things rather than a roar. It might be there tomorrow. It might come back at 3 AM and drag you out to the hallway again, and if it does you'll deal with that then—and apparently, you won't have to deal with it alone.
જ⁀➴: You don't want to wake up your boyfriend, but his dog has other plans.
╰┈➤Fluff, domestic Dick, a little suggestive at the end // English isn't my first language, so please forgive any mistakes.ᐟ
Your boyfriend always comes home late after his patrol; it’s usually between three and, at the very latest, six in the morning. When he sneaks into the bedroom, he tries to make as little noise as possible so he doesn’t wake you up, since he knows you have to get up early the next day to go to college. Unfortunately for you, you’re a light sleeper, so the slightest movement usually wakes you up—though that does give you a chance to give Dick a goodnight kiss—or rather, a good-morning kiss, since it is, after all, morning.
When you wake up, Dick has his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling your body toward his like he needs you there to be able to sleep; his legs, tangled up in the blanket, form a little swirl.
The clock reads 7 o’clock, time to wake up.
Before getting up—being careful not to wake him, since he needs to sleep and that’s something you always insist on—you kiss him on the forehead, running one of your hands through his tangled hair as if caressing him.
You have exams today, so as soon as you’re done, you’ll be able to head straight home. The mere thought of being able to relax all afternoon, lying on the couch without doing anything productive, makes you smile. Today would be a wonderful day if it weren’t for the exams.
Getting dressed and heading to college wasn’t a problem at all—on the contrary, you loved the peace and quiet of the mornings. The problem was the exams themselves. As soon as you saw the first test, your mind went completely blank; it turns out that slacking off was now coming back to haunt you.
Well, you could always take the make-up exams—what a pain…
After half an hour (the exam lasted two—that says it all), you handed in your paper, praying the professor would show a little mercy when correcting it. At least you were free now and could go home.
What you didn’t know was that you were jumping out of the frying pan into the fire—a bit of an exaggeration, but in a way, it was true…
You opened the door to the apartment you shared with Dick and turned the key, exhausted. What had started out as a good day didn’t seem to be going that way anymore; the exams had worn you out, and you hadn’t eaten all day.
The watch on your wrist reads 1:43 p.m.; Dick has probably woken up by now, though just in case, you try not to make too much noise. If he’s still sleeping, it’s best not to wake him up; he’s been having a lot of trouble sleeping lately, and it wouldn’t hurt him to get more than four hours of sleep.
Surprised to see that there’s no sign of him, you hang your bag on the coat rack, determined to make some macaroni and cheese. You bought a new kind of pasta a few days ago and felt the need to try it—maybe that would cheer you up a little.
The only problem—or rather, the only small, furry problem—Hayley.
You’d completely forgotten about her—and just how loud she could get!
The first bark was at a normal tone, and you just got a little startled when you heard it, but the second one and the ones that followed were loud enough to wake up your boyfriend.
“Hayley!” you murmured, running toward her. “Shhh!” You tried unsuccessfully to put a hand over her snout to silence her barking, but that only made things worse because she thought you wanted to play.
The dog lunged at you; before, you’d been kneeling, trying to calm her down, but now you were sprawled on the floor, trying in vain to shake off a playful Hayley who’d decided to lick your whole face while barking happily between licks.
Damn it, your boyfriend couldn’t even get a few hours of peace…
“Hayley, sweetie, if you quiet down, I’ll give you a treat.” You knew the dog recognized that last word just as she did with “walk”—they were her two favorite words. At least now she’d gotten off you, allowing you to get up.
“WOOF!” The dog’s front paws lifted off the ground as she hopped on them and walked on two legs.
Surprised, you gestured for her to be quiet again, though you had to admit she was super cute and that, if you kept looking at her, you’d get an overload of cuteness—but now wasn’t the time; you needed to find her treats to shut her up.
Luckily, you could have sworn Dick had some stashed in the second drawer of the kitchen. “Aha, here they are.” The little package was now in your hands. Victorious, you headed over to Hayley; she was still barking for attention.
The situation was this: if you paid attention to her, she’d bark out of excitement, but if, on the other hand, you didn’t, she’d bark anyway. Perhaps the only thing that could quiet her down was to keep her mouth busy, and the treats you’re holding seem to be the best—and only—option.
When you returned to where the dog had been, there was no one there. For a few seconds, she had stopped barking. “At least she’s not making any noise anymore,” you thought to yourself.
The peace was shattered the moment you caught sight of Hayley again; she was now too busy right next to the TV stand, trying to chew on some cables.
“No, no, no!” You quickly distracted her by holding out the treat.
Huge mistake…
The last thing you expected was for her to jump up, grab the treat from your hand, and accidentally—because this dog means no harm—hit you in the chest with her front paws, sending you tumbling backward and causing a loud thud as your butt hit the floor.
To make matters worse, right behind you was the TV and a bookshelf. So now you found yourself half-lying on the floor, holding the TV in your hands while a bookshelf threatened to fall on top of you—and, as if the racket you’d made weren’t enough, you’d woken up your boyfriend.
“What happened?” A sleepy voice echoed down the hallway. Dick, wearing a tank top that hugged his chest perfectly to show off his pecs and short pajama shorts that revealed his muscular legs, was heading toward the living room. You bit your lip, enjoying the view.
You looked around again for a moment—at what point had you ended up in this ridiculous situation? You just wanted to make some mac and cheese—is that too much to ask?
At least Hayley had stopped barking; feeling too guilty after seeing what had happened, she was now hiding under the table, scared.
“You’re not going to believe this,” you muttered.
Seeing the position you were in, Dick hurried over to you. He might have just woken up, but this man’s mind was always on high alert for emergencies—and this, in a way, was one.
His muscular arms quickly lifted the TV and set it down next to you, offering a hand to help you up while he assessed your condition.
You pulled yourself together, feeling a little dizzy. “Thanks.” Your gaze drifted to his face; you couldn’t understand how anyone could look so handsome right after waking up. Ugh, how unfair. Tonight you were going to have a proper dinner.
“Thanks God you are okay!,” Dick exclaimed.
You sighed, still a little in shock. Who could blame you? The damn TV had fallen on top of you—lucky you managed to grab it at the last second, so the damage was minimal.
“Yeah,” you agreed. You raised an eyebrow when you saw the guy hugging the TV. Then it clicked in your brain—the idiot was heading toward the TV and not toward you, his girlfriend—the love of his life, according to him—who had just had a 20-kg electronic device fall on her…
“Richard!”
The man turned around, now looking guilty, and scratched the back of his neck. “I mean…” His voice dropped when he saw your murderous glare. He swallowed hard before continuing. “The TV is really expensive…”
“DICK!”
He laughed softly—a beautiful melody to your ears. “You owe me an explanation.”
“The short version or the long one?” you asked as you reached out a hand toward Hayley. The poor thing had come out of her hiding spot, still a little scared; you stroked her reassuringly.
“The short one.”
“I was trying not to wake you up,” you admitted. Your mission had been a failure.
A smile appeared on your boyfriend’s face. “Well, you didn’t do a very good job,” he teased.
“Tell me about it—I hadn’t noticed, Sherlock.”
His body moved closer to yours. At first, he just planted a kiss on your forehead, but then, realizing he has free will, his lips began to trace their way across your entire face. Before you knew it, his tongue slipped between your lips, licking them.
You playfully pushed him away. “Ewww.” He knew how much it annoyed you when he did that.
Your furrowed brow didn’t stop him from coming back to you.
“Oh, c’mon, you let Hayley lick your whole face, but when I do it, you don’t like it?” he muttered indignantly.
He didn’t wait for your answer. His arm wrapped possessively around your waist, pulling you close to him again, radiating his body heat toward you, his head resting against yours—something the difference in their height allowed him to do.
You rested your forehead against his chest. “Shouldn’t you go back to sleep?” Your voice was a barely audible whisper.
He shook his head. When you looked up, his hand brushed a strand of hair from your face.“I’d rather stay with you.” The warmth in his eyes sent a shiver through your body.
Hayley, still seeking attention, interrupted the moment, wagging her tail as she jumped up and knocked Dick over. He rolled his eyes, amused.
“Hayley, hold on, it’ll be your turn soon. Pulling away from your touch, he knelt down to be at the dog’s level. The creature, ignoring him, began licking his hands while moving her snout around, seeking contact.
You couldn’t help but smile at what was happening.
Dick moved his hands in an attempt to wipe the dogs’ drool off them. “Ugh, I think I’m going to have to take a shower…” He raised his eyebrows at you.
“Do you want me to join you?” you murmured suggestively.
“Fuck yeah, babe.”
You didn’t hesitate. Before you knew it, he was leading the way to the bathroom—the mac and cheese could wait.
DICK GRAYSON GETS A LITTLE TOO CLINGY IN THE MORNING . ♡
it's no doubt that dick grayson is a clingy person. from always casually having a hand on your waist when you two go out to tossing you on his fluffy bed for a quick cuddle in the middle of the day.
he's clingier in the mornings, too.
your alarm blares for the seventh time that morning, and when you try - also for the seventh time that morning - to roll out of bed, dick pushes you closer to his bare chest, face smushed against his warm skin.
"don't leave, babe," he croaks out, sounding a little groggy and whiny. he snuggles into the crook of your neck, his legs tangled between yours under the duvet. you honestly feel like a flabby doll, letting your boyfriend manhandle you any which way he wants. "you're always so soft in the mornings."
"i have to get up, though," you sigh quietly, conflicted between getting up and facing the day, or staying in and digging yourself further into dick's warm embrace. you know you'll choose the latter. "i have that important meeting, remember?"
dick waves his hand dismissively. "just- ditch 'em. for today," he says, voice muffled, because he's still hidden away in your neck. his hair is soft and a little curly at the ends as you absentmindedly card your fingers through his thick, black locks. "i'm more important than them, anyway, right baby?"
you already hear haley — your boyfriend's loyal pitbull puppy - pad over to your messy bed, settling herself over dick's body. he chuckles to himself, his arm reaching out to give the grey dog a scratch behind her soft ear. "see—? haley thinks you should stay here too. give your boyfriend some well-deserved cuddles."
dick pulls away from your neck, his blue eyes piercing yours. he looks so domestic, and soft, and cute, and absolutely perfect. fuck it, you think to yourself. you're already doomed, anyway.
SUMMARY ꒱ interrupting your sleep, you clean up your injured boyfriend
WARNINGS ꒱ fluff, kind of angst (reader is worried about dicks safety), blood, description of a wound, vague implications of violence, mildly suggestive comments, no use of y/n, reader is called “pretty”, let me know if there's more
WC ꒱ 1.1K
A/N ꒱ this is my first fanfic who cheered 🥹anyway i really hope yall like it
The last thing you wanted to hear at 3:17am on a work night was Dick Grayson clumsily shoving his way through your living room window.
Likely tracking who knows how much dirt through your freshly cleaned carpet, you hear him awkwardly stumble his way down your hallway, past your slightly open bedroom door, and make his way towards the bathroom. Could be bad news.
Cool air creeps across your skin as you reluctantly shove your comforter back, blearily reaching up to rub your eyes and swinging your legs off the side of your mattress. You pause at the edge of your bed, listening. Blüdhaven was far from a quiet city; muffled music could be heard down the street, a dog barking a block or two away, and the constant shriek of sirens were an ever-present fixture in the familiar resonance of the city. What concerned you was the sickly silence coming from your tiny bathroom. Definitely bad news.
Jamming your feet into your fluffy slippers, you lurch your way through the darkness towards the faint light at the end of the hallway.
“Dick?” you call out croakily. “Are you okay in there?”
You hear the clatter of falling objects as you approach.
“Uh. Yeah. Everything's great! Get back to bed. I’ll be there in a minute.” His voice was airy and high with something latent. “Or, like, maybe five minutes–”
“Dick!” you shriek before clapping your hands over your mouth, remembering your neighbors were probably sleeping. Like you should be.
Dick sat on the tile floor, digging in the cabinet under your sink for the first aid kit. This meant that the first thing you saw, unfortunately, was his back. His suit had been ripped to reveal a nasty gash between his shoulder blades. Though not so horrific by itself, the sheer amount of blood covering the area shocked you.
“Ohmygod–”
“Please don’t freak out babe–”
“What the hell?” you whisper-yell. You join him on the ground, quickly shuffling closer.
Subtly angling his back away from you, Dick looks at your face, offering an awkward, dimpled grin. “It’s fine. Everything's fine.”
“You’re covered in blood.” you hiss. “You’re actively bleeding out, asshole.”
“It’s fine! Not all of it’s mine anyway. I’m healthy as a horse.” He rolls his shoulders back in an attempt to prove it to you, but he immediately winces as he lets out a weak ‘neigh’.
Sighing, you snatch the first aid kit out of his hands. “Turn around. Did you really think you could fix this up yourself?” Your shoulders sag. Then you add gently: “Let me help you.”
Slowly, he turns his back towards you again, grinning. “There’s a cloth in there. If you just clean the blood away, you’ll feel better. Probably don’t even have to stitch me up. Did we run out of those butterfly bandages?”
You dig around in the box a bit. “No, looks like we still have… more than enough probably. But next time you’re out, stop by the drug store instead of getting beat up.” You pull out a cloth and reach up to the sink to wet it. “You didn’t want to take a shower first?”
“Thought I might wait for you to join me.” Though you can’t see his face, you can still feel his wink and the wiggle of his eyebrows.
“Ha-ha. Not happening, pal.” You begin wiping the blood away, a muscle twitching on his back as the cold cloth makes contact with his bronze skin. There’s a moment's lull in the conversation as both of you take a quiet moment to listen to each other's breath.
“I have to go back out.” Dick hears your sharp inhale. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me, Dick. I know what you do is important to you. And what’s important to you is important to me too.”
“But…” he prompts.
“But I’m worried about you. I know you can handle the things that are thrown your way, but I just can’t help being uneasy. I don’t like seeing you get hurt.” Your cloth-bearing hand falls to your lap as you’ve finished cleaning the majority of the blood away, revealing the cut to you. It doesn’t look as deep or as intimidating to fix as it did before, but it made your shoulders sag nonetheless.
He turns towards you slightly, saying your name. “I don’t like seeing you upset. So how about for the rest of the night, I try not to get hurt?”
“That sounds good to me.” you reply, rummaging in the kit for the butterfly bandages. “What about your suit? Can’t have you going out with a giant rip in the back.”
“I’ll put on a spare once the pretty doctor’s done fixing me up. If you’d have given me a minute, I could’ve taken this one off for you.” The playful tone to his voice returned, easing your anxiety slightly. If something terrible was happening, he would be much more serious. His upbeat attitude meant he would make it back home this morning.
You spend a few minutes in comfortable silence as you stick the bandages onto the injury one by one. When you finish, you plant a gentle kiss to a patch of exposed skin above the cut and rest a hand on his shoulder. Dick reaches for your hand and kisses the back of it. Then he turns, pressing a kiss to your lips; quick but full of intention, like the seal to the promise he made you.
“You should go get changed now.” You whisper.
“You should go back to bed.”
He gets up off the cold tiles first with a groan and a stretch, before reaching down to help you up. You didn’t realize until now how much the hard floor caused your legs to ache. The two of you make your way down the hall, hand in hand. Entering your bedroom, Dick turns on a small, dim lamp as you kick off your slippers and plop down on the bed. Quickly stripping and throwing the worn suit to the side, he reaches towards the closet to pull out a fresh one.
“Good thing we got extras, huh?” Dick jests.
You hum sleepily in response.
He slips into the fresh suit as your eyelids start to droop. Making his way over to you, he kisses your forehead tenderly. “I love you.”
“Love you too.” You reach for his cheek, rubbing it with your thumb.
“Goodnight.” On his way out, he turns off the lamp, leaving you in darkness. You hear him make his way down the hall towards the living room again. He grabs his abandoned escrima sticks before making his way back out the window, shutting it firmly behind him.
summary : Hot summer night with your clingy boyfriend
tags : Fluff, just pure fluff
words : 590
a/n : A little something I wrote while unable to sleep in this scorching heat (attic bedrooms are not for the weak)
Summer in Blüdhaven this year around was absolutely agonising. The sun outside heating up the pavement and concrete walls to the point that you felt like a beef roast inside an oven.
The nights weren’t any better. The warmed up interior showing no mercy as you laid in front of your fan in hopes of some type of relief.
You felt like you were in a never ending fever dream. The air is incredibly stuffy and the sheets kept on sticking to your skin. It didn’t help either with an all grown up velcro baby sleeping beside you.
You feel Dick shift beside you for the 3rd time in the last ten minutes, flipping his pillow and kicking the blanket off the end of the Queen sized bed while huffing and puffing like a dog.
“Richard stop moving…”, you murmur against your pillow, eyebrow furrowed, earning you a small scoff from him.
“I can’t sleep when you’re so far away.”, he mumbles, turning around to face your back. You roll your eyes, hearing the inevitable pout in his voice as his hand inches closer to tug at your tank top.
As much as you love him, he’s a human furnace that you would rather stay far away from right now.
You glance over your shoulder sluggishly, eyes crusted up from the little sleep you managed to get before the heat woke you up.
The moonlight illuminates his features, catching a glimpse of his dark, curly hair sticking to his sweaty forehead as he shuffles closer, closing the small gap that has formed between you two - or rather the one you’ve created when trying to get away from him.
You groan the moment his beefy and very warm arm drapes over your waist and his nose meets the crook of the sweet spot where your shoulder and neck meet, kissing his way up to your jugular vein.
“Stop, Dick. I’m going to overheat.”, you murmur, trying to get him off you with a lazy push of your elbow but to no avail, his much bigger and heavier body draping itself over you like a blanket.
“You’ll be fine.”, he snorts into your hair, his leg slipping inbetween yours and arm wrapping around your neck, keeping you in gentle headlock.
“I’m serious. I’m moving to the couch if you don’t stop.”, you push his arm away and sit up, shooting a glare his way.
That made him back off momentarily. You sigh, wiping away his sweat from your skin and relaxing onto your sheets again, Dick sprawled out like a starfish with his eyes focused on the ceiling beside you.
“…Are you sure you don’t want to cuddle?”
You groan, eyebrows furrowing the moment his stupid voice hits your ears, “Richard, go to sleep.”
He huffs and sits up, “But I can’t sleep when I’m not touching you!”
“Hug your pillow and imagine it’s me..”, you sigh and rub your eyes.
“You know that’s not the same..”, Dick mumbles, leaning in once again to pepper your face with kisses with his arm propped up beside your head.
As much as you try, you can’t bite back the smile threatening to appear on your face as he chases after you when you gently push his face away, grinning like an idiot as he steals another kiss.
He pulls away enough to catch a glimpse of your eyes, his hand moving to brush through your thick hair.
Hi! I saw you were asking for angsty prompts and I got one: Reader being Steve's new girlfriend comparing herself to Nancy in her mind and falling short, after some torture she cant do it any more so decides to break up with Steve and he just doesnt get it.
It can have a sad o happy ending as you decide. Thanks :)
After endlessly comparing yourself to the girl Steve loved before, you reach a breaking point and decide to end things, only for Steve to realize just how much you’ve been hiding
Being Steve’s girlfriend felt like something out of a dream, he held your hand in public, kissed your forehead more times than you could count, and looked at you like you were the most important person in the room.
But what was eating away at you was much larger than an insecurity. It was the little things, when they retold stories of their high school years and you weren’t there, when they dug through photographers and you found yourself staring at the girl beside Steve in those memories.
Nancy Wheeler was the beautiful and smart girl you couldn’t manage to live up to, the girl Steve had loved for years, and the one everybody seemed to compare his relationships to. Including you, even when you tried not to, you couldn’t help but listen to that voice in your head that whispered Steve had smiled at Nancy first, before you.
Every time he complimented you, the voice reminded you Nancy was prettier, that he’d soon get bored of you and move on. And eventually, it all became exhausting, every date felt like a test you were failing, every kiss felt borrowed, every “I love you” came with the fear that one day Steve would realize he wasn’t meant to be loving you.
So you started pulling away, and Steve, like the observant boyfriend he was, noticed immediately.
“Everything okay?” He’d ask.
You’d force a smile onto your face, because how could you tell him about the fears that plagued you? “Yeah.” Another lie, then another, and another, until one evening it all came crashing down.
You were sitting on Steve’s bed while he rummaged through his dresser, looking for a sweatshirt he’d lost. You’ve barely spoken all evening, chest feeling tight and palms clammy, like if you stayed another minute you’d completely fall apart.
Steve finally found the sweatshirt and turned around, the smile on his face falling the moment he caught sight of you.
“Whoa,” he froze. “Baby?”
You quickly looked away, but it was too late, he’d already seen the tears staining your cheeks.
Steve crossed the room instantly, kneeling down in front of you. “What happened?” Concern that you were hurt was the first thing that came to him, it almost broke you as you shook your head.
“What happened, sweetheart? You can tell me.” His voice softened, trying to appear calm, even though he was anything but.
You let out a shaky breath, refusing to look into his eyes. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Steve blinked. “What?”
“I-I can’t—” your voice cracked. “I don’t think we should be together anymore.”
The room went dead silent at your confession. Steve stared as if he hadn’t heard you properly, then all the color drained from his face. This couldn’t be happening.
You looked down at your lap, “I think—”
Steve shook his head immediately. “No, no, what?” His breathing picked up, heart beating out of his chest.
Tears blurred your vision all over again. “I just think—”
“What did I do?” He interrupted, your head snapped up. Steve looked absolutely devastated, like you’d just ripped the ground out from underneath him.
“What?” You asked breathlessly.
“If I screwed up, just tell me.” He practically begged.
“Steve—”
“I’ll fix it, I swear.” Your heart shattered, because that was the problem, it was never his fault.
“Steve, stop.” It was becoming too much.
“If I’ve been neglecting you, or if I said something—”
You only started crying harder, this was somehow worse, leading your boyfriend into thinking he’d hurt you, making him blame himself.
“You didn’t.” You forced out the words.
“Then why are you breaking up with me?” The question came out desperate, and that was what finally did it. The last thing holding you together snapped in half, as a sob escaped your chest.
“Because I’m not Nancy!” The words exploded out of you, you immediately wished you could take them back.
Steve didn’t move an inch, but it was all out now, every insecurity, every ugly thought, every fear, all out in the open. You buried your face in your hands. “I’m not her.” You said much quieter, but no less honest.
“She’s prettier than me, and smarter than me, and everyone talks about her—”
“Honey—”
“And I know you loved her.” Your voice broke into a million tiny pieces. “I know she was important to you,” you continued. “And I keep thinking you’re gonna realize I’m not her.”
Steve looked stunned, those were the last words he’d expected out of your mouth, you were speaking a language he didn’t understand.
“Is…” he blinked. “Is that what this is?” You couldn’t even respond, the embarrassment alone was killing you. Very slowly, Steve sat down beside you, like he was approaching a frightened animal.
“Sweetheart. I need you to look at me.” He said gently, but firm.
When you didn’t move your head, a hand touched yours. “Please.” After a long moment, you looked up, and regretted that you did.
Steve wasn’t angry, or annoyed, he just looked sad. Sad that you’ve been carrying all this alone. “Listen to me,” he said, taking both your hands in his.
“Nancy was important to me.” He acknowledged, and the admission hurt, but he squeezed your fingers before you could spiral. “She was, but she’s not you.”
You swallowed, letting out a heavy exhale. “You don’t understand—”
Steve shook his head adamantly. “I think you don’t understand. I don’t love you because you remind me of Nancy.” He reached up to brush your tears away. “I love you because you don’t.”
You froze, brows coming together in the middle. “What?”
Steve laughed softly, a bittersweet one. “Honey, Nancy and I ended years ago. I cared about her, but that’s not the same thing as loving you.”
His thumb rubbed across your knuckles. “Do you know what I think about when I see you?”
You shook your head, and Steve smiled. “The way you scrunch your nose when you’re annoyed.” A laugh escaped you. “The way you talk when you’re excited.” His eyes sparkled. “The way you make me feel like myself.” Your chest hurt, but for a different reason now.
“I don’t compare you to her. Ever.” He spoke more grounded now, tilting your chin up. “If I wanted Nancy, I’d be with Nancy.”
Your breath caught. “But I don’t.” His eyes shone with sincerity. “I want you.”
A sob left you, not quite as painful, but Steve immediately pulled you into his arms, allowing you to collapse against him.
“I was so scared.” You whispered, his arms tightened around you. “I thought I wasn’t enough for you.”
Steve’s voice was thick with emotion. “You’re the only person I want—the only person I’ll ever be with. Don’t think for a moment you’re not enough for me, because I wonder everyday if I’m enough for you.”
A broken sound escaped your throat, Steve pressed a kiss into your hair, then a couple more. “I’m sorry you’ve been hurting.”
You buried your face into his chest, “I’m sorry I scared you for trying to break up.” Steve pulled back, his hands framing your face.
“Hey, you don’t apologize for feeling bad. Yeah, you scared the shit out of—but I’m just upset you thought you had to handle it alone.” He said, leaning forward to press his forehead against yours.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He promised, the words sounding quiet but certain. “I’m not choosing another girl, I’m choosing you.” His nose bumped yours, and a tiny smile appeared through your tears.
The voice in your head finally went quiet, long enough to believe him. And you were confident to say you’d choose him back, every time.
I was wondering, what do r and Steve’s schedules look like at the college in the zombie au? Do they get and free time? Wuv u
I feel the college would be on a 3/4 day swap bc there's a lot of people but also a lot of jobs to do! they’d ask for the same days off + they spend a lot of their free time like this (suggestive) !! steve zombie!au | fem!reader | 1k
Your needle pulls through the white fabric of Steve's shirt with ease. You tug until the two sides of the rip are touching and make another stitch, and another, enjoying the peaceful solace that is your room. Just outside the door you can hear Milly and Lupita playing go fish in the hallway. Milly sits in her doorway, Lupita opposite.
Steve snores quietly in his sleep. You peek up from his ripped t-shirt. Like he can feel your eyes on him, he starts to wake, stretching and groaning under the sheets. You stick the needle through his shirt so you won't lose it and reach for his bicep.
"Hey," you say, rubbing his naked skin soothingly.
He folds his arm to cover your hand with his. "Hey," he mumbles.
Breakfast in the town hall was put away hours ago, and dinner won't be for another three or four, but if you asked Maybelle, the woman in charge of The College's community meals, you're sure you can have whatever was left over. Or you could take something from the pantry (legally — you aren't a sneak).
Steve doesn't look in any rush to get up and eat. He curls into himself and holds your hand to his chest.
"What are you doing?" he asks without looking at you.
"I'm sewing your shirt."
"You didn't have to. I could've done it."
"I know… You would've done a better job, too."
Steve rolls flat onto his back, smiling at you already. You put his shirt and the needle and thread onto the nightstand and kneel beside his hip, smiling in turn.
"That's not true," Steve says. "Don't underestimate my girl."
You love when he says that, and maybe that's why he does it so often. My girl, emphasis on the my. You grin at him and slide your legs out so you can rest your head against his chest comfortably. You're only intending on stealing a quick moment there, but Steve wraps his arms around you easy, his nose in your hair.
You hum happily.
"What are we gonna do today?" you ask.
You would've asked last night when he got back if he hadn't peeled off his clothes and slammed himself into bed beside you, hiding his face in your neck with an exhausted, "Are you okay? I'm so tired, I don't know if I can keep my eyes open."
"Can we just stay here? I don't wanna deal with anyone who isn't you,” he says.
"We're still gonna go to card club, right?"
He rubs his nose left to right against your skin. "Yeah, we'll still go to card club. Henderson better behave, or I swear I'm coming home."
"You're very mean to poor young Dustin," you murmur.
"I'm mean to everybody. That's my thing."
"That is not your thing,” you say fondly.
"Yeah, it is. You know it is."
"No…" You move closer still and listen to his heart beating under your ear, eyes on your hand. You flatten your fingers over his pale shoulder and kiss at his chest absentmindedly. "No, you're lovely. You're my sweetheart."
"I'm not," he says, with a laugh that gives away how flustered he's becoming.
Huffing, you sit up to meet his eyes, uncharacteristically shy, a sweet, warm brown that you could fall into. You brush the sleep from his lashes. His hands creep to your hips. He takes your waist into his hands and squeezes upward aimlessly, a journey without a goal.
"D'you miss me yesterday?" he asks.
"Nope."
"Such love," he drawls.
"You miss me?"
"Like a hole in the head." He follows up his sarcasm with a sweeter tone. "How's the pantry? Started talking to the food yet?"
"There was a really weird can of beans that looked like you."
You know from his smile alone that he's going to kiss you, but you can't close your eyes in time. He kisses you, laughs, kisses you again. "A can of beans?" he asks.
You kiss for slightly longer than what's acceptable. Every time he pulls away you follow, and every time you split for breath he's not far behind, his lips loving against your cheek, the stripe of skin just shy of your jaw, anywhere he can reach. His fingers slide behind your ear, huge hand a heat over your hair as he tips your head up.
"No, Stevie, don't," you protest gently.
He kisses your neck, lips gentle as the brush of a butterfly's wing. "Just one."
"No," you say, giggling at the ticklish feeling of his words and their vibrations. "Everybody knows what it is."
"That's half the point."
"What's the other half?"
"I love," he murmurs, dragging his bottom lip up the column of your throat with a calculated sluggishness, "the sound you make when I do it."
You make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a squeal, not the sound he’d been implying, and sit up. You’re delighted by his salacious teasing but still so new to his seductions. He follows you, and your heart skips a beat at his expression.
"Just one, baby," he says.
You know that if you said, No, Steve, I really don't want you to kiss me, he'd never press it again. But you both know you like it, and his beggy, rough tone gives you goosebumps. You love how much he wants to love on you — you can live with the resulting hickey.
"Okay," you say. You have to clear your throat for any sound to come out. "Okay. One."
Steve steals another peel of laughter from you as he manhandles you into his lap. Something about his grip makes you think you might not make it to card club after all.
Zombie au my beloved!! Maybe reader playing with Stevie’s grown out hair since he hasn’t been able to have a haircut in months? Imagine how lush he’d be with long hair, pretty pretty boy!! ❤️
The idea is that you put on enough chapstick to transfer. It tastes like slightly stale Sweethearts but it does what it’s supposed to do in the winter, moisturising the chapped edges of your lips to quell a dry sting. You put it on three times in a row, aware of Steve in that lovey-intrinsic way, knowing that he’s watching you do it but not understanding it until you're clicking the cap back on.
“Kiss?” you ask without making eye contact.
It’s a touch shy. Some evil part of you might always wonder why he likes you so much, but there’s never any doubt that he does, in fact, love you, so you tilt your head his way and add, “Please?” like you’re gonna start crying.
He nearly breaks his own neck getting up. “Yeah, of course, but,” —he kisses you quickly, voice on your lips— “what’s wrong?”
You kiss him slower but not that much longer, a gentle press of your lips that bends for three seconds instead of his two. When you pull away, his lips are pink and shiny.
He looks pretty.
“Dude.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” you say, “my lips were dry.”
“No, but, your face when you said ‘please,’ you looked so sad?”
“I think it was manipulation. I wanted you to be fast.” You laugh through your nose. He smiles back, his relief palpable, joy in the line of his kind mouth and kinder eyes, their soft shape, the dark brown line of his eyelashes all tangled in the corners, he has that many.
You lift your hand to his hair. It’s kissing his shoulders now in places, especially the very back, sweet brown and curling, feathered even where it’s grown out.
“This is long,” you murmur, talking to him softly only to watch it soften him in turn.
It’s addictive how responsive he is to your moods. Worries you, some, but not when it gets him to relax. Almost an impossible thing to achieve here in the darkening, cold tent. It’s barely five PM and soon to be pitch black and freezing, but you and Steve are gonna be alright. You’ve planned for this. You have to wait here, in the dark, in his company, illuminated by a dying battery-lamp and entertained by his cat-like squint. He tilts his head into your hand, encouraging your fingers deeper into his hair, your fingernails scratching lightly into his skin.
“Cut it for me?” he asks, eyes closed still but lips staying parted, offering a pink peek of tongue.
“Tomorrow?”
“Find scissors.”
You bring your second hand up and brush them both through his hair in sync, gathering the lush of it in your palms to hold against his neck, framing him.
“I could stay like this forever,” you say to yourself, “maybe I can do it with the penknife.”
“Then stay like this,” he agrees pleasantly. It takes him a little longer to respond to the second half of your sentence, “Probably shouldn’t. You almost lost your pinky, last time.”
“Or you could grow it out.”
“Do you like it?”
“I think I’d have to wait and see.”
“Do you like it now?”
You stroke his neck with your knuckles. “I love it. You are so…”
“So?”
Your smile has your eyes half-lidded as you shift up on knees and wrap your arm behind his head. “Don’t make me say it,” you say, though you’d happily say it, just, it’s something to do. Something for him to draw out of you, his big hands resting on your hips and squeezing the longer you refuse to give an answer.
“I’m so what?” he asks, all manner of smug now, like the cat who got the cream, words too sweet in his mouth, isn’t it awful. “Tell me.”
You pull his hair into a little pony tail at the back of his head and pull back to study the exposed skin of his cheek. “Pretty,” you say, letting yourself sink into his touch, lips pressing to his cheeks until it tickles to talk. “No wonder these geeks keep trying to eat you.”
“You next?”
“Me first,” you correct, letting your teeth graze his stubbly jaw.
Can you do one where you ask Clark for money (as a joke) but he’s so immediately down and also kinda worried? thank you!
Cat Grant loves a good scheme. “I see it all the time online, you have to test him.”
You pick at your sandwich. The Daily Planet’s cafeteria is more of a restaurant. It’s the biggest news outlet in all of Metropolis, with a skyscraper for an office. The cafeteria has to accommodate that. It’s always open, always busy, but you and Cat managed to carve away space at a table in the corner of the room far from the kitchen and all the food laid out across stainless steel bars. “I don’t know,” you say finally. “I don’t want him to think I’m a user.”
“You’re not using. Don’t tell him what it’s for and watch what conclusion he comes to. It’s a good indicator.” She tucks a streak of her blonde hair behind her ear, her hoop earrings giving a gentle clink. “Seriously, boys are evil. You need to know if you can depend on him in your time of need. And I need to know how much I respect him.”
You take a big bite of sandwich to avoid answering while you think, but the thought comes suddenly, “What if he actually gives me money?”
“That’s a win.”
You’ve never asked Clark for anything, as far as you can remember. You’ve been dating for five months and two weeks, which isn’t long, but sort of is? Like, you’re pretty sure you’re in love with him, and he’s so consistently lovely to you that you’re reluctant to ask, ‘cos maybe his answer will affect the way you look at him. Or what if he thinks you’re only dating him for the easy life he could provide?
“We’re basically on the same pay,” you say, “I don’t think he’ll believe me.”
“Sure he will.” Cat smushes the last half of her sandwich with her hand. The chips inside all crunch into crumbs.
You find you’re not that worried. Clark is sweet, and he likes a good joke.
You pull out your phone and take another bite. The sandwich is not good, but you’re hungry.
Clark can you send me some money, you type. You turn the phone to Cat for approval. When she nods, you hit send.
It takes a minute for him to answer. It’s an Apple payment via text for $50. You laugh like a shock.
“What did he say?” Cat asks.
You show her the phone, but Clark is already typing, his messages popping up on the screen in quick succession.
Is that enough?
$50
Is everything ok ? I can send more
“He sent another fifty,” you say.
“Oh my god.”
Your phone starts to ring in your hand, Clark’s profile photo in the middle of the screen: his sleeping face tucked over your heart. You giggle to yourself as you answer, doughy bread in your mouth. “Hi, sorry, I’m chewing.”
“That’s okay, honey,” he says, sounding cheerful and worried all at once, “what’s up? Is that gonna be enough?”
“Oh, er, my card declined. I’m getting lunch with Cat.”
“Downstairs? I can come down, sweetheart, I have my wallet.”
“No, I already paid for it.”
“Aw, great, I was worried for a second there.”
“I can send it right back to you, now,” you say, feeling ever so slightly guilty. You don’t know what you were expecting, but his urgency makes you wanna kiss him stupid, not trick him further. “Thank you, for– for being so quick. You saved me the embarrassment.”
“That’s okay, I don’t need it back–”
“Well, no, I can’t keep a hundred dollars just ‘cos you sent it, baby, I– my card declined, but it was the card reader, that’s all.”
“Just keep whatever you paid for lunch, then, and use the rest for lunch tomorrow.”
“It’s a sandwich."
“Then you can have sandwiches all week.”
You meet Cat’s eyes, failing to hide your unyielding elation. He’s such a catch. “Okay. Clark, I’m sending it back, okay?”
“Don’t tease me, I got so excited.”
You laugh and hang up on him.
Clark texts you ten seconds later: If you send it back to me I’m gonna send it back to you. Have a good break, see you later? <3
“I bet he will,” Cat says, having read the screen upside down.
You text Clark back: Yes!! Can I come home with you?
Yeah honey meet me by the elevators? I’ll be waiting for you
“He is such a dork,” Cat says, eyebrows raised. “But I’m happy for you.”
You’re feeling pretty good about it all yourself. You and Cat finish lunch and head your mildly separate ways. You’re in the print room today supervising, and it stretches into the uneventful afternoon. By finishing time, you’re excited to give Clark a kiss and sneak his hundred dollars back into his pocket somehow, but he’s not waiting by the elevator.
It’s tempting to keep the money. He did sound excited for you to keep it, as strange as that might be. He rejected your offer to give it back, then tried to compromise that you could keep it. He'd pay for your lunch all week.
Would he give you money for nothing at all? He was just worried, right? But when there was no problem, he didn’t want it back.
It doesn’t hurt to poke around a little.
Clark exits the elevator with a blank expression. When he sees you waiting a few feet away with your shoulders on the wall, his face lights up. His eyebrows soften, his lips lift and go white from the force of his smile.
“Let’s go home,” he says, grinning as he wraps his arm around you from the small of your back.
You lean up and kiss his jaw. “Today was long.”
“Too long, bubby.”
Bubby. You give him a harmless shove, but Clark pulls you right back in. Keeps his arm on you all the way home, give the few seconds getting off of the tram, where he offers his hand to guide you onto the road.
“So,” you say, “about earlier…”
“What happened earlier?”
“With the money.”
Clark narrows his eyes at you. “What about it? Honey, I already told you to keep it. It was yours the second I sent it.”
“No, it’s not– Clark. I would much rather you take it back, I really don’t need a hundred dollars for a sandwich I already paid for. It was this–” You pause, giving him a bashful, sorry smile. “Cat wanted me to see if you’d complain or not, I guess. So I lied about my card declining, sorry. I am actually sorry, and I can’t keep the money in good conscience.”
“Ooh, in good conscience,” he murmurs, mirroring your smile, though his is more of a smirk. “Well, that’s okay. If you feel bad about it, send it back to me, no hard feelings.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Thank you, handsome,” you say.
“What else is on your mind?”
“You… this isn’t supposed to sound like you need to say yes, but I guess I was wondering if you would’ve sent me it no matter what? My text literally just said can you send me money. I didn’t even say please, and I didn’t say it’s an emergency or anything.”
Clark shrugs at you. “Yeah, I would’ve sent it to you. I don’t care what it was for.”
“Clark, it was a hundred dollars.”
“Do you think you’re not worth a hundred dollars?”
“Not for no reason.”
“In the moment, I assumed it was an emergency because you never ask me for anything, do you?”
“Not really.”
“Would it shock you to know that I wish you would?” A curl falls onto his forehead, just above his dark brow. “You are the most important woman in my life. A hundred is nothing compared to that. I don’t really care what you want it for.”
You’re pretty sure that’s an I love you. Maybe he’s saving the real thing for somewhere more intimate than the street, but that’s gotta be close.
“Keep the money,” he says, kissing your cheek quickly. “I was still gonna send it back, even if you were just satisfying your curiosity. You didn’t lie to get it, you lied after.”
“You’re such a reporter,” you grumble, secretly very pleased. “Poking holes in my argument.”
(Clark sends you $50 the next day at lunch, with the text: Buy yourself dinner or whatever you want, do not send it back!
Then: Please just take it. For my gratification if nothing else. Please!!
dick grayson x reader fluff, slice of life, suggestive :P
Dick Grayson was a very particular man. He had a routine that he followed –which included going for regular weekly brunches at the manor. He drove for two hours every Sunday with you to see his family.
This time however, the brunch was shifted to a Thursday because Bruce had people coming in for a meeting and he wanted the whole family to be present. Naturally you couldn’t go with Dick because you had work.
Dick woke up before his alarm even went off due to the chill morning air hitting his bare body. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and glanced at the lack of blankets covering him. Thanks to his girlfriend who always ran cold.
You clung to Dick at night when you went to sleep because he was basically a human furnace with how warm he was but each morning you drifted away from him and hogged the blankets in a deathly grip where he couldn’t reach. Which caused him to wake up.
Yet he wouldn’t trade it for the world.
He turned sideways to look at your sleeping frame. Your hair sprawled all over your pillow with a small pout prominent on your lips as you stayed cocooned in the warm blankets.
Dick smiled gently and pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead before getting out of bed. He turned his alarm off to let you sleep in for a bit because yours was set thirty minutes after his.
He stretched his body and cracked a few joints before making his way towards the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face to wake him up before grabbing his electric toothbrush from the little Batman and Robin holder you had gotten as a joke.
He smiled at the memory as he mindlessly brushed his teeth, mind drifting back to you like it always did. Dick’s wildest fantasy involved you two quitting your jobs so you could stay in bed forever cuddling and having endless sex. He pictured your giggly face last night as he moved inside you, a matching look of giddiness on his face due to the wine you two had.
His eyes landed on the single love bite you had left just below his collarbone as payback for the twenty he left littered across your chest.
He had half a mind to cancel on Bruce but he was a man of his word so he spit the toothpaste out and hopped into the shower.
Twenty minutes later as Dick was standing in front of the sink in just a towel wrapped around his waist, he heard the bathroom door open as you strolled inside in one of his t shirts.
He gave you a quick peck on the forehead and you nudged him aside to grab your toothbrush. Dick had just been applying hair gel in his hair when your eyes met his through the mirror.
You began lazily brushing your teeth when Dick chuckled fondly at your puffy face. He picked up the hairdryer next and began styling his hair like he usually did each morning.
“You still had fifteen more minutes baby, why are you up?” Dick asked gently, afraid to disrupt the morning quiet.
You spit your toothpaste out before glaring at him through the mirror. “Someone left the bed and I was cold.”
“Oh you were cold?” Dick challenged and poked the side of your stomach, causing you to yelp. “You stole all the blankets you little thief.”
“I did not!” You protested.
“Yes you did and you rolled away from me I couldn’t even hold you,” he huffed dramatically as he continued fixing his hair.
“I’m sorry,” you apologised through mouthful of toothpaste, suddenly feeling bad for your boyfriend who was probably cold the whole night.
“It’s fine pretty. No need to apologise,” Dick smiled and wrapped his left arm around your stomach, resting his chin on your head.
You gave him a crooked smile before leaning down to spit the toothpaste out and rinse your mouth before finally turning around to look at your boyfriend.
“Hi,” you smiled, grabbing his face.
“Hello,” Dick chirped.
“Don’t you look dashing,” you commented, rubbing your palms over the coarse hair on his face.
“Well thank you m’lady,” he grinned and finally connected your lips.
“Dick that tickles!” You giggled, pushing him away. “Shave your beard.”
“I’ll do it tomorrow, I’m not going to work today,” Dick simply shrugged and grabbed the hair dryer again.
“You are going to Wayne Enterprises though,” you frowned, rubbing your palms over his face again.
“Baby it’s fine, Tim the CEO has to worry about that not me,” he gave you a quick peck on the cheek.
“You’re Bruce’s son too, you should look put together not like a rockstar who doesn’t know what a shower is.”
“What?” Dick snickered.
“I’m serious!”
“Just say you hate it.”
“I don’t hate it,” you replied. “I just don’t like it a lot.”
“Wow,” Dick muttered.
“Let me do it,” you offered, hopping on the counter.
“Yeah right,” Dick scoffed.
“Please!” You protested. “I shave my legs I know how to do it.”
“I think my face is a bit different than your legs angel, I do love them a lot don’t get me wrong,” as if to prove his point, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your bare thigh before resting his hand there.
“Dick!” You whined.
“No,” he said firmly.
You huffed and grabbed the shaving can from the sink along with his razor before spraying the shaving cream onto your fingers. You grabbed his wrist next and rubbed the cream over the hairy skin and before he could say anything, you swiped the razor across it.
“See?” You beamed up at him as you continued shaving the cream off his wrist.
Dick chewed on his bottom lip for a couple of seconds before finally rolling his eyes.
“Fine,” he sighed, slotting his hips between your thighs.
“Yay!” You cheered and clapped your hands, momentarily forgetting that the razor was in your hand with the plastic cap off and you were waving it in front of Dick’s eye.
“Yeah nevermind,” he said and began pulling away but you tightened your thighs around his waist.
“Sorry!” You said quickly.
“If I die, just know that I loved you dearly and I leave my motorcycle to Jason.”
“And nothing for me?” You dramatically gasped.
“I’m not dying alone am I? In life and death and all that?”
“Thats in sickness and in health you dork and we’re not married,” you pointed out.
“Yet,” Dick reiterated, planting a kiss on your nose.
“Enough stalling Nightwing,” you narrowed your eyes at him before grabbing the shaving can.
You shook it for a second before spraying a good amount on your palm before rubbing it across Dick’s bearded face. He closed his eyes and hummed lowly as he felt your soft hands rub against his coarse skin.
You put your thumb on his chin to tilt his head back carefully as you began gliding the razor across his skin. You worked in silence for a good few minutes in complete concentration with your eyebrows furrowed and your tongue peeking out from between your lips.
Dick smiled at the sight as his hands came to rest on your waist. He earned a harsh “shh! don’t move” from you when you felt his cheeks move due to his smile.
You worked your way up his throat towards the easier part of the face which were his cheeks. When you finally got to his cupid’s bow, you sat up straight and grabbed his face in your hands almost knocking your forehead against his with how close you were but you managed to gently glide the razor against his moustache.
Dick had to tap your waist once to make you stop long enough for him to press a kiss to your forehead, causing some shaving cream to linger before he asked you to continue.
You shook your head lightly at him but the smile breaking out on your face was enough to show him that you weren’t actually irritated by his antics.
Few more quick yet careful swipes of razor across his face and he was done, looking fresh with a clean shaven face.
He tapped your thigh to get out of the grip you had on his hips and washed his face with water to get rid of any remaining cream on his face. You watched him intently as he grabbed the razor from your hand and made a quick swipe across the corner of his mouth to get the patch of hair you had missed.
He washed the razor under the sink and wiped his face with a towel and before he even had the chance to put the towel back, you pulled him back between your thighs with your elbows resting on his shoulders.
“Hello handsome,” you grinned and touched your cheek to his.
“Wow,” Dick mused. “You really hate my beard huh?”
“I just like seeing your whole face,” you replied and before he could utter another word, you cupped his face in your hands and began pecking his face, causing him to let out a laugh.
“Okay!” Dick protested but you didn’t relent as your lips reached his adam’s apple. “If you keep this up I’ll cancel my meeting and you’ll have to miss work because I’ll keep you in bed all day.”
“Sorry,” you apologised, planting one last kiss on his nose. “I forgot it’s a crime to love on your boyfriend. You should punish me Nightwing,” you finished, giving him a playful smirk.
Dick closed his eyes for a beat and sucked in a harsh breath before he leaned forward to connect your lips in a searing kiss that lasted only for a beat.
“I’m calling Bruce, he doesn’t need me that bad,” he murmured against your lips.
You giggled and tugged at his styled hair to push him off you. “Go, I made coffee.”
“M’kay,” Dick hummed, pressing another kiss to your mouth before he helped you hop off the counter. “I’ll make you some toast before leaving and don’t forget your vitamins.”
“Yes daddy!” You said with a dramatic salute.
“Oh you’re done now,” Dick warned before lunging towards you.
You yelped as he scooped you up in his arms and turned around to go to the bedroom. He fell backwards on the bed with you still in his hold.
“Dick!” You giggled as you tried to wiggle out of his iron grip.
He flipped you two over with practiced ease, causing you to lie flat on your back under him. You smiled up at him when his fingers came down to your face to brush your hair away so he could see your face.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.
“You say that every day,” you scrunched your nose as a wave of shyness washed over you.
“You look pretty every day,” he simply shrugged.
“Stop!” You whined playfully before covering your face with your hands. “I haven’t even washed my face yet it’s puffy and dry.”
“Look at me,” Dick urged and pried your fingers away from your face, pinning both of your hands in his over your head.
You pouted in response when he managed to make you look at him.
“I love you and your puffy face,” he smiled and leaned down enough so your noses were touching but he didn’t kiss you yet. “And your perfect tits,” he murmured and finally kissed you.
You giggled against his mouth as he brought his free hand to your chest to really send his message.
No matter how many years you and Dick spent together and how many ways he fucked you, he still managed to make you blush with one simple look. His blue eyes always looked at you with so much love and relief especially in mornings when he could just be Dick Grayson and stay in bed with you. When he didn’t have to put on a mask.
His tongue glided against your bottom lip before let his teeth bite lightly at your mouth, causing you to moan and squirm in his hold. His hips came down to hold you still and you realised your panties and Dick’s towel were the only things separating you both.
He pulled away and trailed his lips down to your jaw, slowly kissing over the marks he left last night as if to revisit them. Your shirt was swiftly pulled over your head by the hem as Dick sat back on his knees to admire your bare body and when a smirk appeared on his lips, you knew he was feeling proud of the love bites and hickeys he left all over and below your chest.
Before Dick could attach his mouth to your breasts, his phone began ringing but he didn’t budge as he began planting hot open mouthed kisses between the valley of your breasts.
“Dick your phone,” you panted.
“Leave it,” he mumbled.
“It could be important,” you reasoned but your fingers tangled themselves in his silky black hair.
“It’s not,” he replied.
A few seconds later his phone finally stopped ringing but Dick’s movements didn’t relent. He kissed a path down to the waistband of your flimsy panties and when he pulled them up by his teeth, the ringing came again.
“Dick!” You said, louder this time and pushed him away to grab his phone from the nightstand. “It’s Jason,” you informed him but he shook his head and continued planting kisses on your thighs.
You rolled your eyes and picked up the call, bringing the phone to your ear. “Hey Jason.”
“Oh hey,” Jason said your name so casually like you picking up Dick’s phone was normal for him. “Just wanted to check in and see Dick is coming to the meeting right?”
“Yeah he is,” you said the same time Dick yelled “No he’s not!”
“Ignore him, he is,” you huffed and tried pushing Dick away again but he didn’t move, still holding on to your calves as he planted stray kisses to your thighs and knees.
“Dude,” Jason said and you put the phone on speaker.
“What?” Dick sighed.
“You’re coming or I’m not going either and then Tim won’t go,” Jason added.
“Fine,” Dick groaned. “I’m leaving in a bit.”
“Good,” Jason replied.
“You just cockblocked me by the way.”
Jason snickered in response before hanging up.
Dick reached for you again but this time you were quicker than him. You stood up from the bed and ran towards the bathroom, locking the door behind you.
“Seriously?” Dick groaned. “Not even a bye kiss?”
You ducked your head out of the bathroom door and gestured for him to come closer with your finger which he obliged and within seconds, he was in front of you.
You quickly gave him a peck and before he could deepen the kiss, you pulled away.
“Bye! Good luck!” You beamed, shutting the door again.
one of my favs ive written so far which was also inspired by a harry fic i read back in like 2019 soo if i find it again i’ll tag it!
likes comments and reblogs appreciated, hope you enjoy <3
dick grayson x reader fluff, non sexual showering, language, suggestive
The steam from the shower wafted around you, creating a fog that you couldn’t see through. With closed eyes and your head tipped back, you let the hot water cascade down your tired body, making you let out a soothing sigh.
“Hi,” you heard Dick say. He peeked his head through the shower curtain next and looked at your blurred figure.
“Hi?” You replied, opening one eye to look at the shit eating grin on his face.
“Can I join you?” He asked with a smile he reserved for when he was trying to seduce you.
“Sure,” you replied and backed away a bit, making room for him.
He pulled the shower curtain back, revealing his already naked body like he wouldn’t have cared if you said no or maybe he just knew you too well and had known you wouldn’t turn him down.
His sweet grin turned into a full blown yelp the second he stepped under the shower. He jumped back and almost hit his head on the wall, making you let out a laugh.
“What the fuck!” He bellowed.
“What?”
“You practicing for going to hell or something?” He questioned. “The water is fucking boiling.”
“Don’t be dramatic its fine,” you rolled your eyes.
“Turn it down,” he said, firmly.
“No, you can leave,” you offered.
“I’m already wet I don’t want to leave please turn it down just a bit angel, you’re literally red right now,” he coaxed.
“Fine,” you huffed and turned the shower knob to the right to make the water a bit cooler.
“Thank you,” Dick said and stepped under the spray of the water –still wincing, and put his hands on your waist.
“Good?” You checked.
“Manageable,” he grumbled, grabbing your shampoo from the shelf. “This isn’t healthy.”
“Your face isn’t healthy,” you replied, sticking your tongue out at him.
“Is that why you keep sitting on it?” he smirked, earning a smack to his chest in response.
He squeezed some of the shampoo on your palm and leaned his head down, gesturing for you to rub it in his hair.
“Your hair is getting long,” you murmured, rubbing your fingers through his scalp.
“Do you want me to cut it?” he said softly, too busy moaning at the way your hands moved through his hair.
“No I like it like this,” you replied, gripping the inky black hair in your palms.
“Freak,” he chuckled standing to his full height.
“I didn’t even say anything!” You protested, closing your eyes shut when Dick began rubbing the shampoo in your hair.
You felt him kiss your forehead, each of your closed eyelids, your nose then finally your lips before he rested his head on your shoulder, letting out a soft hum.
You grabbed your lavender scented body wash –that he loved an unhealthy amount, and began rubbing it on his back while he hummed in response and planted kisses on your shoulder and collarbone and wherever his lips could reach.
“I love when you don’t have work,” he mumbled. “Quit your job.”
“So you can be stuck to me like a koala all the time?”
“Mhmm,” he let out, planting one last kiss on your jaw before straightening.
“Tempting,” you smiled.
“I can offer you many services,” he almost whispered, planting kiss after kiss on the side of your throat, your collarbones and your jaw.
“Is this why you crashed my shower,” you mused, gripping his hair.
“Maybe,” he smirked, tracing his fingers down your spine.
“Dick,” you whispered, your hand finding the tap behind him in an attempt to turn the water a bit warmer without him noticing.
“Tell me what you want,” he said in a husky voice laced with need, continuing his attack on your neck.
“FUCK!” he screamed and jumped back again, glaring at you.
“Get back here!” You protested when you saw him get out of the shower and grab his towel to wrap around his waist.
“You’re a demon!” He yelled.
“Dick come on! I’m sorry,” you giggled turning the shower off and wrapped a towel around your torso, following him towards the sink.
“Just for that, you’re not getting anything for a week,” he huffed.
“Like you can go that long without touching me,” you challenged.
“Don’t test me,” he narrowed his eyes and turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” You asked.
“To get dressed?” He offered like it was the most natural thing.
“Do you not moisturise after you shower?”
“Uh no?”
“You heathen! Come back here,” you ordered and like the obedient boyfriend he was, he made his way back to you.
“Is this necessary,” he asked when he saw you pump some pink body lotion on your palm.
“Yes! Hot water dries your skin,” you replied, rubbing it over his hard chest and abs.
“You just wanna feel me up,” he smirked and looked down at you.
“I wouldn’t need an excuse for that,” you replied, rubbing the lotion on his biceps. “You’re so large, I use all that for both of my legs.”
“Are you complaining?”
“No but-”
“That’s what I thought,” he smiled again and took the body lotion from you, grabbing the edge of the towel to unwrap it from your body.
“My turn.”
HES SO!!! hes so!!! SO!!!!
likes comments and reblogs are appreciated, hope you enjoy <3
Summary: you work at the Hawkins local zoo that your parents own. Steve always teased you about being the local zookeeper, but he can't help but fall in love with you one even when you show him your full life.
Requests: OPEN
Your family owns the Hawkins local zoo. Ever since you were a little girl, you've been part of the zookeeper life, helping your parents keep the habitats, feeding the animals. Your whole life, you've been home-schooled, up until last year, your parents finally let you get a taste of public school.
And if it wasn't for your begging and pleading... you wouldn't have been able to meet the love of your life.
Steve. The popular, grade A student who somehow made everyone in school laugh without even trying, the guy with the perfect hair and that unmistakable confidence, had somehow become completely... human to you. Not just the glossy, untouchable version the whole school drooled over.
You first noticed him when your school group visited the zoo last fall. He'd been loud, joking with his friends, leaning against his shiny BMW parked just outside the entrance.
And then he stopped.
Right in front of the otters. Watching. Not just looking. Really watching, as if he noticed every tiny movement, every twitch and squeak.
And then he turned. And your eyes met. You'd never believed in love at first sight, but that moment? It was... close.
He grinned at you, that charming, boy-next-door-but-with-an-edge grin that made your stomach do flips, and your cheeks heat up. "Hey, do you... like, work here?" He asked, gesturing vaguely at the flamingos flamingos behind you.
You swallowed, trying to play it cool. "Yeah. I uh- yeah." You said, shrugging, hoping your voice didn't betray how fast your heart was racing.
Steve's grin widened. "That's... actually really cool. Most of us are stuck staring at textbooks all day. You get to hang out with flamingos and... lions? Tigers?"
You laughed. "Lions, tigers, bears... and otters. Mostly otters." You added, watching him raise a brow at your enthusiasm.
"No kidding. I love otters." He replied, his grin spread into a wide smile.
And that was it. The first spark. The first conversation. The first time you've met someone who wasn't another co-worker or pet specialist.
Now, you sit in your last class of the day, excitedly talking with Robin who sat next to you, wondering what homework you had to turn in and what was given out just because.
"Wait, your in a band?" You ask, reiterating what she just told you.
"Well... I'm in the school band. I play the French horn." She smiles, cheeks flushing just the slightest bit.
"You sound like the smart one of the group," you chuckle.
Before she can respond, someone clears their throat behind you.
"I'm actually the smartest," Dustin says, raising his hand up. "She's just artsy. We all know I'm the one who saved us from the mall." He says, voice filled with pride and reason.
"You did not, that was all Erica and Ms. Byers." Robin backs, eyes narrowing in Dustin's direction.
You glance between the two as they start bickering back and forth, the growing noise making heads turn in your direction. Robin's arms are crossed tightly over her chest while Dustin stands beside her, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"I'm serious." Dustin insists. "Without me, we'd all be dead."
Robin lets out a dramatic laugh. "You hid in a movie theater for half the summer."
"I was gathering intelligence."
"You were eating popcorn."
"It was tactical popcorn."
A laugh slips past your lips before you can stop it. The two immediately glance toward you, both look equally offended that you'd found the other one funny.
Before either ca continue arguing, the final bell rings overhead.
The loud buzz echoes through the classroom, cutting through dozens of conversations at once. Around you, students immediately begin shoving books into backpacks and scraping chair across the floor, eager to escape before the teacher can assign anything else.
Robin groans as she gathers her things.
"I swear, if I have to listen to him explain how he save Hawkins one more time, I'm transferring schools."
"You'd miss me." Dustin says.
"I absolutely would not."
You shake your head, smiling as you slide your notebook into your bag. Even after nearly a year of public school, moments like this still feel strange in the best way possible.
"Earth to zoo girl."
You blink, pulling yourself from your thoughts.
Dustin waves a hand dramatically in front of you face before slinging his backpack over one shoulder.
"You were staring into space."
"I was thinking."
"Same thing."
A familiar voice cuts through the conversation before you can argue back. "There you are."
Your heart instantly betrays you. The warmth that spreads through your chest is immediate and entirely out of your control.
You turn toward the doorway just as Steve steps inside the room.
The afternoon sunlight spilling through the hallway window catches against his hair, making the familiar brown strands appear almost golden. His basketball jacket hangs open over a gray shirt, car keys pinning lazily around one finger as he scans the room.
The second his eyes land on you, he smiles. Not the smile he gives teachers. Not the smile he gives strangers. A real smile.
The kind that always makes your stomach flip despite how many times you've seen it.
Robin notices immediately. "Oh, gross."
Steve's grin only widens. "What?"
"The look."
"What look?"
Robin points dramatically between the two of you. "That look. The one where you stare at each other like you're the only people in the room."
Dustin nods in agreement. "It's honestly disturbing."
You feel your cheeks grow warm. Steve, meanwhile, doesn't look embarrassed in the slightest.
Instead, he casually walks over and takes your bag from your shoulder before you can stop him.
"Steve."
"Yes?"
"I can carry my own bag."
"I know that."
The answer comes so quickly that it almost catches you off guard. His shoulders lift in a small shrug as he adjusts the strap over his own shoulder. "I just want to."
Something soft settles in your chest. Because that's how Steve always was.
For all the confidence and charm everyone else saw, there were moments like this that belonged only to you. Small things. Quiet things. The version of Steve Harrington that nobody else seemed to notice.
Robin pretends to gag in the background, and Dustin looks equally disgusted.
"You see?" Robin says. "This is exactly what I'm talking about."
Steve rolls his eyes before extending a hand toward the classroom door. "Come on."
You smile despite yourself and fall into step beside him.
The hallway is packed with students pouring toward the exits, conversations bouncing off the lockers and tiled floors. Weekend plans are shouted between friends while teachers attempt to direct traffic through the crowd, though nobody seems particularly interested in listening.
You and Steve walk slowly out to the school parking lot, letting others rush around you to get home for the weekend. The shiny burgundy BMW sits alone toward the back of the parking lot, away from all of the other cars like it was designated to have its own space.
Steve shuffles around to the passenger side door, quickly opening it for you. You murmur a quick "Thank you," before sliding in, eyes glancing around as he rounds the front of the car to the driver's side.
Silence fills the small space around the two as you watch the line of cars rolling out of the parking lot, each one impatient to get home.
"Alright," Steve mutters, turning the key in the ignition as he watches the last car slowly roll by.
The engine roars alive, but Steve doesn't move forward. Instead, he peers over at you, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping aimlessly on the center console.
"Are you coming over to my place?" He asks, words smoothed and practiced like he's said them a hundred times before. There's a small glint of hope hidden behind his eyes when he asks, like he knows the answer but is still in need of confirmation.
You tilt your head slightly before meeting his gaze. "I have to work soon."
He points a finger slightly in defeat, nodding his head before putting the car in drive. As he pulls the car out of the parking lot, a small smirk forms on his lips. "Gotta go feed the otters."
"They're your favorite animal," you back playfully, giving him a knowing look.
The car smooths out onto the road, the city blurring by in a quick blur as Steve speeds up. "No-" he says suddenly, holding a hand up. "No. Tha- no. They are... my least," he shakes his head in despair. "Fucking demons." He mutters.
A soft giggle escapes you. "Come on, they're so cute and fluffy."
"No." He says, voice playful but firm. "Bubbles bit me," he shrugs, one hand on the wheel while the other rolls up his sleeve. "He left a mark, and now we're no longer friends."
You shift in your seat, glancing at his arm before rolling your eyes. "'Cause you got in his personal space."
"You said they like to cuddle!" He exaggerates, voice breaking out into a high pitch tone. "I cuddled. And he- he hurt me..."
"Yeah they like to cuddle, Steve." You reiterate. "You can run up to them with your arms open like a child."
"I absolutely can." Steve argues, gripping the steering wheel with one hand while pointing toward you with the other. "That's literally how cuddling works. You open your arms and then you cuddle." The look of confidence on his face only makes your smile grow wider.
"That's not how animals work."
"Well somebody should've told Bubbles that before he attacked me."
You laugh softly, the sound filling the small space between you as Steve continues muttering under his breath about "vicious zoo creatures" and "unprovoked assaults." The conversation drifts easily after that, bouncing between school, Robin's latest obsession at the video store, and Dustin's endless need to remind everyone he was apparently Hawkins' greatest hero.
Outside the windows, familiar roads begin replacing the crowded streets near the city. The farther Steve drives, the more recognizable everything becomes. The old gas station on the corner, the weathered grocery store your parents always stopped at, and the long stretch of road lined with trees all slowly come into view.
The second the large wooden zoo sign appears ahead, something warm settles in your chest. No matter how many years passed, seeing it always felt the same. It was home.
Steve notices your expression almost instantly.
A knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he glances between you and the road ahead. "You do that every time."
You tear your eyes away from the window and look over at him. "Do what?"
"Smile like that." His grip loosens on the wheel as he shrugs. "Every single time we com here. It's like you're seeing the place for the first time."
You feel your cheeks warm slightly. "I'm not smiling."
"You are."
"I am not."
Steve laughs quietly and shakes his head. "You're impossible."
The gravel crunches beneath the tires as he pulls into the small parking area near the front entrance. The afternoon sun hangs high above the trees, casting long golden shadows across the pathways that wind the zoo grounds. Visitors continue moving between exhibits while children point excitedly toward animals hidden behind fences and glass.
For a moment, neither of you gets out.
The engine hums softly beneath you while Steve glances toward the entrance and then back at you. His expression is relaxed, comfortable, like being here has become almost as normal for him as it is for you.
"You gonna survive without me?" He asks.
You laugh softly as you reach for the door handle. "I think so."
"Good. Because I have important things to do."
You mouth drops open in shock. "More important than me?"
Steve pushes open his door and climbs out. "No! Never! I just..."
"Just...?"
"I have to recover emotionally from the trauma Bubbles caused me."
You shake your head as you follow him from the car, immediately greeted by the familiar sounds of the zoo. Somewhere nearby, birds call to one another from the trees while visitors chatter as they make their way down the paths. A faint scent of hay and fresh grass hangs in the warm air, instantly making you feel like you've stepped back into your own world.
The old wooden porch creaks softly beneath your feet as you climb the few stairs leading to the front door. Steve follows close behind, one hand lightly brushing against yours before his fingers finally slip between them. The gesture is simple and familiar, yet it still sends warmth rushing through your chest.
You stop near the front door and turn toward him. The afternoon sunlight filters through the surrounding trees, casting shifting patches of gold across the porch. A warm breeze moves through the property, carrying the scent of fresh grass, hay, and the faint smell of animal feed somewhere deeper within zoo grounds.
Steve squeezes your hand gently. "I'll come back later."
The promise is spoken so casually that anyone else might've missed how genuine it sounded.
"You don't have to."
"I know." His answer comes immediately, thumb brushing across the back of your hand as his eyes meet yours. "I want to."
Something soft settles in your chest. Maybe it shouldn't affect you as much as it does. Maybe hearing your boyfriend say he wants to spend time with you shouldn't make your heart beat any faster.
Yet somehow it does.
Every single time.
Before you can say anything else, Steve steps closer and slides his arms around your waist.
The movement is natural. Effortless. Like he's done it so many times that neither of you has to think about it anymore.
You lean into him, your arms finding their place around his shoulders as he pulls you against his chest. The familiar scent of his cologne mixes with the warm summer air around you, and for a few seconds you allow yourself to simply enjoy being there.
His chin briefly rests against the top of your head. "You smell like otters."
A laugh escapes you so suddenly that it nearly startles both of you. "I do not."
"You kind do."
You pull back just enough to glare at him.
His grin grows wider.
"You are so annoying."
"That's not a denial."
You smack his arm lightly, earning another laugh from him.
The sound is warm and familiar, filling the porch as sunlight glints against his eyes.
For a moment, neither of you let go. Steve's hands remains settled comfortably against your sides while yours rest around his shoulders. It would be easy to stay like this for another ten minutes if neither of you acknowledged the fact that you both had things to do.
Unfortunately, reality eventually catches up. You glance toward the zoo grounds visible beyond the yard.
"I have to work."
Steve groans dramatically and lets his forehead fall against yours.
"I know."
"I have animals to feed."
"I know."
"I have responsibilities."
"I know."
His eyes close briefly. "You're ruining my afternoon."
You laugh. "Go home, Harrington."
A reluctant smile tugs at his lips as he finally takes a step back. "Fine."
The word is drawn out dramatically, earning another eye roll from you. He points toward you while slowly backing toward the porch steps. "But I'm coming back."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
The confidence in his voice makes you smile despite yourself.
Steve descends the steps and begins making his way toward the driveway. Halfway there, he glances back over his shoulder and catches you still standing on the porch watching him.
His grin returns quickly as he climbs into the burgundy BMW. A few minutes later, the engine starts, and the car disappears down the driveway, leaving you standing alone on the porch with a smile you can't seem to get rid of.
The next several hours pass in a blur of responsibilities.
You help prepare food for afternoon feedings, refill water stations, and answer questions from curious visitors who seem convinced you know absolutely everything about every animal in the zoo. At one point, a little girl spends nearly ten minutes asking whether flamingos get lonely, while another child insists one of the monkeys stole his hat through telepathy.
By the time the crowd begins thinning, your feet ache and your shirt is covered in enough dirt and animal fur to prove you'd actually been working. Still, none of it bothers you. The zoo had been your entire life for as long as you could remember, and even the busiest days felt comforting in a strange way.
The afternoon sun still shines brightly overhead as you slowly make your way toward the front gates. Most of the visitors have already left, leaving the pathways quieter than they had been earlier. Long stretches of golden sunlight spill across the pavement while the occasional animal call echoes through the grounds.
You reach for the wooden sign hanging beside the gate and carefully flip it from OPEN to CLOSED.
The metal hook gives a soft break as it settles into place.
Just as you're about to turn away, the distant sound of an engine catches your attention.
The familiar burgundy appears at the end of the gate, sunlight reflecting off the windshield as it slowly makes its way toward the entrance. Your heart gives an immediate flutter before you can deny it.
Steve.
The smile spreading across your face appears long before the car comes to a stop. The car rolls into its usual spot before the driver's door swings open. Steve steps out a second later, one arm resting casually on the roof of the car as he looks toward you.
"Told you I'd be back."
You cross your arms, trying to hide your smile. You failed.
"Congratulations. You kept a promise."
"I know." Steve places a hand dramatically against his chest. "it's a huge accomplishment for me."
A laugh slips free before you can stop it. "I still have a few things I need to finish before I'm done." You admit, shifting your weight onto one foot. :Just some last minute checks."
Steve groans, but there's no real annoyance behind it. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck. "Translation... you're going to spend another two hours working."
"It won't be two hours."
"That fact that you didn't say no is a little concerning."
A laugh slips from your lips as you begin walking toward one of the staff-only pathways. Steve falls into step beside you without hesitation, matching your pace as gravel crunches beneath your shoes.
"You don't have to follow me around you know."
"I know. But I came all the way back here. I might as well see some cool zoo stuff."
You glance over at him. "What if it's boring zoo stuff?"
Steve looks genuinely offended. "There's no such thing as boring zoo stuff."
The pathway gradually narrows as you make your way farther into the zoo. without crowds filling every corner, the entire place feels quieter than it had earlier. The occasional chirp of birds carries through the trees overhead while leaves rustle softly in the afternoon breeze.
Eventually, the familiar hippo enclosure comes into view.
A smile immediately spreads across your face.
Steve notices.
"Uh oh."
"What?'
"That smile."
"What smile?'
"That smile that means you've spotted your favorite."
You roll your eyes as you approach the gate. "I don't have favorites."
"A thing you say while smiling."
"I smile at all the animals, Steve. maybe you should try too."
"You do not. And I already tried... and got attacked."
A laugh escapes you as you push through the enclosure gate.
The habitat stretches out before you, filled with patches of grass, mud, and a large pool that reflects the sunlight like glass. Near the edge of the enclosure sits daisy, her small chunky gray body partially hidden among the grass.
The second she notices you, her ears twitch. Then she starts moving.
Steve watches as the baby hippo trots toward you.
"Okay..." his eyebrows rise, "that's adorable."
A grin spreads across your face as you crouch down. At only four months old, Daisy is still tiny compared to the adult hippos. She isn't exactly small, but standing beside a fully grown hippo made her look almost miniature.
The baby hippo lets out a small squeaking noise before nudging her nose against your shoulder.
Steve laughs softly. "She knows you."
"Of course she does." You grin.
Daisy nudges you again. Harder this time.
You nearly lose your balance.
Steve's laughter only grows. "Yeah, she definitely knows you."
The warmth of the afternoon sun settles across your shoulders as you grab the bottle you brought with you. The second daisy notices it, her entire attention shifts.
Her ears perk. Her head lifts. And suddenly the bottle becomes the most important thing in the world.
"Oh my God." Steve drops down beside you on the grass. "Look at her face."
You can't help laughing.
The excitement is impossible to miss.
Daisy eagerly presses closer the second you offer the bottle, making soft snorting sounds as she begins drinking. Every few seconds, her stubby tail gives an excited little wiggle that only makes Steve laugh harder.
"This might be the cutest thing I've ever seen."
You glance over. "Really?"
"Yes." Steve answers without hesitation, his eyes never leaving Daisy as she happily drinks from her bottle. A look of complete fascination has settled across his face, the same one he always gets whenever he discovers something new at the zoo. "And I've seen puppies before, so that's saying a lot."
A soft laugh escapes you as you look back down at the baby hippo. Daisy's ear twitch every few seconds while she drinks, occasionally making little snorting noises that seem far too loud for something so small. The entire sight is almost painfully adorable, especially when she begins pushing against the bottle as if she's worried it might disappear.
For a while, neither of you says much.
The silence that settles between you isn't awkward or uncomfortable. It's the kind that comes naturally when two people are content simply existing in the space space.
You find yourself watching Steve almost as much as you're watching Daisy.
Most visitors came to the zoo because the animals were entertaining. They pointed, took pictures, read a few signs, and then moved on to the next exhibit. Even people who genuinely loved animals rarely paid attention to the little things.
Steve always did.
He noticed when an animal seemed nervous. He remembered names. he asked questions most people never thought to ask, and somehow retained every answer you gave him. It was one of the first things you'd noticed about him all those months ago when he'd stopped in front of the otter exhibit instead of rushing through it like everyone else.
The memory makes you smile. Because that was the moment.
Not when he smiled at you.
Not when he started flirting.
Not even when he asked for your number.
It was watching him stand there, completely fascinated by a family of otters, while the rest of his friends had already moved halfway across the zoo.
That had been the moment you realized there was more to Steve Harrington than everyone thought.
A sudden snort pulls you from your thoughts. You glance down to see Daisy sucking determinedly on an empty bottle.
The milk is long gone. But Daisy seems unwilling to accept that fact.
"Sweetheart," you laugh softly, reaching forward to scratch behind one of her ears. "It's empty."
The baby hippo immediately makes a small grumbling noise, almost as if she's arguing with you.
Beside you, Steve points. "See? Even she knows you're wrong."
"I'm literally holding the bottle." You reply sarcastically.
"And yet she's still convinced."
You shake your head, setting the bottle aside while Daisy continues investigating it for another few seconds. Eventually, she seems to realize there truly isn't anything left and wanders off in search of new adventures.
The two of you remain seated for a moment, watching as she explores her enclosure.
Every rock is inspected.
Every patch of grass receives attention.
At one point she discovers a stick, becomes fascinated with it for nearly thirty seconds and then forgets it exists.
Steve watches the entire thing unfold.
"She's kind of dumb."
You gasp. "She's a baby!"
"I'm just saying." His grin widens. "If she were a person, she'd definitely eat crayons."
A laugh escapes you. "That's so mean."
"But accurate."
The baby continues her journey across the enclosure, completely unaware she's being judged. Her tiny tail flicks back and forth slightly while she investigates every inch of her surroundings, occasionally stopping to sniff something that apparently deserves her full attention.
Then her focus shifts, and you notice it immediately.
The pool.
Your smile fades slightly.
The large body of water sparkles beneath the afternoon sunlight, reflecting patches of blue sky across its surface. Daisy stares at it for a moment before beginning to waddle toward it with surprising determination.
Beside you, Steve notices your expression. "What?"
You stand slowly, eyes locked onto the little hippo. Steve follows your gaze just as the baby reaches the edge of the water. For half a second she pauses, then she slides in.
A loud splash echoes through the enclosure as water sprays into the air.
You're already moving before Steve can react. Your feet sink slightly into the muddy bank as you hurry toward the pool. The water is cool against your legs when you step inside, small ripples spreading outward with every movement as your eyes remain fixed on Daisy.
Behind you, Steve stands so quickly that he nearly trips over himself. "Woah- hold on."
Confusion fills his voice as he follows you toward the edge of the pool.
"What are you doing?"
The water rises to your knees as you continue forward. "I'm getting Daisy."
Steve looks from you to the baby and then back again. His brows pull together, confusion brightening his face. "I thought hippos lived in water."
"They do."
"Then why are you rescuing her?"
You glance back briefly before looking toward Daisy again. The baby hippo is paddling nearby, but her movements are clumsy and uneven. Every few seconds, she dips slightly beneath the surface before correcting herself again.
"Because she's only four months old."
The concern in your voice makes Steve's expression immediately change.
"What does that have to do with anything?'
You carefully move closer to Daisy, keeping your movements slow and steady.
"When hippos are babies, they usually stay close to their mothers. The mothers help keep them positioned correctly in the water and make sure they're getting back to the surface when they need air." You glance over your shoulder. "They're not born know how to manage all of that on their own."
Steve's eyes widen slightly.
A moment passes when suddenly realization hits him. "Wait."
"Yeah?"
His gaze snaps back toward Daisy. "They can drown?"
"They can."
Steve stares at the baby with complete disbelief. The expression on his face is almost funny.
Then he slowly points toward the water. "That seems like a terrible design."
A laugh slips from your lips despite the situation. "I don't think evolution asked for your opinion."
"I should've."
Meanwhile, Daisy has completely forgotten there was ever a problem.
The second you reach her, she happily paddles over and bumps her nose against your side, nearly splashing water onto your shirt. She lets out a soft squeaking noise, looking entirely pleased with herself despite the concern she'd just caused.
Once Daisy is safely back in the shallow water, the tension slowly drains from your shoulders. The baby hippo remains glued to your side for the next several minutes, occasionally nudging your leg whenever she decides you aren't paying enough attention to her.
The two of you leave the enclosure together, making your way toward a few of the remaining exhibits that still need checking.
By the time the two of you finish checking on the last few animals, the zoo has become almost unrecognizable from the busy attraction it had been earlier that afternoon.
Long shadows stretch across the walkways while the last traces of sunlight filter through the trees. Every now and then, an animal call echoes from somewhere deeper in the zoo, but otherwise the entire property feels peaceful.
Steve walks beside you as you make your way toward the house, his pace matching yours without either of you thinking about it. Every so often he glances back toward the exhibits, as if he's still expecting visitors to come around a corner.
"It's weird seeing this place like this," he says quietly.
You glance over at him. "What do you mean?"
Steve looks out across the zoo again before shrugging. "I don't know. Usually, there's kids running around everywhere or people pointing at stuff. It's just..." His gaze drifts toward the empty pathways. "Different."
A small smile tugs at your lips.
"Better different or worse different?"
His answer comes after a moment. "Better."
The two of you eventually reach the house, the familiar porch coming into view through the trees. The soft glow from the windows spills onto the yard while the evening air grows slightly cooler around you.
Steve's attention immediately shifts toward the porch swing sitting near the far end of the wraparound porch.
A grin spreads across his face. "Can we sit out here for a bit?"
You laugh softly. "You drove all the way back here just to sit on my porch?"
Steve follows you up the steps. "Maybe."
"You are aware that porches exist literally everywhere, right?"
"Not this porch."
The answer catches you slightly off guard. Steve notices immediately.
A small shrug lifts his shoulders. "I like this one."
Something warm settles in your chest.
Before he can see the smile threatening to appear, you slip inside the house and return a minute later, carrying two blankets and wearing a fresh set of pj's. The evening breeze has started picking up slightly, carrying the scent of fresh grass and distant animal enclosures across the property.
The second Steve sees the blankets, his eyes light up. "Oh, we're using blankets?"
You hand one to him. "It's getting colder."
"This just became significantly better."
A laugh escapes you as the two of you settle onto the swing. The wooden seat creaks softly beneath your combined weight while the chains give a gentle rattle overhead. You drape the blanket across your lap, pulling part of it around your shoulders while Steve does the same.
For a while, neither of you says much.
The swing rocks slowly back and forth beneath you as the sky gradually darkens overhead. The last streaks of pink and orange fade beyond the trees while stars begin appearing one by one across the night sky.
From where you're sitting, you can see portions of the zoo stretching out beyond the yard.
The dark outlines of exhibits. The tops of fences. The occasional movement of animals settling in for the night.
Everything feels calm and safe.
You glance over at Steve. His gaze remains fixed on the zoo grounds while a soft smile rests on his face. "What are you thinking about?"
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he leans back slightly and looks out across the property for another moment before finally speaking.
"When I first came here, I thought it'd just be some random field trip."
A small laugh escapes you. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
His smile grows. "I figured I'd walk around, make fun of a couple of animals with Tommy and Carol, then leave."
You roll your eyes. "Sounds about right."
"Exactly."
The swing continues its slow movement as Steve turns his head toward you. "But then I met you."
The words are simple. Casual. But they make your stomach flip.
Steve looks back toward the zoo. "I don't know."
A small shrug lifts his shoulder. "I guess I just didn't expect any of this."
"What, the zoo?"
A laugh escapes him. "No."
His eyes find yours. "You."
The swing continues rocking gently while crickets chirp somewhere in the distance. The sounds of the zoo blend together with the evening air, leaving the two of you in silence.
Your heart beats a little faster.
Steve's smile softens.
And suddenly the space between you feels much smaller than it did a few seconds ago.
Then, a horrific scream erupts somewhere across the zoo.
Steve practically jumps a foot off the swing.
"What the hell was that?!"
The sudden panic in his voice catches you so off guard that you immediately burst into laughter. "It's just Kevin."
"Who's Kevin!"
"The peacock!"
Hi my loves!!!!! I know it's been a while since I updated but bare with me please! Anyway, hope you like this one!!!
Can you write the kids finding Steve and Reader’s old love letters and maybe include the kids friends parents who went to high-school with Steve and reader telling them stories about how everyone in Hawkins saw how in love and happy they were and cute little moments between the two for the Harrington family. Maybe the kids could be talking about it together and Steve and reader walk in on them and they go quite so they ask what there doing and they share what they were discussing
Summary: Your children beg you to tell them the story of how you fell in love with Steve, and he reminds you that you’re worth every bit of affection he gives you.
WC: 4.2k
Warnings & What to Expect: hargrove!fem!reader, Steve being down bad for his wife, brief mentions of family hurt, reader feeling the weight of not being treated right by others, toddler tantrum/parent feeling overwhelmed, mostly fluff!
Harrington Household Masterlist
if you haven’t read steve & reader’s original story and are interested here it is!
this one takes place after the last HH fic posted!
Peach’s Note: hii anon!! i fear my brain trailed off the tracks. i honed in on them being in love and telling their babes the story instead. hoping you still enjoy lovie! 🩷
side note - the first part is inspired by a tiktok where this dad was telling the kid not to yell at his wife, and i immediately thought of steve 🥰
let’s also all thank this anon for suggesting honey as steve and readers song bc hello??? genius!!! 🍯
The bedtime routine in the Harrington Household was a whole lot less smooth when Steve wasn’t there to help brush teeth, braid hair, or tuck the littles in.
And it never failed to make your youngest throw an absolute fit over it.
“I want Daddy,” she cries, big droplets of tears rolling down her cheeks.
You’ve been trying to get her settled down for nearly an hour now, but she was not having it - fighting you with every fiber in that tiny body of hers.
You take a deep breath, sitting on the floor next to her, “Baby, he’s at work. Remember?”
“No!” She screams at you, kicking her feet dramatically against the floor of her room.
She was officially on the verge of being in the trenches of her ‘threenager’ stage, and her mood swings were all over the place. One minute she was clinging to you desperately - refusing to let you go, and the next she was wailing her lungs out because she didn’t want you to say goodnight to her, she wanted Steve.
The problem was that Steve was currently coaching a late night baseball game at the middle school.
They were rare, but you absolutely dreaded them. It meant you were on the bed time shift by yourself - in a house full of kids who were grumpy over not getting to see their dad the whole day. And in your girl’s brain, she just couldn’t understand why it wasn’t physically possible to see Steve right now.
“Babe,” you say softly, “I know you miss Daddy, but he’s gonna be back so soon, and he’ll come give you a big hug. I promise.”
The cries that are escaping her quiet a little at your assurance, but she still hiccups out, “Want him now.”
“I know you do,” you coo, trying to validate her feelings while she’s calming down - scooching yourself across the carpet to tentatively brush her hair back.
She lets you, and you somehow coax her to cuddle up to you - sniffles escaping her while your hand runs up and down her back soothingly.
You’re unsure of how much time has passed with her resting in your arms, but a quick glance at the clock makes you wince - realizing it’s way past her bed time.
“It’s time to go to sleep, sweet girl,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her cheek, but unfortunately, she hasn’t forgotten her original mission of seeing Steve.
She worms herself out of your arms and starts yelling again, “No, want Daddy!”
“You and me both,” you grumble under your breath, giving up and leaning against her dresser.
You pull your knees up to your chest, trying to settle your own frustrations with her - willing yourself not to snap because that won’t make the situation any better.
She continues to shriek in protest, sufficiently working herself up to the point where she’s struggling to catch her breath, and you feel your own throat tighten at her refusal of you. You know better than to take it personally, know that kids say things they don’t mean when they’re upset, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear that your child doesn’t want you.
“Are you yelling at my wife?” Steve asks sternly, blessedly appearing in the doorway to her room.
He had come home during the tantrum - could hear his girl’s wails from downstairs, drowning the house in an aggravated cacophony of noise. When he heard her calling for him, he hustled up the stairs - heart twisting at seeing you curled in on yourself, feeling defeated from the useless effort of trying to get her to listen to you.
When she sees Steve, her attitude immediately shifts - picking herself up and running towards him. He hauls her up into his arms, cradling the back of her head while she collects herself in the comfort of his hold.
“You don’t scream at my wife,” he tells her firmly, ducking his head to meet her gaze.
She looks away guiltily, eyes flicking over to you before trying to burrow herself in his chest - not liking the reprimand.
“Look at me,” Steve instructs, gently prompting her head up.
She makes a soft noise of recognition at the command, peering up at him from under her eyelashes that are still wet with her tears.
He raises his eyebrows at his girl before continuing, “Don’t scream at her.”
Her lower lip wobbles at being scolded, but she nods her head, “I missed you.”
“Missed you too, babe. It’s okay to miss me. It’s okay to feel sad, but you can’t yell at Mommy like that,” he says calmly, tone of assertiveness mixed in.
Her little fists curl tightly onto his jacket, “Makes Mommy sad too?”
“Yeah, it makes her sad when you do that,” Steve replies, casting a glance your way.
You’d been watching the scene unfold - tears from being overwhelmed streaking down to your chin, and when your girl notices, she squirms in Steve’s arms - trying to get down again. He lets her, and she waddles her way over to you, arms wrapping around your neck in apology.
“I’m sorry, Mommy,” she whimpers, hiding her face in the crevice of your neck.
You stand up with her still grasping onto you, “Thank you for apologizing, baby.”
Steve comes over to you, arm curling around your lower back to tug you to him, “Hey, honey.”
“Thank god you’re here,” you mumble, leaning into his touch.
He tenderly wipes your tears before tipping his head down to greet you with a kiss - completely forgetting the baseball hat that rests on his head and the rim of it knocks into your cheek.
The action startles your girl, and she lifts her head from you to look at him in confusion. You chuckle at the slight blush that blooms over Steve’s face from being so eager to press his lips to your own that he forgot to slip the hat off.
“Are you laughing at me?” He teases, lifting the cap - raking a hand through his hair to try to tame the wild locks that have been suffocating underneath it.
You grin, raising your own hand to card through the sweaty tendrils that curl at the base of his neck, “You’re so cute.”
“Daddy’s cute,” your girl repeats, a smile finally taking over her features.
Steve pouts at that, hand shooting out to tickle her side and she squeals in laughter - trying to crawl away from him despite the fact that she’s still hanging off of you. When he lets up, she stares at him lovingly - dissolving into giggles again when he holds his hat over her eyes, moving to kiss you properly this time.
His lips are soft against yours, working in slow presses to express his gratitude for you.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, honey,” he murmurs quietly, thumb stroking over your jaw.
You hum in content, “It’s okay baby, your job is important.”
His leans down, nose skimming over the column of your throat, “You needing me is more important.”
Steve litters kisses back up your neck before placing a final kiss to the corner of your mouth - pulling away when your girl knocks the hat out of his hands. She beams at him when he makes a face of mock offense, and it’s then that your ten year old boy pads into the room, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
“Is she done?” He groans tiredly, stomping over to your girl's bed and plopping down on it.
“My bed,” she says, pointing possessively at it.
He yawns in response, “Yeah, well I couldn’t sleep in my bed with you being so loud.”
“Agreed,” his twin sister appears at the door.
“You hear that, baby? You were keeping your siblings up too,” Steve says playfully, pressing a sweet kiss to her hairline.
She scrambles out of your arms, attention now fully on her sister who picks her up easily. Your middle girl carries her over to the rocking chair that resides in the corner of the room- settling herself on it and propping your youngest up in her lap. They’ve formed quite the little bond, and it makes a pleasant ache settle under your ribs.
“Read book,” your toddler demands, and her sister immediately pulls one off the shelf that sits next to the chair to read to her. The sound of her voice carrying throughout the room makes her twin brother pop up on his elbows to listen along.
With your hands free, you slip them around Steve’s waist - melting into him, finally feeling like you can rest for the first time all day. He leans his head against yours, arms wrapping tightly around your shoulders.
“Long day, honey?” He questions, keeping his voice hushed - not wanting to interrupt the storytime happening.
“It’s always long without you,” you admit, nestling your head under his chin.
The two of you fall silent as you watch your babes reading together - your middle girl trying to teach her sister some of the words, and your boy interjecting to get her to repeat after him when she says a word incorrectly.
It’s blissfully peaceful for a moment, before another sharp, shrill voice echoes throughout your home.
“Mommy!” It’s your youngest boy, calling from down the hallway.
You take a deep breath, pulling back from Steve to go assess the situation, but he stops you.
“I’ll get him,” Steve asserts, caressing your shoulders fondly.
You shake your head in protest, “No, Steve. You’ve been working all day. Go take care of yourself.”
He cups your face, tilting your head to look at him, “Be honest with me. Was it a hard day?”
You swallow harshly, thinking about how your youngest had spent most of the day acting out, and it’s the cue Steve needs to make his decision.
“No answer is an answer, baby. I’ll take care of it," he captures your lips in a brief kiss before turning to go take care of his boy.
You sigh heavily, tension releasing - in disbelief over how he finds new ways each day to prove to you that he’s the best husband you could ever ask for.
When you look back at your children, you freeze, because they’re already staring back at you.
“What?” You ask suspiciously.
“You love Dad,” your boy says teasingly.
You huff out a breath of laughter, “You love Dad too.”
You move to settle on the bed next to him, and he promptly rests his head in your lap - eyes closing lethargically.
“Yeah, but you’re in love with Daddy,” his twin emphasizes, placing the book back where it belongs.
“That’s how marriage is supposed to work, hun,” you tell her, hand absentmindedly running through your boy's hair.
“Could you,” she trails off, suddenly growing too shy to ask.
You smile encouragingly at her, “You can ask me anything, baby.”
Her confidence grows at that, “Could you tell us the story of how you and Dad fell in love?”
“Gross,” your boy complains, frowning at her.
“It’s not gross,” she snaps back.
“What’s not gross?” Your eldest boy shuffles into the room with a blanket wrapped around him.
A vivid memory of him flashes to the forefront of your mind; him standing in front of you when he was younger - begging for your attention because he was sick and wanted you to take care of him, and a bittersweet feeling of wistfulness settles over you at the sight.
“Don’t you have to wake up early tomorrow, hun?” You ask him, referring to the fact that he’s on the student council - knowing he has a meeting before school starts.
“Um, yeah, but it’s not my fault I’m awake,” he makes a point of looking at your toddler, “Was gonna offer to help, but then I heard Dad come home.”
He takes a seat on the floor by the dresser - assuming the position you were in earlier, and your youngest excitedly maneuvers herself off her sister, clambering over to her oldest brother and settling against his legs.
“Rude,” your girl quips.
“How come I’m the only one she didn’t come to?” Your middle boy complains.
“Maybe because you’re hogging her bed and think that Mom and Dad being in love is gross,” his sister deadpans.
“Just wait until you’re older, dude. You won’t think love is gross then,” your oldest chimes in - heated flush rising to his cheeks once he realizes what he’s let slip.
Your daughter gasps, “Oh my gosh, you’re in love!”
“No, I’m not!” He panics, vehemently denying the accusation, but he doesn’t sound all that convincing.
“Are you sure?” You ask tentatively, not wanting to pressure him too much, but eager to hear his answer.
“Dunno. I’m not sure if I even know what it feels like,” he shrugs, looking down to pick at his nails.
“That’s okay, hun. You’re only seventeen. You don’t need to feel pressured to know if it feels like love yet,” you tell him gingerly.
“Are we talking about how obvious it is that he’s in love with his girlfriend?” Everyone’s attention swings to your eldest girl, who stumbles into the room after tripping over a toy. Her hair is disheveled, and it’s clear that she’s just woken up.
“It’s not obvious,” he argues back.
“Uh huh, sure. Whatever you say,” she replies sarcastically - squeezing her way into the chair next to her little sister.
“Don’t taunt your brother,” you chide her.
“I think it’s obvious too,” your middle girl mumbles to her sister, and they laugh boisterously together.
Your oldest narrows his eyes at them, “Yeah, real funny.”
They continue to lob remarks back and forth like a tennis match, your youngest’s head swiveling back and forth as she tries to keep up with the jeering. You feel a tap on your arm and look down to see your boy observing you worriedly.
“What’s wrong, baby?” You ask him cautiously.
“I don’t actually think you loving Dad is gross,” he admits, keeping his tone quiet so none of his siblings can hear him.
You give him a small smile, “Don’t worry hun, I wasn’t upset by that.”
He sits up, hand grabbing onto your arm, “Can I tell you something?”
You nod, “Always.”
He gets close to your ear, and you bend to hear him better, “I don’t know if any of my friends' parents are in love.”
“What makes you think that?” You ask curiously.
“None of them act like you and Dad,” he states, like it’s a fact that can’t be refuted.
“You’re father’s not shy about the things he loves. How lucky for us, right?” You murmur, and the conversation is interrupted by the man himself.
“Think I’ve got a new record for the quickest shower of my life,” Steve says, walking in with your four year old gripping onto his back.
He’s changed into sweatpants and a worn Hawkins Middle School Staff t-shirt that he wears to sleep in. His damp hair is pushed off his forehead, making it look slicked back, and your breath hitches when he lifts your boy up - hem of his shirt rising, exposing the sliver of skin that makes your head spin with desire.
God, you still thought he was the prettiest man you’ve ever seen.
Steve laughs at the sight of your children packed into the small room, “I was gone what? Ten minutes? And they’ve multiplied somehow.”
He sets his son down, who hops swiftly onto the bed with you - snuggling into your free side, “Daddy told me I had to wait for him to get ready for bed to see you. He took forever.”
Steve scoffs, “Again, that shower was maybe five minutes.”
You bite your lip in amusement, and Steve crams himself onto the minuscule bed - picking your youngest boy up and tossing him lightly to the other end of it, making him burst into a giddy fit of giggles.
“Needed you to move, I missed my wife,” Steve says jokingly, cuddling up to you instead - relaxing into your hold when you slip an arm around him.
“I want Mommy,” your boy replies, crawling back over to the two of you.
“So do I, buddy,” Steve grabs onto him, battling him for the spot next to you - peals of laughter leaving his lips as his dad fake wrestles with him. Your boy tires after a moment and lets himself stretch out on Steve’s legs.
In the silence that follows, your middle girl adjusts herself - swinging her own legs over her sisters, “So, can you?”
Steve notices her looking at you and him, “Can we what?”
“Tell us how you fell in love,” she repeats her previous question.
“It’s late,” you reply.
“And yet, we’re all awake,” Steve smiles at you, thumb coming up to swipe affectionately along your cheekbone.
“C’mon, Mom. We wanna know,” your oldest straightens up, adjusting your youngest in his arms. Her eyelids are drooping, though you can tell she’s still trying to ward off sleep.
You cave when you see the pleading eyes from the rest of your children, “I knew from the moment I met him that I wanted him to be mine.”
“Mom was obsessed with me,” Steve teases.
“Like you weren’t just as obsessed,” your eldest girl accuses.
“He wasn’t,” you say, and at the dramatic gasp from your girls, you add, “at first. He was going through a break up when I moved here.”
This is news to your kids, and they all start talking over one another with questions. When the most obvious question is asked - with who - you make eye contact with Steve, silently communicating on whether or not to disclose his relationship with Nancy Wheeler.
Steve hates lying to them, but doesn’t particularly feel like going down that specific rabbit hole at the moment, “It doesn’t matter who it was because Mom’s the love of my life.”
Your eldest girl rolls her eyes at the cop out, “Fine, but then how did things change between the two of you?”
“We had the same friend group,” you reply hesitantly. It’s not the full truth, because your children don’t know anything related to the hell you and Steve lived through during your teenage years - still haven’t decided if they ever would know the whole story.
“Like Uncle Dustin and Auntie Robin?” Your four year old inquires.
“Mhm,” Steve hums, “And I started to develop the biggest crush on Mom. I mean, how could I not? Not only is she gorgeous, but she’s got the best heart, doesn’t she?”
He grabs your hand, bringing your palm to his lips sweetly as your kids titter delightedly in agreement.
“But I was too nervous to tell her because her brother didn’t like me very much,” Steve mumbles against your hand, holding onto it firmly.
“Why not?” Your ten year old boy furrows his brows, finding it hard to believe that anyone wouldn’t like his father.
Steve squeezes your hand, giving you the courage to take over.
“Billy,” you take a deep breath, “Billy wasn't a good person. I loved him at one point, but things changed between us.”
“That’s why it’s really important to us that you all take care of each other,” Steve confesses.
It’s silent for a beat, before your oldest smiles and says what the rest of his siblings are all thinking, “We will.”
“What happened after Uncle Billy was gone?” Your middle girl questions meekly, not wanting to upset you.
“I knew she was hurting, and I wanted to help take some of that pain away,” Steve looks at you in adoration.
“He asked me out to Mel’s Diner, and we both knew it was a date but didn’t have the confidence to name it that yet,” you add on.
Steve delicately strokes his fingers along the back of your hand, “Then we grew closer, and one day we went to the local roller rink.”
“That’s when you told him you loved him, right?” Your oldest asks you softly.
“Yeah,” you close your eyes briefly at the memory, “He knocked me off my skates while trying to kiss me, and I knew I was a goner.”
The question that’s asked next - but how did you know it was love - makes you pause, reflecting on the harsh upbringing you had. The way no one had ever cared enough to give you a term of endearment and truly mean it before Steve.
Your mother had called you baby, but she left you to fend for yourself against your father. Neil would sneer sweetheart at you when he was drunk. Tommy Hagan would call you princess in the hallways of Hawkins High with a look of lust on his face. When you worked at the Hideaway, sleazy men would call you sugar to order another beer.
But Steve?
Steve had looked at you in awe when he called you beautiful, and there was never any underlying tone or suggestiveness behind it. It was just raw, unfiltered honestly, simply calling you that because he couldn’t fathom not telling you so.
“Because Dad was the only one who ever called me honey like it meant something to him,” you press a swift kiss to Steve’s cheek.
“That’s because it does mean something, honey,” he emphasizes.
“I don’t understand,” your eldest girl wonders.
“Well, he didn’t actually start calling me honey until we were officially together. I just mean that when he called me anything other than my name, I knew he wasn’t looking down on me or being sarcastic about it. He didn’t say it to intimidate me, or to mock me, but because he wanted me,” you admit, growing a bit shy under the lingering stare your husband is giving you.
Steve swallows thickly, eyes flitting over your features before landing on your lips - and you can feel it, feel the way his love pours out of him for you.
“I’m starting to feel like we’re interrupting something,” your oldest jokes, voice lowering when he realizes your toddler has drifted off into a deep slumber - right along with your youngest boy who’s passed out in Steve’s lap.
You feel a rush of heat course through you, because Steve was looking at you a bit too intimately in front of your children.
“I think we need to leave before they start making out,” your eldest girl chirps, which leads to a combination of grumbling and snickering at the thought.
That snaps Steve out of his stupor, “Hey, cut me some slack here. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, of course I wanna make out with her.”
“Ugh, Dad,” she gripes.
“Aren’t we supposed to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you?” Your oldest tags on.
“You are, but only because you’re a product of my love for her,” Steve grins cheekily.
“Oh god. You two make me sick sometimes. I’m going to bed,” your eldest girl slings her sister's feet off of her in order to stand up.
The motion sets a chain reaction of movement from your children - a flurry of goodnight hugs and teasing about how disgustingly in love their parents are. As you bid them goodbye for the evening, you feel an overwhelming swell of emotion stir within the crevices of your chest, because while Steve was being facetious, it was true. They were a product of your love, each inheriting something from you and from Steve; and you would never tire of admiring how perfect each of them turned out to be.
“You never told me that,” Steve murmurs, head resting against your stomach - arm tightly locked around your sternum as you finally unwind in your own bed.
“Hmm?” You hum drowsily.
He lifts his head to look at you, “What you told the kids, how you feel about me calling you honey.”
“It’s a little embarrassing,” you utter meekly.
His face pinches in concern, “You’re embarrassed that you like me calling you honey?”
“No, of course not. It’s about the fact that no one’s ever been genuine about calling me any sort of pet name before you were mine,” you confide, feeling increasingly ashamed of the fact that you were never worth anyone’s time.
“Oh, honey,” he breathes, rolling over onto his back - dragging you with him so you’re settled on top of him.
“I’m sorry. That sounded pathetic,” you mutter sheepishly.
“Absolutely not,” Steve replies steadily, “you wanting to be shown affection is not pathetic.”
You hide your face in the juncture of his shoulder, index finger tracing lazily along the freckles and moles that line his collarbone.
“It’s not?” You ask timidly.
“I think it’s criminal that you weren’t treated the way you deserved to be,” his tone is laced with fire - anger bubbling up for the people who made you feel less than.
You release a shaky breath, “So, it’s not me?”
“Not in the slightest, gorgeous,” he reassures, hands moving to grasp at your thighs - hiking you closer to him.
The jostled action forces you upwards, and he nudges his nose against yours, “Screw anyone who ever acted like you were an afterthought.”
You incline your head a little, brushing your mouth by his, “You’re the only person who’s ever really seen me, Steve.”
“Biggest honor of my life, honey,” he promises, slotting his lips with yours.
You thaw into his embrace, relishing the benevolence he has for you as he silently reminds you to trust him - to trust that your heart’s always going to be safe when it’s trapped within the confines of his.
