a/n: this was purely inspired by the fact i totally interpreted that final kiss in the film as clark just being so enraptured he didn't even notice he was flying tehe
Working at the Daily Planet, you - like everyone with eyes - are particularly enamoured with Clark Kent. A meteor and a spilled secret later, he shows you just how enamoured with you he is. spoiler-free, fem!reader, 7k, all fluff babey <3
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You always hear him before you see him—though the ding of the elevator is a dead giveaway.
A glance at the clock tells you it’s 9:07am. Not the latest he's been, but it's definitely getting there.
"You're late, Kent."
"Sorry, sorry."
There's a smattering of murmured apologies being given out behind you, soft, fast footsteps, and then something is placed beside you. An iced latte rings the beginnings of a water-mark on your desk.
You look up, already smiling. "Please don't tell me you were late because you were getting me this."
Clark, ruffled and clutching his briefcase in one hand, balancing a tray of coffees in the other, pauses in his hurried motions. He looks down at you guiltily.
His mouth twists, a poor attempt to hold back a smile. You're thankful, if only for the fact you're particularly prone to your most foolish moments when Clark Kent smiles at you.
"Alright," he says. "I won't tell you."
Your eyes track him as he rounds the desk, slanting up his briefcase to deposit it. His response has only made you smile harder. You hide it behind a sip of your coffee.
Upon first taste, a pleased sigh escapes you. The drink is perfectly sweetened, creamy and icy-sweet. You have to force yourself not to chug half of it in one go.
The logo, forest green, printed across the front catches your attention.
Just to check, you glimpse at the other cups in Clark’s tray. He delivers one to Jimmy, his head buried in his laptop, and one to Lois, who hums her thanks. Another to Cat and one to Ron.
Each of their cups are a boring beige - which he’s gone out of his way for you specifically.
“You shouldn’t have,” You say, as Clark sits down opposite you at his desk, his hands finally free. He looks up, expression innocent, and his glasses slide an inch down his nose.
You twist the cup to face him, the only coffee from a different store than the others. “Really.”
Clark shrugs, nudging his glasses back up almost sheepishly. You can almost convince yourself that his ears are a shade pinker.
“It’s the one you like, isn’t it?” He gestures with a pen.
“That’s beside the point.”
“Is it?”
He’s being unbelievably genuine. As if, of course he’d go the extra distance for you.
“Yes, Clark,” You say, much less firmly than you’re hoping for. Your smile weakens it even more. “It is.”
A ping on your laptop saves you from having the sputter through your exact reasoning on why it’s beside the point.
You tend to it hastily, pointedly ignoring your hot coworkers expression. It’s not smugness — Clark could never be — but it’s something damn close.
He knows he’s right. You know he’s also sort of right too. He's perfectly allowed to do nice things for you. It’s just…
Clark Kent is a man who is too good to be true.
First of all, he’s nice. Awfully nice. Clark goes out of his way to help others.
He opens doors, is always the one with his arm out, holding the elevator, and he never minds the awkward wait for the last person to catch up.
He offers to carry bags, insisting even, then loads them over his arms like they weigh nothing.
You’ve seen him hail a cab for an old lady. He gets coffee for everyone around your corner of the bullpen. He’s nice.
And he seems to do it for the sake of being nice too.
Then there’s also the fact that… Well, you have eyes.
That is to say, he’s handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair and light eyes. He’s double-take-on-the-street-handsome.
He’s a gentleman too, polite and never overstepping. In fact, sometimes you think he’s loud on purpose, rustling as he moves about so he never accidentally catches you off guard.
That combination— the kindness of his character and his attractive appearance —is killer to a girl like you.
And anyone with eyes and a brain, in your humble opinion.
It’s why you’re also 100% sure, without even asking, that he’s already snatched up and locked down.
A man like that, single? In Metropolis? Ha!
Nevermind that he’s never technically mentioned a partner. Clark’s on the reserved side. You know about the same as everyone else; a small town farm boy from Kansas turned big city journalist.
Though, he did mention he was looking after his cousin’s dog to you the other week—after he caught you scrolling the SPCA’s page. You wonder how many people he’s told that to.
Wordlessly, you glance up, peering over the dividers between desks.
Clark’s engaged in his work, as you should be, a furrow between his brows. Despite all that you’ve just outlined, despite him being your coworker, there’s still a tug. You can’t resist the daydream.
Besides, there’s no real harm in a sweet and secret work crush.
No harm other than to perhaps your own ego—which happens every time you catch yourself mooning over him like a muppet.
Nose twitching, you force your eyes down. A new email slides onto your screen, blinking its high priority at you. You sigh, resisting the urge to look back up. It’s a fun daydream, but you have work to do.
You take another sip of your coffee — and in doing so, miss the gaze that lingers on your lips.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Living in Metropolis, two things are a given for all citizens.
1. Some part of your life has been interrupted by intergalactic aliens and 2. You have an opinion on Superman.
These two things usually go hand-in-hand, often when the first thing crashes into your life, forcing the second.
Though, in your experience, most Metropolitans have a handful of words prepared on whether the metahuman is more menace or hero.
As a journalist yourself, you’re surprisingly middle of the road.
Alien attacks suck. Superman does his best to intervene, saving people first, buildings second. Fallout is mitigated, but ultimately inevitable.
You see more of it than usual. You’re the Daily Planet’s man on the ground — out in the fray, it’s generally your notes that veto whatever else is circulating around the news hubbub; Superman action included.
Of course, you’ve not quite managed to snag an interview with the man himself.
That is a Clark Kent exclusive, which infuriates you just a smidge. You suppose it’s good for Superman that Clark favours painting him in a good light.
Today, you’re not even out for a Superman-esque story — your tape-recorder, an old-school thing, whirs loudly on the table to get a quote from the Mayor’s office — but as you track the meteor heading straight for a skyscraper, you figure it’s just one of those days.
“Please excuse me,” You say, reaching out to pause your tape.
The man before you, focus stolen and solely on the incoming meteor through the window, doesn’t respond. His mouth has opened a fraction, in surprise.
You figure he’ll understand you stepping out.
The door chime announces your exit and you get a closer look at today’s threat.
The meteor is a concerning flaming purple colour. A trail, dark and murky, traces its path in the sky. If you strain your ears, you can hear it—a faint whistle, like a shriek picking up volume as it approaches.
You don’t bother taking notes. There’ll be footage streamed online within the minute.
Pocketing your tape-recorder, you straighten your jacket and try to map the trajectory. You squint.
If you had to bet money, you’d guess it’s heading straight for the Harmony block apartments on 7th St - if it’s not intercepted, that is.
Sniffing for the story, you tuck your hands in your pockets and begin to head in that direction.
Dotted throughout the street, people have begun to stop and stare, their worried mutters paired with pointed fingers. Cars screech to a halt and impatient drivers honk their unhappiness.
An odd apprehension tinges the air. A nervous hush settles down amongst the streets.
You wind through the crowds of people easily, keeping a close eye on the violet-coloured projectile. You don’t want to get too close. You’re not stupid — you just need to get close enough to scrape together the important details.
Regular ol’ meteor? Intergalactic version of a catapult flung towards Earth with intent to harm?
Your brows furrow in thought, mind whirring, as you sidestep a halted couple, murmuring your excuse me’s.
Without taking your eyes off the meteor, you fumble around to find your notepad in your bag, You hand bangs against your tape-recorder in your pocket, hitting record.
“Well, what is it?” An older lady remarks.
She’s too blind to see it properly you’d guess, evidenced by her thick-glasses and heavy squint. “Some sort of bird?”
“It’s definitely not a plane,” Someone else in the crowd mutters.
The shriek of the meteor gets louder, its burn transforming to an auburn colour as it tears through the atmosphere. You’re just a couple blocks away from Harmony apartments when you hear it, a familiar sonic boom! that sets you stumbling for a moment.
Something has taken flight.
Just in time as well. An awful crackling noise has pierced through the shrieking of the meteor. Shimmers of light, brighter than the flaming auburn, begin to reach out from within the rock like stretched out fingers.
It’s at this point you have the sense to stop walking toward it.
And as if on cue, the meteor fractures with a loud burst.
The structure crumbles, torn into a handful of pieces and they quickly careen out in various directions. They’re faster now, propelled by the delayed blast.
“Shit.” you say astutely.
There’s a funny thing about things falling right in your line of vision; they can appear to stop moving completely.
You watch, perplexed, as a large chunk of the meteor seems to hover in place, then rise up, then slowly, slowly it dawns on you that it’s rapidly growing in size. You realise with a spike of horror that it’s heading right for you.
“Shit.” you say again, more panicked this time.
This is not what you meant when you said you’re out in the fray. Feet backtracking, you stumble over yourself before realising going backward isn’t your best bet.
You course-correct, before finally realising you aren’t the only one in the crosshairs of this rogue rock.
Your head whips around, left to right. People are staring at the incoming meteor, but not enough have realised what you already had.
“Move,” you say, too quietly. People can’t seem to break their horrified stares. The strange roar of the meteor deafens as it gets closer.
“Move! Everybody move!”
Something in your voice overrides their frozen instincts. A frantic energy surges through the crowd around you, people beginning to move with haste, bleating their fear.
You swallow your relief as the space begins to clear out and you follow them closely, casting another glance around.
Your gaze catches.
A lone child stands in the middle of the rapidly clearing street, a little girl swathed in maroon and confusion. Her little face searches for the reason for the obvious distress washing over the street, despair beginning to sink in.
Limbs freezing, your eyes comb through the crowd desperately, hoping to spot a parent fighting their way back to them - to no avail.
Horror shoves up your throat at the thought of her alone, waiting, unaware of the danger. You move without thinking.
You manage all of one step, then there’s a blur of blue that stops you. Suddenly, the girl is right before you - and so is Superman.
“Hello.” He says politely.
“Hi.” you breathe.
He’s got one hand on the shoulder of the kid, who’s torn between the shock of travelling at super-speed and seeing Superman himself. Her distress has been wiped away by awe.
He looks back up at you. “I trust I can leave this little one with you til the danger is past?”
“Hi.” you say again, foolishly. Your face flames. “I mean- yes, you can.”
When you look back on this interaction, you’ll undoubtedly be beyond embarrassed. Sue you, you’ve never seen Superman up close before.
Superman smiles again, this time his perfect grin on display. He scans the street around you diligently, sweeping for danger.
“You did a terrific job clearing out the street.”
His focus locks onto the now much closer threat with a more serious expression. You secretly take the moment to appreciate the sharp line of his jaw.
“Now, I’ll be right back,” He assures, looking first at the kid, then up to you. You wonder if his curl just does that. “And then we can find this one’s parents together.”
And with a final friendly squeeze on the kid’s shoulder, he turns and launches into flight, heading right for the incoming meteor.
The next few minutes are a bit of daze after that. You snatch moments of the chaos in the sky as Superman juggles between the pieces of the meteor.
It’s unclear if the plan is to let them ground, but given their hideous continued shrieks, you’re rather relieved when he bats them back up into the atmosphere.
Huh, you think, almost amusedly; it’s almost like superpowered baseball.
Just as they had arrived, the pieces streak back up into the sky, their awful shrieks fading as they disappear from view. You spot a familiar blur tracing their paths. Keeping them out of airspace, no doubt.
The girl, who had taken your hand the moment you offered it, still holds it tightly.
“Is he coming back?”
You turn and smile down at her, stooping down to match her height. Truth is, you’re not sure - but Superman seems like a man of his word.
“He said he would be.” You hope that’s assurance enough. “What’s your name?”
“Maisie.” She tells you, smiling enough to show off a slight snaggle-tooth. Adorable.
“That’s a wonderful name,” You say genuinely. “Who were you with today? Who might be looking for you, hm?”
Somewhere across the city, an ambulance siren wails its cry. The crowds are dispersing from their panic, people getting back on track with the danger now averted. This is Metropolis, after all.
Maisie rattles off how she had been with her aunt, ‘cos it’s Tuesday and she spends every Tuesday with her aunt Tess, and they were on their way to get lunch at Alma’s, ‘cos they always get Alma’s on a Tuesday.
It’s a sandwich store only 2 blocks away. She points with a finger in the general direction.
“Hmm,” You hum, following her finger. “I bet if I was your aunt Tess, I would’ve gone to Alma’s to see if you were there. Do you think we should go see if she’s there?”
Maisie nods, her loose pigtails flying with the motion.
“But what about Superman?” She says before you can straighten up.
“Right here.”
You jump a little, having not heard his arrival. Superman at least has the decency to offer you a sheepish look as he steps up on the other side of Maisie, already offering her a hand.
“Alright there, Miss?” He asks her seriously. She openly gawps up at him and nods faintly, her mouth open.
He smiles. “Great.”
His eyes flick up to meet yours intently. “And you, Miss? I think I can handle getting Maisie here back to where she belongs, if you have somewhere else you need to be.”
Maisie’s petite head swings around to face you. She hasn’t let go of your hand. Or closed her mouth. You think she’s even more starstruck that Superman knows her name.
“Y’know, I think I’d like to see her back into safe hands if that’s alright?”
Something flits across Superman’s expression, but he still only smiles and nods. “Two chaperones are certainly better than one.”
So, the three of you walk the two blocks to Alma’s, with both of Maisie’s hands held the whole way. Aunt Tess is tearfully relieved at her safe return and when she blubbers her thank-you’s, you’re surprised when Superman redirects them to you.
“I had help today,” he says.
Between the sincere thankfulness from Aunt Tess and the warm look from Superman, it’s a challenge not to fluster too much.
Maisie waves goodbye to both of you, her little hands still going wildly as she rounds the corner out of sight — and you can’t help but chuckle.
“Thank you for taking good care of her,” says Superman.
You turn and blink, half-surprised he’s still here.
He surely must be busy with, like, …hero stuff, right? But still, he’s taking the time to thank you.
“Of course.” You say. The words stammer a bit as you’re taken aback by his sincerity.
You find he has a very intense gaze when it’s fixed solely on you.
“Not everyone would have stayed with her the whole time. Or stepped in to begin with.” He commends. “It was brave of you to put yourself in danger to help her, so thank you.”
Now you’re really stunned. You flounder for words and end up biting your tongue so nothing stupid comes out.
In the end, you just say, “Of course.” again.
That makes him smile again. Dimples press into his cheeks. It’s enough to threaten to make you swoon.
“Take care of yourself, y/n.” He nods to you, then steps back and readies himself to fly once more.
“Wait,” The sound of your name pulls you up short. “How do you know my name?”
“It’s, uh, on your case.” He nods to it.
Any other questions are swallowed up by the howl of the wind, air tunnelling around him loudly as he abruptly takes flight. He turns to a blur and you watch the sky, even when there’s nothing left to watch.
The street around you dims, softened, and then its noise filters back in slowly. Cars droning, traffic lights flicking, the murmur of conversation. You hadn’t realised how much all of that had quietened with Superman’s attention on you.
For a long moment, you’re simply stumped on how to feel.
If one’s things for sure, you have a much more concrete opinion on Superman than you did this morning — though nothing you can quite put a finger on.
Admiration? Maybe.
Something else twinges in there, unbidden.
You slip your hands into your pockets to mull it over, surprised when your hand bumps into something unexpected. Curling your fingers around it, you pull it out.
Still whirring away, your tape-recorder sits in the palm of your hand, record button blinking.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Take care of yourself, y/n.”
The tape clicks as it pauses, then revolves back with a scribbling sound.
“Take care of yourself, y/n.”
You hit pause, then hit rewind. Your finger hovers over the play button, contemplating if you’re really going to listen to this part of the tape over and over like a lovesick teenage girl.
You certainly feel like one. The tape must be wearing thin by this point.
Eyes screwing shut, you hit play.
“Take care of yourself, y/n.”
Hitting pause, you groan. You chuck the tape softly to the other end of the couch you’re draped across so you can’t be tempted to play it once more. Then you bury your face in your hands.
“This is getting pathetic.” you mumble to yourself.
The rogue meteor and your subsequent brush with Superman had occurred two whole days ago.
You’re rather thankful it had all gone down on a Friday. It has certainly given you ample time to waste. All of yesterday and today has been spent on that god forsaken tape and the graininess of Superman’s voice.
The audio was a little muffled, given the device had been pocketed away. There’s lots of rustling, louder than anything else, when you’d been running.
But your whole easy conversation with Maisie as she dawdled her way to Alma’s had been captured — including her a million questions for Superman, that he’d dutifully answered.
That’s not quite the part you’re stuck on though.
Sighing, you deflate into the couch. The image of his dimples, his smile, floats in. You have to mentally bat it away.
Man, why do you feel almost like you’re betraying your crush on Clark right now?
You drag your hands away and huff again at your own dramatics. There’s no betraying. Those crushes fall into the exact same box: unfathomable and impossible.
Sitting up, your eyes fall on the tape recorder. You regard it thoughtfully for a moment.
Beyond the selfish reasons you’ve been abusing the tape, there’s also the question of using it for an article. The idea has been circling your mind since Friday, since your first listen.
There’s a reason you’re the man on the ground. Sure, you can write but, well, you’re not quite top quality like Jimmy or Clark or Lois.
This one though, this tape, has you particularly inspired.
Plus, you’re not exactly jazzed at the idea of passing off the recording to one of your coworkers.
Jimmy? He’d probably latch onto your part in it all, some Superman-inspires-citizen-to-do-good angle. The thought makes your nose wrinkle - you don’t want to be the focal point.
Clark? Who already got Superman interviews? It’s hardly worth his time.
And Lois? No chance you’d turn the tape over to her. She’s so sharp, she’d probably notice the scratch in the audio from where you’ve paused and rewound — and then you’d never know peace.
Given your choices, or lack thereof, it really only leaves you with one last option.
Feeling more set than you have all weekend, you push up off the couch and retrieve your laptop. You settle it in your lap and get comfy, folding the screen up.
After a moment, you lean across and grab the tape recorder too, rewinding once more — this time from the very beginning.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
If someone were to describe you, you bet they'd say that today, you have a pep in your step. And screw it, maybe you do!
It's not every day that you get an article published in the Daily Planet, not with your more lackey-level job on the ground.
But it's more than that too. Not only is it published, but it's on the second page.
For some, that's all in a day's work. For you? It's nothing to sneeze at.
It's your most prolific article published to date in your whole year of working at the Daily Planet. You suppose you have some great inspiration to thank for that
And some of your coworkers are kind enough to take notice of your milestone.
Cat had squealed excitedly her congrats in the elevator earlier, whilst Jimmy had given you a nod of approval from across the bullpen. You're practically walking on air as you drop down into your seat.
For a change, Clark isn't late today.
Glimpsing the time, you watch him subtly out the corner of your eye as he spends the last few free minutes dropping a round of coffee.
The crush in you aches. You bury your yearning beneath your best attempt at looking busy, studying your computer screen.
It's broken instantly when Clark sits across from you and your eyes flit up at the movement.
He's already looking at you. With both hands on the cup, he holds your regular iced latte and presents it forward like a precious gift.
To you, it is. You wonder if it's written on your face, with how you can't bite back your smile.
"I'm sorry I can't get something better to celebrate with." He says as you relieve him of the cup. The condensation clings to your fingers, but you can only focus on the brush of his fingers.
"Celebrate?"
Clark's brow furrows. He regards you with a look that says you know what.
"It's only second page." You downplay.
Like you hadn't done a little dance when you got the email that Perry had greenlit it for the second page.
"Only?" Clark exclaims. If you didn't know better, you'd have no idea he'd copped multiple front page articles for the Planet. "C'mon, you must have some plans for a celebration."
If you're being honest, said plans included curling up on your couch and gorging yourself on Chinese food. Not quite a celebration, but still a treat for you.
"Not really." You admit honestly. The attention from him is making you bashful - and truthful.
Clark shakes his head at that. He plants his hands on the desk and leans forward, looking at you seriously over the rim of his glasses. "That just won't do. Let's do dinner."
After a moment, he seems to realise how pushy that might seem. Clearly (and thankfully), your glee is well-hidden as he retracts in a bit, sitting a bit straighter.
"I mean, that is- if you'd like. Would you?" He clears his throat. "Like to go to dinner?"
You have to wrestle to keep the grin from splitting on your face. Magically, you muster the calm to take a sip of your coffee, pretending to mull it over.
Across the desk, Clark pushes his glasses up his nose - almost nervously.
You get struck with the sudden thought that perhaps, crazily, your crush might not be as one-sided as you once thought.
"I meeean," You drag out the word as if you're still tossing it up. "I was pretty set on the #4 combo from Mr. Go's on my block."
Screw being a journalist, you should be an actor given the little twitch of Clark's brow. You don't let him stew for more than a moment.
"So, you could maybe join?" You offer, nearly holding your breath. "Come to mine?"
Your heart threatens to turn itself inside out from nerves. Somehow, Clark manages to sit up even straighter. He huffs out a breath, then he's grinning, dimples on show. He nods severely.
"To celebrate." He tacks on.
One of his hands has drifted up to fiddle with his tie, but you can't tell if it's tighten or loosen it.
"To celebrate." You agree with a nod. You have to press your lips together to contain your grin. It's a battle you're happy to lose.
And if you spend the rest of the day catching each other's eyes across the desk? That's your own damn business.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"I can't believe I've never heard of this place before!"
You laugh around your forkful of noodles at Clark's earnest excitement. He's had his first bite of food, and it's quickly been followed by his second, third, and fourth.
He looks up at you from the other side of your couch, eyes wide. "This has gotta be, like, Metropolis' best kept secret."
You laugh again and press a finger to your lips. That makes Clark laugh and the sound makes you feel a bit drunk.
He looks devastatingly at home on your couch. His suit jacket had been shed during your walk from the Planet, his tie loosened and stashed in his bag when you sat down to tuck into your food.
Now he sits, his sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up. The top button or two of his dress shirt have been undone.
You're nearly undone with it.
This is nothing like the Clark you've gotten to know at work, proper and kept. Sitting in your space, he's casual. Relaxed. Domestic.
It's not a stretch to imagine doing this every night.
It's a particularly nice evening too — even the sunset had tinted the colour of love on your walk back to your apartment, reds fading to a blush pink. Clark had held all the food at his own insistence.
The evening is darker now. A coolness blankets your apartment, amber streetlights reaching through the windows. There's some show playing on your television, but it's on low, barely a murmur.
"Last wonton?" Clark says, holding out the box. "It is your celebration night, after all."
Right. It hasn't felt much like a celebration— mainly because it's been feeling like a date.
It occurs to you that that feeling might not be mutual. You spear the wonton with your fork to give you something to swallow the bad feeling that thought gives you.
You've barely started chewing when Clark starts moving, gathering the plates from your coffee table.
"You don't have tuh—" You protest through your mouthful before you think the better of it.
Clark's already waving you off. The plates quickly form a tall stack and he scoops them up with one hand with remarkable ease.
"Please," He smiles. "I’ve left you with your share.”
He nods to the one plate and one fork still in use in your lap. Then he’s winding his way through the doorway to your kitchen before you can protest further — as if he owns the place!
You chew furiously through your wonton. "Don't do them all before I can help!"
No response beyond a laugh that makes you feel a bit melty. You slow your jaw, enjoying the food, and savouring the swallow.
You sit for a moment, soaking in the moment built around you. He’s here, in your space, and he’s taking care of you - seemingly quite happy to do so.
You’re reaching dangerous levels of hope now.
The plate clinks as you stack the fork atop it, climbing to your feet. You trace Clark’s footsteps to the kitchen.
He’s running the sink, bubbles foaming up in little tufts. He’s already rolled his sleeves back further, exposing the strong muscles in his forearm. His hands hidden are beneath the water, soaking your blue sponge and when he wrings it out, it manages to look extra tiny in his grip.
You take a moment to send a prayer for strength. Or luck. Insane luck. You’ll take either.
Adding your plate to the pile beside the sink, you grab the Garfield tea-towel hanging over the rail and sidle up to take the place next to him.
Wordlessly, Clark lets the suds run off the first plate and then hands it over.
You steal a glimpse at his face. This close you could count his lashes. They kiss together at the end, courtesy of his warm smile.
Side by side, the two of you work in comfortable silence. When passing the next plate, his elbow bumps up your arm and he leaves it there, pressed up lightly against you.
“You know,” Clark says idly, speaking as he scrubs at a pair of forks. “I’ve actually wanted to, uh,” He clears his throat. “Find a way to ask you out to dinner for, well, a long time.”
It’s a miracle you manage not to drop the plate in your hands. That prayer worked fast. Somehow, you recover enough to tease.
“You mean to tell me you hijacked my celebration night for your own gain?”
Without missing a beat, Clark says, “Maybe I did.”
He's completely sincere, nudging his arm against yours again. He rinses off the last plate and this time, instead of handing it over, he plucks the tea-towel out of your hands and starts drying.
With nothing to do with your hands, you’re left to deal with the conversation. You do your best to grasp your courage tightly. You wonder if he'll notice if you pinch yourself, to check if this is real.
“A long time, huh?”
Leaning your hip up against the kitchen counter, you echo his earlier words. Clark’s watching you, something that looks an awful lot like hope in his eyes.
“I…” You start. Your voice is getting quieter as your courage slips away and you can’t quite meet his gaze anymore. “I mean, I- me too.”
You hope he won’t make you spell it out — that he knows what you mean with just those words.
But Clark has never been cruel and he isn’t now. He places the final plate down gently, the tea-towel beside it.
Then he steps closer to you, bracketing you against the counter. It forces your eyes up, because staring at the hollow of his throat is almost as maddening as meeting his expression.
Clark’s smiling, a warmness in his blue eyes you haven’t realised is reserved just for you, til right this moment. His dimples, you bemoan silently. He’s beyond handsome.
He has no right to look like that - to look at you like that.
“Would it be improper of me then,” He begins. “To hope we might do this again?”
You have the sudden urge to throw your arms around his neck and kiss him stupid. Your hands, which have moved to hold the bench for support, are shaking just a bit.
“Not improper at all.” It’s barely a whisper.
His eyes drop to your mouth and that alone makes you feel dizzy.
“Great,” Clark grins, matching your tone with a low murmur. “Because there’s this woman I work with…”
Slowly, he reaches up and gently tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The warmth of his hand feels like it’s scorching the side of your face. Your heart is in your throat - and in your head, your stomach, pulsing at the end of every fingertip.
“She’s incredible at what she does,” He continues, hand still hovering. “Beautiful too. And whip-smart—though, I’m beginning to question that, given she said yes to going out with the likes of me.”
That laugh startles out of you and it breaks Clark into a grin too. His eyes roam your face, as if he’s drinking in your joy.
He’s entirely too gorgeous. You have to grip the counter tighter to remain upright.
“Shut up.” you say weakly.
Clark’s eyebrows raise. “And a bit bossy too—”
“Shut up,” you say again, a little more breathlessly. “And kiss me, Clark.”
To his credit, Clark doesn’t waste a second.
The hand that had been hovering finds your neck, burying into your hair, while the other finds the edge of your waist.
He tugs you forward, lightly, but even so it’s enough to make you laugh in surprise - so when he presses his mouth to yours, you’re already smiling.
It makes the first kiss clumsy. You’re too smiley to kiss back properly. That apparently makes Clark smile too, his glasses pressing into the bridge of your nose before you break apart.
“That-” He breathes. “Gosh, sorry, I meant- that is, for it to be less,"
He struggles to pick the correct word. You guess for him.
"Improper?"
Clark laughs at that, his eyes shining with an ardent affection. It's enough to make you shiver in his hold. God, those eyes, that mouth.
"Yes, improper." He says, though he sounds utterly pleased. "Will you let me redeem myself?"
In answer, you finally let yourself give in to the urge that's been building. Fingers curling into the collar of his dress shirt, you have to press up on your toes, but Clark's already there, meeting you halfway.
He's tugging you in again, the hand on your waist tighter as he sweeps you up in a kiss that you'll be dreaming of for years.
Clark is an infuriatingly good kisser you're learning.
Plush lips against yours, your head spins. Through an impossible series of events, in your little kitchenette, you're being kissed by Clark Kent like there's no sweeter taste than your mouth.
Your hands slide up, arms winding around his neck, feeling as though you're floating on literal air.
And it's with that thought that the abrupt realisation that your feet are off the ground comes.
Perplexed, you draw back, blinking in your confusion. Has he lifted you up-?
It takes one glance to realise that yes, not only are your feet off the ground—but so are Clark's.
It gives you a violent shock, but instinct has you clinging closer to Clark as a startled yelp escapes you. Then you're on the ground again, so quick you'd think you imagined it, if not for the shock in your legs.
You scramble back in bewilderment, hands clambering for purchase on the counter.
"I-! That-! You can fly!" You exclaim, pointing at the ground where you had just levitated.
Clark starts to stammer. "I-I, it's not- listen, I can explain."
You stare at him, waiting, but Clark only smothers a hand over his mouth. He still looks terribly blushed from the kiss, cheeks pink and mouth undoubtedly the same. His glasses are askew.
Somehow, you know you're staring at a huge puzzle piece.
Screwing your eyes shut, you attempt to process the rolling rampage of thoughts streaming through your mind.
Clark Kent can fly!
Clark Kent kissed you! (Less important, but still a thought.)
Clark Kent is... not human?
Your eyes open again and Clark's still there, his hands now hanging off his neck. He looks terribly stressed, his own eyes screwed shut in thought.
"Okay, listen-" He says abruptly, eyes still closed.
"—No, wait," You interrupt, holding a hand up. You're nearly there, you know it. The realisation is so close you can almost taste it.
Who else do you know who can fly? Technically, there's more than a handful of meta-humans with the capability of flight — but squinting at your hot coworker crush, a particular one is coming to mind.
The moment you consider it, you know it to be true. You straighten up with an incredulous look - and Clark knows that you know.
Clark Kent is Superman! You kissed Clark Kent! You've kissed Superman!
"Oh, man." you say dazedly. Something compels your feet to move and mindlessly, you're walking to the couch. It sinks under you as you flop onto it, still reeling in your disbelief.
That would certainly explains the absences at work. Knowing your name, that day on the street. The same dimples you go crazy for. Now you've figured out the puzzle piece, you can't stop marvelling at how well it fits.
"y/n?" Clark has followed you from the kitchen, a wary look on his face, unsure what to make of your silence.
You blink, taking in the sight of him perched nervously on the other end of your second-hand couch and a delighted laugh is tickled out of you. "Of course, it's you."
Clark tenses up momentarily before he shifts to sit closer to you. "Okay, but, really, you have to listen—" He's pushing a hand across his face, knocking his glasses. Without thinking, he plucks them off his face.
Woah. So, that's why you hadn't picked it - given how when you look at Clark's face clearly, without his glasses, it's obviously Superman staring back at you.
Without much thought, you're clambering forward across the couch, closer, and taking his face between your palms. Clark watches you closely, still distracted with speaking - "—you can't tell anyone, I'm serious- What're you doing?"
You're tilting his face from side to side is what you're doing. "Of course," You say again, this time sounding a little more awed. "I mean, I wouldn't have picked it— it's the glasses, right? They have some sort of—"
Your sentence is cut off, Clark's hands reaching up to encircle your wrists. He holds your hands still and says you name once more, softer.
"You don't seem to be hearing me. Or," His eyes roam your face, searching for something. "You aren't really... responding how I thought you would. You can’t tell anyone."
His worry finally reaches you. You stop your near-frantic moment of revelations and breathe, feeling the concern in his words, shown on his face.
His brow is furrowed, eyes stormy. You can't stop looking at him. It's like you've never seen his face before.
"Do you really think I would?" You ask quietly.
Clark swallows, throat bobbing. After a moment, he answers honestly. "No. I don't think you would."
The truth of his statement sits in the air, blanketing the pair of you in something warmer, tasting of trust. You're looking at Superman —looking at Clark — and all you can think of is how it all makes sense. This, him, you—all of it.
Somewhere within you, the baby crush from Friday’s brush with Superman merges with your feelings for Clark. It fizzles in you, rushing through your veins. God, you like him so much.
"So,” You breathe. “What now?"
"What now?" Clark echoes. He's still holding your wrists, but his grip has softened. As if he's holding them to keep you close this time round. "I mean, I- well, if you still—that is to say... Dinner?"
He sputters through the sentence, landing clumsily on the last word. You're grinning before he's even finished.
"Dinner would be—" You pause for effect. "Super."
"Alright," Clark declares, shaking his head dramatically. "Date invitation revoked for that one. Are you kidding me? Already?"
He's released your wrists, getting to his feet and making a big show of it. Still, he's grinning and you're laughing, hopelessly enamoured. The laughter threads through your words.
"No take backsies."
“Alright, fine,” Clark huffs, crossing his arms. The bulge of his biceps draws your eye and this time, you let yourself look. You think you’ve earned it.
An unexplained question piques your mind.
“You didn’t mean to tell me.” You comment, tilting your head slightly. “Why did you fly?”
Whatever reaction you're expecting, it's not the glorious one that unfolds before your eyes. A blush paints Clark’s cheeks, but it doesn’t stop there. You can see it crawling down his neck, beneath his shirt. His ears are tinted red.
He scratches the back of his neck bashfully, avoiding eye contact. His voice has dropped in volume. “That’s… I… it happenswhenIgetexcited.”
“What?”
“It hasn’t happened for years!” The words suddenly burst out, Clark's hands held out. “It was more, like, when I was younger, yeah, if I got, like,” He begins to stammer. “Too excited, or- or happy, it would- just, oh gosh.”
He buries his face in his hands. You take a moment to process his words, brows rising to your hairline.
“Oh,” You sound pleased as punch. “Oh, okay, that’s just adorable.”
Clark straightens up, dragging his hands from his face and placing them on his hips. His face is still pinker than you’ve ever seen. He seems to accept his fate. “Thank you. I think?”
If he was still beside you on the couch, you think you wouldn't be able to resist kissing him once more. Instead, you lose the fight against your grin. You tuck up one leg and drape your arm across it, pressing your smile into your skin.
“You gonna have that under control in time for our next dinner?” You say.
Clark perks up at you words, as though he assumed the reason for his accidental flight might’ve scared you off. Like being excited could ever be bad.
“Yes.” He nods seriously. "Absolutely."
"Then," you say lightly, as though your heart isn’t pumping molten lava right now. You give a little shrug, aiming for nonchalant and fooling no-one. "It's a date."
Clark nods again, straightening up. He folds his arms, his posture serious, but you can still see it in his face - the joy. The excitement.
"It's a date." He agrees - and it sounds like the promise of much, much more than that.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
tagging sum lovelies i think might be interested <3 but no pressure @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @headkiss @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes
your childhood best friend is synonymous with ‘the guy you call when something (inevitably) goes sour.’ clark is dependable, steady, safe. and maybe—well, more than maybe—the grass is greener in his bed.
or: two times your love life needs a little clark kent tlc. third time’s gotta be the charm, you swear.
wc. 18k+
tags. 18+ explicit nsfw, unprotected piv/mating press, size kink, slightly (?) jealous sex, first time cunnilingus, fingering n squirting, multiple orgasms, edging, creampie, light hair tugging, pathetic clark who whimpers, anecdotes and yearning, talk of past toxic relationships, hurt/comfort if u squint (!!!)
— basically what ciderclark could have been if they werent pussies LMAO. title from the cure's just like heaven aka the most romantic song forever ^u^
Clark lives through every day like the ice cream store’s about to close.
In other words, he’s an avid believer in carpe diem, and he is never too busy.
It’s admirable, really. How he’s always bustling in tandem with Metropolis, zipping in and out of the Daily Planet with a Jitters Coffee in hand and two suits on his shoulders. Flying up and down town to open doors for grandmas, kick lost balls back over the fence, zoom past Stryker’s Island to let Lex Luthor get a real good look before he starts another day in prison.
‘Superman doesn’t have time for selfies’ is bullshit.
He always makes time for one more thing. One last squeeze in his itinerary, whether it be volunteering to take pictures for someone else’s article or being the one in the picture himself—posing straight and strong, beaming that friendly grin before he takes off to seize the day!
Which is why he's the first one you text when you finally dump the guy you've been seeing.
It started with that dream. The one that's been recurring for about a week, enough that you remember the details down to where the specks of dust will end up as they float through the air.
The one where you find him sitting at the front of the school bus, saving a seat with that beat-up backpack decorated with Mighty Crabjoys pins and patches. Sun already high up, and it’s balmy inside, the smell of old vinyl upholstery and seat cleaner already soaking your clothes while the driver skips to the next song on his Johnny Cash CD.
Clark is wearing a bright, dorky grin on his face. Says something over the loud rumble of the engine like: ‘Gosh, we have a test—I know, why on Monday—but you will knock it outta the water. Here comes the sun!’
Or, if you’re going by last night: ‘Seize the day!’
And last Friday: ‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ which might’ve come from one of those Shakespeare playbooks on his shelf. Probably the one with the deepest stress lines on the spine, because that’s just how he is.
Not like you know, though. Shakespeare has always been Clark’s specialty.
Your heart flutters.
You laugh and ruffle your hands in his downy black hair, and he doesn't do anything to fix it (even when you aren't looking) and you get off a stop before school so he can break his lunch sandwich in half.
Then, you spend the last twenty-odd minutes scuffing sneakers against the dusty sidewalks, sun warming your backs, talking about the latest music and baseball games, the who likes who and the I like—
The bed creaks when you prop yourself up on your elbows.
Your head spins, still stirring and cottony with the last of deep sleep, and your phone alarm is trilling incessantly on your nightstand.
It’s weird how these things have been happening more frequently. Especially considering you’re fresh out of a breakup, if being ghosted and then dumping the guy a week later over voicemail could be considered one.
You thought of it as more of a casual fling, really. A talking stage, as some would call it—a date here and there, just getting to know each other.
Been seeing might be a misleading way to put it. That implies a certain threshold of intimacy, one you hadn’t passed.
He’d fallen silent once you started talking about Smallville. About your best friend, who’s six-four and raised on Kansan corn, a gentle giant you followed to the city and kind of planned to keep in your life.
(He ghosted you the next day. But just to one-up him, you think you might’ve started thinking about canceling the next date when he asked just how important Clark was over anybody else.)
Eyes dry and bleary, your lips are chapped because you somehow started drooling at midnight. Air conditioning’s still on—you always forget despite the nightly reminder text Clark sends you—and you’re shivering under your blankets, hair a mess and plastered to your forehead.
Your Queensland Park apartment is dark and blue with the morning haze, save for the tiny sliver of light shining through your bedroom door. It’s from the lamp you leave on in the sitting room. Ma Kent lent it to you—something to have from home, as if you didn't take her overgrown son with you.
The shade is stained glass, like those ones you find at an old library. Simple and cerulean and rimmed with tarnished brass, and the slightly greenish tinge from the glass color superimposing on the warm lightbulb greets you every day without fail.
So does Clark, with his good morning motivational texts—exactly at seven-thirty, even on weekends.
It’s clockwork. Expected. The same exact time those bus doors would open and wash you in a wave of exhaust and vinyl.
Once, it was ‘Sun’s up, guns out!’ with a photo attachment.
It was him on the front page, framed in a way you know for a fact that Jimmy Olsen got the photo credit in the byline.
He was in his suit, all blue like your lampshade and red like the color of the flannels he left in his wardrobe drawers in Smallville, and he was holding a semi-truck over his head. Biceps straining against the seams of his costume, dark hair windswept in the way his Internet fangirls go crazy over.
You snorted at it. Alright, you...giggled, and maybe you had a pep in your usual morning slouch, but that’s all there was to it. Seriously.
It’s just so endearing that in the lifetime you’ve spent with him, Clark has never run out of cheesy things to say.
You reach across your tangled blankets and wrinkled pillows, grasping clumsily for your phone on the nightstand. You swipe up on the screen, shut off your alarm, and immediately pull into the last message he sent you.
Two minutes ago: ‘Hit a home run like Clark.’
He’s added that stupid bobblehead of Chicago's eponymous cub mascot you got him as a gag gift one Christmas, way back in grade school. The one with the left ear chipped off and a poorly painted Meteors logo over the red and blue C.
A small, fond grin blooms on your face, uncontrollable.
You weren’t aware that he kept it. Hell, you didn’t even know that he brought it to Metropolis.
But that’s just how Clark is. Thoughtful at his core. Kind and sentimental. Actions speak louder than words and the whole works.
He’s tucked himself neatly into your breast pocket. The edges of you line up like the stars, and you house every little thing he’s done in the space between your heart and lungs.
And it’s the steadiness of that which grounds you here.
When things inevitably go wrong, you call him first. CLARK KENT, branded in big letters on your phone screen.
He’s down for anything. Picking you up after a bad day at work, killing (sorry, escorting out) the cockroach that mysteriously found itself in your apartment, helping fold your fitted sheets because you can never do it quite like he and his Ma do.
That’s the kind of man your childhood best friend is, in all his messy-curl, soft-sighed glory. Crooked glasses that he didn’t start wearing until high school, suits by the day and flannel pajamas by night. Blushes if you stare at him for too long, earnest in everything he does.
Consistent. Cerulean sea glass patiently shaped by the test of time.
You like his message and swing your legs onto the floor. The hardwood is cold beneath your feet, and you pad over to the thermostat, turning down the AC and wandering into the bathroom while you think up some witty response.
A pun is too cringy to send. You could just prattle off the date of the next Cubs v. Meteors series, but Clark probably already has a season ticket, so there’s no point.
Your phone buzzes, twice.
Daily Planet newsletter | Friday, April 27
REMINDER: 4th date, Matthew
You grimace at the second pop-up banner.
You still haven’t cleared your calendar of pre-planned dates.
In your sleep-smudged state, you had forgotten. You were lucky enough to score a job that lets you leave early on Fridays, so you just set the afternoon as your go-to day for completing your miscellaneous tasks before the weekend.
Chores, laundry, dates.
You worry the inside of your cheek between your molars.
You decide to blame it on the dream, and the fact that you were immediately greeted by Clark’s text.
Over-optimistic, typed out in that cheery voice you know he intended to send it with even though you can’t possibly hear it. You can hear it in your head though—how it squeaks slightly, pitches up in the way it does when he’s excited.
You really haven’t spent much time with Clark recently, you realize. Seeing him doesn't count, because technically, everyone in Metropolis sees him, even if it’s a red blur rocketing around the stone corner of an Art Deco high-rise.
You’ve just...been busy. With work, and your broken electric kettle (right, you have to fix that before you do something rash at work), and your unlucky streak in relationship business.
He’s definitely busy with balancing Superman and his articles too, but...
That’s a silly thing to worry about, isn’t it?
Making time is practically enshrined in his philosophy, his raison d'être. And if not today, then tomorrow, or some other day. You know Clark Kent well and long enough to understand that he’s superb at making up for things.
Maybe you should take a page out of his book.
TO: clark kent
u busy tonight?
we should bring back friday dinner for good lol
but at ur place, mines messy
Delivered with a whoosh.
You put your phone face down onto the bathroom counter and wrench the sink on, cupping your hands beneath the rapid stream. Frigid water splashes onto your face.
Pressing your wet fingers against your eyelids, stars bloom in your vision. Two breaths, in-out. Long inhale, short exhale.
Like this is just an exercise. Like your heart didn’t stammer for several beats after you punched the send button.
He’s probably on his way to work right now. Gets up early like he’s still in the heartland. Like he has cows and crops to tend to instead of interviews and articles.
All things considered though, Mr. Kent wouldn’t be happy if his son was always tardy or MIA to farm work like he is in the city.
A quiet laugh bubbles in your stomach. You wonder how he even gets in and out of the Planet in that ridiculously bright suit.
You swipe your hands on the soft fibers of a hand towel and pick your phone up again.
He’s in the middle of formulating a message, three dots dancing after each other in the text bubble.
You press the first letter of what you want to say on the keyboard. There’s no going back now.
TO: clark kent
my boyfriend said so btw
Nice to let him know, right?
(You hope he remembers the joke.)
Clark’s dots disappear for a moment. You imagine him pondering in the way you know so well: cheek sucked in and caught between his teeth, eyes wandering to zone out at the ceiling.
Then they start again, bopping along in consecutive order.
Three buzzes, muted against the cradle of your palms.
FROM: clark kent
Haha, ok.
I’m not flying tho
and I don't have melon pops.
A snort finds its way out of your nose. You feel warm despite the cold water still beading on your face.
He remembers.
Which is sweet on its own, referencing those two times he’s come to your rescue in times of love-life crisis.
Which goes back to how making time (be there in a jiffy) and giving thoughtful gifts (thought you might like these flowers) and comforting you when you need it most (oh, sunshine, if you wanted someone to dote on you, you could’ve just asked me) practically runs in his blood.
And he’s right. It’s pretty doting—and dare you suggest—boyfriend-like already.
…Oh. You freeze.
It dawns on you then that a sappy, sickly smile that’s strikingly close to a lovesick one has been creeping onto your face.
Oh, no.
—
Your first heartbreak comes during your eighteenth summer in Smallville.
Well, it’s less heartbreak and more embarrassment.
Turned to face the popcorned wall of the general store, you wait for the line to connect. The retro payphone handset is cold in your hand, just like how it’s cool in here, the barest respite from the hell on earth outside.
Of all days to fall for something stupid, you chose Senior Ditch morning. You should have just lazed around at the Kents’ like Clark asked you to.
The fan in the far corner rattles in the way it has since before you were even born, paper streamers dancing on the metal grate. The dial tone finally starts droning—ouurrrrr.
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, index finger tangled in the cord. Please don’t be mad.
He picks up on the first ring—click! Waits in silence for another second before finally addressing the elephant in the cornfield with his usual cheery voice, “So. Nate's a jerk, isn’t he?”
Sighing, you rub your thumb over your eyelid, press the speaker closer against the shell of your ear. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“’S fine.” You can see him in your mind, flattening his mouth into that weirdly reassuring upside-down smile. “We all learn some way, right?”
“Mhm,” you swallow and do a quick check of your surroundings.
Eddie the clerk is wiping down the counter—milkshakes sold out today—and Mr. Stone is getting ready to set up today’s round of rummy in the back.
No sign of that asshole Nate.
No sign of anyone, really. Kind of stupid now that you think about it, setting a ditch day during the peak of a heat wave.
“Just say it.” You lean your shoulder against the wall and look out the windows. The white backside of the painted GENERAL STORE letters glare back at you. You pitch your voice down, “Told you so, sunshine.”
Clicking his tongue, “I don’t sound like that.”
“Your Ma would disagree.”
“Well, I didn’t tell you so, sunshine,” he sighs. You can hear the small smile bleeding into his voice. “I just said that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.”
“Right.” You draw out the word, honey-slow on the ‘i’.
“Right?” Clark laughs, a windchime sound. Your tone has completely passed over his head. “I only meant you might enjoy your day off more if we were polishing off a pint of Neapolitan and binging Star Wars instead of going on a date.”
You stay silent for a heartbeat. Wheels spin in your head—why the hell are you calling him anyways?
Clark should be mad. That you brushed off his advice, that you woke up early to walk to town instead of his house. That you ditched him for some boy who couldn’t even care for you like he does.
But he isn’t. He’s so water-under-the-bridge forgiving and sweet and—
Fuck, if you aren’t sorry for being stupid. It might be the embarrassment or the sting of slapping yourself mentally or even the heat, but you’re half-desperate when you say:
“Please pick me up.” You blurt it so fast that you think the words muddled into one. Silence. Static over the line. “Clark? Hey, you know I’m sorry for—”
You hear a faint jingle over the staticky line, then a far-off yell, “Pa! I’m going out!”
“Drive safe!” Another beat. “Darn boy left the phone hangin’ again. That you, sunny?”
You bring your hand up to your mouth and stifle an amused exhale against the back of it. “Yeah, it’s me, Mr. Kent.”
He clicks his tongue, a mannerism that’s almost identical to the way Clark does it. “Mm, way he was lookin' all concentrated, I knew it had to be you. What’re you doin’ out in this heat anyway?”
You set your mouth into a flat line. “...Things.”
The bell to the store rings, and Eddie choruses a ‘hey, Mr. Morris’ without even looking up from the counter.
Mr. Morris nods to Eddie, waves to you and then tilts his head with a frown. He’s been coming here long enough to know where you take your usual perch with Clark, so it must be strange to see you without the Kents’ awkwardly big son.
You point to the phone, and his frown relaxes with an oh.
“Things, you say,” rumbles Mr. Kent. You could probably see his greying beard fluffing up if you squint hard enough. “Does this have something to do with Clark bein’ all mopey this mornin’?”
“Um,” you stammer, swallowing. You wince. “Maybe. I...well, a guy asked me to meet him.”
“Oh. See, I’d say if a boy doesn’t show up to take you himself, he in’t worth chasing, but I think you heard enough of that from Clark,” Mr. Kent drawls. Your nose furrows, deepening your grimace. “Well, I hope that works out for you someday. If you need to find me—prob’ly in twenty minutes if my boy is abiding the speed limit—I'll be in the barn.”
He lets out a hearty laugh. You echo him, albeit weaker and half-awkward.
“Yeah, Mr. Kent, I—I'll see you ‘round.”
You hang your head and hook the handset back onto the payphone.
Main Street is distorted by heat waves. The cracked asphalt wobbles along with the fading white paint dividing the lanes, and you think about Clark.
Tearing down the roads at a speed of exactly 30 mph, hands tapping at nine and three on the sunwarmed wheel. Skipping to the next Rascal Flatts song on the CD that never leaves the truck, like it’s just another day.
Mr. Kent said that Clark was looking all concentrated on the phone. You know that look like the back of your hand: lashes resting against his cheeks, eyes trained down and glasses sliding to the tip of his nose. Tongue caught in the pocket of his cheek, dimple pressing in as he mulls over whatever is playing out in his head.
And then you wonder when was the last time he cut his hair—it's gotten quite long, enough that when he tugs a cap on, his curls stick out of the back—and if he managed to get the magnitude of his laser vision right this morning because last week, he burned himself shaving.
You lean your head against the pane, graciously cold on your cheek.
The heat must be playing tricks, you think, with a superimposition of Clark swimming on the glass.
(Or it might just be that you kind of, maybe, really miss him and whatever weird thing he’d randomly blurt out if he was here.)
Smallville Giants cap snug over his head, downy hair curling out of the snapback in the way you imagined it to be. The brim is low over his forehead, shadow making the blue of his eyes shine out in that somewhat off-putting way they do in the dark.
He grins in that lopsided, downturned way that reminds you of the Kents’ border collie, Shelby, thumping her tail against the ground. A laugh escapes you in a small exhale through your nose, and you brush your fingertips against the window.
And then he taps the glass.
Real. Solid. Smile widening to show teeth with a double-exposure in the reflection.
Your heart leaps into your throat as you spin around. It really is him, arms firmly crossed over a white-shirted chest and charming dimples shining at full force.
“What—Clark!”
You must look like a fool right now, limbs all frozen up in surprise and eyes wider than the fine china saucers Mrs. Kent likes to display in her dining room. Eddie laughs from behind you, slapping a rag onto the metal counter.
“Hi!” Your best friend’s broad hand is a blur as he waves, voice muted by the glass. “I think you ordered a chauffeur?”
You quickly stride over to the door, pushing it open. The bell rings with a clear, windchime sound; a blast of searing, humid hellfire presses down on you. Sweat begins to bead at your neck.
“Very funny.” Still, you’re helpless to the fond smile that tugs at your face. Clark strides over, freckled cheeks slightly pinkened, thumb pressing into the palm of his other hand.
The left side of his mouth quirks up at the same time he shrugs his shoulders. “I came, you called.”
Letting the door shut, you step out into the Kansan summer and stand under the shade of your abnormally tall friend. You’re earnest, from the bottom of your heart, when you say, “Thank you, Clark.”
A nervous scoff skips out of his mouth, and he palms the back of his neck. “It’s nothing. Come on.”
He urges you to a nearby alley—strange.
You don’t remember hearing the truck, and there’s no sign of it on the street either. Getting from the farm to town in the time between Mr. Kent picking up the phone and you hanging up would be impossible unless he was breaking the sound barrier.
You let him walk ahead of you, lengthening the gap between your and his strides.
“Wait,” you start, steps stalling, “how did you...?”
Clark freezes and slowly pivots to face you, mouth twisted in a way that screams guilty. “Okay, don’t be mad.”
“Dude—”
“—I flew here because I didn’t want you getting heatstroke—”
“—I’ve been waiting for you to fly me since forever.”
He pauses, mouth mid-word and his index finger in the air, like this is a debate rebuttal and not a page out of your wildest dreams.
Clark didn’t take the truck. He’s going to fly you back home.
Like they do in the fucking Titanic, but in the air. Where the birds fly. Where you can look down and see the rippling fields and the cows that look like brown and white clouds in the grass.
Pinching his lips till they turn white, he wipes his hands on his blue-jean thighs and stares at you in that absent, froggish way. “Sure, I guess that works out.”
You bound over to him, stomach bubbling with a schoolgirl-giddiness you only remember feeling when he does something so thoughtful and sweet. Which is every day.
So maybe that’s not normal. You should probably seek medical attention.
You circle around him and reach to grip his shoulders—they're firm beneath your hands, conditioned by years of helping out on the farm (and also a little bit of alien genetics).
Clark obliges, almost mindless, bending his knees by a fraction to let you jump onto his back.
He smells like hay and sunshine and a long day at the lake. Fresh, clean linen, a faint tang of salt next to a braid of sweet corn silk.
Like the same citrus soap he's used since forever, and the old books at the library. Like a thread of oak wood—same as the tree in his backyard and the walls of his bedroom.
It’s more comforting than any cologne or Mrs. Kent’s stew.
You know it now. Clark Kent will always be someone you can run home to.
You dig your chin into the crook of his neck and shoulder, sighing. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”
Clark cranes his head back, trying to get a glimpse because of course he does. He’s always a stickler for eye contact when talking—it's inscribed into his heartland manners.
The tips of your noses brush, two compasses crossing.
“Hmm,” he hums, weak, “I don’t know. Maybe last week, when I let you copy my physics homework.”
“Helped me, you mean.”
“Yeah…”
You flick the tip of his ear, already red and warm like someone tried to tear it off.
“You’re mean.”
“I love you too, by the way,” he quips, pushing off the floor gently.
Then he starts floating, legs unfurling as he drifts up. Your laugh is light as you tighten your arms around his neck, him holding you close to his warm back.
That shouldn’t make you feel the way it does. Like he believes in it, a hundred percent. Like he isn’t just saying it because he loves you like he loves everyone else.
“C’mon.” You tap his collarbone. He hooks his acquiescing arms under your knees. Squeezes your calves once with his broad palm, reassuring.
You push down the odd feeling swelling in your chest as the wind starts to comb its fingers through your clothes.
It’s okay like this.
Comfortable, steady. Held by your best friend. Soaring above the little town that Clark makes feel like the whole world has been singled to this hundred-thousand-acre plot.
“Just this once, okay?” Clark says, though the way he says it with a wobbly face makes you think that he wouldn’t mind a round two. “Because we’re already skipping school.”
“Right,” you nod, grin widening, “and we should totally be back in time to finish up Porter’s final essay.”
He pinches his mouth. “What do you mean you haven’t finished?”
“Okay, I only need my thesis.” You press your ear to his shoulder and look down at the quickly shrinking Smallville. “...And everything else after that.”
The wind, mercifully cooler, whistles around you. Oh, there’s the windmill, and the winding road, and the golden, rippling fields for as far as the eye can see. A soft sigh leaves you.
You’re going to miss the cornfields and the lightning bugs. The way the air smells slightly heavy when a storm’s approaching. How everyone is so well-knit with each other, how things are easy and unthinking.
Automatic, the most natural thing in the world.
“Sunshine, you—” he sputters, breaking you from your spiral. You’ve stopped just beneath the clouds, moisture wetting his curls till they’re pitch dark and plastered to his forehead.
He cranes his head down to rest his chin on your forearm. Sighs, resigned.
“That’s barely the introduction.”
—
By some stroke of luck, you bitterly break up with your first long-term boyfriend at the same time Clark gets his first apartment.
It’s small in here, still bare and honest. Ceiling popcorned and a little warmer than eggshell white like a small-town general store. The carpet is light brown, and you’re sure there’s a strange stain in some dark corner.
And if you had to be honest, you think Clark chose this place specifically because it was ugly. He always puts his highest hopes in even the smallest and most shriveled of things. Even in Lex Luthor, that miserable eggshell of a CEO.
(But it’s all in typical Downtown fashion. At least he isn’t settling in the snazzy, gentrified Upper East Side.
This is temporary, he said, ‘till I can find a place in Midtown. But that’s for when the rent there miraculously dips, which is likely never unless metahumans start shooting lasers out of their eyes in front of the Daily Planet.
Wait...)
The temperature doesn’t work, either.
Well, it does. Kind of.
But it’s confined to just a small unit attached to the wall, so you can’t even feel it if you’re more than five feet away.
His bedframe sits in the corner disassembled, futon rolled out over a full-sized mattress that’s been plopped in the middle of the room. He could’ve fixed that, given his super speed and strength and whatever else he has. Even could’ve done his entire studio in a day, but he didn’t.
Because he was ‘waiting for you’. For two weeks. To come over to help him set up and have a little housewarming party after, just like the movies. Junk food and sodas and all.
You think back to how you got here.
Soaked to the bone. Shivering. Clothes vacuum sealed to your body and umbrella inverted in your clenched hand.
What a day for your boyfriend to be an asshole and give you an ultimatum: break up, or cut your last root from Smallville.
Ergo, you did what any best friend would do.
You chose Clark, because it has always been that way.
Clark doesn’t give ultimatums. Doesn’t get insanely, obsessively overbearing when you talk to other guys and absolve himself of any wrongdoing if you catch him staring at a girl.
He’s forgiving. Concerned, yeah, but not authoritative.
For god’s sake, he exclaimed ‘what in tarnation’ when he cracked open the weathered door and saw you dripping all over the hallway.
“My boyfriend sent me here,” you told him, gaze downturned in guilt, and his face softened from surprise to wordless understanding.
That’s how things have always been between you. Wordless. A language of eyes and gestures you’ve been fluent in since your formative years.
You squelched inside like your feet had cephalopod suction cups on the bottom of them. Clark helped with shucking off your heavy jacket while you mumbled through the long story (not so) short.
The ultimatum.
How you realized in the moment that your now-ex was trying to isolate you from your friends.
How that jerk—you refrained from asshole or motherfucking egotistical dickwad because a certain someone would cough—was so gung-ho about being the guy for you.
The first one you had to call.
As in, expected you to overhaul your pre-established laundry list of speed dials. Like he wanted to be the one you called at midnight to hide a body (Lana and Pete) or the one you relied on if you were, god forbid, stranded in Blüdhaven (Clark).
As if, when you did call him, he actually came to your rescue instead of smacking his lips and saying, ‘Um, sorry babe, I’m a little busy.’
And maybe as you kept going on, it started to dawn that you weren’t really bitter about breaking up.
You were more bitter about being stupid enough to stay with him for so long. For just pushing the little icks to the side, all ‘cause he might’ve been a little pretty and he made you feel okay every three or four days.
Clark had been sifting through a box while you explained. Rain still pattered outside, racing down the window, but it was lighter than the absolute storm that had slammed into you on the way here.
He paused, turned a little pink at the ears, and handed over a haphazardly folded towel like he was consciously controlling his actions.
Which was weird. Because he’s always meticulous about his laundry.
“Wait, sunshine,” he stuttered before you disappeared into the bathroom. “The plumbing’s opposite. Cold is hot and hot is cold.”
“Thanks, Clark.”
And then you unfolded the towel, and there lay a neatly creased pair of your underwear. Clean. Clothesline scented.
You remembered this one.
Late night, big calculus test the next morning. Cramming in his dorm, and you brought an extra change of clothes that you ended up using. You probably dumped your stuff into his hamper by mistake.
You laughed, a little too loud. Clark heard you, and you heard him plead don’t say anything in a low, defeated tone through the thin wall.
You didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Because Clark’s just like that.
Sentimental. Plan A to Z. Keeps your stuff in case you need it ten years down the line.
And besides, you’re here now. That’s better than spiraling into a self-beatdown or throwing darts at a picture of your ex’s face.
You stop at the doorway of the bathroom with your eyes still itching and red-rimmed, a towel wrapped around your body.
The apartment is eerily still, frozen in a moment.
Everything in this 400 square foot place is raw.
Exposed. Naked. White painted brick on the windowed side, stucco boxing the rest in.
Like all of Clark’s life has been dwindled down to a couple boxes and furniture bought off Craigslist. A couple white-painted nails sticking out of the wall and a broken outlet, as if that’s fine.
It is, for a fresh graduate who’s paying rent off savings and an entry-level salary from the Daily Planet.
(Thank god for that full-ride scholarship he managed to snag four years ago.)
Plus, you trust that Clark has his priorities straight, because according to the to-do list endearingly taped to the mirror, the fridge is installed and working, and he’s already deep cleaned every surface.
Dust specks float past you, and there’s a breeze—slightly clammy from the aftermath of a storm—circulating from an open window.
Widening patches of sky peek out from the clearing clouds. The air smells wet, in that good, after the rain way. A tad salty from the bay, too, with a hint of chill.
The rays of a New Troy golden hour paint the room in faint, honeyed gold, and the ceiling fan in the main room is spinning in languid circles, droning on with a rusted noise that’s starting to grate on your nerves.
You can hear the metro rattle by below, the foundation of the complex shivering slightly as it rumbles on the tracks. There’s a tune playing from another door down, jazzy and vague.
You take two steps out of the bathroom, bare feet padding from old tile to worn carpet fibers. You peek around like some cartoon character, searching for a telltale sign of Clark.
Empty. His gingham beige-brown curtains, same as the ones from Smallville, flutter with a gentle breeze.
But laid on top of his futon-mattress combo is one of his old shirts—you stifle a laugh, it’s the Crabjoys one that shrunk in the dryer—and the pair of shorts you left with your underwear.
Small miracles.
You pull the shirt over your head. Smells like Clark, all citrus shampoo and line-dried cotton. Comforting, in the way he’s so familiar that he feels like home.
The tide of self-deprecation in you subsides.
You dig into the freezer next—because ice cream makes everything better, obviously—kitchen tiles warm against your soles as a geyser of cold air billows up. Not frigid. Just cold, like it’s barely working.
There’s a pint of Neapolitan, which has maybe a single, pathetic, half-scoop left in it.
You move on.
The frozen custard that you vividly remember him buying and sending you a picture of two days ago is in the same state as the pint. And—even worse—there's a frustratingly empty box of ice cream sandwiches.
Prodding further, pushing aside frozen food and ready-to-microwaves...
Oh, a box of honeydew cream popsicles!
And there’s one left. It’s semi-melted in your hand, barely holding onto its shape.
You get that he’s all corn-fed and trying to bulk, but how much sugar does Clark need to consume in a day?
A flutter of movement catches your eye just as you’re ripping and crumbling the cold, plastic wrapping into your fist.
Right. Old building like this—there's a fire escape.
You find Clark slumped against the raw brick on the rusted landing, bones loose under the tangerine sky and curls ruffled by the evening breeze. Well, less slumped and more crumpled.
Legs pretzeled at an awkward angle to fit on the escape landing. Shoulders hunched so he can fit. New glasses folded up and tucked into the collar of his pajama shirt—Crabjoys again, this time the right size.
(You don’t want to know how many of those shirts he has.)
An open book is flattened against his stomach, browning page corners dog-eared and well loved.
Tom Sawyer. Of course.
An old bedtime story turned favorite book. Vaguely, you remember that Mrs. Johnson in third grade chastised him for writing multiple book reports on it, even if they were completely different and lent a new perspective each time.
(She eventually gave up. Clark Kent continued to write his weekly reports on The Adventures of Tom Sawyer until his Pa caught on and introduced him to Huckleberry Finn.)
Chipped paint rasps at your bare shins, and your shorts hitch up as you duck out the open window. The grate is hard beneath you when you drop next to him with the iced treat in hand; it's already half-slush, coating your fingers with sticky, melon-flavored cream.
"Didn't get one for me?" he croaks, rolling his head to face you. The shadow of a passing flock of geese dances over his face; a shift in the wind, and his eyes are clear and soaked in golden hour light.
"Last one in the freezer, cowboy," you tell him, offering the popsicle. He presses the flat of his tongue against the syrup rivulets on the back of your hand—you wrinkle your nose. "You're gross."
"And you're the one who's stealing my last melon pop.”
He sinks his teeth into the soft cream, and you bite after him.
“How’d you dry the rain off the grate?” you ask, fingers curling around a rough bar. It’s weirdly warm against your skin.
Doesn’t feel gritty like the fire escape in your apartment does. Your hand comes away without a smudge.
Wow. He really meant it when he crossed off deep clean on that to-do list.
“Heat breath.”
Perks of being superpowered. “Huh.”
You take turns like this, switching bites until only the wooden stick remains. You leave it between your teeth, leeching the last of the cold into your mouth and letting your sticky hand dry in the wind.
Below is a street you don’t remember the name of, jam packed with the post-workday rush. Taxis, trucks, and bikes splash through shallow puddles.
A cat yowls across the street, and the middle-aged guy busking beneath the awning on the corner is ripping a riff on his trumpet.
The traffic song wraps around you, rhythmed in a syncopated hymn that drowns out the rush of blood that comes to your ears.
"I've been reading up on the area," Clark starts. "There's this bodega, right down the block. Oh, and the bakery on 38th and Scott, we could try their brownies if we line up at six."
"Big city plans for a small-town guy," you say, droll, chewing absently on the wooden stick. The back of your head lazes against the auburn rough of the bricks, and a gentle breeze sifts between the buildings.
Clark scoots closer, shoulder to shoulder with you. He's a furnace like always, skin pinkened and glowing in the way it does when he’s in the sun.
He puts his chin on your shoulder, looks at you real closely—eyelids at half-mast, mouth pressed into the shape of mischief. You give him a sidelong stare, holding the blue of his pupils.
In them—cloud swirls, the shadow pattern of the birds above soaring by with a breeze that trails its fingers down your spine.
You feel a little warm under his stare, blood rushing to your head. "What?"
"We're gonna have so much fun here," he finally says, smile breaking out on his face. "Smallville One and Two, reporting for duty!"
You let out a wheezing laugh, looking up at the clouds. There's one shaped like a flying man, puffy marshmallow limbs stretched in a starfish. "And let me guess, you're One, and I'm Two."
"Fine, Smallville Half and Half."
"But which Half comes first?"
"Doesn't matter," Clark grins. Knocks his knee against yours, reassuring in that way you know so well. "They come in pairs. Do not separate."
You shove his shoulder—doesn’t budge. His deltoid is hot beneath your hand, though you aren’t sure if it’s really him or you that’s warmer.
“Cheeseball,” you mutter. Eyes rolling, even with the grin tugging incessantly at your mouth.
He laughs with the odd, boyish charm he’s never really grown out of. It tickles something in your brain, how he starts off with a quick scoff that devolves into full-bodied hiccups.
You want to hear it forever.
You want to stay here forever with your legs cramped together side by side on the hard fire escape. Skyscrapers and stone for as far as the eye can see, cut by the grid of streets that beat with the heart of Metropolis.
“Oh!” Clark straightens like he’s been struck. Reaches into his pocket, draws out his phone. He taps around the screen and then shows you a video. “Look, Pa sent me this.”
It’s home in the Kents’ backyard. Rippling gold fields and heavy panicles of grain, a soft static that used to lull you right to sleep. Old, metal-wood fences and the cry of cicadas.
You squint at the screen.
Cows graze like little brown and white clouds in the sea of green. It might be Linus yonder by the leftmost fence, and Franklin flicking his tail next to Patty. Or is that Shermy and Lucy?
You can’t tell them apart like Clark can.
There’s an irregular shape shadowed by Franklin’s back leg. He zooms in for you without asking and oh—it’s a calf.
Fluttering ears. Big, softhearted eyes. Fluffy brown coat. Reminds you of Clark, in a way. All earnest and new to everything.
The bottom barrier of their fence is still broken, you notice. It’s just a small tear, probably from the time his powers started developing.
He had torpedoed—yes, like a missile—out of the back door and banged his head into the base of the fence before the screen door could rattle back into place.
Guess that crack there serves as a reminder: no flying on the farm.
“Cute,” you say. “We should go back sometime soon.”
He smiles in agreement and reaches back to place his phone on the windowsill. His arm flexes in front of your eyes—hard lines and veins rising beneath tan skin—and you suddenly get why the freezer is so empty.
You clench your jaw and duck your head.
“Anyways” —he cuts himself off, tucking his lips between his teeth as he thinks. “Uh, I got my suit in the mail, too. Been hiding it in the closet, ‘cause I haven’t set up my bedframe yet.”
You keep your eyes trained on your knees but let a smile pull at the corners of your mouth. He was waiting for you. “Can I be the first to see?”
He scoffs in amusement, dimples sinking in easily. It never fails to amaze you, how they’re so ready to just appear even when he’s only talking.
“Don’t be silly, I know you were peeking when Ma was making it.”
“Thank you for the astute observation,” you mumble. Unneeded heat gathers in your cheeks.
“A-S-T-U-T-E.” Clark is unfazed as you stare at him blankly. He shrugs, corners of his mouth pulling down like it’s no big deal. “It was in the crossword this morning.”
Eyes flicking up, you plant your palm on the side of his face and hold him away. “Okay, third place winner of Smallville Middle’s spelling bee.”
“Well—! Most sixth graders would stutter on perspicacious too,” he stammers, words smushed by your hand to his cheek.
You mumble, “Apparently not Loretta and Marcie.”
“I’ll have you know that I could spell the first-place word.” Swatting your hand off with a flippant wave, Clark plucks Tom Sawyer off his chest and sits up properly, letting it flop onto the grate. “Bouillon: B-O-U-I-double L-O-N. Because Ma always uses it in her stew.”
You know. You were there, waiting for him by the steps with a rented movie you don’t remember anymore and chips in case he was hungry. So sure he would win.
And if you still call Marcie ‘Marcie-Farcie’ in your head? Well, Clark doesn’t have to know that.
Reaching around him (and ignoring how solid and furnace-hot his chest is in your arms), you lean into him with a fake-coy smile. “Hey, could you spell loquacious for me right now?”
“Lo...?” Clark’s brows furrow with that faint wrinkle between them. You kind of want to smooth it out with your thumb. “Oh, don’t be mean. And—hey is for horses.”
You blow a short raspberry. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m very fun,” he stammers, voice pitched high. “I wear trunks on the outside. I—I like Neapolitan ‘cause I get to eat all of my favorite flavors.”
“Right,” you say, nodding politely. You press your mouth tight, trying not to laugh as Clark returns the hug and holds you tight. “Right.”
“And I can fit a hundred lollipops in my cape, isn’t that great? Oh—and I can recite all of Romeo and Juliet.”
He clears his throat. Steadies himself, posture straightening. Slips into that tone he's been practicing, dubbed the Superman Voice. “Two households, both alike in dignity. In fair Verona—”
A short laugh leaves you, uncontrollable. Joy sloshes around in your chest. “Alright, alright, you’re fun.”
“I knew it,” Clark says, giving you a pointed look. Eyebrows raised and clear blue eyes shining with something you can’t name.
The breath in your lungs unravels to the quick.
You still haven’t pulled away, arms tight around his chest. He’s warm, alive, grounding.
Safe, in the way he’s always been.
And on a more bitter note, in the way your ex hated. With a capital H.
In that what’s so great about him way. In that maybe you should stop seeing him way.
It never made any sense.
Clark’s nothing but honest. Soft. A sweet, heartland, golden retriever to the core who names his parents’ cows after Peanuts characters.
The thought of liking someone while they were in a relationship wouldn’t cross his mind. Hell, the thought of even liking you, single or not, wouldn’t either.
…Would it?
Clark coughs, untangling himself with a long inhale. “We—should start. Um, on my furniture. Like I said, we’re gonna have so much fun once we settle in.”
“Dude, you make it sound like we’re gonna live together.” You ignore how that idea makes your chest feel odd.
Like your heart’s about to leap out and crack your sternum. Like waking up to the sight of your sleep-soft best friend making breakfast is a perfectly fine thing to think of.
“I mean…” He shrugs, lips pinching and angling downward as if he’s truly considering it. “You honestly slept at my parents’ house more than your own.”
Your throat runs dry, caught. “Your—well, your bed’s just comfier.”
“Yeah, it’s ‘cause Shelby farted on it.”
“Ew.”
—
The thing about lightbulbs is: they aren’t the same as before.
Older lightbulbs take some time to light up. Flip the switch, open the circuit. Gentle buzz, and the filaments catch with a current, every second stretching into the next before the brightness flickers and then peaks.
Those were the bulbs in Smallville and Clark’s old apartment.
Newer lightbulbs are instantaneous. Snap of the finger—flick and light, like a Zippo. And that’s you right now, standing in the shadow of a pent-up tsunami of realizations that’s about to hit you full force.
This is familiar.
Standing in front of the door to Clark’s apartment, bag heavy on your shoulder and shifting on your feet as you wait for him to answer your knocks. 3-D glares back at you on the golden plate, bright against the dark, polished wood.
Familiar, but not the same.
For one, his old apartment was chipped white paint and Downtown charm. This one’s Midtown class, all dark marble and crisp navy blue.
And for another, you’re nervous beyond reason, and you’re seriously considering just finding a hole to wither in.
Your heart is stuttering. Knocking around between your lungs, tapping at the underside of your sternum in a way Clark’s super-hearing is sure to pick up on.
Long inhale, short exhale. This is just dinner, just like the million others you’ve had.
Except, you’re kind of dolled up—as in, a smidge more makeup than you’d usually wear around him (which is close to none, because he’s seen you in middle school with acne and that terrible haircut). As in, you fixed your sweater for glaring wrinkles in the elevator and made sure your jeans didn’t have lint on them.
Except, over the course of the very short workday you spent mulling over your bad decisions, it started to wash over you that blaming everything on that dream would technically be blaming your own subconscious.
“One sec,” you hear, muffled by the door. The latch clicks, and there’s Clark, warm smile on his face, dimples like gentle craters in his cheeks. “Hi.”
Your stomach somersaults and lands with a pathetic hop.
Which is bad. You think you need an icepack, or medical attention, or frankly, anything to peel your mind off the sight of Clark in his white button-up, undershirt visible beneath the fabric. First two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins nestled in the crook of his elbow, glasses half-buried in his combed-down curls and slacks sinfully tailored to his thighs.
The smell of bagel crumbs floats around him, weirdly. Toasted, fresh, with a hint of…vanilla bean, which isn’t his usual vanilla. Not that you mind; you briefly consider just pulling him in by the lapels of his shirt and—no.
You think of him agonizing over two bottles—extract or bean syrup—in the grocery store before your mind scrubs itself blanks. Whiteboard clean. Nothing rattling around if you shook your head.
Like when the tide pulls all the way back from the beach. Like when you’re staring down at the plain of barren, sandy dunes below your feet, look up, and stare into the face of a hundred-foot-wave question of oh, when did he suddenly become attractive to you?
Sure, you might have realized that what you’ve been missing in other guys has been lurking in your golden retriever of a best friend for eternity. That no other guy would treat you so sweetly like he did.
But that’s different.
That’s pining and idealistic stuff.
This is insane. Mentally. Physically. Hormonally. Gripping the table’s edge-y.
It’s one thing to want someone emotionally, but physicality is a completely different thing. And now, two seconds deep into a miles-long stare, you’re suddenly aware of just how badly you'd want Clark if he wasn’t your best friend.
In the same way he was in that picture of him lifting a semi-truck like a fucking paperweight. Damn Jimmy Olsen for always getting Superman’s best angle, so much that you’ve developed a peeve for when the random people in your feed start gushing paragraphs about taking off their pants or whatever.
(Of course, if someone caught wind of that, they didn’t hear it from you…)
Or the same way he was in the aftermath of that first real heartbreak of yours. When you dripped all over his welcome mat looking like a sad paper-maché of a freshly broken-up and bitter barely-graduate, and then helped him move into his apartment and totally didn’t stare when he did all the grunt work for the heavy furniture.
Or—you dread to think—Smallville.
When he was still sort of skinny and awkward and a fish out of water. Still being fed corn from sunrise to sundown, winning the runner-up to half his contests, and accidentally melting a hole through a lab table in chemistry and giving you that sheepish, smile-wince look of endearing guilty apology.
Oh.
The wave crashes over you. Burning cold. Startling. Dreadful. Heart entering freefall.
You maybe. Might. Probably. Definitely. Have harbored a secret, heavily denied and-or repressed crush on Clark Kent.
Corn-fed and six foot four Clark Kent. Academic whiz and full-ride merit scholarship recipient Clark Kent. Who unironically finds it beautiful to say things like ‘what the hay’ and ‘oh, sakes alive.’
The Clark Kent who waited two weeks for you to help him move in when he could’ve done it himself in two minutes. The same guy who dropped everything to pick you up after you were stupidly pranked.
Your childhood best friend. Whose name is synonymous with ‘no.1 most dependable and would die for you.’ Whose toddler pictures you’ve had a guest-starring role in.
You barely register Clark tilting his head, brows furrowing in mild confusion. “Sunshine?”
“Hi,” you blurt, a little flat. “Clark.”
You’re sure your mouth is at an awkward, slightly sour angle, because he studies you before slowly stepping back to let you in. You’re half-ready to run to his bathroom and bang your head against the mirror.
He just. Looks at you. Lips set in that slight pout of consideration and his right-hand dimple shifting.
You avoid his eyes, feigning interest in his doorframe. Dark wood, solid, and ridiculously small when Clark is filling out the space inside.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, shifting on your feet. “Never better.”
“Okay,” he says. Simple, short. Like he’s not going to think deeper into it—at least you hope he won’t. He flashes a small smile, “I’m making bagels.”
You shove down the urge to snort at how in character that is for him.
Here you are, freaking out over the newfound discovery that you were none the wiser to secretly yearning for Clark since high school. And he’s unconcerned, shifting his mouth to and fro in the expressive way you know so well and making fucking bagels for dinner.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.” Clark lets an easy grin rise on his face, and he reaches to grab the strap of your bag, reeling you into his apartment. You echo him, a light laugh escaping as you kick off your shoes and let him take your things.
He nudges the door shut with his heel and peers into your bag, surprise etching into the line of his brow.
“Woah.” Reaches in, pulls out a bottle of wine by the neck. It’s ridiculous how your stomach starts simmering with want when you see how big his hand is compared to the glass. “So, I’m guessing you bought this to make up for my lack of ice cream?”
You blink, twice. Takes a moment for you to eke out a squeaky, “Uh, sure.”
Too casual to be innocent, you dig your hands into your pockets and stroll into the kitchen with uptight leisure. You exchange stiff pleasantries while you avoid his eyes—how’s work and you won’t believe what the media’s saying about you right now.
Orange-yellow light spills out from inside the oven. Clark’s bagels, slightly more malformed than the ones you’d find at a coffee shop, have just started baking, still pale and lumpy.
His apartment has changed slightly since the last time you saw it; the sitting room is still straight ahead, tall glass and blinking city lights; hallway to the right, the faint outline of doorways visible despite the lights being off.
But there’s frames on the wall now, glass panes glared by the amber light coming from the lamp next to the TV. The couch is different—more sunken in, like it’s seen its fair share of nights crashing onto the cushions in exhaustion.
And there’s stuff pinned to the fridge door. Mismatched magnets from Jitters Coffee and some touristy store in Gotham (though you didn’t know they even existed), and random sticky notes taped to the metal.
CALL MA and Crabjoys reunion ticketing: Apr20 are the ones that really get you. Remind you that some things never change.
You zero in on a photo strip painstakingly centered in a magnetic frame, long sandalwood beams squared around four snapshots of you and Clark.
Together. Pinching each other’s cheeks with one of those dumb filters from the photobooth in Metropolis Uni’s gift shop. You remember this one.
Spring semester of junior year, wide smiles full with the relief of surviving midterms week. The booth had been so small that you had to sit in his lap. He was warm when he wrapped his arms around your waist to keep you steady.
Your core stirs. Unintentionally, of course. But still enough to send a violent wave of rapid-firing neurons into a massive short-circuit.
It doesn't help that Clark is radiating that same heat when he comes up behind you. Sidles up next to your arm, setting his hand on the blue cabinet above and kneading his cheek between his teeth.
“Uh,” he starts, quiet like the subtle hum of the oven’s fan, “are you hungry?”
It’s barely five. You’re still lingering on the photo strip, studying the way Clark’s watching you in that long-ago moment. Eyes soft, smile angled downward in a manner you’d call adoring. Like he’s in love.
Not that love you usually practice. The one where you kid with each other and battle in footsie under the dinner table. The one you’ve been swimming in since childhood, when he slept with a Meteors poster under his pillow to manifest their next win. When you made eyes at other boys and he had to remind you to pay attention in class.
But one where he looks like he wants to take you by the collar of your shirt too. Lean into you, full tilt and without hesitation, like he’s yearning to become one under your skin and carve his name into the underside of your ribs. Like he’s got a spark of desire flickering in his chest.
Or not. You could be delusional.
You remind yourself to inhale. “No, I—I’m good.”
“Okay,” he says, voice rumbling low. Your knee twitches—the barest, involuntary spasm of a muscle in reaction to the sparks setting off behind your ribs. “Because I think we need to talk.”
You go ramrod-stiff so quickly that you swear one of your joints cracks. A thrill runs through your heart—fuck, he definitely caught on. If there’s one thing about his policy of making time, it’s that establishing clear communication is included.
Pitched in a somewhat sheepish tone, “What?”
“I mean,” he ducks his head down, shoulders tight as he gestures between the two of you with a finger. Looks back up at you with earnest eyes, blue so clear you can see yourself in the glassy reflection. “You’re acting weird. Did I do something?”
You shake your head, immediate. Relief courses through you, but it’s quickly replaced with a wave of guilty heartache. Here is a man who only wants to be sweet and care about you, and you’re thinking you might want more. Want him to kiss and touch and say, I’m in—
“No, it’s not you—I’m just…” you fish for an excuse “…a little stressed.”
“Well.” Clark does a short, dorky side-to-side, shoulders more relaxed. “Talk to me.”
Your throat feels full when you swallow. Pulse thundering, you tap the picture with your finger. “You kept it.”
He looks a little stunned, head listing to the side owlishly. “Why not?”
You shrug. Stupidly, “Dunno.”
A smile breaks on his face, tender as a rising sun. Certain, too, like he needs to remind you that duh, “It’s my favorite picture.”
Oh.
You didn’t know that. He keeps the most romantic (arguably) picture of you and him on his fridge, where it’s impossible to not pass by on the daily. That’s fine.
Your stomach clenches in a way that makes you feel stricken and stupidly, ridiculously heartsick.
“You’re kidding.”
“Not,” he huffs, shifting to lean against the fridge. He’s almost the same width—god—and you’re a little too distracted with the solid shape of his bicep tightening under his sleeve and the barest dip of muscle before his elbow. “You still haven’t answered the question.”
Frowning, “What question?”
“What you’re so stressed about,” Clark says.
Pinching his mouth to the side, his dimple winks as he studies you. He’s been doing that a lot—new nervous habit, you suppose. “Does it have something to do with your text this morning?”
Your jaw clenches, caught. “Maybe...”
He knows you too well.
Clark does that thing again—tilts his head, going from one side to another. Like he’s trying to gauge you from every angle. You fiddle with a loose string in your sleeve.
He blurts, “I didn’t like Matthew, by the way.”
Which—okay. Valid. Clark is honest as always, and he’s entitled to his own opinions, which you agree with, because looking back, Matthew was pretty unlikeable.
He insisted on splitting the bill—not that you’re salty about needing to pay, for god’s sake, you have a job and a fair amount of disposable income, but because he was just cheap. Like he needed someone to pick up his slack and excused it with, ‘well, everyone’s all about equality these days, right?’
And he only wore a faint, sneerish smile as if he was embarrassed to appear more than nonchalant. Chewed cinnamon gum like it was his second job, rolled his eyes at the slightest thing.
Never laughed, unless it was in derision when a kid tripped over their own feet, or something. And he was addicted to wired headphones. And pretended to be an avid reader—you know he was acting, because he couldn’t tell you who narrated The Great Gatsby despite it being opened to the last chapter in front of him.
You might’ve overlooked a lot of things about Matthew because he was cute. Baritone and solemn dimples and curly black hair and eyes that curved into crescents at the slightest twitch of his mouth.
And, alright. Just for the sake of adding it to the pile of late revelations that have dawned upon you during this hour:
You probably swiped right on him because he resembled Clark.
Not a little. A lot. In an almost eerie way.
Like he was his evil twin from Park Ridge or something, but skinnier and vampirish, and lacking freckles and that eclectic, heartland music taste.
But enough about that. You never told Clark you were shooting your nth shot with another guy and hoping he’d be the one. He shouldn’t know who Matthew is.
There are probably a hundred thousand Matthews in Delaware, but only one Matthew the Clark Clone.
(How long has he been listening in on you?)
You blink at Clark for a few seconds. His ears start flushing pink the longer you stare, you notice.
“Yeah, I didn’t either,” you mumble through the words, pausing between syllables like it needs some effort to force out.
“I know it’s not my place to say,” he sighs, looking down at the cool tile beneath your socked feet. “But...maybe you haven’t gone the best way around finding love.”
“Why, you jealous?” You mean it as a joke. A flippant, throwaway line to tease.
But Clark looks at you hard. Plucks his glasses off his head and sets them down on the counter, serious.
Faint frown lines surface on his face, eyes suddenly sharp. Then he blinks, and he’s back to normal, pretending the wall is so interesting. “…No.”
You poke his cheek. It’s warm; a current of sparks runs up your arm and into your heart. “Admit it. You already know you could do better than half the guys I’ve cried to you about.”
His eyes flick to the ceiling momentarily before meeting yours again. Stammers over his own breath and squeaks as he asks, “Just half?”
Oh, he’s jealous.
You can see it, clear as day. Clearer than Clark’s pretty eyes. That maybe you aren’t alone in this. That just like always, you’re on the same page as your best friend.
“Okay,” you say, leaning closer to him in challenge. “So, what’s your advice, Mr. Kent?”
He allows himself an inhale—one he doesn’t really need, being superpowered and all—and purses his lips.
He’s blushing in the way you know so well, the way he does when you look at him for too long. Like some shy bastard. Like he isn’t aware of what’s starting to brew between you.
The thing about Clark is that he wears his heart on his sleeve. Sometimes literally, like when a kid slapped a heart sticker onto his supersuit.
But he’s so open about his desires that it’s sometimes hard for him to hide them. Like now—standing with his shoulders bunched up and tense, practically holding his breath as his pretty ocean eyes drift around and eventually land on your lips.
His lashes flutter. Exhales stutters a little, let out slowly.
Says under his breath, “Well, sunshine, I think more organic relationships have better benefits in the long run.”
“Uh-huh.” You’re helpless to the slow, amused grin bubbling onto your face. “Elaborate.”
Clark keeps on rambling, eyebrows shooting up as he explains, “Like, you hardly know anyone on a dating app, right?”
“Right.”
“And—you know, romantic feelings can develop elsewhere.”
“Really?”
“Yes!” he exclaims, gesturing wild nonsense with his hands. “For example, Cat’s really into this whole friends to lovers thing, and honestly, I think she’s got a point.”
You fold your lips inward, holding them between your teeth as you try not to laugh.
“See, she says that people benefit from already knowing their partner,” Clark says, gaze trailing down without a thought. “That ultimately, friends sometimes feel the most fulfilling love. And it’s easy for them, to communicate their desires” —he finally catches himself, eyes wide and blinking quickly— “and stuff.”
You open your mouth, running dry from nerves. Quiet and sheepish, still unsure despite seeing all the signs, “Wanna put that to the test?”
The way his inhale quivers should be illegal. “I—don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean,” you say slowly, surprising yourself with how steady you feel despite the uproar rioting in your chest, “maybe—you know, Cat’s theory. Maybe I do need someone who knows me.”
Clark’s eyelids flicker, and then finally squeeze shut. His voice is tight when he murmurs, “Yeah, yeah.”
You say his name. Soft. Quiet. Like a Friday night in Smallville at the Kents’. Like the aftermath of a dinner get-together, when you used to sit on his bed and cover your face with a comic instead of talking with the neighbors in the living room.
He makes a small noise of response, a gentle hymn that comes with the smallest up-tilt of his head. A couple curls fall loose over his forehead and without thinking, you brush them to the side with a trembling finger.
Some things between you don’t need words. Like when you’re hungry and find an orange already peeled. Or when you glance at each other during a movie and find that the other is also trying not to laugh.
But this needs words. Need the confirmation that yes, Clark Kent can make time, but he can also make a different space in his already big heart for you, too.
“Sunshine?” His whisper is vulnerable, cracked wide in the middle. “I can hear your heartbeat, y’know? It’s the one where you’re planning something.”
Fuck. You can’t take it anymore.
“I like you.” It spills out without a second thought, but you steamroll on, fingers dragging from his hairline and down to cup his cheek.
You sound like a damn teenager professing her undying love when you say it again. “I like you. Since Nate, when your Pa said you dropped everything to get me. And I just—
I realized nobody loved me like you,” you choke out. And it feels so free to say that, as if some vice you didn’t know was clenched around your heart has released itself. “And I took that for granted when I should’ve—”
“Sunshine,” Clark cuts in, breaking your laundry list of guilt. Says it with that heartland twang you’ve been missing from his voice because he changes it slightly to fit in with Metropolis.
He doesn’t say more. Just leans in. Places a peck to the corner of your mouth.
And you stare at each other for seconds. Eyes wide. Something you can’t name shooting through your heart and oh.
Oh, it feels like you’re finally on the right side of heaven to wrinkle his stiff workshirt in your fists and pull him in for a real, dizzying kiss.
One you know you can’t turn back from. One that makes your body feel so viscerally alive, like livewire has been activated under your skin.
You’re going to feel this for days, you think.
Clark moves his lips over yours like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s really going to savor the seven-odd years you spent oblivious to your own feelings.
Your chest is vibrating with anticipation, core growing warmer and warmer until you realize that there’s a hot wetness growing between your legs. And of course Clark decides that now is the perfect fucking time to wrap his arms around you and lift.
You think he was made for this. To hold you like you’re made of foam. To be so strong and tender at the same time, cradling you closer like he’s trying to fuse into your skin.
Wouldn’t mind, a thought smears by in your mind.
He sets you down on the counter, which is cold and hard beneath you. Breaks away for a split-second to angle his head differently, catching you with your mouth still parted. Sweeps his tongue leisurely along your bottom lip, nips and sucks as he plants a large, burning palm on your knee and shifts it to the side with a light but firm push.
You swear a star sparks in your skull and starts bouncing around the cavity of your chest.
He kisses you deeper. Hungrier, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. Corralling you between the wall and himself, hands coming up to graze from your waist around to your back, thumbs caressing in circles over the bare sliver of skin beneath your sweater, which you didn’t know until now had ridden up.
“Should’ve” —a soft sigh unfurls in you as he peels himself off, only to attach himself to your jaw, taking his time as he blazes a shallow line of kisses to your ear— “done this sooner.”
“Well,” his voice is rough, mouth forming a simper against the underside of your jaw’s hinge—kisses there, and then closer and closer to your throat. You bare your neck to him, easy and unthinking; the ceiling spins above you. “Better late—” sucks at the sensitive, tender spot just beneath your chin, fuck “—than never.”
You register that he’s sliding his hand under the back of your sweater, pressing hot skin along your back. Fingers skating over the divots in your spine, he drags himself back up and waits there with his nose beside yours like he’s asking for permission.
His eyes are closed, the corners of his mouth barely lifted up, a smile about to unfurl. You plant a chaste kiss on his lips, and as you pull away, he lurches forward, as if he’s trying to chase another hit.
“Wait,” he mumbles, some dreamy look surfacing on his relaxed face—brows floating up slightly, seam of his pink and swollen lips parting. “Come back.”
“I’m gonna pass out if you keep kissing me like that,” you say, tone whispered.
Even then, you might be understating yourself. You feel like you’re teetering on the knife’s edge of sanity.
You run your hand down his chest and pinch the fabric just above his belt, untucking it absently and looking down at him through your lashes. You don’t even know why you lament honestly, “And then I can’t take this off. And then we can’t fuck.”
Clark frowns, opening his eyes to look at you in that upturned, tragically kicked-puppy way that makes you ache. In your chest, at the crux of your thighs.
Too fast? You avert your eyes in shame.
“I prefer the term making love.” His lashes flit in a way that would make some of the women at your workplace envious, and he’s holding your eyes in his pretty blue ones. Reminds you of the sky in the countryside, just after the last raincloud has cleared up, the scent of petrichor still heavy in the air.
You nudge yourself forward and brush your mouth over his upper lip. Salt and sugar blooms on your tongue. “Oh, I forgot that you talk like a geriatric. We should stop before your knees crack.”
“Ah, we can’t have that,” he hums, genuine concern blooming on his face, just beneath that stupid, bright tipsy-flush on his cheeks that make you feel something weird.
Slips his hand out from under your shirt, gently takes your chin in his grip and rubs his thumb over your spit-slick bottom lip, all while brushing his mouth over his ministrations. Pouts like he’s the one being subject to the hormonal mutiny that’s making you feel so violently alive.
You want, want, want.
Tugging at his shirt, abandoning your restraint to push your hips forward and against his solid stomach and fuck, a sound escapes you that sound suspiciously like please? and he breaks into a breath-stealing smile like a coy cat that just got the cream.
It’s no surprise that you barely blink before you find yourself lying supine and sinking into his mattress. Smells like that damn vanilla, and sandalwood, and the wind of Smallville. As if he flies back just to dry his laundry on the porch clothesline.
The blankets are peeled back neatly. Fitted sheet soft to the touch—you curl your fingers in the cotton for something to ground yourself with, because apparently Clark isn’t enough.
Pillows plush and considerately placed beneath your head, the mattress dips for the weight of Clark settling on his knees between your legs.
He sort of hangs there for a second as you catch your breath and reel in the uncountable minutes of insanity that have just passed. Scrutinizes you with gentle, earnest eyes, cupping the back of your clothed knees with broad, kind hands.
He presses his thumb into the outside of your knee, right in the faint divot where the cap sits over bone, tendon, and muscle. You swallow, watching him as he traces his eyes up and down your body—collected, steady.
Safe in the way he has always been. Clark squeezes the top of your calf once before letting his hands slide up—a line of flinty sparks follows him—to cup your hips.
“Sunshine,” he rumbles, soft eyes meeting yours. Tilts his head, loose waves of inky hair falling over his forehead. Adam’s apple bobbing, he lets go of your hips and holds your hands instead, all earnest and somewhat guilty. “Do you mean it?”
You blink up at him, confused. “Huh?”
“That you like me.” He turns over your hands so he can press his thumbs into your palms. “That you want this.”
A small, almost disbelieving laugh scuffs out of your mouth. Of course he’s double and triple checking.
“Silly,” you say, curling your right-hand fingers around his thumb. “I can’t lie to you.”
“Can you say it again? Just to be sure.”
“Clark.” You lift his hand toward your face. Kiss the back of it softly, and smile at how comforting the feel of his skin is. You’re all innocuous and doe-eyed when you say, “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me and make me feel it for days.”
His breath stammers in a way that makes you flush. All barely-held restraint and trembling like you’re doing something to make him weak.
He gives you a tight, downturned smile once he settles himself, the same one that would flash across his face to reassure you.
Except, it’s a little different now. Except, there’s something terrifyingly raw swimming in his—you've just noticed—unnaturally dilated pupils, and you’d be wrong not to call him lovesick or fond.
Maybe he’s always looked at you like that, all benign and wanting, and you didn’t realize until now. The thought of beating yourself up over wasting so, so much time when Clark was right in front of you flickers through your head, but it’s quickly wiped away when he gently lets go of your hands and starts undoing his button-up.
You’re fixated on the way his fingers work the buttons—nimble, with just the right application of pressure to pop it open. You follow them all the way down to the last, where the hem you untucked earlier hangs over the tent rising in his slacks.
He’s big, the crotch of his pants tight. The outline of his cock is visible through the dark fabric. Holy shit.
Your chest tightens for a breath.
Unconsciously, your thighs squeeze tighter in search of friction.
Futile. Clark nudges his knees wider to stop you as he shrugs away his shirt and then strips off his undershirt.
You hope your eyes aren’t bugging out.
He’s sculpted like a goddamn Greek statue—solid muscle, defined pecs and shoulders—yet soft at the same time. A thin layer of fat hugs his abdomen in true farmer fashion, mellows out his broad frame and you suddenly want to wrap your arms and legs around him and maybe just let him fuck you animalistically like that.
“C’mere,” he says, syllables muddled together with his eyes all fluttering and mouth loose like that, like he’s drunk off desire. Like he’s also noting how heavy the air has gotten, hazy with lust. Takes your fingers in his again, draws it toward the center of his bare chest.
His skin is blistering under your palm. A furnace almost; your neck prickles with heat as another wave of arousal tides over you.
And then you feel it. Pounding hard enough to pulse like it’s right under the first layer of impenetrable skin and not buried beneath layers of fat, muscle, and bone. A strange, not-quite-human thrum that kisses your fingertips.
Clark takes a steadying breath, pitches himself down to kiss you all while holding your touch firmly over his heart.
His lips slide over yours—longing, like the short minute that’s passed since he last kissed you was an eternity.
And his heartbeat jumps.
Actually. Speeds up to thunder at what seems like a hundred miles an hour, strong and loud and trying to leap into your palm. Stays like that for the honey-slow seconds that your mouths lazily dance, and for another ten after he ducks his flushed face into the right side of your neck.
He smells like an underlayer of woodsy cologne and flour. Like the faint, diluted scent of corn ripening in the wind. Like home.
“You make me so nervous,” Clark finally says, voice lilting into borderline self-amusement. “God, sweetheart, you have no idea.”
His lips press over your jugular, feeling the pulse there. Eyelashes flutter on your skin as he nips your skin, not hard enough to hurt but enough to know that your blood will darken the surface later.
Somehow, in the smudged haze of craving and teeth, he finds his way to the button of your jeans. Pauses there, forefinger picking at the overlap of denim.
Your breath freezes in the same moment as his.
“Please?” he asks so sweetly. You cant your hips up in response.
His exhale hisses out all at once, almost a gasp. Cheek searing where it lays on your neck, deft touch working the button out of its nest and zipper rasping as he opens it.
The sound of it is so loud in his otherwise still bedroom.
Your breath shudders when he slips your jeans down, over the curve of your ass and down your legs. Cold air hits your clothed cunt, cooling the wetness that’s gathered in your panties.
Your jeans get stuck around your left ankle, to which he giggles boyishly to himself between breaths, and oh, your heart swells so much that you feel too small for the mush of endearing-lovey-sweet churning in your chest.
You tug at your sweater, pulling your arms out of the sleeves and wrestling the lump of fabric over your head. Takes a minute, because you’re a little shaky and practically bursting at the seams with anticipation.
Then you’re laying there and letting Clark take you in, all vulnerable with your undergarments mismatched (gosh, maybe you really should have picked underwear that matched your bra) and clothes discarded out of sight.
And it’s stupid, really. How your inhale hitches. A little stall, if you will, at the dawn of an aching expression on his face, looking at you. Really looking at you.
Like he wouldn’t have this any other way. Like he’s trying to find the best way to get under your skin, just like how he inspects a chessboard to make his next move. Like he already knows what’s going to make you twitch, or clench, or come so hard that you see the pearly gates.
Fast and unprepared and in his own bed, fitted sheet already wrinkled while you try not to squirm because you’re a little embarrassed that your bra is black and your panties are white with navy polka dots.
“Don’t stare,” you whisper, though it comes out as more of a mortified squeak.
“Why not?” Clark just smiles. Easy. The most natural thing in the world, when he grazes his fingertips over the waistband of your panties. “I'm just admiring the most beautiful woman.”
You scoff, crossing your arms over your bare stomach. “Yeah. My eyes’re up here, you know.”
“Really,” he protests. Dips his fingers beneath the elastic of your panties. “Or as Ma would say, I’m happy as a clam.”
Draws the smallest tension and lets the band snap back against your hip, because he just has to be cheeky and tease.
“Oh,” he gasps in revelation, heartland twang starting to bleed back into his low, baritone words, “or that’s a sight.”
Your skin burns, feverish from your soaked cunt to your head.
Then Clark shifts himself down to nuzzle the damp gusset, applying the barest feather of pressure over your clothed clit. He shudders. Wraps his arms around your thighs so he can hold you closer as he starts laving over the thin fabric.
A soft sigh spills out of your mouth, helpless. Nakedly sweet and honest in a way you didn’t expect yourself to be.
Uncontrollable, your fingers thread into his downy hair and tug lightly.
He groans quietly but doesn’t listen, mouth instead moving back up to your stomach.
Clark buries his nose just under your navel. Breathes you in, solid biceps tightening slightly around your thighs. Exhales with a muffled, broken sound that echoes your own and your heart flips.
“Baby, you’re so soft,” he mumbles, head angling down to start blazing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses back down your stomach, up the delicate inside of your right thigh. Presses himself close to your skin, licks over where your pulse thrums between your legs and sucks.
You inhale sharply, shifting your hips, now aware of just how empty you are.
He hums in response, teasing the same spot on the other side of your cunt. You wriggle a little more, trying to get his mouth where you want it.
Impatience burns behind your ribs. You want it, you want it so fucking bad that the need cuts you open and raw, like barbed wire drawn taut over your sternum.
“Please,” you breathe. Can’t even recognize your own voice now, all breathy and desperate. Looking down at him through your lashes, you dart your tongue over your bottom lip. Tastes like salt, and him. “Clark, please.”
Eyes flicking up to yours, he hums in low question. Tilts his head, so his curls tickle your inner thigh. “Patience is a virtue, y’know.”
You swallow, going still for a fractured moment. You come up blank, like a reel left out so long that all the fish of your thoughts know it’s bait. “I...”
A gentle smile rises to his face. “’S alright,” he says, all saccharine and forgivingly merciful. Water under the bridge, you think to yourself. “I’ll remind you.”
Slips his fingers under the elastic of your waistband again, pulls down your panties as a flare of sudden, sharp need rips through you. Curves his smile a little sharper when the gusset sticks to your cunt for a moment, tacky with your arousal.
The flimsy little piece of fabric lands somewhere out of sight, too, and Clark lets a nearly disbelieving sigh puff out from his mouth as he stares at your naked sex.
You watch, mesmerized and head floating in a near-dream state, as he lowers himself flat onto the mattress—you don’t miss the subtle way he grinds his hips down—and lays his head against your thigh.
“Should—should I tell you now that I’ve never done this before?”
Curse your stupid, big mouth.
Clark stiffens. Stares at you with eyes unblinking and wide. “What?”
Your stomach drops in panicked freefall. “No—fuck. Not like that.”
“I’m gonna need some clarification,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows.
“I’m not a virgin,” you blurt. “If that’s what you think. I just...”
He blinks at you, finally. Questions in that earnest, pleading voice, “No, that’s—sunshine, are we going too fast? We can stop right now.”
A wave of heavy embarrassment crashes down on you.
Your palms slap onto your face, eyes squeezing shut at the mortifying, humiliating fact that— “I’ve never had a guy go down on me!”
“And” —you have to fight yourself to be honest about this— “half the time, I don’t come anyway.”
Clark just sort of twists his mouth, looking at you with those melancholic eyes, dimples shifting as he processes.
Just zones out a bit. As if he isn’t laying stomach-down on the bed, extremely eager to eat you out two seconds ago. Okay, maybe he is still a little eager, just toned down.
But you can see it. In the way he blinks, up at your eyes and down to your navel. In the way his hand is still resting on your thigh, ready.
He wets his bottom lip. Says, in a hoarse, choked voice like he really can’t believe it, “But you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, peeling your fingers off your face, “more than okay. So you better ruin it for everyone else.”
He smiles, dorky and charming, face all ruddy. You lament—oh, you feel like a fucking travesty with the way his dimples make your heart somersault like that.
“So,” he starts, pitching his head down to study your sex. Trailing his fingers from your thigh to your folds, he wets himself with the slick arousal already there. “What even happens after you have sex with other guys? When you aren’t satisfied?”
You try not to worm around as Clark gently strokes the tip of his middle finger up your seam. You shiver, though, when he pauses just below your clit and drags back down.
“Just…I take care of myself after. Obviously,” you mumble, restraining the urge to lift your hips just so and let his thick fingers fill your aching cunt. But patience is a virtue, and you’ll be damned if you don’t find out what Clark’s whole reminder is about. “Lots of sore wrists and stuff.”
An easy grin blooms on his face again. Start pumping the tip of his finger into you, slowly working you open.
“Like this?” he asks, once the second knuckle of his finger has been swallowed by your cunt. Thicker than you thought it would be. Which makes you wonder about and crave the stretch of two.
“Yeah,” you try to keep your voice from squeaking, but it does anyway. You cover your mouth with the back of your left hand and card the right into his silken, messy waves. “I just—god, you’re thick.”
“Easy, honey,” he shushes. Kisses the top of your mound, to which you respond with a soft, open sound. Takes his mouth lower, minuscule centimeter by minuscule centimeter, until he’s pulling out his one finger and stretching you out with two, just as he latches his scorching mouth around your clit and sucks.
You moan. Loud, embarrassing, pitched up at the end.
The feeling of being so full aches in you. Feels like he’s penetrating your entire body. Like he’s going to live in the cavity of your chest forever, and right now you’re more than willing to keep him warm.
He laps at you all while rocking his fingers, getting your parted folds all sticky and slick with saliva and arousal. Detached himself with a tacky string of viscous liquid, eyes rolling up before they shut, forehead nuzzling into your stomach.
“Did you do it like this?” He crooks his fingers, thick and hot in your cunt, presses into a spongy spot that makes you tug at his hair for more. You whine a little. “Or that?”
Slides impossibly deeper into you, bypassing that first spot and nudging his fingers into a place that shoots white-hot pleasure ripping up your spine, and his tongue swipes searing over your clit and you think you fucking gush a little down to his wrist.
“God,” you choke out, and Clark just keeps teasing that spot, moaning softly into your cunt and stroking and rocking his touch until your stomach starts to tighten, all raw and urging. “There, there, shit.”
It’s like a switch has flipped in you.
You’re fucking ruined for life. Hips rutting up to chase the next thrust of his fingers, the next flick or swipe of his tongue as your neurons go into overdrive. Sobbing: “Oh, Clark—baby, fuck, that’s—good, so good, Clark, please—”
He rolls his tongue hard over your sensitive clit, upping the intensity at which his digits are fucking into you—a filthy push-pull that you can hear, lewd noises of your cunt spasming in as he bullies that bundle of nerves inside you.
“C’mon,” he groans, a desperate sound vibrating into you. Kisses your clit again, and you feel another surge of wetness coat your inner thighs when he shoves his fingers in deep to keep stimulating your g-spot. Sounds all wrecked and wanton when he rumbles, open-mouthed over you, “That’s it, honey. Keep doing that. Make you feel better than all those jerks, yeah?”
You keen, high-pitched. Hips rutting up into his face, unabashed, muscles gradually tightening until you’re all wound up.
It’s getting to be too much, like you’re being filled to the brim and then some. Like you’re about to spill out of your own skin, all ‘cause of your best friend’s ministrations. His tongue. The way he stuffs a shallow, wanting moan into the crook of your inner thigh and cunt. How he’s shifting his hips into the mattress, how the bedframe is creaking slightly from the movement.
Your pulse is pounding. Like you’re trying to mimic the way his heart was when he let you feel it, and your head is spinning with it, too.
And then Clark dips the tip of his tongue low, tasting you from the top of the opening of your sex—fucking gasps with a sound that almost cries and drags the flat of his tongue hot up to your clit. Wraps his plush, sweltering lips around it and starts laving with abandon, grinding his fingertips into your g-spot.
It’s not the way he’s lapping at you that makes you break. It’s not even his thick, full fingers stretching you out in a way that burns so sweetly in you.
It’s just Clark.
He reaches for the hand you have buried in his hair.
Wraps his warm, gentle palm around your wrist. Squeezes you once, firm enough to ground you by a thread-thin tether. Kneads his thumb over your pulse point and looks up at you through his lashes, eyes out of focus and so honest.
Starbursts pop in your vision.
You swear you black out for a second as you come, moans shaky against the back of your hand.
Your orgasm hits you hard and soft at the same time. Crests and crashes with a tidal wave of wetness that dribbles out of your cunt, soothes over your head as bliss fills your body. Your ears are ringing, hearing smudged and cottony like you’ve been dunked in the pool and someone’s trying to talk to you from above the surface.
You quiver, helpless as you chase the aftershocks against Clark’s eager mouth.
There’s a trembling sincerity when he slowly pulls his fingers from you, like he’s reluctant. He’s still guiding you down from the last ripples of ecstasy, tongue undulating over the still-twitching seam of your cunt, whispering pleasant nothings between each lick like he’s found an altar between your thighs.
But he doesn’t bring you down. Doesn’t let you stray far from that high-up edge, nose now pressed into your clit as he wraps his thick, solid arms under your legs, then over your stomach to lock you in place.
“Clark,” you sigh, squirming from the stimulation. You can hardly recognize your voice, all tender and soft and pitched. “Clark.”
His lips make a wet, lewd sound when he reluctantly draws himself away from your cunt. Leaves a web-thin, almost star-spun string of slick connecting you to him, panting so feverishly that he pushes your legs closer to your chest.
He hums, looking a little dazed. Eyes unfocused, tongue darting out to taste that string of fluid, which breaks and dribbles down his chin in a way that makes your stomach riot with butterflies.
"Going somewhere?” he rasps, and god, if that doesn’t make your heart leap for the chance to give him another and then some.
“No,” you mumble, heat prickling under your skin.
Clark blinks at you, cheek squished to your inner thigh. Lets his eyes roll closed when you stroke your fingers through his hair, exhale balmy on your bare skin.
“Okay,” he says, quiet.
This time, he’s slow with it. Takes his time, languid and sensual flicks and laves meant to wriggle between your seams and pick you apart from the inside.
Tides you through your refractory period, sighs when you start to tighten your thighs around his head again. Lights that spark in you once more, using his drenched, arousal-shiny fingers only to play with your clit while his tongue slips into your throbbing cunt instead.
You don’t know how much time has passed. You only know this: back arching and hips twitching as Clark guides you toward another orgasm, skillfully fucking you with his tongue like this is his last meal and he needs to savor it.
You feel a telltale tingle in your core again. Coils up tighter, raw, wrings you dry until you’re rocking your hips and pushing at his head to go deeper, faster, harder.
Faintly, you register his bedframe creaking. Clark moans—loud, honest, fervent, broken in a way you’ve never heard—right into your folds and—
Your inhale catches. Stammers as your high starts to crest, and you whine, pliant and helpless, fuck—
Clark stops. Retracts himself, tongue sweeping over his swollen bottom lip to gather your wetness. Swallows, and your eyes follow the motion of his Adam’s apple.
He looks more wrecked than you feel. Looks like he’s the one dangling on the precipice of coming, like he’s the one who’s been licked within an inch of his life.
He sits up, kneeling between your legs and shit, he’s blushing all the way down to his chest. Pink from head to pec, hair plastered to his forehead from what you assume is the humidity between your thighs.
“Gosh,” he pants. Long inhale, short exhale. He closes his eyes like he’s tasting the last of you lingering on his tongue. “Gosh, I’m so sorry, sunshine.”
You prop yourself up on your elbows, panic spiking in your chest. “What’s wrong?”
He groans. Folds himself back down by the waist and buries his burning face into your sternum. Kisses the skin there, and drags his fingers up your spine to dawdle on the clasp of your bra.
“Not you,” comes his muffled murmur, still pressing sincere, reverent kisses on your chest. “Just—you taste too good.”
You pause. Process the fact that Clark had to take a second because he was enjoying himself too much. And a laugh spills out of your mouth.
You comb your hands through his hair, making him shiver when your nails scrape on his scalp. “I was about to come again, you know.”
He groans, mortified, and presses his forehead harder against your sternum.
“Gosh,” he stutters, and you’re pretty sure that’s his word of the day, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t take it.”
“Take what?” You cup your hand to his warm, flushed cheek, tilt his head up to look at him.
He stares back at you, mouth glistening and parted, eyes flicking down to your lips. He swallows.
“I think—well, I almost,” he squeezes his eyes shut, “I didn’t want to come yet. And uh, I don’t have a condom.”
You guess he’s your best friend for a reason.
Here you are, looking each other up and down and realizing that you’ve both unwittingly edged yourselves. Get a load of this fucking comedy.
You huff, amused. Squeeze his cheeks in your palms, and your heart flutters when he smiles, bashful. “You’re funny.”
“Sure, sunshine. I'll make that up to you,” he says, shifting his fingers on your back and undoing your bra. “So just to be sure—”
“Yes, Clark,” you grumble, tangling your fingers in his curls and tugging. Hard. You swear his eyes roll into his skull a little. “We can fuck without a condom.”
“You’re so crass,” he chides, and cool air hits your breasts.
Your bra lands somewhere soft, cushioned, and when you look, you find that he’s thrown it and the rest of your clothes—with terrifying accuracy—into his hamper.
That cracks something wide open in you. It blooms in your chest, unfurls like the first thaw of spring.
He’s so sweet. There isn’t another word for how he makes you feel. It’s just a something, somehow, stitched together with a lifetime of bandaids and inside jokes.
And you mourn. Even though the space between your bodies is so tight that your skin is sticky with humidity, even though his belt is clicking and he’s asking again, because he’s got that devastating habit of being a quintuple-checker:
“Will you let me have you?”
Not can I. Will you.
You snap out of your daze, heart still sighing dreamily as you practically leap to help tear his belt out of the loops.
“Is that a yes?” he wonders out loud, laying his forehead on yours. He squeezes his eyes tight when you unzip his fly and relieve a little more pressure from his hard cock. Chokes out, “For the record—oh, god—I’m a yes. Please.”
Clark kisses you with undisguised desire when you palm him over his underwear. He’s scorching in your palm, weighty when you try to grind the heel of your hand on it.
He whimpers. Honest to god whimpers, a ruined sound that whistles in the miniscule space between your open mouths, and your arm jerks, startled by how sudden and unexpected and hot that is.
Clark does it again, louder this time. Your core throbs.
“Baby,” he groans, furrowing his brows in concentration, “as much as I like that—”
“Yeah,” you breathe, steadier than you expected yourself to be, with your throat running dry and heart pounding in your throat. “Yeah, I want—”
“I know,” he says. Gently nudges your hand off his clothed erection, crowds you up against the headboard. Then he takes you by the knee, hand blistering up your thigh, and delicately guides you to lay on your back.
Your head lolls to the side, nose pressing into one of his pillows. Smells like home in a way you can’t really explain beyond the faint scent of sleep and lemon detergent. Smells like him, in the purest sense possible; all wool-soft and mellow, like the kindest comfort during a winter storm in Smallville.
He shimmies out of his pants. His cock bobs up, all eight inches and girth standing at attention, the head deeply flushed and pearled with pre. It slaps lightly against his navel, leaving behind a thread of slick that breaks quickly, and you burn white-hot and raw with lust.
Clark slides a plush pillow under your hips. Gazes down at you through his lashes, eyes shining with a light that makes your chest ache. Whispers, almost to himself, “You’re so pretty. My pretty girl.”
You don’t remember how you respond to that.
Because Clark is taking his cock in his hand, and that has the audacity to make his size look normal, and he strokes himself slowly as he guides himself toward your soaked cunt. You think you lose your breath.
He breaches you with a single, slow thrust, with an open-mouthed stammer of breath, and there’s so much of him sliding forward that you don’t even try arching your back to let him go deeper. And he just waits there, to the hilt, girthy and heavy and pulsing in time with your dripping, stretched cunt, and you’re so fucking full of him that you think you won’t be able to get up tomorrow.
Good thing it’s Friday, is the last thing that runs through your mind before he bends over and takes you with him, folding your legs against your chest like you’re one of those fucking origami cranes he makes in his free time.
(Yes, you’ve seen the box under his bed. No, not the one with his suit.
The one with a thousand colorful, paper cranes he folds at his desk when anonymous tips are slow and takes the time between work and alien invaders to painstakingly link them all up onto a thread of fishing line. The one he brings to a thrift shop every time he finishes a string, just so a lucky someone passing by could have a little goodness in their day.)
And Clark fucks like this means more than the world to him. Slow, sensual, with purpose. Grinds the searing head of his cock into the spot that made you see starbursts on his tongue earlier, cloistering his chest against your shins like he needs—not wants, but needs, desperately, more than air or sun—to live in your skin.
He moans in time with you, breathes out in a voice that sets you ablaze, “God, you’re so tight—sunshine, you’re perfect.”
He’s everywhere. Whimpering with his mouth over yours. Slipping his thumb expertly over your twitching clit over and over until you’re trying to arch into him, but you can’t, because he’s fucking you with his entire weight behind each world-stopping thrust and oh—
You get why he says ‘making love’ like an old-fashioned loverboy.
Because he is. Because he’s pushing and pulling into your cunt like he’s promising, like he’s revering. Heavy and softhearted and caressing the outside of your hip with a warm, soothing hand, and you understand.
“I love you,” you gasp. Just feels like the right thing to say, head spinning and mouth wet with his and your spit. Tastes like salt, and yourself. “Clark, please.”
“I can hear you,” he chokes out in the middle of an aborted whine. Ducks his nose behind your ear, breathes in the scent of your skin, all flushed with heat and thinly veiled with sweat. “Your heartbeat, it’s—so fast.”
He jerks up into your walls with a calamitous, devastating grind. Makes that same gush of wetness drool out of your spasming cunt, and when he plunges in you again, his pelvis slaps into the fat of your ass with a sound so tacky your ears burn, all shameful and alive.
“You liked that,” Clark gasps, taking your bottom lip in his mouth and sucking. Lets go after a moment when he’s satisfied with how swollen and pliant you are and rolls that bundle of sparking nerves between your thighs. You clench around him, uncontrollable, legs bucking up to no avail. “Holy—I love you, too. Gosh, I love you so much for so long, you’ve no idea—”
You can’t recall when your orgasm started cresting. It had just built slowly like one of those soda bottles that used to explode in Clark’s face randomly, creeping up on you like all this.
The realization that you are deeply, raptly in love with your best friend. That you want with him what all the people in the movies have—being late for your train because you get coffee together in the mornings; finding sweet, handwritten notes on his fridge, right next to your photobooth strip; passing each other in the hallway like two familiar ships, exchanging an earnest kiss before he runs off to fold the laundry and you to take inventory of the groceries.
And you want him forever. Yours to kiss. Yours to curl up to when the night gets too cold for even his thick, pillowy duvet, for him to hold you close and mumble his thoughts against your cheek.
A ruined whine rips through your lungs. You’re so close, teetering on the edge of the precipice.
He starts the hand holding your hip, dragging it up your side, over your ribcage. Traces the space between your bones, splays his hand wide for a moment between your breasts. Pushes down slightly, and you can feel your own heart leaping to try and touch him.
Oh. This is proving to be too much for you.
And then he reaches up to take one of your hands still tugging at his hair, threads his fingers between yours. Holds on tight, grounding.
Clark kisses your cheek. Chaste and sweet compared to the downright filthy way his cock is sparking the live wire under your skin.
Locks your eyes with his unfocused ones, and all you see in your smudged, pleasure-sick vision is the way he’s looking at you with something between disbelieving awe and endearment.
You come with his name already in your mouth and sugar-salt on your tongue.
He works you through the aftermath, rolling his hips with a gentle, powerful grace as you shiver and sigh brokenly against him. Makes love with a trembling, earnest sincerity, until you’re melting and he’s approaching his orgasm.
Clark doesn’t slow when he lowers your legs. Your thighs are a little sore, and you’re still rushing with your own high when he holds you tight in his solid, secure arms until your breasts are flattening against his chest.
It isn’t long until his rhythm is stammering like your poor heart, until he’s following you close over the edge, stuffing a low, warm, quivering moan close to your ear and spilling hot ropes deep into you like this has been his life’s mission all along.
—
You wake with the moon kissing your back and the AC kicking on.
Mouth dry, because it somehow found itself open, and there’s a spot of drool crusting on your cheek. You’re hungry, and it’s late by the analog display blinking from the top of the nightstand.
The clock sits just under a lamp. Familiar, like a second home. Blue-glass shade, tarnished brass.
And then you remember that this isn’t your apartment. You’re waking up in Clark’s bed, soft sheets pooling around your hips, and he’s done the favor of cleaning you up and putting out an old, threadbare shirt and a pair of shorts at the foot of the bed.
Crabjoys and college shorts. Of course.
The door creaks, letting a rectangle of golden-warm light stretch across the floor.
He’s standing there, in pajamas patterned with little brown cows and glasses hanging off the collar of the worn-thin shirt tight on his biceps and chest, and he’s balancing a little plate with a sliced bagel and condiments you can’t see well.
His curls are egregiously messed up. The back of his hair sticks up at an odd angle, presumably from your incessant tugging in the throes of pleasure (your stomach warms at the reminder), and his ears are bright red in the dim light.
Your heart swells for a sigh. There he is. Your best friend.
“Hi,” he breathes, shuffling into the room. He’s wearing tattered bunny slippers that squeak a little. “Good thing I set a timer on the oven. Could’ve burned our breakfast for dinner.”
“You spoil me,” you say, sitting up to reach for the shirt. You pull it over your head and he’s there before you when you emerge from the worn cotton, pressing a grateful kiss to your temple.
“That’s because you're the best thing in the world,” Clark rolls his eyes, smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks.
He’s so gentle. Intimately familiar.
You’ve already loved him for a lifetime.
You wouldn’t mind one more.
— kisses to the lovely wonderful betas dee @kentbot and nini @dancing-inasnowglobe for prereading this crazy fic for me! please let me know if u enjoyed, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated <33
Sinopsis: After weeks of catching Clark quietly staring at her, she finally asks what's been on his mind.
Warnings: Fluff, Established Relationship, Domestic Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
WC: 3,400 words approx.
Your eyes scanned your computer screen one last time, reading through your article before finally sending it. They lingered over every word, every comma, every period, making sure everything was perfect. It was a habit of yours—to review everything over and over until you finally felt at ease. Deep down, though, you knew it was already fine. It was just your nerves playing tricks on you.
You let out a soft sigh and lifted your head, stretching your neck, which had begun to ache from spending so long hunched over your keyboard.
And that was when you met his eyes.
Those blue eyes that had been watching you for the last thirty minutes.
No, that wasn't true.
Maybe an hour.
But if you were being honest with yourself, you'd been feeling them on you for weeks now, always at the most unexpected moments.
Clark had this habit of silently watching you, as though he were trying to solve a puzzle that only he could see.
The moment your eyes met, he immediately looked away and turned back to his own monitor, pretending he was deeply focused on something important.
You almost laughed.
It was such an awkward reaction.
Such a Clark reaction.
If anyone else had seen him from the outside, he probably would've looked like some kind of stalker.
But you knew better.
He was just your boyfriend, completely lost in his own thoughts, imagining something or reflecting on something you could never quite understand.
So you smiled to yourself and returned to your work, although your mind was no longer fully focused on the words in front of you.
Clark had always been like this.
Strange.
But never in a bad or unsettling way.
It was more as if he saw the world through a different lens—one that only he could look through.
Sometimes the simplest things seemed like profound mysteries to him.
Other times, the things that felt impossibly complicated to you were solved by him with astonishing ease.
Understanding him had taken time.
A lot of time.
Patience.
Carefully observing all of his little habits.
But maybe he understood you far better than you understood him.
Because he never complained about your silence or your bad days.
He was simply there, with those blue eyes and his quiet way of loving you.
Despite everything, loving him had never been difficult.
You had been together for eight months now, and your relationship was serious.
You knew his parents, and he knew yours.
You went to parties together, shared an apartment, and your belongings had become so intertwined that you could barely tell what belonged to whom anymore.
Your colorful scarves rested beside his neatly pressed ties.
Your work blouses hung next to his perfectly ironed dress shirts.
You even had matching mugs—the ones he'd excitedly bought from a little shop downtown—and every morning you used them to drink coffee together.
Yet despite all that closeness, Clark sometimes seemed unable to say the things that truly mattered.
Expressing himself with words wasn't easy for him.
Instead, he'd start with those long, lingering looks, as if he expected you to read his mind.
As if he believed you had powers just like his.
Then he'd smile, and you'd convince yourself you had imagined it.
But then another glance would come.
And another.
And the doubt would quietly settle back into your mind.
As your fingers absentmindedly continued typing, you started wondering what could possibly be going through his head.
Was he thinking about breaking up?
No.
That was impossible.
You remembered the keychain he'd given you.
The one that read "Best Boyfriend Ever" in shiny letters with a little plastic heart attached to it.
At first, you'd thought it was ridiculously cheesy and far too flashy.
But Clark had chosen it with such genuine excitement that you hadn't had the heart to refuse.
He carried the matching one.
It said "My Favorite Girlfriend."
And every single time you pulled out your keys, his eyes lit up like a little kid's.
So you carried it proudly, even if your coworkers occasionally teased you about it.
If he'd given you something that meaningful, there was no way he was planning to end your relationship.
Maybe it was jealousy.
But no.
Clark wasn't a particularly jealous person.
Sure, there were those moments when he'd gently place a hand on your waist whenever someone stood a little too close to you.
Or when he'd tilt his head with that unmistakable expression that clearly said,
"I don't like this."
But he always handled it better than you did.
Once you got home, he'd simply ask whether you'd felt uncomfortable.
No scenes.
No accusations.
No arguments.
He was surprisingly calm about things like that.
Sometimes it honestly amazed you.
Maybe he wanted to go on a trip?
But he hadn't mentioned anything, and the two of you always planned those things weeks ahead of time.
No.
That wasn't it either.
One possibility after another disappeared, and you still couldn't figure out the answer.
When work finally ended, he did exactly what he always did.
Without saying a word, he picked up your purse and slung it over his shoulder.
Then he grabbed your coat—the one you'd brought that morning because it had been cold—but now, with the warmth of the evening settling in, you no longer needed it.
Clark carried it neatly folded over one arm, with that effortless way he had of taking care of you without ever making a fuss about it.
The two of you walked toward the exit together, and you slipped your hand into his free one, feeling the warmth of his fingers intertwine with yours.
There was no need to talk.
Sometimes the silence between you was far more comforting than any conversation.
On the way home, you stopped at the little crêpe stand the two of you loved so much.
You ordered your favorite—the Hawaiian one, with ham and pineapple.
Clark ordered his usual.
Chocolate and strawberries.
You ate while walking, stealing bites from each other's crêpes and laughing when whipped cream ended up smeared across his cheek.
By the time you reached your apartment, the sun had already disappeared below the horizon, and the cool evening breeze drifted through the open windows.
Clark placed the bags on the table and, without saying a word, picked up the dishes the two of you had taken to work so he could wash them.
He shrugged off his suit jacket in one smooth motion and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing his forearms as he turned on the faucet.
Everything happened in silence.
Just another routine the two of you knew by heart.
Meanwhile, you placed his briefcase beside the couch and set your purse in its usual spot.
You gathered the coffee mugs you'd both left on your little desks that morning and carried them into the kitchen.
After that, you began organizing your shared workspace.
You knew you'd be assigned another article tomorrow, and you'd probably end up working late again.
And Clark simply couldn't work if everything was messy.
It was one of his many little quirks.
You didn't mind clutter.
Sometimes you even claimed it helped you think.
But Clark needed everything to be exactly where it belonged.
So you placed his pen holder on the right side of his desk, perfectly aligned with his mouse.
Then you set his notebook—the one he only ever used at home—on the left side, carefully lining up its cover with the edge of the desk.
You even sorted through the loose papers left over from previous days.
Then you turned to your own desk, arranging things a little more casually, because you didn't care if your pencils crossed over each other or your sticky notes poked out in every direction.
Clark was still washing the dishes, water running steadily as his hands moved with the same calm rhythm he seemed to have for everything.
You knew he'd probably gathered every single dirty plate, mug, fork, and spoon lying around the apartment, because that was just how meticulous he was.
He never left anything unfinished.
No matter how small it seemed.
You walked into the kitchen and started putting away the leftovers he'd carefully stored in different containers, each one tightly sealed and labeled with what was inside.
He was so organized that sometimes it made you laugh.
But it also gave you a strange sense of comfort.
As you closed the refrigerator door, you felt his gaze settle on you once again.
That gentle but unwavering weight of his eyes.
The silent reminder that something important was on his mind.
Without turning to look at him, because you knew you would get nervous if you did, you asked quietly, "Will you tell me someday?"
Your tone was calm, as though you didn't really care about the answer.
But deep down, you knew you did.
Clark paused for a second, his hands still submerged in the soapy water, and lifted his head to look at you.
"What will I say, sweetheart?" he asked, and there was that small smile in his voice that always appeared whenever he felt he'd been caught.
You finally turned toward him and saw him smiling in that sheepish way you knew so well, as though he'd just been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to.
"Exactly. I don't know what you'll say, but you'll say something," you replied with a teasing smile.
He let out a quiet laugh as he continued scrubbing the dishes, moving the sponge in slow circles.
The water continued to run, its sound filling the kitchen, but the silence between you was comfortable, like an old blanket.
"It might scare you," he finally said, his voice softer now, almost shy.
That made you stop what you were doing and move to stand beside him, resting your hip against the edge of the counter so you could look at him better.
He kept washing the dishes, but every few seconds his eyes drifted back to you.
"Scare me?" you asked, not quite understanding what he meant.
You frowned for a moment, thinking of all the things that could possibly frighten you, but none of them seemed to fit him.
"I'd be scared if it were a proposal like... I don't know... doing it on the balcony. Now that would completely ruin Clark Kent's image," you joked with a light laugh.
He immediately blushed, a soft pink spreading from the base of his neck all the way to his cheeks.
That only made you laugh harder.
It was so incredibly easy to make him shy just by mentioning something even slightly inappropriate.
"No... that would be vulgar," he replied seriously.
But there was so much affection shining in his eyes that you couldn't help smiling even more.
"What is it?" you asked, softening your voice so he'd know you genuinely wanted to hear him.
Clark set the plate he'd been washing aside and wiped his hands on his pants, a habit he always had whenever he needed to think carefully before speaking.
"I... hypothetically..." he began.
The words came out with difficulty, as though he were trying to assemble a complicated puzzle inside his head.
"I think everything is going really well and... I don't know... I just..."
He tried to finish the sentence, but the words slipped away from him like water through his fingers.
"Hypothetically," you repeated, raising an eyebrow with curiosity.
He smiled, relieved that you'd given him an easy opening.
"If everything keeps going well... hypothetically, we could get married," you said, finishing the thought he couldn't bring himself to say.
He looked at you with such a huge smile that it seemed like even his teeth were glowing.
"And keep living together," you added, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Because to you, it was.
You had already spent eight months sharing every corner of your lives together, and the thought of that continuing forever didn't feel strange.
It felt beautiful.
"If... hypothetically... that happened..." he asked, his voice more serious now, as though he truly needed to know your answer, "would you want to live in Metropolis?"
You shrugged because, honestly, you'd never really thought about it.
The city had its charm, with all its lights and constant energy.
But sometimes it felt overwhelming too.
"I don't know. Maybe... or we could move to Smallville," you suggested without giving it much thought.
The name had simply slipped from your lips almost on instinct.
But Clark froze completely.
He quickly turned off the faucet, shook the excess water from his hands, grabbed a towel, and dried them in a hurry.
Then he reached into the back pocket of his pants for his phone.
You watched him, completely confused.
"Exactly. Hypothetically speaking," he said, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he unlocked the screen.
"If we moved to Smallville... hypothetically... there's a piece of land for sale there, and the price per square meter is really cheap. Look, here's the listing."
He showed you the pictures on his phone.
Two large lots.
Surrounded by trees.
Plenty of open space.
You nodded as you looked at them, and he kept talking, his voice overflowing with excitement he could barely contain.
"And hypothetically, if you wanted a house exactly the way you like it, we could build it from scratch. I've already looked at blueprints. I have, like, ten different house designs saved in my favorites folder."
He swiped to another picture, showing you the property from a different angle.
"And hypothetically, it's actually inside town. It's only a few blocks from downtown, but it's close to the market too, so it isn't isolated or anything."
He kept swiping.
"And it's close to the schools too. Hypothetically, when our kids start going, they could just take the bus."
Clark switched to another picture.
It showed Smallville High School, its brick walls surrounded by tall trees.
"And I think that school has the best curriculum. Hypothetically, if our kids ever got bored of farm life, they offer dance classes, soccer, art, cooking... even knitting. I asked, and the classes are inexpensive. They also have after-school activities."
He paused for only half a second before adding,
"Hypothetically, of course."
He kept scrolling through pictures on his phone without stopping, while you watched him with an ever-growing smile.
"Hypothetically, the house could have a big backyard where the kids could play. Maybe even a vegetable garden, because you like plants, right? I've already watched tutorials on how to build urban gardens... hypothetically speaking."
He smiled to himself before continuing.
"And the library—I didn't forget about the library. Hypothetically, it'd have a huge window overlooking the fields because you once told me you loved reading with natural sunlight. I even have bookshelves saved from the internet that would be perfect... hypothetically."
He finally stopped for a breath.
You could barely keep yourself from laughing at the overwhelming number of hypotheticallys he'd managed to fit into a single conversation.
"Oh! And hypothetically there's also a hardware store nearby in case we ever need to fix something. There's a park with swings only two blocks away, the grocery store is a five-minute walk, and the church..."
He smiled sheepishly.
"Well... Smallville's church is small, but it's beautiful. Hypothetically... if we ever wanted to get married there."
Then he quickly corrected himself.
"But I know you said you wanted to get married in Metropolis, so we can leave that exactly as it is."
"Hypothetically."
Finally, he stopped.
He realized he'd been talking nonstop for quite a while.
His cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.
He hurriedly locked his phone and shoved it back into his pocket, as though doing so could somehow erase everything he'd just said.
"Of course... all of that was purely hypothetical," he said with a nervous smile, scratching the back of his neck.
You looked at him.
Not with fear.
But with a mixture of surprise and tenderness so overwhelming that it made your legs feel weak.
You had imagined so many things about your future together, but you had never imagined that he had already planned it with so many details... and with so many "hypotheticallys" that fooled absolutely no one.
The future itself didn't scare you.
What scared you was being with someone who didn't picture you in theirs.
But Clark did.
And he'd thought about it in so much detail that it made your heart tremble with quiet excitement.
Getting married? You had always joked about it, casually throwing comments into the air whenever you watched weddings on TV or when one of your friends got engaged. But Clark truly wanted a life with you. He even thought about the children you might have someday, the school they would attend, the classes they would take, the vegetable garden you could plant together. It was so much, and it felt so real, that for a moment you didn't know what to say.
"Isn't... maybe... it a little too soon?" he said, trying to sound calmer, but his voice betrayed how nervous he was. The excitement from a few moments ago faded slightly, and he lowered his gaze to the floor. "I... well... they're... land listings, that's all," he added, as though that explained everything, and a smile formed on your lips before you could stop it.
"Do you really want to marry me?" you asked, and your own voice came out a little shyer than you had expected.
He looked back up at you and smiled with that smile of his—the one that always made you feel like everything was going to be okay.
"Of course. I can't imagine anyone else being my wife. And if we have children, I've been thinking that about a year beforehand we should start buying baby accessories," he said, pulling out his phone once again to show you something. "I've been reading about different cribs, strollers, and baby clothes, but of course, I thought about the wedding first. You said you wanted it at the church in Metropolis, so I made a budget, and I have it right here..."
He swiped across the screen and showed you a spreadsheet filled with numbers, with categories like "flowers," "catering," "music," and even "wedding dress (options)."
You opened your mouth but couldn't say a single word.
He immediately realized he'd given himself away again.
"Hypothetically, of course," he said quickly.
That made you burst into laughter.
You couldn't hold it in anymore.
The laughter came from the deepest part of you, mixed with a tenderness that completely filled your chest.
You threw yourself into his arms and kissed him, feeling his hands wrap around your waist as he pulled you against his chest.
The kiss was sweet and warm, and when you finally pulled away, he looked at you without letting go, his blue eyes shining as though he had just found the greatest treasure in the world.
You smiled, feeling your heart beating much faster than usual.
"So... are you going to propose to me?" you asked, absentmindedly playing with the collar of his shirt.
"It's a surprise," he replied, letting out a nervous little laugh. "I'll show you the budget, but the proposal will happen when you least expect it. Hopefully soon, though, because I want to reserve the date and buy the land before someone else does." Then he quickly added, as though it somehow made it less obvious, "Hypothetically, of course."
You laughed and wrapped your arms tightly around him, feeling his warmth and hearing his heartbeat against your own. But then an idea crossed your mind to keep teasing him, because you knew that if you didn't embarrass him just a little more, you were going to burst out laughing.
You loosened the hug and looked him straight in the eyes, wearing the mischievous smile he already knew all too well.
"Well, Clark," you said, placing a hand dramatically over your chest, "have you also planned what flowers we'll have at the wedding and what song will play during our first dance? Because you've already thought about it, haven't you?" You let out a little giggle that filled the entire kitchen.
Clark opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it again, and such a deep blush spread up his neck that it looked as though he had stepped into the sun. He froze for a moment, and you instantly knew you had hit the mark.
"Well..." he admitted in a quiet murmur, clearing his throat as he pulled you a little closer against him. "Let's just say I have. But it's not just a game, you know. It's the future I want with you. Truly. No jokes, no dancing around it."
His eyes softened, and that shy smile you loved so much appeared on his face.
"And yes, I've already picked the song for our first dance. But that's a secret I'm keeping until our wedding day."
You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over, and he joined in, blushing but smiling just as brightly.
"Oh, Clark!" you said between laughs, giving him a playful tap on the shoulder. "You're unbelievable, you know that?"
You paused before adding with a teasing grin,
"Hypothetically, of course."
He laughed with you, pulling you into another hug and pressing a kiss to the top of your head while the night carried on outside, filled with stars that seemed to shine just a little brighter for the two of you.
summary: Clark Kent is helplessly in love, catastrophically awkward about it, and somehow even more charming because of it.
Clark “Superman” Kent
word count: 3k
a/n: this is a little something i made this week while i was waiting for my next class (cause why is there always a 2 hr gap??) I hope you enjoy! (*cough cough* jake seresin next?) side note: have u ever had a teacher who’s been edging u w the perfect grade? cause that’s me in english rn like pls i was so good in hs what is happening now
warnings: dangerously awkward flirting, excessive yearning, Clark Kent being down horrendous, coffee casualties, physical affection, kissing, secondhand embarrassment, umbrella sharing, weaponized eye contact, mild language
Clark Kent looked like the kind of man who should know how to flirt.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Gentle eyes hidden behind glasses that absolutely did not disguise the fact that he was unfairly handsome.
And yet—
“I panicked,” he admitted as coffee spread across the bullpen floor.
You stared at him from beside your desk, blinking slowly while reporters twisted in their chairs to watch the disaster unfold.
“You spilled an entire latte because I touched your arm?”
Clark adjusted his glasses with the expression of a man facing public execution. “In my defense,” he said weakly, “you’re very pretty.”
Somewhere across the newsroom, somebody choked on a laugh.
You looked down at the coffee dripping off the edge of Clark’s desk. Then back up at him. Then at the completely soaked stack of papers in his hands.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“No, I mean—” You pointed at the papers. “Weren’t those your interview notes?”
Clark glanced down.
The color drained from his face. “Oh no.”
The bullpen erupted.
Jimmy Olsen burst into laughter so hard he physically folded over his desk. Someone else wolf-whistled. Perry White shouted something from his office about professionalism that nobody listened to.
Clark stood frozen in the middle of it all looking deeply, deeply miserable.
And weirdly adorable.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “You’re kind of a disaster, Kent.”
He looked at you over the rim of his glasses, visibly horrified. “You think I’m a disaster?”
“I think,” you said carefully, “that you just sacrificed your notes to avoid having a conversation with me.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He paused. “Mostly.”
Jimmy made a loud fake coughing noise that sounded suspiciously like he likes you.
Clark shot him a betrayed look.
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
And that—that seemed to make Clark’s entire brain shut down.
Because he stared at you for half a second too long, looking startled by the sound, before smiling instinctively.
It hit you like a truck.
Not because he was handsome—you had unfortunately noticed that weeks ago when you’d first started at the Daily Planet—but because his smile changed his whole face.
Clark smiling felt warm. Soft. Like sunlight through open curtains.
Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.
Clark seemed to realize he was still staring at you at the exact same moment you realized you were staring back.
He immediately looked away so quickly he knocked another coffee cup over with his elbow.
“Oh my God,” Jimmy wheezed.
-
Working at the Daily Planet meant existing in a constant state of chaos.
Phones rang nonstop. Reporters argued across desks. Perry barked deadlines like military orders while interns sprinted through the bullpen carrying stacks of papers and half-dead laptops.
You’d only been there three months, but somehow it already felt normal.
Mostly because of Clark.
Which was ridiculous.
You barely knew him. Technically.
But Clark Kent had this strange gravitational pull to him. The kind that made people naturally drift toward him without realizing it.
He remembered everyone’s coffee orders. Held doors open. Asked about your day and actually listened to the answer.
He was impossibly kind in a way that should’ve felt fake considering he looked like that, but somehow didn’t.
Honestly, the man looked like he’d been engineered in a lab specifically to make people stare.
Broad chest. Strong hands. Dark curls that always fell messily over his forehead no matter how many times he pushed them back.
And his eyes.
Jesus Christ.
You’d made the mistake of maintaining eye contact with him once during a meeting and forgotten your own name halfway through a sentence.
Which apparently wasn’t a problem exclusive to you.
Because Clark got nervous around you too. Painfully nervous.
At first you thought you imagined it.
Then you noticed patterns.
Clark dropping things whenever you walked too close to him. Clark forgetting what he was saying mid-conversation because you smiled at him. Clark volunteering for stories on the opposite side of Metropolis whenever you wore something nice.
It was honestly kind of endearing.
Today, however, was especially bad.
You walked into the break room around noon and stopped short.
Clark was standing at the counter holding a mug that literally bent in his hand.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Ceramic cracked beneath his fingers.
Clark stared down at it in horror.
You stared at him.
“…Did you just Hulk-smash a coffee mug?”
Clark nearly jumped out of his skin. “What? No.”
You pointed.
The handle fell off the mug and hit the floor.
Clark looked genuinely distressed. “I can explain.”
“I would love to hear this explanation actually.”
He glanced around the empty break room like he was searching for divine intervention.
“It was slippery.”
“The mug exploded.”
“It’s a very slippery mug.”
You laughed again.
Clark visibly melted.
Not metaphorically either. The man genuinely seemed to lose all motor function when you laughed near him.
It was becoming a problem.
“You know,” you said, leaning against the counter, “for a Pulitzer-winning reporter, you’re a terrible liar.”
Clark ducked his head, smiling sheepishly. “That obvious?”
“Clark, you once told Perry your laptop stopped working because of solar flares.”
“They can interfere with technology.”
“Sure.”
“It’s science.”
“You sounded like a conspiracy podcast host.”
Clark huffed out a laugh.
God.
That was dangerous too.
Because Clark didn’t laugh quietly. He laughed fully. Warm and surprised and bright like he couldn’t help it.
You liked making him do it.
Probably more than you should.
“You’re staring,” Clark said softly.
You blinked.
Shit.
“I am not.”
One dark eyebrow lifted.
You folded your arms immediately. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Clark’s ears turned pink.
And for some reason, that made you bold.
“You get flustered really easily for someone who looks like he belongs on a magazine cover.”
Clark made a choking noise. “A magazine—”
“You know exactly what you look like, Kent.”
“I really don’t think I do.”
“That’s actually insane.”
Clark rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well… I think you’re beautiful, so maybe we’re both insane.”
The room went completely silent.
Your heartbeat stuttered.
Clark seemed to realize what he’d said a full three seconds later.
“Oh my God,” he whispered to himself.
Then he physically walked into a cabinet.
You slapped a hand over your mouth.
Clark stood there with his eyes squeezed shut like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
“You okay?” you asked, voice shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Never better.”
“You hit that cabinet really hard.”
“I’m durable.”
You snorted.
Clark looked absolutely devastated by his own existence.
And somehow, impossibly, it made him even cuter.
-
Lois Lane cornered you two days later.
“You like him.”
You nearly inhaled your own coffee. “What?”
Lois sat casually on the edge of your desk like she wasn’t about to ruin your entire life.
“You and Smallville.”
“We are coworkers.”
“You look at him like he personally invented romance.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Lois smirked.
“Oh my God,” you muttered.
“Yeah, that’s usually the reaction.”
You dropped your head onto your desk dramatically. “Is it that obvious?”
“To me? Absolutely.”
“This is humiliating.”
“Nah.” Lois nudged your shoulder. “It’s cute.”
Cute.
Right.
Except your crush on Clark Kent felt less cute and more actively life-threatening.
Because the problem with Clark wasn’t just that he was attractive.
It was that he was good.
Everywhere you looked, Clark was helping someone.
Carrying absurdly heavy boxes for interns. Staying late to help fact-check stories. Walking little old ladies across busy streets outside the Planet building.
Once, you’d watched him stop in the middle of a conversation because he noticed a little kid crying outside through the bullpen windows.
Clark had excused himself immediately and come back twenty minutes later with melted ice cream on his sleeve and a shy explanation about helping the kid find his dad.
Who does that?
Who is actually like that?
“You’re smiling,” Lois said knowingly.
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
Unfortunately, she was right.
Lois leaned closer. “So what’s the hold up?”
“What?”
“With Clark.”
You stared at her. “There is no ‘with Clark.’”
“Please. That man looks at you like you hung the moon.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s accurate.”
Before you could respond, a familiar voice called your name from across the bullpen.
You looked up instinctively.
Big mistake.
Clark was walking toward you holding a file folder against his chest, glasses slipping down his nose slightly. His tie was crooked. His hair looked windswept like he’d just sprinted back from somewhere.
Which honestly was possible.
The man moved weirdly fast.
Clark smiled the second he saw you.
And there it was again.
That stupid, soft sunlight feeling.
Lois watched your entire expression change and looked unbearably smug about it.
“I’m going to kill you,” you muttered.
“Worth it.”
Clark reached your desk, slightly out of breath. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
For a second, both of you just stood there smiling at each other like idiots.
Lois made a fake gagging noise before hopping off the desk. “I’m leaving before this turns into a Hallmark movie.”
Clark looked alarmed. “What turns into a Hallmark movie?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly.
“Everything,” Lois corrected.
Then she disappeared into the crowd of desks before either of you could stop her.
Clark looked adorably confused.
You looked anywhere except directly at him.
“So,” Clark said after a moment. “I, uh… brought those files you asked for.”
He handed them over carefully.
Your fingers brushed his.
Clark froze.
You felt him freeze.
The entire atmosphere shifted instantly.
It was ridiculous.
A tiny touch shouldn’t feel electric.
And yet.
Clark swallowed hard. “You okay?”
“You’re asking me?”
A nervous laugh escaped him.
“You just—” He stopped himself abruptly.
“What?”
Clark stared at you for one long second like he was debating something internally. “Nothing.”
“Clark.”
“It’s not important.”
“Clark.”
His shoulders slumped in surrender. “You just make me nervous.”
The honesty in his voice hit you straight in the chest.
“You make me nervous too,” you admitted quietly.
Clark blinked.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“But you seem so calm around me.”
You stared at him. “Clark, last week you smiled at me and I walked directly into the women’s restroom instead of the elevator.”
For a beat of silence, Clark just looked at you.
Then he laughed.
Not a polite chuckle.
Not a soft huff.
An actual laugh.
Head tipped back slightly. Eyes crinkling behind his glasses. Warm and bright and helpless.
Your heart basically dissolved on the spot.
“You think I’m funny?” you asked weakly.
Clark looked at you like that was the dumbest question he’d ever heard.
“I think you’re incredible.”
Oh.
Oh, you were in serious trouble.
-
It started raining halfway through your walk home.
Not normal rain either.
The kind of dramatic Metropolis downpour that felt personally targeted.
You groaned as cold water soaked through your jacket within seconds. “Seriously?”
“You forgot your umbrella too?”
You turned.
Clark stood a few feet away under a massive black umbrella, glasses speckled with rain.
Of course he had an umbrella.
Clark looked like the kind of man who reminded other people to bring umbrellas.
“You stalking me, Kent?”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Coincidence. I was getting groceries.”
He lifted a paper bag slightly.
You frowned. “How are those not soaked already?”
Clark glanced at the perfectly dry bag in confusion before quickly holding the umbrella lower. “Good umbrella?”
You narrowed your eyes.
Clark smiled innocently.
Suspicious.
Still, he stepped closer, angling the umbrella over both of you.
Warmth immediately surrounded you.
Clark smelled ridiculously good. Like clean laundry and coffee and something faintly earthy after the rain.
You tried not to notice.
Failed horribly.
“You can’t walk me home every time it rains, you know.”
Clark looked down at you. “I can try.”
Oh.
Oh, that was dangerous.
The city blurred around you as you walked side by side through the rain.
Cars hissed past on wet streets. Neon signs reflected off puddles. Somewhere nearby, someone played music loud enough to echo between buildings.
Clark kept subtly adjusting the umbrella to make sure you stayed covered.
Meanwhile his own shoulder was getting soaked.
“You’re terrible at sharing umbrellas,” you informed him.
Clark blinked. “I am?”
“You’re getting rained on.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, move over.”
You grabbed his sleeve and tugged him closer underneath the umbrella.
Clark immediately went completely still beside you.
Your arm brushed his.
Heat radiated through the contact even through layers of clothing.
Clark looked down at you slowly.
And there it was again.
That look.
Like you were something precious.
Something worth handling carefully.
It made your chest ache.
“You know,” you said softly, “for someone who panics every time I touch him, you really like standing close to me.”
Clark’s mouth twitched. “Maybe I enjoy the panic.”
“Is that what this is?”
“No,” he admitted quietly. “Not really.”
Rain hammered softly overhead.
Clark’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back up.
Your breath caught.
He noticed.
You knew he noticed because his own breathing changed instantly.
And suddenly the space between you felt very small.
Very warm.
Very dangerous.
A car horn blared somewhere nearby.
Both of you jumped apart like guilty teenagers.
Clark cleared his throat violently. “Well.”
“Yep.”
“That was—”
“Definitely something.”
Clark laughed nervously.
You smiled despite yourself.
Then, before you could overthink it, you reached for his hand.
Clark went silent.
His fingers instinctively curled around yours.
Warm.
Careful.
Like he was afraid to hold on too tightly.
You looked up at him.
Clark looked completely undone.
“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmured.
“What thing?”
“Looking at me like I personally invented happiness.”
Clark stared at you for one long second.
Then he smiled softly.
“I might argue you did.”
Your heart was never recovering from this man.
Ever.
-
By the time you reached your apartment building, neither of you had let go of the other’s hand.
Clark looked mildly stunned by that fact.
You were trying not to look equally affected.
Rainwater dripped from the edge of the umbrella while the city buzzed around you in blurry lights and distant traffic.
Neither of you moved.
“This is usually the part,” you said carefully, “where people say goodbye.”
Clark nodded immediately. “Right. Yeah. Goodbye.”
Neither of you let go.
A smile tugged at your mouth.
Clark noticed instantly.
“What?”
“You’re still holding my hand.”
Clark looked down like he’d genuinely forgotten.
“Oh.”
But he still didn’t let go.
Instead, his thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.
The movement was absentminded.
Gentle.
Your heartbeat nearly climbed into your throat.
Clark looked like he realized what he was doing at the exact same moment.
His eyes widened slightly behind his glasses.
“You should probably kiss me now,” you blurted before your brain could stop you.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Clark stared at you.
You stared back in horror as your own words replayed in your head.
“Well,” you said weakly. “That was terrifying.”
Clark still looked frozen.
“Oh my God,” you whispered. “Forget I said that.”
“No.”
Your eyes snapped back to his.
Clark stepped closer slowly, like he was worried you’d disappear if he moved too fast.
“No,” he repeated softly. “I really don’t think I can.”
The rain suddenly felt very far away.
Clark lifted one hand carefully toward your face.
Even now—even with the way he looked at you, with your fingers tangled together, with every charged moment between you hanging in the air—he still hesitated like he wanted permission.
You leaned into his touch before he could ask.
Something in Clark’s expression melted instantly.
Then he kissed you.
And—
Oh.
That was not a first-kiss kind of kiss.
There was nothing uncertain about it.
Clark kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks and was only now allowing himself to do it.
Warm lips. Careful hands. The soft sound he made when you kissed him back harder.
Your fingers curled into the front of his jacket automatically.
Clark’s free hand settled against your waist like he physically couldn’t stop himself.
And somehow, impossibly, he still kissed like Clark.
Sweet.
Tender.
Like he was trying to memorize you.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were visibly breathless.
Clark looked completely wrecked.
His glasses were crooked.
His hair was damp from the rain.
And he was looking at you like you’d personally rewritten his entire universe.
“You kissed me,” he said softly, sounding genuinely awed by it.
You laughed quietly. “Pretty sure you kissed me too, Kent.”
“I know, I just—” He stopped to smile helplessly. “Wow.”
You smiled so hard your face hurt.
Clark looked at you for another long second before blurting suddenly, “I have wanted to do that since the first day you worked at the Planet.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “The first day?”
“You smiled at me in the elevator and I walked into a wall.”
You stared at him.
Then burst into laughter.
Clark groaned immediately. “Please don’t laugh.”
“You walked into a wall?”
“It was a glass wall,” he muttered.
“That is somehow worse.”
Clark covered his face with one hand while you laughed harder.
“I’m trying to be romantic.”
“You are romantic,” you promised, still grinning. “You’re just also deeply awkward.”
Clark peeked at you through his fingers. “You still like me though?”
The fact that he sounded genuinely unsure nearly killed you.
You reached up, adjusting his crooked glasses carefully. “Clark Kent, you spilled coffee on yourself because I touched your arm.”
His ears turned pink again.
“You carried one umbrella specifically big enough for two people.”
Clark looked away innocently.
“You looked at me like your entire life changed because I held your hand.”
A soft smile spread slowly across his face.
Then he leaned down and kissed you again.
Softer this time.
Slow enough that your chest physically ached from it.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.
“So,” you murmured, “does this mean you’ll stop destroying office supplies every time I flirt with you?”
Clark considered that seriously.
“…Probably not.”
You laughed.
And Clark smiled like it was still the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.
synopsis. the two of you didn't pay your bills in time, so your landlord cuts the heating to your apartment. how will you and your roommate conserve warmth?
perhaps choosing toji as your roommate was a poor choice.
an understatement, really, but you didn't want to overthink it too much or you'd get mad and take it out on him, and then he'd get upset and leave you in your apartment all alone for a few days because you're mad at him. and you don't like to be alone.
hence, why you chose him, your friend,to live with you. to prevent loneliness.
but there are many stories about people coming to hate their good friends when the relationship had advanced to best friends and roommates, and honestly, you're starting to see why. although, you don't hate toji. no, you could never hate him. not when he's taken such good care of you the decade you'd known each other, getting into scraps for your honor, giving you the clothes off his back, driving miles and miles to come get you from a shitty date just because you felt uncomfortable.
still, the fact remains. he is a nightmare to live with.
you have to clean up after him more times than you'd like to, do his laundry, and more than often, you have to cook him something so he doesn't just end up eating shitty cup-ramen with extraordinary levels of MSG and sodium. and worst of all, he does not cover his share of rent.
"baby just spot me this one last time, alright? i got us covered the next six months. all i gotta do is one more thing for my guy, and it'll all be good." is his most recent excuse. you'd been standing waiting for him at the door while he came home at an ungodly hour, and you're in several layers because somehow, your landlord managed to cut the heating just to your apartment because you two are behind on rent.
he shudders a bit. "that ain't cause of me, right?"
you groan at him and shove at his chest weakly, just to expel your anger somewhere. "of course its because of you, you idiot! we don't have any fucking heating anymore because i didn't have enough to cover both our share of rent this month! now it's just-" you shiver as cold air hits your skin. "-you and me and this cold till you get your guy to pay up."
sympathy floods his features, and he croons, wrapping you up in his big arms while kicking off his shoes and dropping his bag, trying to transfer some of his body heat to you. "it'll be okay, i promise. i got ya, ya hear?" he reassures you while keeping you nice and warm, wasting no time in scooping you up in one burly arm and keeping you against him, nice and warm, while he washes his hands.
he forces you to his side the rest of the evening, all throughout eating dinner and getting changed and washed up before bed. unwillingly, your anger melts away at how cuddly and caretaking he's being, sacrificing some of his mobility and a whole arm to keep you in his orbit where he can warm you up. and it's considerably better than when he hadn't been here to keep you warm, which soothes you.
even though this is all is damn fault to begin with.
he can tell your thoughts are running away with you again and you're starting to get pissed, and he chooses to get into your bed with you tonight, banding his arms around you so you cant run. "i said 'm sorry, didn't i?"
huffing, you try to loosen one of his arms even though you're comfy and he's warm. you're just so pissed off right now and none of this would've happened if he just pulled his fucking weight.
toji grunts and drags you back against him, ensuring there's not the slightest gap between you. he pushes his crotch flush to your ass and squeezes you as close as possible, moving one hand up and under your layers of shirts. "oi. i said 'm fuckin' sorry. i got us for the whole fucking year coming, you got that? just stop runnin' away from me."
"i'll believe it when i fuckin' see it." you grumble back, not swayed by his promises. words are great, yes. reassuring, had it been the first time he used them on you, but it's not. you won't melt into his arms unless he produces some money, or-
his hand moves up to grope one of your soft tits without the barrier of clothing underneath.
squeaking, you jolt backwards, ass bumping against his semi hard cock. "ji! what're you-!"
"shh." he cuts you off, squeezing your tit in his big, meaty palm, his forefinger and thumb coming together to squish a nipple between them. "gettin' you warm so you won't whine anymore."
between whimpers, you manage out, "this isn't what i meant..." but you're cut off when his other hand slips between your legs, warming you there too by cupping your mound.
"that better?" he asks, slowly rubbing both your tit and your pussy while burrowing his hardening dick between your ass cheeks. "or do y'want me to go away so you can be cold again?"
shuddering, you make zero move to push away his touches, your body flush to his. you shake your head slowly, indicating that you don't want him to stop at all. not when his touch just feels so good, his hands feeling large and heavy on your smaller body. but mostly importantly, they're warm.
your agreeance is all that's needed for him to continue whatever it is the two of you are doing. it crosses all boundaries two roommates are intended to have, and yet you can’t find it in you to care. you let out the softest moan of pleasure as he continues squeezing your breast, alternating between the two soft mounds and groaning into your ear at the sheer softness of you. it’s heavenly, how full and womanly you feel in his grip.
his hand keeps rubbing idly back and forth along your pussy, and you start subconsciously grinding against it, rolling your hips back and forth into his palm and fingers while your ass presses snugly to his dick. bumping against him each time you move your body.
“fuck yeah.” he says softly, mouthing at the lobe of your ear and breathing heavily into it, before pressing his lips to the sensitive spot underneath. he traces his tongue along the skin, giving you so much stimulation at once. you don’t know how much longer you can go on without something exploding inside of you. you can just feel how your pussy is starting to ooze juices onto his hand.
your breathing picks up when he goes back to toying with your nipples. toji relishes in the way they stiffen and swell at his touch. he experiments with toying with your folds and reaches up to give your clit some attention too. just like your nipples, it's all swollen. "that from the cold or me playing with you?" he huffs deeply.
and you can't even answer him then, because your body is too busy getting ready for you to cum on his hands. you can't physically hold it in any longer, and with a shuddering moan and a shiver running down your spine, your orgasm comes gushing out of you. it coats his hand and along his fingers in a wave of watery juices, your lips parted in a moan and a cry of his name.
toji couldn't be happier right now.
his cock swells up and pulses against your body during your orgasm, and he holds back the rush of pre-cum leaking out of him when you nudge back on him and grind on his aching boner.
"you wanna?" he whispers. "it'll help warm you up even more."
the suggestion is disguised by him saying this is purely for your benefit, as he doesn't say upfront that he just wants to fuck you, but when you nod, letting out a little, "mhm..."
pleased, toji's face breaks out in a grin. "just hold on a sec," he mumbles, tugging your bottoms out of the way and rubbing your aching folds with the pads of his fingers, trying to get you relaxed and ready for his dick in you. he then tugs his hand out from within your pussy lips and brings two fingers to your mouth, tapping your lower lip.
you already know what he means, and he moans as your warm, wet mouth encloses his fingers while you suck your juices off them, tasting yourself while getting his digits nice and lubed up for what he's about to do. he slips them out of your mouth with a slimy pop and slips them into your hole then, pumping the thick digits inside of you.
the stretch is immediate. not entirely unpleasant, but his fingers are thick- for a moment, you squirm with them inside you, but he shushes you softly once more, easing them in and out of you and letting you slowly adapt to the sudden fullness.
only three solid pumps has you completely relaxed with them inside you, and he keeps fondling your breasts while twisting and curling his fingers against your soft, pudgy walls. he can just feel how your body loosens up at his touch and your breathing evens out, and once you stop quivering whenever his fingers prod deep inside you, he decides you're ready for his cock.
he slips his fingers out of you and lines his cockhead up with your hole, rolling his hips forward - then drawing them back to sink just the tip in each time. it's a calculated move to make you more needy and desperate. "toji please," you pant, rubbing the cleft of your ass back against him in hopes that he'll just put it in already, but he's insistent on teasing you. he fists his cock and nuzzles the tip further into you while squeezing the shaft, peeling back the foreskin wrapping the head of his cock so that the pre-cum leaking out of his cock can spill into you and stick to your squishy walls, getting you nice and ready for him.
"in a minute, woman. don't wanna break you." he mutters, guiding his cock in and out of you and squeezing the base of his cock to push out even more slick, getting your pussy nice and messy for him. he moans as your cum and his pre mix together, making your folds glisten and shine pretty in the low light. he can't help himself, needing to fuck your pretty pussy like he should've the day he moved in with you.
you feel him probe into your pussy once more, though this time, he finally pushes in more than just the tip. you're warmer inside the deeper he goes, and it has him dizzy with lust. he sucks on the skin of your throat while squeezing your breasts and nuzzling firmer against you.
"it's so big, ji..." you whine, eyes rolling back when he pushes in halfway, stilling inside you to let you adjust to the stretch. "feels like you're in my tummy."
the burn wasn't terrible, but it was obvious you've never had anyone as big as toji inside you. " 's okay baby," he grunts. "we can go slow this time. gonna take good care of my girl." as he pushes in deeper, his cockhead prods against the frontal wall inside your pussy, rubbing against it and seeking for the spot that makes you - ah. right there.
"mngh! toji!" you squeal, bucking your hips to try and relieve yourself from the pressure of his cock on your weak spot, but he makes no move to pull back. in fact, he sheathes his cock fully inside you, stuffing you to the hilt in one mean thrust.
your puffy walls constrict around him immediately, and because it just feels so good, velvety soft and hot insides massaging his cock, he wraps his arms around you and begins to fuck you back onto his cock while driving his hips upwards to meet you halfway, splitting you open around him and thrusting perfectly into your soft cunt. toji feels what a tight fit it is, his fat cock smushing your gooey walls and taking up all the space inside you.
he bottoms out with each thrust, not giving a single crevice of your insides mercy whenever he thrusts into you. he insists on every bit of you getting filled, and his hips roll upwards when he hilts in you to make out with your cervix, giving you some stimulation to the deepest part of your channel - your womb.
then he pulls back, hands still mashing your breasts with his palm because he just can't get enough of how fucking soft and pudgy you are. made for his big hands to grope and squish. you have his dream body in a woman, he thinks. he moans and licks up your neck, taking an inhale of that delicious shampoo you use, before tipping your head back so he can kiss you sloppy and gross while his cock pounds your swollen cunt.
you've started to chase his thrusts now, not needing him to pull you back to meet them anymore, because you're practically throwing your ass back on his dick, your pussy swallowing up his cock. and every plunge of his cock inside you has the creamy micture of your arousal and his own leaking pre-cum, mixing it together into a white lather that coats your folds and around his cock.
but each wet thrust of his cock inside you displaces the pools of moisture gathered between you and toji, making a mess on the bed below you, though neither of you care because you're focused on fucking and rolling your tongues together in a heated kiss.
toji pulls his mouth off yours with a wet pop, placing a kiss to your jaw and cheek while letting his feelings out to bare. "wanted fuck- t'get my hands on you f'months now, baby." he groans, his heavy, swollen balls slapping against your clit with a fleshy, rhythmic thwack. "wanted ya in my bed, kissin' me, fuckin' me to sleep instead of trying to hear your breaths down the hall with you sleepin' in your own room."
you brush your mouth against his, chest heaving with every breath as he reveals his feelings to you. that he wanted to share a room with you from the start, that he's always wanted to be close to you. "could've ngh, right there! just asked me..."
with a smirk, toji purposefully drags his shaft slow and torturous against your walls, feeling your pussy cling to him the longer he takes to draw back, and instead of pulling back all the way, he stuffs his cock back inside you, grunting low while mouthing your cheek. "yeah? you gonna let me touch you whenever i want?"
you pout and try to turn your face away so he doesn't leave a hickey on your face, and he moves to capture your lips in another kiss, murmuring, "hm?" against you.
you nod, granting him that silent permission, and his thrusts instantly speed up with the excitement of the new relationship about to bloom between the two of you.
the bed groans under the force of his hips, and he's already feeling that he's starting to cum as a load splurts out of him, adding to the pre-existing mess. "good. cause 'm not gonna get my fill of this pussy, or you, in just one night." your body reacts in time with his as his balls slap lewdly into your flesh, as more of your juices squeeze out of you and froth around the base of his cock, spilling along his body.
his noises are almost as loud as yours now, what with how hes moaning into your mouth and swirling his tongue around yours while his cock leaks out cream in your messy pussy. the coldness from earlier is nowhere to be found, as the room is just humid from the steamy sex the two of you are having.
he can feel that final bout of cum about to hit, the veins lining his cock bulging and pressing into your walls. he lets out one last low growl, his fingers digging into the fat of your hips. you wrap your pussy snugly around his cock for him to empty his load right into you.
but he won't cum without you. he wouldn't want to leave his girl out.
he slides his hand down to rub at the hypersensitive, swollen nub seated pretty on your cunt and rubs it in gentle, coaxing circles, eager to push you over the edge alongside him. "toji! i'm gonna cum, please just... oh fuuuck-"
he presses down, grinding two fingers against the peak with a pressure that makes your hips buck against him. and just like that, you're creaming again, but this time around his cock. the inner walls of your pussy begin to twitch, involuntary spasms that grip his shaft with a desperate, milking force. toji doesn't slow down. he increases the pressure, his fingers rubbing your clit while your pussy gushes cum.
with one last thrust, toji stuffs his cock inside you, his whole body locking up. thick, hot ropes of cum pump deep into you, clinging to your walls while the excess shoots right into your womb, flooding it with his heavy seed. he clutches you all throughout his orgasm, body shuddering against yours as he thrusts shallowly into you, keeping you plugged full while soothing you with warm cuddles.
steve had always been good at a lot of things, charm, hair, making you have the most random giggle attacks, and right now he’s very, very good at making you forget how words work.
your pastel-yellow sundress is rucked up around your waist while he’s kneeling between your thighs, one big hand splayed over your lower stomach, the other braced beside your head so he can lean down and watch your face.
“stevee!” you gasp, barely coherent.
“shhh, baby,” he murmurs, voice all honey, “you’re doin’ so good just takin’ it. don’t need to think right now, yeah? that’s my job.”
he rolls his hips again, so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. the pressure builds under his palm and your back arches without permission, a helpless little whimper slipping out.
steve’s thumb strokes a lazy circle right over the soft swell that appears every time he bottoms out.
“look at that,” he coos, genuinely delighted. “there she is. my pretty girl’s got the cutest little belly bulge tonight” his eyes flick from the spot under his hand up to your flushed face. “you feel me right here, don’t ya’ sweetheart? stretching you out so nice h-haah makin’ room just for me.”
all you can manage is a tiny, dazed nod which makes him chuckle.
“words, honey. use your words.” except the way he says it is so patronizingly gentle it basically cancels the instruction. “c’mon. tell me where you feel me.”
you try. you really do.
“in… in m’-mmph-tummy!,” you whisper, mortified and so turned on you’re shaking.
steve groans like you just handed him a winning lottery ticket. “yeah you do. right here.” he presses down a little firmer, enough to make you feel every thick inch of him even more obscenely. “my pretty girl walking around with my cock so deep in her belly she can’t even think straight. isn’t that cute?”
your eyes roll back.
he leans closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “you don’t have to be smart right now, baby. you just have to be full. and look-” another slow, grinding thrust, “-you’re doing such a good job at that”
the bulge shifts under his hand again and you make a sound that isn’t even a word, just pure, overwhelmed need.
steve kisses the corner of your mouth, sweet like he didn’t just bully your cervix into submission.
“that’s it,” he breathes against your lips. “just let me take care of you. my dumb, pretty girl doesn’t need to do anything but feel good and look cute with my dick printed on her stomach.”
he picks up the rhythm just enough to make the little swell appear and disappear with every stroke, mesmerized by it, murmuring praise the whole time like it’s a love language only the two of you speak.
“god, you’re perfect like this.. so full of me… gonna keep you right here all night, yeah? let you cockwarm me till you forget your own name hm?”
you’re already halfway there.
and steve, so sweet, condescending, stupidly hot steve just smiles down at you like ruining your brain is the most romantic thing he’s ever done.
Summary — When you say you and Steve need to talk, Steve misinterprets it as you wanting to break up with him. In reality, you want to move in with him.
Steve never quite believes he deserves to love you.
He tries to believe it, he really does. He shows up, he listens, he remembers the little things. He tells you you're beautiful when your hair's a mess and you're pretty when you're sick and he loves you when you're being impossible. He gives you everything he has.
But in the back of his mind, there's always this voice. This quiet, ugly little voice that whispers she's too good for you and this can't last and eventually she'll figure it out.
He's gotten good at ignoring it. Most days, he can. But today is not most days.
You're on his couch, legs tucked under you, some movie playing in the background that neither of you is watching. You're talking about your week, about work, about nothing important. And then you say it.
"Steve, I think we should talk about something."
Steve's stomach drops. Those words. Those three words that never, ever lead anywhere good. We should talk. His stomach twists.
He's heard them before. From Nancy. From his dad. From every person who's ever looked at him and decided he wasn't enough.
He doesn't want you to think he's not enough, too.
"Yeah?" He tries to keep his voice steady. Tries to ignore the way his heart has started pounding. "What's up, sweetheart?" The endearment slips out automatically, because that's who he is with you. Even scared, even spiralling, he can't talk to you without softness.
You're quiet for a second, looking down at your hands, and that silence is worse than anything. He watches you bite your lip, watches you gather your words, and every second feels like an hour. You're nervous.
"I've been thinking a lot lately," you say slowly. "About us. About where we're going."
Steve can't breathe. You're breaking up with him.
And I... I just — I don't know if this is—" You pause, shaking your head. "I'm not saying this right."
He doesn't hear the rest. He can't. Because all he hears is I've been thinking about us and I don't know if this is and his brain fills in the blanks with the worst possible words.
Working. What I want anymore. Worth it.
He stands up so fast you startle.
"Steve?"
He looks at you — at your confused, beautiful face — and even now, even with his heart cracking open in his chest, all he feels is overwhelming tenderness. He can't be mad at you, not even when you're breaking his heart.
"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is soft, so soft, because he can't ever be anything else with you. "I'm sorry, angel, I just — I need a minute. Okay? I just need a minute."
He's moving before he knows it, grabbing his keys, heading for the door. He hears you call his name, hears the confusion in your voice, but he can't stop. He can't stay in that room one more second or he'll fall apart right in front of you.
But even as he leaves, even as he's running, he closes the door gently. Because it's your door. Because you're on the other side. Because he'd never do anything to hurt you, even accidentally, even now.
He makes it to his car. Sits there, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring at nothing.
His chest hurts.
It actually hurts, like someone's reached inside him and is squeezing his heart in their fist. He can't breathe right. His lungs won't work. He tries to take a deep breath and it gets stuck halfway, a horrible stuttering inhale that does nothing to help.
You're leaving. You don't want him anymore.
The thought circles in his head like a song stuck on repeat. He knew this would happen. He knew it. People always leave. They always figure out that he's not worth the trouble. He presses the heel of his hand against his sternum, like he can physically push the pain away.
He should drive away. He should go somewhere, anywhere, and deal with this alone. But he can't make himself start the car. He just sits there, hurting, waiting for something he doesn't understand.
Then there's a knock on his window.
He looks up, and you're there. Standing in the driveway wearing your house slippers, your face worried and confused and... and not cold. Not distant. Not looking at him like he's something you're about to throw away.
"Steve." Your voice is muffled through the glass. "What's going on? Baby, please open the door."
He looks at you — shivering a little, eyes so concerned — and even through the fog of his own pain, all he feels is you're going to get cold. So he reaches over and unlocks the door.
You open it immediately, crouching down to his level. Your eyes scan his face, and whatever you see there makes your expression crumble.
"Steve. Honey. What happened?"
He laughs. It's not a nice sound. "You know what happened. You said—" His voice cracks. He has to stop, swallow, try again. "You said we needed to talk. About us. About whether this is—" He can't even say it.
But even saying that, even voicing his worst fear, he reaches out and touches your face. Just lightly, his fingers brushing your cheek, because you're right there and he can't not touch you.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry I'm making this harder. You're trying to do this gently and I'm — I'm making it worse. You don't have to explain, sweetheart. I understand."
You stare at him for a long moment, looking entirely confused. "Steve. I was trying to ask if you wanted to move in together."
He blinks. "What?" What?
"I've been thinking about us," you say slowly, carefully. "About where we're going. And I wanted to ask if you'd consider — if you'd want to—" You take a breath. "I want to live with you. That's what I was trying to say. I just didn't know how to ask without sounding desperate."
Steve stares at you. His hand is still on your face. He doesn't move it.
"You want to move in with me."
"Yes."
"With me. Me, living together. With you?"
"Yes, Steve."
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "I thought you were breaking up with me."
Your face crumples with realisation. "Oh, baby. Oh, no."
"I'm sorry," he says immediately, because you look upset and he hates that, he hates that he made you look like that. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn't have run. I shouldn't have — you were trying to talk to me and I just—"
"Stop." You cup his face in your hands, mirroring him. "Stop apologising. You didn't do anything wrong."
"I thought I was losing you." The words tumble out, raw and honest. "And I couldn't — I couldn't breathe. I still can't breathe." His voice breaks. "I love you so much. I couldn't even be mad. I just wanted you to be happy. Even if it wasn't with me."
You make a sound, something between a sob and a laugh, and then you're climbing into the car, into his lap, wrapping yourself around him.
"You idiot," you whisper against his neck, but you're crying, and you're holding him so tight. "You're an idiot, Steve Harrington. I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying. I'm right here."
Your arms lock around his neck, your face presses into the warm space where his shoulder meets his throat, and you hold him like he's the only thing keeping you upright.
He feels your breath against his skin, feels the dampness of your tears soaking into his collar. You're crying. For him. Because he's hurting.
"I'm here," you whisper against his neck, your voice thick but steady. "I'm right here, Steve. I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."
His arms come up automatically, wrapping around you, pulling you closer. His hands spread across your back, one cradling the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. "Angel," he breathes, and it's barely a sound. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I ran."
You shake your head against his neck, holding him tighter. If you could, you'd crawl inside his chest and curl up next to his heart. You'd wrap yourself around every bruised, broken part of him and never let go.
"Don't be sorry," you murmur. "Just let me hold you. Okay? Just let me hold you."
He nods against you, and you feel his arms tighten around your waist. His shaking is subsiding.
You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands coming up to frame his face. Your thumbs trace his cheekbones, brush away the tears tracking down his skin.
"I love you," you tell him, slow and deliberate, because he needs to hear it, because he needs to understand. "I love you, Steve. You hear me?"
He laughs, watery and weak. "I hear you."
"Good." You press your forehead to his. "Because I need you to know it. I need you to believe it."
His hands come up to cover yours where they rest on his face. He turns his head, just slightly, and presses a kiss to your palm. "I'm trying," he whispers. "I'm trying to believe it. It's just hard when—" He stops, swallows. "When no one ever has. Stayed, I mean."
"I know." You kiss the corner of his mouth, soft and lingering. "I know, baby. But I'm not them. I'm me. And I'm staying."
He looks at you — really looks at you — and for the first time since you said those terrible, wonderful, misunderstood words, some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
"You're cold," he murmurs, because you are, because you're shivering in your house slippers and thin pyjama shirt.
"I don't care about cold."
"I care." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Let's go inside, angel. Please."
You nod, but you don't move. You just keep looking at him, your hands still on his face, your eyes soft and warm.
"I'm okay," he tells you quietly. "I'm okay now."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He smiles, small and shaky but real. "You're kind of magic, you know that?"
You shake your head. "I just love you. That's all."
He shifts you carefully in his lap, getting situated, and then he's opening the car door and climbing out with you still in his arms. You don't protest — just tighten your hold on his neck and let him carry you.
He kicks the door closed and starts toward the house, cradling you against his chest like you're the most precious thing in the world.
"You're so warm," you murmur against his neck.
"You're freezing." He adjusts his hold, pulling you closer.
He carries you up the steps to the porch, careful and steady, then nudges the front door open with his hip. He carries you over to the couch and sits down carefully, settling you in his lap. You curl into him immediately, your head on his chest, your hand over his heart.
He pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and wraps it around both of you, tucking it around your shoulders.
For a long time, neither of you speaks. Then, "I love you," he whispers into the quiet.
You tilt your head up and kiss his jaw. "I love you too. So much."
He looks down at you, at your face soft and open and full of love for him, and something in his chest finally settles.
"So," you say, your eyes bright. "About that moving in conversation..."
He laughs, real and full, and thinks that you are the most perfect thing he's ever had.
summary: you and steve just had a little girl, now it’s time for his family to meet her. steve is not happy about it and turns on his hot protective dad mode.
warnings: literally nothing, it’s just a fluff, not proofread.
note: dad!steve are always my least liked and read fanfics but i love writing for him 😭😭😭😭 requests are open !!!
don’t repost or translate my work.
the house was already loud before you even stepped inside. not just loud, full.
voices layered over each other, laughter echoing through the hallway, the clinking of glasses, someone calling steve’s name from somewhere deep inside like they’d been waiting at the door for hours.
steve froze with his hand on the doorknob.
you felt it immediately. the way his body went tense beside you, the way his other hand came up instinctively to hover over your daughter’s head, like he could shield her from the noise before it even reached her.
“baby, i don’t like this…” he muttered.
you shifted the baby slightly higher against your chest, instinctively swaying. “you said that in the car, steve.”
“yeah, well,” he swallowed, glancing at the door like it personally offended him, “i meant it more now.”
you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “it’s your family.”
“exactly!” he said quickly, like that proved his entire point. “there’s like, what? twenty of them in there? twenty people with hands. and germs. and opinions.”
“they just wanna meet her, it’s completely normal that they’re excited. she’s their first granddaughter. your family hasn’t had a baby around for a while.” you said gently.
“they can be excited from a distance.”
you laughed under your breath, leaning your head briefly against his arm. “we’re not turning around.”
“we could…” he mumbled.
“steve.”
he sighed, long and dramatic, then leaned closer to you. his voice softer now, quieter, real.
“she’s so small…” he said, eyes flicking down to the tiny face tucked into the blanket. “what if someone- what if they hold her wrong? or get too close? or- i don’t know, breathe weird near her-”
“breathe weird?” you repeated, amused.
“you know what i mean.”
you did.
you reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “hey. we’re right here. nobody’s taking her from us.”
his jaw clenched slightly. “okay...”
you nudged him with your shoulder. “open the door, dad.”
he rolled his eyes at the nickname, but there was no heat in it, just nerves, too many feelings sitting too close to the surface.
he knocked once.
big mistake, because the second the door opened…
“they’re here!”
“oh my god-”
“is that her- is that the baby?!”
steve physically stepped in front of you. like actually stepped in front of you. one arm stretched back, pressing lightly against your stomach to keep you behind him as at least six people immediately crowded the doorway.
“whoa- hey- HEY!” he said, louder now, sharper. “back up.”
they didn’t, so he moved forward, just one step. but it was enough to make people pause.
“nobody touches her yet.” he said firmly. “seriously. nobody.”
the room went quiet in that awkward, surprised way that only families could manage.
his mom blinked at him. “steven-”
“i’m not kidding,” he added, softer but somehow more intense. “you can look. just- no hands.”
you peeked around his shoulder, trying not to laugh.
“hi, mrs. harrington.” you say sheepishly.
“oh sweetheart…” his mom said immediately, her expression melting. “you must be exhausted. come in, come in.”
this time, steve let you move but didn’t take his hand off you, not for a second.
his palm stayed pressed to your back as he guided you inside, eyes scanning every single person in the room like he was counting them, memorizing them.
“okay.” his dad said, raising both hands like he was being held at gunpoint. “we’re backing up. see? space.”
“thank you.” steve replied quickly.
someone from the couch leaned forward. “can we at least see her face?”
steve hesitated.
you shifted the blanket slightly, just enough to reveal your daughter’s tiny face.
a collective gasp filled the room.
“oh. my. god.”
“she’s perfect!”
“look at her little nose-”
“she looks just like steve.”
steve’s chest puffed slightly.
“yeah.” he said, quieter now. “i know.”
one of his aunts stepped closer, already leaning in. steve leaned in too.
“no kissing.” steve says.
“i wasn’t-”
“no kissing anywhere.” he repeated. “not her face, not her hands, not- just don’t.”
“okay.” she said, blinking.
“and don’t get too close to her face.” he says.
“steve.”
“i’m serious.”
you bit your lip hard, shoulders shaking slightly.
his cousin muttered under his breath. “he’s worse than a security guard.”
you laugh, agreeing with him.
“i heard that.” steve shot back immediately.
“of course you did.”
his mom stepped forward more carefully this time, her voice softer. “steve, honey… can i hold her?”
everything in him paused.
you watched it happen. the hesitation, the instinct to say no sitting right there on the tip of his tongue.
his hand found yours again.
“only if you want to, baby.” he murmured to you.
you nodded. “it’s okay.”
he exhaled slowly, then turned back to his mom like he was negotiating a contract.
“okay. but listen-”
“oh boy…” his dad muttered.
“support her head,” steve said, already moving closer. “like fully. like- here… no- like this!”
he actually adjusted his mom’s arms before the baby was even in them.
“steve.” you whispered, laughing quietly.
“i’m just showing her.” he defended.
“you are my son… i’ve held a baby before, steve.” his mom giggles.
“not this baby.” he replies.
that shut the room up again.
very, very carefully, he helped transfer your daughter into his mom’s arms.
the entire house went silent.
your baby made a soft little noise, shifting slightly.
steve tensed immediately.
“babe, she’s fine.” you murmured.
“i know, i know…” he said quickly, already hovering so close he might as well have still been holding her. “she just- she moved.”
“she’s a baby.” you teased gently
“yeah, but that sounded like a specific movement.”
“what does that even mean?”
“i don’t know, i just-” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “never mind.”
“babe, steve. calm down.” you grab his hand, running your thumb through his palm.
his mom smiled softly, rocking the baby just slightly. “she’s perfect, steve.”
he softened instantly.
“yeah,” he said quietly. “she is.”
someone across the room pulled out a camera.
steve didn’t even look.
“no flash.”
“i didn’t-”
“no flash.” he repeated.
“steve,” you laughed. “they get it.”
“i don’t think they do.”
his cousin stood up. “can i hold her next?”
steve’s head snapped toward him. “how long are you planning on holding her?”
“i don’t know. like a minute?”
“thirty seconds.” steve says simply.
“what?”
“thirty seconds,” steve repeated. “and if she even thinks about crying, she goes back to her mom.”
“dude-”
“and support her head.” steve says.
“i know how to hold a baby!”
the transfer happened again. slow, careful, steve hovering the entire time like he was supervising a high-risk operation.
you watched him more than anything.
the way he didn’t sit. the way he didn’t relax. the way his eyes followed every tiny movement your daughter made, every shift of her hands, every breath.
“you’re staring.” you whispered.
“i’m monitoring.” steve replies.
“you’re staring.”
“what if he drops her?”
“he’s not going to drop her.” you reassure.
“he could drop her.”
“steve.”
“i’m just saying-”
“steve.”
he sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “i don’t like other people holding her.”
you softened instantly. “i know.”
“she doesn’t even know them.” steve sighs.
“she’s so perfect, sweetheart.” steve’s mom says to you.
“i know.” you pout, smiling at your newborn daughter. “she’s an angel, doesn’t cry that often, just eats and sleeps.”
“and she looks just like steve, god.” another person from his family adds.
“she does!” you laughed quietly, resting your head against steve’s shoulder for just a second.
and then, you spoke too soon.
your baby’s face scrunched, a tiny sound. and then, a cry.
steve moved instantly. “okay- alright, give her.”
“i’ve got her.” his cousin said quickly.
“no, she wants her mom.” steve insisted, already reaching for her.
“steve, i can-”
“she wants her mom.” steve insists once more.
“how do you know?”
“i know.”
his voice wasn’t loud but it was firm.
he took her back gently but quickly, turning immediately toward you.
“here.” he said softly, placing her into your arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. “there you go, mama.”
the second she settled against you, she quieted like a switch. her tiny hand grabbing your finger.
the whole room exhaled.
steve melted. his shoulders dropped, his hand coming up to brush gently over her cheek, his expression soft in a way that made your chest ache.
“hi, pretty girl…” he murmured, a smile on his face.
he stepped closer, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, slow, careful, lingering.
then his arm wrapped around both of you, pulling you into his side like he couldn’t not.
“okay,” his mom said gently, smiling. “we’ll give her a break.”
“yeah, she needs a break.” steve said immediately.
“steve-”
“and she’s staying with us now.”
you raised a brow. “steve.”
“i’m serious.” his fingers tightened slightly against your arm, not enough to hurt just enough to ground himself.
“they’re not taking her again.” he added quietly.
you looked up at him. at the nerves, the protectiveness, the overwhelming love that he clearly didn’t know what to do with.
“you’re doing really good.” you smile at him.
he blinked. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
he huffed out a small laugh. “even though i just threatened my entire family?”
“you didn’t threaten them.”
“i definitely threatened them.”
“a little.”
he smiled, finally, properly.
then looked back down at your daughter and everything in him softened all over again.
“she’s just…” he trailed off, shaking his head slightly.
“i know.” you say, caressing the baby’s head.
he swallowed, pressing his forehead lightly against yours for a brief second.
“no one’s messing this up.” he whispered.
“they won’t.”
“i won’t let them.”
“you would never let them, steve.” you laughed, shifting your daughter slightly between you both.
and steve? he didn’t let go of either of you for the rest of the night.
i just got my wisdom teeth removed ☹️ could you write smth about steve taking care of fem!reader who just got her wisdom teeth removed?
ive been there girl..hope your mouth gets better soon 😭🤞
loopy
steve harrington x reader
content: post-wisdom teeth removal • high effects of anesthetisia (slurred speech, disinhibition, goofy/clingy behavior) • 18+ suggestive sexual innuendos & dirty talk • caretaking • mild pain & vulnerability
a kiss for you 💋
you wake up slowly, the world fuzzy at the edges like someone smeared vaseline over everything. your mouth feels stuffed with cotton and betrayal. there's a dull throb behind your cheeks, but it's distant, like it's happening to someone else.
steve's voice cuts through first.
"hey, beautiful. there you are."
you blink up at him. he's leaning over the dentist chair, hair falling into his eyes the way it always does when he's worried but trying not to show it. his hand is warm on your forearm, thumb rubbing little circles.
"mm..steve?" your tongue feels three sizes too big. the words come out mushy and slow.
"yeah, baby. it's me. you did so good. they're all out."
you try to smile. it probably looks horrifying. "all gone?"
"all gone. four little vampires sucked right out." he grins, but his eyes are soft. "you ready to get outta here?"
the nurse is already helping you sit up. the room tilts. you grab steve's sleeve like it's a life raft.
"whoa," you mumble. "floor's drunk."
steve laughs under his breath. "that's you, sweetheart. come on, lean on me."
he slides an arm around your waist. you're wobbly, legs like cooked spaghetti, but he keeps you upright without making it obvious you're basically a human slinky. the nurse hands him a little paper bag with gauze and instructions. he nods seriously like he's accepting classified documents.
"pretty sure you're not supposed to look this good after oral surgery," he mutters, mostly to himself.
you giggle. it sounds unhinged. "you're pretty too. like... movie star pretty. but better. cause you're mine."
he glances down at you, cheeks going pink. "yeah?"
"mmhm. mine mine mine." you poke his chest with one finger. it takes three tries to land. "dibs."
"you already had dibs, baby." he opens the passenger door of the bmw. "in you go."
getting into the car is a whole event. you try to sit like a normal person, but your limbs forget how gravity works. steve ends up half lifting you in, buckling you like you're five. you immediately turn toward him as much as the seatbelt allows.
"steve."
"yeah?"
"your car smells like you." you bury your face in the shoulder of his jacket that's still draped over you. "s'nice. smells like... boy. and hairspray. and... sex."
he chokes on air. "jesus. okay. seatbelt's on. we're moving."
the engine starts. he pulls out slow, like you're made of glass.
you're staring at his profile. the way the sun catches on his cheekbones. the little scar above his eyebrow from that one fight he still won't talk about.
"steve."
"hm?"
"you're so hot when you drive. like... hand on the wheel, other hand on my thigh hot. but you can't right now cause i'm loopy." you pout. dramatically. "unfair."
his knuckles go white on the steering wheel. "you're gonna kill me, you know that?"
"only with kisses," you declare. then quieter, "lots of kisses. everywhere. like... map of kisses. treasure map. x marks the spot on your—"
"okay!" he cuts in, voice cracking just a little. "we're focusing on the road. and breathing. mostly breathing."
you hum happily. "you get all red when i talk dirty. s'cute."
"it's not cute. it's cardiac arrest."
"i could give you mouth to mouth. i'm good at it. certified." you try to wink. both eyes close instead.
he glances over, helpless. "you're ridiculous."
"your ridiculous."
"yeah," he says softly. "mine."
the drive isn't long. fifteen minutes tops. but you're chatty the whole way.
you tell him his hair looks like a cartoon prince today. you inform him that his hands are pornographic. you ask—very seriously—if he thinks your face will still be pretty when the swelling hits, because if not he's legally required to still love you.
"swelling or no swelling," he answers without hesitation, "you're the prettiest thing i've ever seen. always have been."
you melt into the seat. "sap."
"only for you."
by the time he pulls into the driveway of his big empty house you're practically vibrating with affection.
he parks. comes around. opens your door.
you try to stand on your own. the world spins like a bad carnival ride.
"whoa whoa whoa." his arms are around you instantly. "easy, beautiful."
"carry me?" you ask, hopeful. big eyes. pouty lip. the full weaponized adorable.
he sighs like it's the greatest hardship in the world. "you're lucky you're cute."
he scoops you up bridal style. you're heavier than you look right now (or maybe he's just that strong), but he doesn't complain. just kicks the car door shut with his foot and heads for the front door.
inside it's quiet. his parents are on a tropical vacation again. the house smells faintly of lemon cleaner and the cedar candle steve always lights when you're over.
he carries you straight upstairs. doesn't even stop to take off his shoes.
"bed?" you ask hopefully.
"bed," he confirms.
he sets you down gently on his comforter. the room smells like him—cologne, laundry detergent, that faint boy-sweat that's somehow sexy instead of gross.
you immediately grab his wrist when he tries to pull away.
"don't leave."
"not leaving. just getting ice packs and meds. two seconds."
"two seconds is forever."
he kisses your forehead. slow. lingering. "i'll be right back. promise."
he disappears. you stare at the ceiling. it's got those little glow-in-the-dark stars from when he was ten. you counted them once. fell asleep halfway through.
he comes back with a frozen bag of peas wrapped in a dish towel, your pain meds, a fresh gauze pad, and a glass of water with a bendy straw.
"open," he says softly.
you do. he tucks the new gauze in. you wince a little.
"sorry, baby."
"s'okay. you're gentle."
he gets the peas situated against your cheeks. you sigh in relief.
"better?"
"mmhm. you're the best boyfriend in the history of boyfriends."
he smiles. small. shy. "yeah?"
"the best. like... number one. gold medal. world record."
he sits on the edge of the bed. brushes hair off your face. "you need to rest. doctor's orders."
"only if you stay."
"i'm not going anywhere."
you tug on his shirt. "cuddle?"
he kicks off his shoes. climbs in beside you. carefully. like you're fragile.
you immediately burrow into his side. face pressed to his chest. one leg slung over his hip.
"you're warm," you mumble. "like a furnace. sexy furnace."
he laughs quietly. arm around your shoulders. hand rubbing slow circles on your back.
"you're loopy."
"loopy for you."
"i can tell."
you nuzzle closer. "steve?"
"yeah?"
"when i'm not swollen like a chipmunk... can we have sex? like... really good sex. the kind where i forget my name."
his breath catches. "jesus christ."
"you'd do it right. you'd take your time. tease me till i'm begging. then you'd—"
"baby." his voice is strangled. "you're high. and your mouth is full of stitches."
"doesn't mean i can't think about it." you drag your fingers down his chest. lazily. "doesn't mean you can't think about it either."
he groans. drops his head back against the headboard. "you're evil."
"evil and gorgeous."
"definitely gorgeous." he kisses the top of your head.
you giggle. then yawn. huge. jaw aching.
"tired," you admit.
"sleep, sweetheart. i'll be right here."
your eyes are already drooping. "promise?"
"promise."
the anesthesia finally starts to fade around four in the afternoon.
you're still curled against steve's side. peas have defrosted into a sad lukewarm bag. he's half dozing, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other still around you.
you stir. groan. the pain is sharper now. real. not floaty anymore.
your tongue pokes at the empty sockets. you wince.
steve feels it immediately. hand sliding to your cheek.
"hey. back with me?"
you nod. slow. "ow."
"yeah. that's the fun part." he sits up carefully. "let me get fresh ice. and more meds."
you grab his shirt before he can leave. "wait."
he pauses. looks down at you.
your face is puffy. cheeks round. lips dry. hair a mess. you still manage to look at him like he's the only thing that matters.
"thank you," you say. voice small. hoarse. no more mushy baby-talk. just you.
his expression softens so much it almost hurts to look at.
"you don't have to thank me."
"i do. you didn't have to do all this. but you did. and you didn't make me feel stupid when i was probably saying ridiculous shit."
he laughs. quiet. "you were... enthusiastic."
"definitely a menace."
"you were adorable." he leans down. kisses the tip of your nose. careful. "still are."
you smile. it pulls at the stitches. you wince again.
"okay, ice. meds. then food. soft food only. i got pudding. yogurt. applesauce. the works."
"you're spoiling me."
"good." he stands. stretches. shirt rides up. you stare shamelessly at the strip of skin above his jeans.
he catches you. smirks. "down, girl. you're concussed adjacent."
"not concussed. just... appreciating art."
"art, huh?"
"masterpiece." you wave a hand vaguely at him. "should be in a museum. naked. but they won't let you because you're mine."
he shakes his head. grinning. "you're impossible."
"your impossible."
"yeah," he says again. softer this time. "mine."
he disappears downstairs. comes back with a new ice pack, pills, water, and a little cup of vanilla pudding.
you take the meds. sip the water. he spoons pudding into your mouth like you're a baby bird.
"this is humiliating," you mutter around the spoon.
"this is adorable."
"you're enjoying it."
"maybe a little."
you narrow your eyes. "payback's coming when you're sick."
"looking forward to it."
he sets the empty cup aside. climbs back in bed. pulls you against his chest again.
"still hurts," you whisper.
"i know." his fingers card through your hair. slow. soothing. "it'll get better. promise."
summary: steve likes to keep a photograph of you somewhere (anywhere). he thought he could keep it a secret, until you start finding them
established relationship
warnings: slight season 5 epilogue spoilers, nothing else really, just a bunch of fluff :)
word count: 3.2k
a/n: in honour of baseball coach steve harrington<3 i’ve had this idea for so long and the epilogue finally tied everything together for me to write this
── ᵎᵎ ✦
his wallet
the theater lobby glowed in soft neon, reds and blues bleeding together across the polished floor. the smell of popcorn clung to everything, mixing with the faint tang of soda syrup and cleaner. it was busy without being overwhelming, the kind of place that hummed rather than roared, full of people killing time before the lights went down.
steve walked beside you like he belonged there, like this was exactly where he was meant to be on a friday night. his hand rested at your lower back, thumb moving in slow, absent arcs as the line inched forward. it was an unconscious thing by now, his way of keeping you close without making a show of it. you leaned into the touch just as naturally, shoulder brushing his arm when you shifted your weight.
“this one looks awful,” he said quietly, nodding toward a poster plastered with explosions and overly dramatic taglines.
“you say that every time,” you replied.
“and i’m right every time.”
you smiled, tilting your head to read the tagline. even though the movie looked ridiculous, you’d probably end up seeing it anyway, just not tonight.
the two of you had been dating long enough that dates like this didn’t come with nerves anymore. no awkward silences, no second-guessing where to stand or how close was too close. just the easy comfort of shared space, of knowing exactly how the other person took their popcorn and which previews they’d complain about.
when you reached the counter, you stepped forward first. “one large popcorn,” you said, then glanced back at steve., “and two sodas, please.”
“cherry coke,” he added, quick, like he didn’t want to be difficult.
“i’ve got it.” you said as you reached for your bag.
steve immediately straightened, “no, you don’t.”
you paused, wallet halfway out “steve.”
he shook his head, already smiling. “i asked you out. that means i pay.”
“you’ve already paid for the tickets.” you kept your eyes on him, wallet still secured in your hand, “and you paid last time, too.”
“exactly,” he said, like that proved something. “it’s tradition now.”
you playfully rolled your eyes. “it’s just popcorn.”
“and i’m still paying.” he stepped closer, gently pressing your wrist back toward your bag with two fingers. “let me.”
you studied him for a second, then sighed, smiling despite yourself. “fine. but i’m paying next time.”
he huffed a quiet laugh. “we’ll see.”
you turned back toward the counter, half-focused on the rows of candy behind the glass. that was when movement in your peripheral vision caught your attention. steve opened his wallet. you weren’t trying to look, it just… happened. a flicker of worn leather, folded bills, and a small rectangle tucked neatly into one of the clear sleeves; a photo.
your breath caught before you could stop it.
it was you.
the image registered all at once, sharp and unmistakable. you were sitting sideways on the hood of his car, knees bent, hair loose and caught mid-motion, mouth open in a laugh you didn’t remember posing for. you remembered the day, though; the sun, the warmth, steve insisting the light was ‘better this way’ while you told him to hurry up.
the wallet snapped shut.
steve paid, thanked the cashier, and turned back toward you like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “you good?” he asked, handing you a soda.
you took it, nodding “yeah, thanks.”
you didn’t mention what you thought you’d seen. the moment had passed too quickly, and you weren’t sure you trusted your own certainty. besides, saying something felt like it might turn a quiet thing into a conversation it didn’t need to be.
steve led the way down the hallway, popcorn tucked under his arm, holding the door open as you stepped into the theater. the space was cool and dim, the screen already lit with previews. you found your seats without much thought, close enough to share the armrest, close enough that your shoulders brushed when you sat down.
he settled in easily, stretching his legs out, passing you the popcorn. you leaned back, letting the familiar rhythm of it all take over; the previews, the low chatter, the way he glanced over during the louder moments just to see your reaction.
when the lights dimmed fully, steve reached for your hand without looking, fingers sliding into place like they belonged there. you squeezed once, grounding yourself in the moment. whatever you’d seen, whether it was real or imagined, you let it stay unspoken.
not in a dramatic way, nothing overpowering, but in the subtle accumulation of familiarity. clean upholstery with a hint of whatever soap he used, old leather warmed by the sun, a trace of something sweet that might’ve been gum or cologne. you noticed it every time you stepped inside his car. this time however, you slid into the driver’s seat, fingers curling instinctively around the steering wheel. “oh my god, okay.”
the door on the passenger side shut with a solid thunk, and steve leaned back into his seat like this was the most natural thing in the world. he turned his head toward you, mouth already twitching with amusement. “relax,” he said.
“i am relaxed,” you replied, sitting straighter despite yourself. “i just— this is your car.”
“yeah,” he said easily. “and you’re driving it.”
“that’s the problem.”
steve laughed softly, shaking his head. “you’re acting like i handed you a newborn.”
“you care about this car,” you said, glancing around at the pristine dashboard, the lack of clutter, the way everything seemed exactly where it belonged. “like… a lot.”
“i care about it a reasonable amount.”
“you named it.”
“that was a joke.”
“you wax it.”
“i maintain it.”
“you talk to it.”
he opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. “okay, no, i don’t talk to it.”
you smiled despite the nerves buzzing in your chest and adjusted your grip on the wheel, suddenly very aware of how unfamiliar the driver’s side felt. the angle was wrong. no, everything was wrong.
you reached down and pulled the lever, sliding the seat forward a few inches. the sound was sharp in the quiet car. then you leaned back, testing it, and adjusted again. steve watched you with exaggerated patience, elbow propped against the door. “you know you’re allowed to move things,” he said. “it’s not permanent.”
“you say that now.”
“i mean it.” he smiled softly.
you tilted the seatback, then shifted it forward another notch. the steering wheel felt too high, so you lowered it, then nudged it closer. lastly, you adjusted the rear view mirror carefully until the view felt right.
steve tilted his head. “you good?”
“almost,” you said, tugging the lever to tilt the seatback once more. “your legs are longer than mine, and you sit like you’re auditioning for a commercial.”
“i sit like a normal person.” he acted insulted, but a smile was playing on his lips.
“you sit like you’re posing.”
he leaned slightly closer. “you like it.”
the sun slanted through the windshield, bright and low, hitting your eyes directly. you blinked against it, tension creeping back into your shoulders. something steve noticed immediately, “hey,” he said softly.
you turned your head toward him. he leaned in without hesitation, one hand coming up to rest at your jaw, thumb warm against your skin. he kissed you; slow, unhurried, familiar in the way that always made your thoughts settle. it wasn’t flashy or teasing, just steady, like he was reminding you where you were. when he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours. “you’re doing fine,” he said quietly. “i trust you. and the car will survive.”
you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “you’re very calm about this.”
“that’s because i know you,” he replied.
you smiled, nerves easing. the light still poured through the windshield, though, sharp enough to make you squint again. you reached up and flipped the sun visor down.
you startled as a small rectangle fluttered down, landing softly against your thigh. “what—”
when you picked it up you saw it was a photograph. it was small and slightly worn at the edges, like it had been handled more than once. once the image came into focus your breath caught, not sharply, just enough to still the moment.
you were pictured holding a giant teddy bear, a multitude of coloured lights caught your face, and your mouth was curved into a smile that looked unguarded and real. your hair was up in a ponytail, with a couple loose strands, most likely because of the wind. you remembered the day dimly; it was one of your first dates with steve, he’d won you the teddy bear at the town’s yearly fair.
you turned your head slowly and saw that steve had gone very still. “that—“ he started, then stopped.
before you could say anything, he reached over and took the photo from your hand a little too quickly. “okay,” he said. “so— before you ask—”
you stared at him. “steve.”
“it’s not—” he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “it’s not a big deal.”
“you keep a photo of me in your sun visor.”
“it was convenient,” he said immediately, then winced. “that sounded bad.”
you waited, eyebrow raised.
“i didn’t want it to get bent,” he added. “or lost.”
“that’s your explanation?”
“yes.”
“it’s not a great one.”
he huffed a quiet laugh, cheeks faintly pink. “i’m not lying. i’m just—”
you cut him off as you held your hand out. he looked at you and after a beat, he gave the photo back. your fingers brushed briefly as you took it before looking at it again, slower this time. “how long has this been here?”
steve hesitated. “a while.”
you smiled, something warm settling in your chest. eventually, you slid the photo carefully back into the visor pocket and flipped it up again, smoothing it like it belonged there.
“there,” you said. “seems safe.”
steve watched you, a little dazed. “you’re not mad?”
“no.”
“not weirded out?”
“steve,” you said gently, “we’re dating. you liking me isn’t exactly shocking.”
he laughed softly, relief obvious. “yeah. i guess.”
you smiled and placed a quick kiss on his cheek before turning back to the dashboard. you adjusted your hands on the wheel, and finally reached for the ignition. “alright, now I’m ready.”
the engine hummed to life, smooth and steady. steve smiled, settling back into his seat. “told you. you’ve got this.”
you arrived early, mostly because you didn’t know what to do with yourself if you didn’t.
the middle school field looked different than you expected, smaller, obviously, but also brighter somehow. the grass was cut too short, the chalk lines too clean, the bleachers still cool when you sat down. parents filtered in slowly, carrying folding chairs and coffee cups, voices low and conversational. someone’s little sibling ran past you with a foam finger twice their size.
you scanned the field without meaning to.
steve was easy to spot.
he stood near the dugout in a windbreaker that still looked a little too new, clipboard tucked under one arm, cap pulled low against the sun. he was talking to one of the kids, crouched slightly so they were closer to eye level, expression focused but gentle. when the kid nodded and jogged off, steve straightened, clapped his hands once, and called something you couldn’t hear.
your chest did something small and stupid at the sight of him. you’d seen him nervous before, about plenty of things, but this wasn’t that. this was anticipation. pride. the kind of careful attention that came from wanting something to go right for reasons that weren’t about him.
when the game started, you settled in easily. it was a lot of starts and stops, the kind of pace only kids could manage without getting bored. steve paced near the dugout, occasionally calling out encouragement, sometimes crouching to talk quietly with a player before sending them back out. he celebrated small victories like they mattered. a solid throw. a clean catch. a kid remembering to back up first base. you found yourself smiling more than you expected.
by the third inning, you’d learned which kid was too serious, which one kept adjusting his helmet, which one looked at steve after every play like he was checking for approval. he gave it freely, without fuss; thumbs-up, nods, a quick clap.
the game was close. too close, judging by the way the parents leaned forward in their seats.
when it ended, hawkin’s team winning by a single run, the field erupted in uneven cheers and scattered applause. the kids piled toward steve, who laughed and herded them into something resembling a line, handing out high-fives like it was a sacred duty.
you waited and eventually, the crowd thinned. parents collected bags, kids disappeared toward cars, the field returned to something quieter. steve lingered, talking to one of the parents, gesturing animatedly, grin still stuck on his face like it hadn’t worn off yet.
when he finally looked up and spotted you, his smile softened into something familiar. he jogged over. “you came.”
“i said i would.”
“i know,” he said, a little sheepish. “still.”
you tilted your head. “you did good, coach.”
he laughed, shaking his head. “they did good. i just tried not to mess it up.”
“you didn’t.”
he hesitated, then nodded toward the building behind the bleachers. “you wanna see the office?”
you immediately said yes and walked after him eagerly. “this is it huh?” you asked as you followed him inside, the door creaking slightly. “the big leagues?”
he smirked. “careful. you’re standing where the magic happens.”
“is that what we’re calling it?”
he flicked the light on, revealing a small, functional space that smelled faintly of coffee and dry-erase markers. a desk shoved against one wall, a filing cabinet, and a bulletin board crowded with schedules, team photos, and handwritten notes from kids in uneven penmanship.
steve leaned against the desk, still buzzing. “okay, so— this is where i pretend i know what i’m doing.”
you stepped farther in, taking it all in slowly. “you look like you know what you’re doing.”
“that’s because i practice in the mirror,” he said easily. “very convincing.”
he straightened and moved around the room as he talked, pointing things out; equipment lists, lineups, the whiteboard where he’d written reminders in blocky handwriting. you half-listened, content to watch him instead. he was animated in a different way here. looser. like this space had made room for something in him.
“and then,” he continued, tapping the bulletin board, “we’re supposed to have another game next week, but the schedule might change if—”
you drifted closer to the desk without realizing it and that was when you saw it: a photograph, tucked into a simple frame near the corner of the desk.
you stopped.
the noise of steve’s voice faded into the background as you leaned in slightly, recognizing it instantly.
it was from his birthday last year.
you remembered the night clearly; the cake that leaned a little to one side, the way he’d laughed when someone lit the candles crooked, the warm blur of voices and music. in the photo, you were smiling directly at the camera, relaxed and carefree.
steve was turned toward you, eyes fixed on your face like the camera didn’t exist. his expression wasn’t dramatic. just open and intent. like you were the only thing he’d registered in that moment.
your chest tightened.
“…and yeah,” steve was saying, tapping the edge of the desk. “that’s where i keep all the paperwork i’m definitely not losing this season— hey.” his voice softened when you didn’t answer.
you hadn’t realized you’d stopped moving until he did. you were standing near the desk now, gaze fixed on the framed photograph tucked neatly beside a stack of folders.
steve followed your line of sight. “oh,” he said, smiling immediately. “you found that.”
you glanced back at him, then at the photo again. “i didn’t know you brought this here.”
he crossed the room and leaned against the desk beside you, casual and unbothered. “yeah. thought it deserved a better view than a drawer.”
you laughed quietly. “you’re ridiculous.”
“hey,” he said, mock-offended. “that’s a great picture.”
“it is,” you agreed. you tilted your head, studying it more closely. “i remember that night. you wouldn’t let anyone cut the cake until dustin got back from the bathroom.”
“he picked the flavour,” he defended. “he deserved the first slice.”
you smiled, eyes tracing the familiar details. “i look happy.”
steve’s grin widened as he stepped closer to you. “you were.”
you nudged his hip lightly. “you weren’t even looking at the camera.”
he didn’t pretend not to know what you meant. “yeah,” he said easily. “i know.”
“why?”
he shrugged, relaxed, like the answer was obvious. “because you were right there. why would i look anywhere else?”
you rolled your eyes, but there was no bite in it. “you’re such a sap.”
“and you love me for it.”
you turned to him, smiling. “unfortunately.”
he laughed, warm and unguarded, the sound filling the small office. “i figured if i’m gonna be stuck in here half the week, i might as well have something that makes me smile.”
you gestured around the room. “the inspirational sticky notes from twelve-year-olds aren’t enough?”
“they help,” he admitted. “but this one’s my favorite.”
your chest warmed in that familiar, steady way; no rush, no surprise, just the comfort of knowing exactly where you stood. “you did really good out there,” you said, nodding toward the field. “they adore you.”
steve shrugged, but he looked pleased. “they’re good kids. i just try to show up.”
“you do more than that.”
he reached out, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “means a lot that you came.”
“you kidding?” you said. “i wouldn’t miss your first official game.”
“coach harrington,” he teased.
you snorted. “don’t let it go to your head.”
he grinned. “too late.”
you leaned in and kissed him, quick and familiar, the kind that comes from years of shared space and quiet certainty. when you pulled back, he was still smiling. “think you’ll keep the photo here all season?” you asked.
“absolutely,” he said. “unless you object.”
you shook your head with a small smile playing on your lips. “nope. just don’t let it distract you.”
he glanced at the frame, then back at you. “no promises.”
you laughed, leaning in for another soft kiss as the late afternoon light filtered through the window. outside, the field was empty now, quiet and sunlit, but inside the office everything felt full.
Synopsis. Research on the Herwi clan of Pandora is both sparse and sacred. Current reports claim the existence of an icebound Na’vi residing in the bitter sub-zero mountains of Pandora: snow-white and unforgiving, as elusive as the fleeting snowflakes. Though physical evidence of these people are so far non-existent, and so are the eyewitnesses alive to tell the tale.
As a scientist on Pandora, you have only one goal: to prove the existence of the Herwi clan. As olo’eyktan of the Herwi clan, Gojo Satoru has only one goal: to make you his mate.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!scientist!reader, Na’vi!Gojo, Avatar AU, based on James Cameron’s movies, snow Na’vi, hidden tribes, snowy setting, scientific research, Shoko cameo, plot, culture, Na’vi language (translations at the end), Eywa, YEARNING Gojo, fated mates, size differences (he’s 11 feet), oraI (f + m rec.), standing oraI, pússydrúnk Gojo, fìngering, bíting, spìtting, cervìx kìssin’, trying to fit, he’s BIG big, feraI Gojo, tummy buIges, pressing down on it, MANHANDLlNG, matíng presses, monsterf-ing (Na’vi), rough s, stopping you from running, p sIapping, p talking, dúmbifícation, chokíng, cIit pinching, he’s slightly lNSANE, slight bréeding, mentions of kids, overstím, creampíes, cúmfIation, cúmpIay, bonding, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 15.2k
A/N. This one’s to all the lovely babygirls who’ve been begging for this heheh, I lob you all <33
“Satoru of the snow—once the ice disappears so shall your name.” One amongst the elder members of the Hunt sighs.
Gojo Satoru was a phantom figure before them. He led the way—towering and lithe. Long ivory hair dancing in the flurry. Bioluminescent freckles upon skin such a pale blue that it was practically white. Even amongst the Herwi, Gojo stood out.
Their olo’eyktan. Their leader.
He cuts a pathway through the wind and snow, carrying the carcasses of several snow beasts that he’d hunted himself. They rested upon his strong shoulders - the group’s largest catch, as always - and Gojo was unyielding to the howl of Pandora’s highest peaks. These mountains were a crown upon the young Na’vi’s head.
The elder clicks his tongue, “Do you not believe it is time for this clan to see our olo’eyktan mated-”
“So let the snow melt.” Had it been anyone but Gojo Satoru, then these words would be lost to the snowstorm. “But I shall forever remain waiting for my mate.”
“But the absence of a tsahìk-”
“Mawey- do slow down.” For not the first time since their trek started, Gojo is turning his head behind him. He might have been a firm leader, but he wasn’t unfair. He watches the Herwi hunters that extend from his feet to far beyond hills of ice and frost - some middle-aged and weathered by the snow already, some fresh-faced and cold with the eagerness to prove themselves. Following them were six-legged canines they called txeylan—powerful hinds pulling sleds piled high with hunt. “The younger ones are having trouble keeping up.”
Gaping, the elder looks between his leader and the younger members near the middle of their group. Flanked by older Na’vi. “But- but olo’eyktan-”
He’s looking up at the irritated sky, “I will see no further talking.”
Though there is an easy smile across his face, the elders know not to cross him. Senior in age—only age.
They bowed their heads and looked away above all because he is their leader, but below that - deep, deeeeeep below what their prides would allow them to ever admit - because they knew he was stronger. The strongest.
The heir born of a blizzard, Satoru of the snow.
It was said he opened his eyes during the coldest night of that year. Ice-blue. Bitter blue. Like the pools of crystallized water that the Herwi people would dance their celebrations upon - and that night they held the longest celebrations to date. Arms in arms and singing songs. And giving thanks and giving the young his first taste of snow.
And though the position of olo’eyktan had an aspect of inheritance to it either way, it was undeniable that the world had just borne their future leader.
He’d grown up taller than other Na’vi his age. Stronger. Stormy flurries wherever he stepped, and a blizzard himself.
There almost seemed to be a gap between him and everyone else.
Gojo had been sixteen when he was officially granted the mantle of ‘The Strongest’ by the clan. It was only about time, and only because of the elders’ reluctance that it’d taken this long.
And now it was impossible to say whether he was more loved or respected as a leader: the more boisterous of the younger Na’vi certainly loved him, the elders couldn’t stand him, the ones of mating age just couldn’t get enough of him. Though it was all for naught.
In all the twenty-eight years that he’d sifted through these snows - in all the ten years since he’d come of age - Gojo hadn’t so much as looked at another with a degree of infatuation.
Not for a lack of propositions- in fact, if you asked his attendants then they’d tell you that Gojo had a surplus of propositions. At least five Na’vi would stroll up the familiar pathway to his underground hut, calling out sing-song wishes to braid his hair, to walk amongst the ice glaciers together, to mend his fur clothes.
Hopefuls.
His attendants were ordered to send them all away with a gift from the olo’eyktan and a firm rejection (though, Gojo finds that that certainly didn’t deter them…)
They just didn’t seem to understand why such a suitable young Na’vi seemed to be waiting…watching…for something even he himself didn’t seem to understand. Always turning his blue eyes to the skies, ever since he was a child, always, always-
Gojo stops in his tracks.
One of his arms raises to halt the procession behind him.
The Na’vi hunters freeze.
The Na’vi hunters let their tails swish.
The txeylan sniff the air.
Gojo’s long pointed ears twitch in every direction before resting in a single direction up ahead - where the belly of the snow seemed to swell with something. Something that the recent snowstorm had swallowed.
“Olo’eyktan…” One of the younger Herwi behind him whispers. “What is it?”
“Mawey. It might be a dead snow beast.” He hisses, though he knew that wasn’t right. It wasn’t uncommon for even the creatures of these terrains to be bested by nature. But something about the figure in the snow was…different from the hounding things they hunted. Much more delicate, much more scrunched in on itself.
Gojo keeps his hand held high in the air and passes on his hunt to the nearby clansmen. Still holding onto his bow and arrows, he edges closer. “Ì’awn- the clan stays here while I investigate.” Leaving no room for a word edgewise.
The wind whips his long hair and kuru as the Na’vi steps closer. And some maddened part of him almost feels that it was as though Eywa, their goddess, herself was trying to get him to stay away.
But an even madder part of him wanted to get closer—needed to get closer.
He was being drawn in.
Making not even a single noise with his padded feet, he’s crouching down before the unmoving figure and using his long skeletal fingers to wipe away those dredges of snow.
Away from a face—
He gasps.
The rest of the Herwi startles behind him, “What is it- what is it, olo’eyktan?”
“Is it a snow beast? Must we commence the rituals-”
“Cease! Are those fingers it has-”
“Five?”
But Gojo doesn’t answer their queries, instead he’s silently pressing his ear to the swell of the body’s chest and—ba-dump!
Listening to that faint heartbeat.
He’s not sure how this little human was still alive, and he pulls back to look at them- the first he’s ever seen. Gojo has already heard the whispers from other Na’vi clans, of these aliens named mankind whom had settled upon Pandora a few years ago.
He’s heard about humanity’s wits, their machinery, their greed.
He’s heard of the way they’ve hurt his people.
But he’s never seen one up so…close. Were they all this small? How could something so small be so destructive?
Gojo tilts his head down at you and runs one of his cold indexes down the side of your masked face, did they all look so hurt by the cold? He can’t imagine that it didn’t hurt- after all, the only reason that the Herwi had managed to reside in these mountains for hundreds of years was because of its harsh environment. Not human nor animal nor Na’vi wanted to be here—but Gojo always loved this place, as did his people.
He wondered whether it was such passionate love or hate that drew the little human in his arms to climb such peaks. To come this far.
He can’t help but lean down and scoop the human up into his arms.
“O-olo’eyktan what is the meaning of this-”
“Fnu- shhhh.” Gojo responds in his native language, “She’s resting.”
The olo’eyktan carries the human all the way back the treacherous path to his clan huts.
And every time he looked down, he could see the way that smaller body fell and rose with each faint breath. He could see the flying of human-made coats that did nothing to fight off the cold of Pandora. He could see the pen and notebook stuffed inside it as if they were the most precious treasure of all.
He can see you.
.
.
.
Day #1 in the Herwi village:
Woke up in what seems to be the healer’s hut, a wide insulated space that is more or less steeped into the underground with a berth of the entrance AS (above snow). Capped dome on top. Walls are composed of wooden planks on the interior flanked by compact ice from the outside, decorated in the thick furs of what appears to be snow beasts. Long book shelves. Kindling lantern of something bioluminescent and emitting heat. Shockingly warm inside. Vents are present but small to prevent an excess of thin air. Separate storage spaces and areas for examination, implications of advanced surgery and medical procedures taking place far beyond what we humans can understand.
Though Herwi healing techniques seem to be similar to that of other Na’vi clans (particularly the Omaticaya) in terms of relation to Eywa and natural resources, it must be noted that Herwi healing makes prominent use of ice for anti-inflammatory and vessel constricting methods.
Sparse presence of herbs and more emphasis on pressure points (for a copy of the Herwi circulatory system diagram see Page 8…), though the olo’eyktan reassures that there are a multitude of flora endemic to the Pandoran heights.
The olo’eyktan seems particularly eager to give a tour?
With your eyes blinking open…you think you’ve died and gone onto whatever there was afterwards.
It would’ve been just like you to meet your demise during the pursuit of your research- the higher-ups at your laboratory predicted the same thing. The last thing you remember before blacking out was feeling faint - weeks of hiking up this arduous peak and you’d run out of your provisions a few days ago, surviving on only melted ice to fill your belly. At least, until the sudden threat of a snowslide had resulted in you abandoning your tent and bags behind for escape.
From then on it had only been: you, your pen, your notebook with your research, your translator, and your burning passion to find the Herwi.
It was no surprise that you didn’t last long.
But you suppose you just didn’t expect the ‘afterwards’ to be a blue, blue summer sky.
Oh—how you missed the cloud-frothed ocean of blue down on Earth. It was never quite the same on Pandora, and you’re just beginning to wonder whether heaven was really home-
“Yawne, txen?”
Before your muddled mind realizes that this really wasn’t your sky after all.
What you were looking up into were the eyes of a Na’vi warrior.
He’s leaning his overlarge body above yours, and you’re pressing yourself flatly against a mattress—one that was made of copious amounts of furs and the softest spun wool to make you feel as though you were floating up on the clouds.
But the farther you’re getting, the more he dwarfs you with his curious peering.
Closer.
And the only thing you can do is look up into his handsome blue face- the lightest of blues you’ve ever seen.
Now, you have to start this off by saying that every single Na’vi you’ve seen was beautiful—every single one of them.
But you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone like him before: long white hair, blue eyes almost like a Metkayina, and glowing spots scattered like snowflakes across his cheeks. Heavy eyelids. Taller than your average Omaticaya. Perhaps a bit bulkier, as well.
If you tilted your head just past his looming figure then you could take in the tufted fur clothing he wore, slightly more coverage than of Na’vi from the more tropical areas; with patterns of rosettes peaking out wherever his skin was exposed and dotted like a fainter version of a snow leopard’s. From your own planet.
But you were not on your own planet.
Far from it.
You’re realizing with a jolt that he was one of the Herwi clan-
“Are you…” And though you’d dreamed and wished and hoped for this day for so long—right now you find yourself absolutely speechless. “Are you- fuck.”
To which he only beams- “Nga lu rusey- oh, nga lu rusey.” His pearly white teeth are on full display, one little dimple crinkling at the edge of his smile. He just looks so handsome like this that you almost lose your breath- no. It must be the hypothermia that’s getting to you. It must be. And if you didn’t know any better then you’d have said that he almost sounds utterly relieved—“Oe'm lefpom. Txen? Lu nga txen? Tsal pung?”
Before he can say anything more, you’re digging in your coats- or at least attempting to. It doesn’t take long for you to shuffle behind the thick blankets and realize that you weren’t wearing those humanly thin layers you did when climbing up the mountain. Well-fitted for the Earth’s cold, but not for the harsh ever-winters of Pandora.
Instead you were wearing…a thick woolen coat?
Much too large on you- almost comically so. It had sleeves that reached a few feet past your fingertips, draped down to your toes, and enough space that you could hide at least five of you inside it.
No translator.
No pen. No notebook-
He sees this smaller figure fluttering about worriedly and tilts his head curiously, “‘Upe lu nga fwew?” Before handing you your notebook and pen from a table behind him.
“Pardon? Ah- thank you so much—!” You beam at him, and he beams back. But looking into his blue eyes once more, you feel a sudden sense of helplessness wash over you. “But I’m sorry, I still can’t understand you.”
At this the Na’vi furrows his pale brows - you’re not quite sure whether he knew what you were saying, but he seemed to have picked up on your emotions. Nudging his large face against yours with a purring sound, “Yawne? Oe'd tìng aynga.”
And a part of you somewhat melts- “I said I really can’t- hahah.” You half-heartedly try to push his incessant face away with a laugh, taking particular delight in noting how happily his tail was swishing. Fluffier with more fur than you’ve observed on other types of Na’vi, also covered in pretty rosettes that swayed to and fro.
It’s right now that you wished you had the patience to stay behind and immerse yourself more in the Na’vi language lessons your laboratory had provided. Most scientists didn’t even go out into the field until they were experts - but you were too antsy, too greedy to know. Something seemed to have called you here whether it cost you your life.
Given you’d picked up on some phrases here and there, but it seems that the Herwi had a different accent from the clips played in those listening tests. Slightly softer, slightly more of a whisper.
Like the breath of winter, his words cooled your mask and heated up something entirely different inside of you. “Oe pey ngim krr.”
Before you know it, the Na’vi clasps both your hands in his—and you’re startled by just how large they are, just how cold. You’re analyzing the way his pale fingers hold your own as if it was all that was tender in the world.
Intertwining.
“Ngim krr.” He looks at you with those azure eyes seriously, opening up the palm of your right hand and touching his to yours. Palm against palm. Breath against breath. “Nìt'iluke.”
You get the feeling that you were missing something very important- “I’m sorry I really wish…I’m so sorry to ask any more of you- I really am. But have you happened to see my translator anywhere?”
“Tìnga’prrnen?” He cocks his head in confusion, trying to mouth the word.
“Erm- yes?” Hoping that he understood you, “My translator—” You emphasize the syllables- “It’s a little device to understand you-”
You’re gesturing between the two of you- and you swear you see the light blue Na’vi pale. “Tìnga’prrnen? Oe?”
“Yes?” You knew that ‘oe’ referred to oneself.
He balks- maybe you were getting through to him? “Nga new ne kanom oe tìnga’prrnen-”
“Skxawng.”
Before he’s suddenly cut off by a hard smack to the back of his head- and you’re looking up just in time to see another Herwi Na’vi enter the hut. The dimorphism between this particular strand of Na’vi wasn’t anything too prominent, you find - both were tall, both were pale, both had long tails and rosettes scattered across their agile bodies.
The only real difference was that the one at your bedside was more rugged, with even more pure-white beads woven into his hair. Though that you could chalk up to their separate duties within the clan.
She walked inside as though she owned the place, throwing her long loose hair behind her shoulder. She doesn’t even flinch as she shuts the other man up—as she brings out a black earpiece from behind her and hands it to you. “I believe this is yours. It was dropped in the rush outside.”
“O-oh!” You’re surprised to find that it was none other than your translating device. Taking it gratefully, “Thank you so so much.”
“Don’t mention it.”
At your baffled expression - as far as you knew, the Herwi were the last remaining uncontacted clan of Na’vi, with no knowledge of humankind nor their many languages. “I learned your language from my books-” Gesturing around her - you were right to assume that this was her hut, filled to the brim with ointments and books. Mostly of Na’vi origin, but you could spy a few in English and Japanese. “-sent by friends in the Omaticaya. I find your human stories are…quite amusing.”
“I see.” You breathe.
She gestures at herself, “Ieri Shoko of the heart.” Then at the male Na’vi member, “Gojo Satoru of the snow. I apologize for him, he is our olo’eyktan- also the one that found you.”
“So you’re my saviour.” You’re looking towards him- Gojo once more. He catches your eyes and looks away with a pale blue hue dusting his face. “Irayo nga.” Giving your thanks (one of the few phrases you could speak with complete confidence).
You’re looking towards him- He shudders, “Oe ke ronsem tsonta lu tìnga’prrnen.”
As soon as he’s saying it, Shoko smacks her hand on her forehead- and you wonder what exactly he means.
So without further ado, you’re fixing the earpiece onto yourself.
“Idiot.” Shoko’s turning back to Gojo, “You know that’s not what she meant?”
Gojo crosses his arms and huffs- “I’m just saying I wouldn’t mind if it’s for her-”
“Not even Eywa could make that happen.”
“Getting preg-”
“Hello?” Testing—and if the way both Na’vi jerk their heads to you in slight surprise is anything to go by, then you’d say that the translator was working rather well. It was less an earpiece that translated and more a device to target that part of your brain that communicated and understood foreign languages.
Allowing you to both understand and speak in the dialect of the Na’vi - an invention by yours truly, of course. You’d (as close as) perfected it just last year for this expedition. “Can you understand me?”
Gojo stares at you with wide blue eyes.
With his pretty lips parted.
With his tail swishing back and forth.
“I see y-”
“We understand you.” Shoko nudges him roughly in the ribs, “I apologize if we’re a bit startled- it’s the first time we’re seeing a human in person.”
“I could’ve guessed that.” You giggle, flickering your eyes over to the starstrack Na’vi. Though you were equally as such. Somehow you speaking in his language just seemed to make him…“But I want to emphasize that I come in peace- I just want to learn as a scientist, not even my laboratory knows exactly where I am. And I intend to keep it that way.”
Shoko crosses her arms and looks gravely at you, “What do you want?”
“To learn. To research you and your people.” You look between them both, “To confirm the existence of the Herwi clan has been a dream of mine for a long time- not for the papers or the accolades, but because I just wanted to know you.”
“And how can we trust you?” Shoko says, getting nudged by Gojo afterwards.
“I won’t reveal anything you don’t want me to.” Determination dripping in your tone, “Not even if they kill me for it.”
They appraise you, and it’s silent for a beat before Shoko looks at Gojo.
And Gojo nods.
Shoko shoots you a barely-there smile, “Well…human, what do you want to know?”
.
.
.
After you woke up, it was after a long talk and almost three or so hours later that you’d gotten up- Shoko and Gojo had both rushed to your side. Waving them off, you’d attempted to shrug off the coat and hand it back to Gojo - long since realizing that it was his - but he’d almost been offended by the gesture.
Refusing.
He’d kept a hand behind on the small of your back to steady you with every step climbed towards the entrance. And once you were out- you could practically feel the storm freeze around you.
Colder than cold.
The Herwi looked at you with fear.
They stopped in their tracks and didn’t even look to breathe until Gojo had followed right after. And standing beside him like that, you’d been made too aware of the drastic height difference between you two. The average Na’vi was about nine to ten feet tall, though by the look of it the Herwi of the snow were much larger than their oceanic counterparts—slightly thicker, with limbs that were long and covered in sparse fur to protect them from the cold.
The Herwi average was about ten feet, you’re finding.
Though Gojo stood at a proud eleven feet (11’1 as you come to interrogate out of him more precisely later on) and rested his hand gently upon your shoulder. They had faint scars on them that marked him as a warrior, and you could feel the slight callouses send shivers across your coat-swathed body. His tail curled around your thigh.
You don’t think you even came up to his stomach-
“My people…” He announced in booming Na’vi. “-as some of you may know from the hunt today, we have a guest.”
You shift at the stares.
“More importantly, my guest. And we will make her feel welcome like family.”
“Family?” The whispers came.
“But she is one of the sky people…”
“Part of the family is…but if the olo’eyktan says so…”
“I’ve never seen him so casually touchy with someone before-”
“Shhhhhhh!”
“I understand if you are scared, and to those who wish it- you are free to leave and never interact with her while she is here.” Though none of them do move. Fixated. “But to those who aren’t, I urge you to share the beauty of our culture.”
To which you’d gulped before introducing yourself as you had to Shoko and Gojo.
.
.
.
Day #2 in the Herwi village:
The governing system of the Herwi is quite reminiscent to that of other clans - made up by a singular olo’eyktan or olo'eykte, accompanied by a tsahìk (though Gojo assures proudly that he is not mated as of writing this), and a council of clan elders that act as an advisory board.
Most decisions are made solely by the wisdom of Gojo himself, though large choices require a vote from the council as well as his people. Such requisites are rare, however, as it seems the olo’eyktan’s impact extends to the non-council people in such a way that they trust him with everything. (For more on the lovely reception and the sheer popularity of Gojo Satoru see Page 11…)
Governing seems to be harmonious if a little quietly tense in regards to certain elders that disagree yet are ultimately obeisant to their olo’eyktan.
This scientist in particular caused a little stir in the Herwi leadership once a research visit was proposed by the olo’eyktan to the rest of the elders. Though initial reactions had been reluctant, after a terse discussion, ultimately six moons had been granted to collect all appropriate research (due to be checked by the elders prior to leaving). No more. No less.
Six moons should be more than enough!
Shoko might have let it slip that it was Gojo who used his privilege as olo’eyktan to convince the council…and he wasn’t too happy that they’d granted you merely six moons (five days if you’re counting the first night there) to stay here. He wanted to gawk at this new human more, you supposed.
But you were so very grateful to each and every one of them either way - even those wizened elders who scowled at you suspiciously wherever you passed. Though even glares seemed sweet when you were living your dream, hm? And it best be believed that you were taking advantage of every single second you had with the clan - every single second.
Because this was exactly what those cigar-smoking higher-ups had laughed at you for.
They thought you were chasing a myth.
The Herwi people had been so gracious as to offer you an empty hut, despite Gojo’s fervent insisting that you take his and he can simply tough it out in the cold outside-
And the next day you were up early- perhaps a little too early for the olo’eyktan who’d apparently tracked your trail and followed you around for an hour. Before he finally managed to stop you in the middle of your field study - helping out a young Herwi mother take care of her crying toddler, whilst learning about Herwi childcare techniques - and raised his bag full of food.
Breakfast.
You’re smacking your hand against your forehead as you’d completely forgotten - not quite out of the ordinary for when you got too immersed in your work. But it was different when you had someone seeking you out to take care of you…
And so after sharing the abundance of breads and berries and soups (far too much for but the two of you) with the Herwi mother and child, the two of you sit outside her hut and admired the view of the village. The soft half-sun that melted across the capped peaks, a buttery layer of light that was not even half as bright as on Earth.
But somehow gentler.
Gojo’s raising one berry to his lips before- “Ah…” His mouth drops when he takes a glance at you- more accurately, at your masked self. And he’s stopping in his movements, “Excuse me for just a second, beloved.”
“Oh? Of course.”
You watch as he’s standing up and sprinting light-fast towards the edge of a great steaming lake in the horizon. His figure’s crouching down and cupping his hands in the sparkling water, bubbling with fury. Gojo brings it up to his face and whispers a mantra that you couldn’t quite determine. Not from where you were sitting.
Before carefully bringing it right up to you- “Drink, beloved.”
He gently leans down to let his fingertips meet your mask.
And you’d had no option—you consider it for science, though a part of you knew you didn’t have to linger your lips so much on his cold skin- but you lift your mask up and drink it.
Once the water floods your throat, you knew something was different.
Your lungs quiver.
Once.
Twice.
And you’d found yourself able to breathe—
Breathing on Pandora.
“How did you…” As you gasp, Gojo reaches out and removes the mask off of you completely. He’d let the earpiece stay on, of course, but lightly grazed his cold digits against the shell of your ear and made you shiver. “I don’t even know what to say- thank you. I didn’t even know this was possible—no other Na’vi clan let alone a mere human has discovered a way to let us breathe normally on Pandora.”
“For you. Lake Yapay.” Gojo says, large hand still cupping your face. “It steams great billowing heat in the day, and freezes by night. Here in Herwi, we use its water to expand our lungs during snowstorms.”
And you want to write it down- you know you should, but the pen in your fingers won’t move. Or more accurately, your fingers won’t move.
He continues, “This land is alive and works in mysterious ways. It has worked for you, beloved, as I knew it would.”
“Thank you again, olo’eyktan.”
“Satoru.” He interjects.
“Satoru.”
He smiles as if it meant the world.
And so your feast commences.
“You have to remember to eat.” Gojo says to you as he scoffs down a sweet paste made of ice-blue berries, “How will you brave the winter storms otherwise? Of course, I will protect you—and yet still.”
“Well, I sure hope I survive six more nights for my research then, hm?” You joke.
But you hadn’t expected Gojo’s face to darken, for him to shake his head. “It’s not fair.”
“Pardon?”
“Six more nights…” And you hadn’t exactly expected him to be so…invested in your research - you admit that you would benefit more from a longer period of studying the Herwi, but you were ready to take what was given. He looks down at the glaring snow and whispers—more to himself. “It’s not fair. I will correct it.”
“Correct?”
“Oh?” And you look from him to the village straight ahead, “Well, I’d be happy either way, Satoru.”
Just then that little Na’vi you’d been helping to watch over before comes waddling and giggling out of the hut to hold onto you- and you pick her up readily.
Gojo took one look at the two of you and shivered.
Shivered.
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Day #3 in the Herwi village:
Hunts are an imperative part of the Herwi lifestyle—not only is it how the people are nourished, but it’s a social activity, it’s a coming-of-age activity.
As aforementioned, hunts are commenced and led by none other than the olo’eyktan. A large group of Herwi warriors shall trek across the icelands in one unit, and it was quite interesting to note that most of the younger hunters are positioned in the middle where they are less likely to get injured during such a trip.
It is in the middle of their hike that Gojo will alert when the group is to split up: Snow beast hunters and snow marine stilts. Divide and conquer seems to be the only strategy that somehow tames such an unforgiving environment, and Herwi marine-hunters seem to be picked from the most patient of warriors. They carve out a hole in the middle of frozen bodies of water (never Lake Yapay, this divine body is never harmed) and each positions themself atop a tall icicle beside it to escape prowling beasts and currents. Crouched and ledged atop one, the sheer core strength and balance is divine once they cast their lines and wait.
On the other side of things, we have the Herwi beast-hunters. Using a large variety of weapons, the most popular is noted to be the bow and arrow - used by the olo’eyktan himself. They stalk in the cold white billows of snow with not even a single shiver, they lay in wait for hours, they tire their prey out.
And nevertheless this scientist found today’s hunt rather interesting…
The third and fourth days had passed by in much the same fashion - except for the slight tweak in your routine that included opening your hut door and finding the olo’eyktan standing there every single morning.
Always with food, always with a smile, always with some interesting niveous flower for you to press into your notebook. Then afterwards the two of you would set out to help you interview the Herwi people of all ages and backgrounds, to take samples, to explore the natural fauna, to even join Gojo on one of his Hunts on the third day.
They admitted that they didn’t focus on hunting as much as they normally did on that trek, too enamored with this strange little human that had showed up one day and had their olo’eyktan glued to her side.
You interviewed hunters and elders (well, the ones that didn’t ignore you completely or were on the verge of cursing you out until they caught their leader’s eye) until your mouth hurt. And Gojo had taken you into the best spot with natural Pandoran fauna, making you jot down notes until your fingers cramped.
Once the sun was beginning to set and the Na’vi were getting ready to head back to their village for the night, you’re taking the opportunity to interview some of the young hunters. Gojo was off in the distance making up for the slightly lowered hunt by ice-spearing more snow beasts. And you were more than happy not to distract him while he took care of his olo’eyktan duties- after all, the other hunters were nice. Never having seen a human before, they’d been more than happy to answer your questions.
Ribbing each other, guffawing as they answered, placing their hands down on you and ruffling your head from above.
Almost as if you were a plaything- and you admit it was in the name of science, you didn’t mind it too much until a particularly boisterous hunter about Gojo’s age had kept swatting at you no matter how many times you politely moved away. Until he’d caught you on the scruff of your coat and tried to lift you up—
You hear the sound of bones breaking before you realize what it is.
Whipping your head behind you in an instant to see that Gojo was behind the other hunter and pulling his hand hard enough that you hear other Na’vi cry out.
He lets go of you, of course, and you watch with widened eyes as Gojo then bandages his fellow Na’vi’s arm himself. Though you note that he doesn’t apologize.
Gojo didn’t leave your side for a single second after that.
That night after the dinner by the lake, Gojo walks you to your hut and sleeps outside in the bitter cold- no matter how much you tried to get him to take up the bed inside. He’d insisted.
After mating, he’d said.
You wonder whether your translating device was malfunctioning…
(See Page 26 on Herwi possessiveness…).
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Day #4 in the Herwi village:
Beads.
A well-known part of Na’vi culture, one of the most recognizable, perhaps. The scientific community has written long and extensively on the importance of bead-sharing in the Omaticaya clan, however, this scientist shall be the first to detail the beauty of how this tradition extends to the Herwi clan.
According to the artisans of this village, beads aren’t fashioned through molten stone or seeds or clay—given the availability of such in this environment. Rather, they’re made with snow.
Never-melting snow.
Yes, the design of hona beads from snow is a practice unique to the Herwi clan. Broken off from the hardest icicles growing at a peak of Mt. Hoet said to touch the sky, not only is it a treacherous passage to get to those specialized bits of ice, but the process of making the beads finds itself just as arduous. These icicles are then welded into delicate beads and dipped into the waters of Lake Yapay at night, letting them soak and then carried to freeze at the highest peak once more.
This process is repeated until the beads are as hard as diamonds on Earth- perhaps even harder. Never-melting. Never-breaking. Never-forgetting. Though not too hard so that the Herwi will be unable to carve unique patterns and symbols special to themself. Rinse. Repeat.
Though the clear meaning of such is ambiguous, it is most certainly a way of showing appreciation - as one would have to love someone very much to do this, no?
It was on your fourth day amongst the Herwi clan that Gojo didn’t show up with a beautiful flower or trinket from the terrain- instead, he’s bounding up to you with a string of beads and knotting it against the side of your face.
Pushing it back and taking you in with it.
Without a question.
“Satoru, did you…” You’re holding the line of beads up to the sunlight and watching the little patterns glimmer. They were slightly frosted and flurried like the smallest of snowglobes, “Did you make this for me?”
And you swear they had the most intricate design of clouds on them, swirling and tumbling.
“Of course.” He smiles proudly. “Us Herwi are taught how to design our very own hona beads ever since we were children, and as Na’vi coming of age we walk up the path to make the first one for ourselves…as adults we make one for our family or…” Mates.
“And this- god, I need to…write about this but I can’t even imagine how long this would’ve taken.”
“Four days.” Gojo cocks his head and looks down at you- and that brilliantly confident grin of his plasters across his face once more. “For most it takes four years, but for you I did it in four days.”
“Oh, they’re just amazing.” You run a hand down the ice-cold globules, “Thank you, Satoru.”
He holds your hand as he leads you out into the village.
Gojo tells you that night to wear those very beads to the clan dinner - once a week (at the very least) after a particularly successful Hunt, the Herwi people will get together for a massive feast. You’d heard excited whispers about it from the public you surveyed, and it seems that the olo’eyktan had chosen tonight.
Night had begun to fall, and you were dragged playfully by some younger girls straight to the edge of this vast frozen lake. Past snow-capped huts that stuck out of an even more snow-capped ground like eager heads, and ice-jeweled trees and frozen rivers and pathways lit with bioluminescent algae trapped in lanterns of ice.
It was a world in frost.
Where Na’vi had gathered with their families, their friends, their food—all in an array of tables that circled the crystallized body of water like a wedding ring.
Under the snowy night sky they communed.
“You are wearing my- I mean your hona beads.” Gojo had beamed as he eventually caught up with you and guided you himself. He led you by hand again - even though you weren’t exactly quite sure why…at least it kept you from being toppled over by the other tall Herwi rushing to snag their own seats. “You look beautiful with them, beloved.”
And you weren’t quite sure what to say- though the bubbling pit at your stomach certainly wanted you to tell him something. Instead you divert the topic, “You hunted today as well, yes? Is there anything here that you hunted?”
To which he looks at you with a rather cocky smile, “Beloved, I have hunted more than half of the feast tonight. Trust that you will enjoy it.”
And you might have joked about him being presumptuous- but you really did enjoy the feast.
Under a star-studded sky and glimmering lanterns that twinkled like the freckles upon Gojo’s face, he led you to the very head table that no other Na’vi dared touch. It was rather obvious that this one was meant for the olo’eyktan himself, but what was curious was when your seat had been placed right next to his.
Perks of being a special guest, you suppose?
Shoko was beside you and shot you an amused smile, before preening for another Herwi next to her with a scar that ran across her face and half-braided hair.
“Utahime.” Gojo had whispers in your ear, “Shoko’s mate.”
“Ah- I see!” Pen quivering in your hand, you’re jotting down your observations in your notebook under the table. “Perfect. I’m quite curious about the mating rituals of the Herwi, you see. Do you suppose I’d be able to ask them some questions later on in the night?”
“Don’t ask them questions- ask me.” Gojo huffs. Brows furrowing. Lower lip jutting into a pout.
He leans over and wraps his arm around the back of your chair. Squirming, “O-oh…but you’re not mated yet, are you, Satoru?”
“Nope!”
“Right…” But then how could you ask him about mating if he wasn’t—nevermind.
Because just then the group in charge of cooking for the clan had rounded the tables and begun placing their most savored delicacies on top of them. Meats upon vegetables upon berries that you’d seen growing naturally across the mountainside they lived on. It was steaming hot and everything that you could dream of.
Whether you didn’t like meat, whether you didn’t like vegetables- there was always something there for you.
Most of the richest dishes were allocated around the olo’eyktan and your single table, stuffing the surface to the brim until you had to squeeze next to Gojo for space. Of course, he didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps too busy piling his place with the sweetest treacly milks and frozen desserts that he could reach.
After dinner came the dances.
It happened every night after the community dinner when everyone - full and satisfied by then - would start humming and chanting their ancient hymns. Echoing into the sleepy snow and the ever-young night, someone would pull out two snow beast-skin drums by then. Thumping away to the songs of the snow.
Children ran off and made snow-prints and snow-fights in the mountains of powder. Family members would begin drowsily feeding each other and insisting they eat more. Others traced their own hona beads and promised they’d make ones for the one they love.
More would punch small holes through the frozen lake and bring the water up to their mouths, of which a sudden blow would make the water freeze and scatter out into the air in twinkling snowflakes. Emulating the stars themselves.
Snow-breathers.
They’d sing, they’d sound, they’d show off and then…the first mated couple would walk onto the middle of the frozen ice.
Then the second.
The third.
The fourth and the fifth and the sixth-
What a way to end the night, love warming the cold air and couples twirling around each other with their tails intertwined. Usually, you’d be content to clap and attempt to sing along—
But then Gojo stands up- and you almost believe he was ready to leave the table altogether…until he’s reaching his hand out to you.
You.
And you look around in slight surprise- almost as if expecting someone to materialize right beside you and take Gojo’s hand instead. But the only thing you’re getting is Shoko’s approving nod from next to you, before she lets herself be dragged by Utahime onto the frozen lake.
And so you’d danced.
Rather an interesting sight considering the height difference, you admit—but it was beautiful. Gojo scoops you up into his arms with one steadied underneath you, the other holds one of your hands in his.
So much larger. So much more powerful.
And yet so gentle.
He twirls you around to the music and you laugh at the wind stinging your face.
“Satoru, you’re going to drop me—”
“I should rather die than drop you.”
“But- but what of the other Herwi that will be mistaken?” You ask then, already sensing the envious looks that were thrown your way.
“There goes my dream of being tsahìk, I’m almost sure of it now-”
“But I haven’t been able to try my luck with the olo’eyktan yet-”
“Oh shush, girl! You seriously think any of us had a chance?”
You look into his handsome face, eyes trained on you despite all the whispers and disturbance amongst his people. Only you. “You won’t be able to find a mate this way.”
Something unreadable in his blue eyes, flickering with fire from the tables and something else entirely. “Perhaps I don’t want one.”
“Well that would be entirely your decision.” You place your hands on his broad shoulders, flexing as they move you around with ease. “But it seems in Herwi tradition, the olo’eyktan is wont to take a mate.”
He raises a white brow, “And who should you believe must be my mate then?”
You didn’t quite know how to answer that.
Averting his eyes- and those of the Na’vi staring at you two. “W-well, Herwi has many fine women and men. Reykol is the best singer.”
“I do not want Reykol.”
“Tìtaron is a good hunter.”
He pulls you closer, “Yes, she is a good hunter. But I am better, and I do not care for Tìtaron.” Reaching up one hand to brush away the snowflakes that had begun dusting your face, “I believe I have already been fated to. Even before I was born, I have already chosen.”
You swallow, “Who, Satoru?”
He only smiles.
“Who?”
But he does not answer, you’re twirled around once more and the moonlight catches your dangling beads.
“Is that…”
“Surely our leader isn’t saying what we think he is saying-”
“But look at him, he looks so…happy.”
You turn your head to catch the fact that most of the Herwi were looking at you, whispering behind their hands. In hindsight, you think that perhaps it was not a coincidence that they ogled you - and particularly the hona beads that you’d been gifted. Not a coincidence at all.
You wore his signature because you were his.
And they all knew you were his.
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Day #5 in the Herwi village (the last day):
Leaving tomorrow, a perceptive scientist may notice that there is only one thing missing from this comprehensive research into the Herwi clan.
The source of Eywa.
As a deity to all Na’vi people, her influence seeps into the songs and prayers of even the highest terrains on Pandora. Into the healing. Into the well wishes. Into the belief system of a people so accepting and harmonious that their tree of Eywa does not need to be visibly present for her will to be carried out.
But as for where she resides here…
Your fifth and final day was less research and more saying your goodbyes to all the friends you’d made in the Herwi clan. You’d be leaving first thing tomorrow, before the sun even rose, according to the sternest of the elders.
Gojo hadn’t met you outside your hut that morning, and you’d idled away the time packing and repacking your bag of samples and books. Thrice, before you started to believe that he might not come after all.
But that was alright, ultimately believing that he’d show up later on in the day, you visited all the healers, the hunters, the dancers, and the chefs. The mother and toddler you’d grown close to on your first day here, and even a stray elder that had sought you out to bow goodbye.
All the young Na’vi and the old Na’vi.
All the Na’vi that had come to not fear you and the Na’vi that had found you endearing at first sight.
They’d warmed up to you since you first came here. They gave you gifts, each of them, and your heart ached as you thought of leaving.
Goodbyes were always painful - but perhaps one most of all. Gojo.
He still hadn’t met you by the end of your route, and you’d circled the village about twice by the time you were done. He was nowhere to be seen.
It was almost as if he’d disappeared into thin air.
It was with a heavy pit in your stomach that you started to head back to your hut—your last dinner with the Herwi people would be in a few hours. Afterwards, Gojo had previously arranged for you to be accompanied by some of the clan’s best warriors on your trek down.
You just thought that’d include him.
Perhaps you could sleep it off until the final dinner- and you were shutting the door just behind you…
Before sounds a hurried, hasty knock—
You open the door to see the olo’eyktan of the Herwi tribe.
Panting. Covered in snow.
“My apologies, I have spent the day clearing the pathway for us.” Gojo huffs out, leaning against your door frame with one hand. The other reaching out to you—“Come with me, beloved?”
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The Herwi source of Eywa was inside an ice cave.
One that would get blocked when the goddess herself did not wish to be seen, one that Gojo had torn through layers of packed ice to burrow a pathway for the both of you. He’d carried you all the way to the gaping mouth of blue ice and ghost snow.
Closing in on you like arms of rime beckoning you to the tree of Eywa. The Tree of Winter.
The cold embrace of a mother.
One you were still not quite sure whether you were allowed to see—but Gojo knew he wanted you to see. He saw you.
At the end of the cave was an ice column about eighty feet tall and naturally formulated to look like the winding branches of a tree. Dripping to the ground in phantom white snow, each one delicate and graduating from white to blue. There almost seemed to be a glowing aura about it.
Clear mirrors making up the tree’s vines. Honed tips of the icicles rising from Pandora and stabbing down towards it. The top of the tree reached where the cave roof was hollow, beaming a circle of light from the skies that donned Eywa in innocent pink.
You gasped at the white snowsprites that bounced off of the tree and onto your two bodies.
Where Gojo stand with his back straight, his meaty thighs spread—pearly white teeth biting down to stop himself from fucking moaning at the feeling of your mouth sliding up n’ down his hot cock.
While you were standing.
You didn’t even have to get on your knees.
His eleven foot figure loomed above you, one hand on the back of your head and the other pumpin’ his furious erection. Your maw slips down his puckered tip and he shivers- bucking ever-so-slightly and hitting the back of your throat dead-on—
And yet he wasn’t even fully bottomed out.
He wasn’t even fully bottomed out.
The sudden realization makes you claw at the sides of his blue skin with a whine- direct vibrations that make the puckered tip lodged inside your mouth twitch. He’s sploshing out even more syrupy pre like he couldn’t stop it.
He’s not even trying and it’s already so much, cascading like a waterfall down the front of your chin.
“Now- hah, now.” One of Gojo’s prolonged fingertips reaches out to smear away the slippery sheen across your face- at least, that’s what you think he’s doing.
But instead you’re feeling him curve his rude digits between your lips and push those dewy droplets inside. Shovelling his cock just a little bit deeper, “S’not good to waste it, beloved. Open your mouth and take it all like a good girl, yes?”
“Mmmpf-” A damn miracle that you could get out that much sound in the first place. You’re pulling off to answer, and Gojo jerks his hips a lil’ to chase your damp mouth. “You’re saying you want me to take it all—?”
He shivers, leopard-like tail twitching. “Yes.”
And right before your very eyes, you can see his shaft throb even bigger.
Harder.
The prettiest bluish-pink on his tip, one with a divot that leaks out a line of precum. You’re following it with your dazed eyes- before the next thing you’re seeing is a close-up of it.
Gojo has his massive hand plastered to the back of your scalp and is pushin’ your head in, digging his dripping wet tip against the back of your throat. With a groan, the Na’vi pins you to him and hammers out a few sloppy thrusts of his cock.
Again and again.
Slurp after slurp—
“Gonna take it all- hah- my entire cock inside that pretty mouth, yes?” He’s cocking his head to the side and asking down at you sweetly. And he might look all in control, but Gojo’s voice fucking breaks at the very end of his sentence.
Right in synchronization with the way you were draggin’ your sizzling tastebuds down the veiny sides of his erection. Just the cutest tongue that was eagerly lapping up everything he was giving—“Doesn’t matter if you’re a lil’ human, you’re gonna take the leader’s biiiiig cock, aren’t you?”
Removing yourself from his thickened tip with a wet pwah! “Y-you’re really serious about the-”
“Yes.”
And he’d apologize for cutting you off later- hell, he’d grovel at your feet if he has to. But right now all Gojo can think of doing is holding onto the back of your head and strollin’ his thumb down the column of your throat. The olo’eyktan can feel that fat cylindrical intrusion where his cock was pumping in and out- and he’s sliding his fingertip dooooooown that bulge. “Aren’t you a scientist, beloved?”
“Y-yes?”
“Then aren’t you curious about just how far a human can take Na’vi cock?”
“Well…” You blubber out, “I guess so-”
“Then consider it for your research.” With each syllable he’s cutting your breath off by thudding his cockhead against the roof of your mouth. “Then just fucking- haaaaah—” And you’re finding that the pre Na’vi cock exuded was actually rather sweet- almost like honeydew flooding up your mouth n’ being slid all round by the intrusion of his shaft. “-take it.”
“Mmmpf—ngh.” Tears were streaming down your face by now, wetting your cheeks and making the Na’vi wipe them away with his thumb.
“Don’t cryyyyy—” He’s airily calling out, almost nothing like the level-headed Na’vi you’d met before. “Big girls don’t cry. Don’t worry- m’gonna give you all of my cock, beloved.”
“S-Satoru-”
But each of your broken yowls were being bullied back in with his bludgeoning wet tip, bruisin’ away its splitted end anywhere and everywhere.
He swabs into the tiniest nooks and crannies inside your mouth with his sheer size, leaving your knees utterly weak where you were still standing. He’s holding your head up to his cock- “C’mon- feel.”
You peer up at him in confusion.
“Feel for your research.” Fluttering his long pale lashes down at you, a sultry smile spreads across his lips. “How many loooong thick inches you’re being given. How many veins are filling ya up. How many times I hit the back of yer throat like this-”
A shuddering slam right where you were most tender. “Please-”
“M’helping you with your- fuck, research.” He chuckles down lecherously, “By shutting that smart human mouth of yours up.”
“Fuck-”
“Feel it- just feel.”
He thrusts so hard that his heavy ballsack smacks! against your chin, “Feel the way that lil’ mouth of yours can barely even take me. Feel how fat my balls are with cum just for you. Count them? Wanna calculate the girth?” Until it was stinging a permanent girth on your skin, rubbed raw with impact. “Feel the way I- ngh, bruuuise your throat n’ those sensual lips until anyone that talks to you knows I’ve been here.” He’s babbling on stupidly by now, eyes falling more n’ more half-lidded by the minute. He’s holding on tightly to your restless head and shoves- “Feel the way I fuck my mate—”
Gojo trails off as if shocking himself, and you’re snapping your teary eyes up to him with a muffled- “What?”
But you don’t know whether it’s on cue, you don’t know whether it’s the startle of being caught- but Gojo’s slamming his cocktip way past the back of your throat and cumming.
Oozing out hot dollops of cum that take over your pretty mouth.
Shaft throbbing furiously. Balls twitching like no other. He throws his head back and squelches straight down your throat, and you can feel the thickness of it plug up your voicebox.
So sweet.
So much.
And you’re not sure whether it’s a Na’vi thing or it’s a Gojo thing that he’s cumming so much in one go.
Loooooong miry stripes that trickle down the sides of your mouth- he leans down and pushes them back between your lips with one of his thumbs. Ivory sap constantly leaking down onto your tastebuds, he feels the heady slip n’ slide of his cock against those wads of cum. “Fuh-fuck…”
And then he’s not moving, merely clasping the back of your head and bringing you firmly up against his slender pelvis.
Your nose rubs against the tufts of white on his abs before you realize that he’d just bottomed-out—just once, like he’d promised.
And it was enough to send you reeling, feeling the pushback of his swabbin’ tip. Pouring out even more heady liquid every time he was draaaaging down your velvety tongue.
The tip of your tastebuds flicks his sensitive slit just right and you can feel him pulse deep inside. “Feel me in there?” Gojo’s groaning from above. “Feel how much I ache for you. Feel the volume of my cum- are you counting it?”
“I-I—”
But evidently your half-sob wasn’t enough.
And the Na’vi is reaching down and pinching your nostrils together with his free hand. “Ah ah- focus on your research, beloved.”
And you’re struggling uselessly against his mean action, to which Gojo watches with a predatory gaze at the way you huff n’ sputter. And he has the audacity to snicker-
“I really can throw you around like a ragdoll, huh?”
It’s as if the realization had just struck him and he’s shuddering.
It almost feels like ages before he’s finally pulling away with a loud plop!
An excess of your cum was leaking out of your maw and threatening to drip onto the floor- “Tch, this is a sacred place, my human.” He’s rasping out—swipin’ up the frothed white cum as if he wasn’t absolutely desecrating you. Pushing those clingy wads between your maw.
He then guides his honed tip to glide across your lips, gluing your lips shut with all his seed.
And Gojo can’t help but admire you- peering up at him with his towering height. All covered in his syrupy slick and speechless, unable to talk even if your voicebox had been left intact.
He smiles, tail swishing happily to and fro. “My human.” Gojo leans all the distance down to kiss you upon your sopping wet lips. “My m- pretty human. My pretty human…”
But you don’t have enough sense at the moment to ponder too long on his little slip-up before he’s bending down close with his hoarse mouth against the shell of your ear.
Making you feel so sensitive.
“-did ya get enough research yet?”
And then he’s good on his other promise: throwing you around like a ragdoll.
Before you know it, Gojo’s thundering down onto his knees upon the frozen floor - taking you right along with him. He grabs his fur coat from a little ways away and makes you rest down on top of it. With ease.
Back flat on the coat. Legs spread high in the air.
Twisted around the back of Gojo’s neck and locked in place-
“Satoru-” You look around the Tree of Winter that only seems to glow even brighter, the snowsprites buzzing. “-are you sure we should be doing this h—oh.”
Gojo doesn’t say anything - he doesn’t have to.
He’s merely unhinging his jaw and letting his loooong pinkish tongue drip out. It was glossy with ravenous saliva, thick at the base, and curved at the tip. The end of it dripped tantalizingly with spittle- almost torturously.
Achingly needy.
There was an almost feline quality to it that made your thighs clench.
“N-nevermind.”
The only thing you’re managing to get out before Gojo had his tongue stuffed against your wet core and swabbin’ away until you saw white—“M-mmmpf.” His mouth was just so large that he could engulf your pussylips with a single bite, honed canines grazing the outer edge of your cunt while he kisses inwards. “My pretty mate- my tasty mate.”
It’s almost as if he was pussydrunk already.
With just a single slurp of his curvaceous tongue glidin’ up and down your slit, Gojo has his blue eyes rolling to the back of his head and his hips bucking. Wildly. “Why didn’t Eywa tell me that you’d taste so good-”
“Oh my—” Your back arches while his thickened fingertips come between your legs to pinch your puckered pussy into his mouth. Pushing you against him even more - greedy. “Shit, it just feels so-”
Smack!
And without a single warning, Gojo has his roverin’ fingertips slamming down on your pussy. Straight on top of your slit where your clit was hidden, it sends shockwaves of both pain and pleasure up your spine.
You’re gasping and staring down at him-
“Now now, no cursing- be good before Eywa, hm?” That damn hypocrite - and you could see it in that sultry smile of it. Gojo was getting off on the way you’d squirm your cunt restlessly against his face, sighing into the way he starts fucking your pussy once more. “Or else m’not gonna eat this pretty pussy of yours out, ya hear?”
You gape, “That’s not fucking fair-”
Smack!
“What was that, beloved?”
“I said—”
Smack!
Smack!
Smack!
Until Gojo’s leaving your pussy raw and needy, and even then he wasn’t done with you- he has the audacity to purse his plump lips and spit. Spit. Letting the sharp strike of saliva make you shiver—
“What was that?” He asks you in such a breathy tone, such a ruined tone. Gojo spoke like if you told him you needed him right now then he would simply shatter.
And you can only gulp at the state that he was in - you’ve researched Na’vi during times of high pressure, during battles, during their coming-of-age ceremonies. But never had you met one that simply seemed so…feral. “I-I’ll be good, Satoru.”
He smiles like he’s been wanting to hear those exact words for years.
Fingertips jittering with excitement, he then reaches for your intertwined ankles with his tail.
Locking them in place, Gojo murmurs. “Good…” Before he’s getting ready to dive straight back into your sweetened cunt once more, “Because you better not run-”
And you don’t get to ask just what might constitute you running from his mouth. His tongue.
You don’t get to ask just what it meant when he looked at you with that dark inkling of something carnal, as if he was about to devour you whole.
You don’t get to ask anything, in fact, and whatever questions were already in your throat burst into a zillion pieces at the feeling of him pushing his tongue inside your hole. Properly.
Not lapping away coquettishly on your outer cunt, not slurpin’ up all your treacly juices.
Gojo had his tastebuds stuffed inside your entrance and was draaaaagging them all across every orifice inside of you. Thrusting his entire length in and out at a rapid pace, you could feel the edge of his chin hitting your base with every movement.
Inside and out.
Inside and out.
But the sheer speed of him wasn’t even the bit makin’ you the most dizzy- see Gojo’s Na’vi tongue was something amazing. Something incredible.
Just so large and lavish that it was stretching your walls out like never before.
“P-please-” You don’t think you’ve ever felt anything like this- the way that Gojo’s textured tongue would mold against your walls, the way he’d pinpoint even the tiniest orifices with his flexible tip, the way he’d expand and contract his tongue purposefully. Until you saw white. Bucking—“Please it just feels so-”
“Where’d ya think you’re going?”
And the slur in his voice makes you pause- “Wh-what…?”
The last thing you’re managing to get out before Gojo tightens the rude grip of his fingertips on your pussylips. And the other one of his hands holds onto your waist to haul you back down onto his mouth- you hadn’t even realized that you’d been edging away in sensitivity.
“Didn’t I tell you not to run?” Spankin’ those rugged fingertips of his down on your clit once more. You get the feeling that Gojo’s meanly choosing your clit because he knew that’d make you clench ‘round his tongue even more. “Don’t run. Don’t even move.”
“You’re just so fucking- ngh, big and you expect me not to move?” You wail out in indignity.
“Well, who told you to fuck a Na’vi warrior?” He’s countering, those half-lidded eyes of his twinkling with humor. “Better yet- who told you to fuck the olo’eyktan-”
And you suppose you had no explanation for that.
Especially not even Gojo was pumping his thickened tongue into you so fast that any and all explanations in your throat start to dissolve. Instead being replaced by the most pathetic whines and groans as he keeps fucking your pussy greedily.
As though Gojo was a man parched.
Because your wettened pussy was more refreshing to him than the waters of the lake- and if he could, he’d have his head stuffed between your legs every second of the day. Simply slurpin’ up every dewy droplet that escaped out of you, Gojo catches even those tiniest of wads.
Slipping his looooong tongue inside—you’re driven damn near mad once he slithers his length in and grazes your g-spot.
Hips bucking, eyes snapping open. “H-how did you even manage-”
“Ah ah—” His familiar tut, and soon enough you’re glued back down onto his pretty mouth again. Gojo doesn’t even need to try to ease you pliably back onto his face no matter how much you try to run- but oh, it was just so fun to watch your sultry surprise. The way you only got wetter when he manhandled you. “So this is that cute lil’ g-spot human have, hm? I thought it was just something in Shoko’s anatomy textbooks.”
“You- you read her textbooks…” You ask.
“All day and all night.” Gojo replies with a smirk, his ears twitching as he hears the quickening of your heartbeat. “Only Eywa knows how much I’ve touched myself imagining this.”
“Oh—”
It hits you like a flash of lightning- and so do the sudden swipes of Gojo’s tongue reaching your sweetest spots. Thud-thud-thud-thud he’s ricocheting against your bundle of nerves rapidly, making it echo like your own heartbeat in your ears. Thud-thud-thud-thud—
“Shit-” And suddenly you understand- you thought you understood before? But no, now you understand why Gojo had been telling you not to run away initially.
“Don’t run.” He warns.
Because all you’re feeling are the large stripes he’s licking up your slick walls, and the only thing you can think of doing is bucking. Rutting. Reaching for his lips wildly- though your body moves torturously as if you didn’t know whether you wanted more or to run away—“Shit.”
“Don’t run.”
But how could you not run from it? How could you not even move when Gojo had your body teased n’ toyed with till absolutely no end?
He was hammerin’ his tongue against your g-spot furiously—and you were sure by now that he has the exact pattern of his tastebuds bruised right on that area. Shapin’ your velvety walls to his tongue, Gojo dives in just so animalistically.
And you can’t help but buck. You can’t help but arch your back. You can’t help but reach your hand out and attempt to grab onto something- anything for dear life.
Again and again. “Shiiiiit is it even allowed to feel this good-”
But the Na’vi leader merely stops your hands with his own, folding them neatly into his hair. Holding onto his clammy scalp- “As Eywa wills it.” He smiles and your cunt’s just so sensitive by this point that you can feel the exact degree of curvature of his grin. “Which reminds me…”
And for your profanity you’re getting three more direct spanks, “Shit-”
One more.
Before you feel him then twist his fingertips on your throbbing clit and pinch- “Ya reeeeally can’t be a good girl f’me, huh?” Gojo asks you with a smile, though there was a hint of something in his voice that reminded you why exactly he was the olo’eyktan of such a large clan. “Look at you—”
“Sh-shit, that feels so-” But he isn’t listening, and you’re fighting the heels of your feet against his broad back.
“Look at you.” He’s tightening his tail on your ankles and dragging you back down. He’s spitting down through clenched canines, every single word sending sparks up to your hazy brain. Barely even working by this point, surely. “Swearing. Squirming. Moaning like a slut and trying to escape- as your leader, I should punish you, beloved.”
“No more pussy spanking—” You whine, “Just makes me so sensitive…”
“I’m not talking about pussy spanking, beloved.” To emphasize his point he gives just a light tap on your sensitive nub once more.
It leaves you shaking to wonder just what else he has in store for you- though you don’t have to let your mind grapple in the dark for too long. Because in absolutely no time - just a few more vulgar thrusts of his tongue - you’re feeling the sudden plump intrusion of something slender at your hole.
It certainly couldn’t have been his tongue, because you knew what that ridged texture felt like.
It certainly couldn’t have been Gojo’s cock, because you’d tasted that and you knew he had a much larger circumference.
So that left only one option—Gojo had your pussylips spread apart and your entrance gulping up every inch of his fingers. They just looked so stark with their blue color disappearin’ into your hole, and Gojo’s increeeeedible length making you feel so full.
Two of them were all that were shovelled inside- and yet he was already stretching for your very cervix on his first thrust inside. He scours the spongy end of your pussy then slides back out—in and out, in and out, in and out.
Each time his knobbly joints push against your g-spot and left you crying-
“Feel my fingers inside you?” Gojo rasps ruthlessly, his mouth wrapped around your throbbing clit. Groaning at the way you grow even wetter- Na’vi senses were strong, and he could smell the impending orgasm on you. “Feel the way I reach for your- hah, womb all inside? Feel the way I can fuck a baby in you so easily?”
“Yes-” You answer to them all, “Yes yes yes yes—”
And before you can say anything more, his powerful tail hauls you down. Bashin’ in even deeper with his plush fingertips. “Feel the way I’ve found eeeevery cute spot of yours? Feel the way I know your pussy inside and out?”
“Yes- fuck.” And you don’t even care if you’re ‘punished’ any more for breaking Gojo’s stern rules. Gojo himself was slamming his knuckles red and raw against your cunt, fucking his human’s tight pussy. “Fuck, I’m gonna-”
“Feel the way m’making you mine—?”
“Satoru, m’gonna cum-”
“Note it down in your research.”
And then you’re exploding straight into your high - and you know it’s the best you’ve ever had.
Your eyes fall shut and the only thing you’re seeing behind them is pure black with stars of white, pulsing against your bleary vision in time with the furious throbbing at your cunt. Little zaps of pleasure shoot all the way down to the tips of your toes every time he’s moving his maw across your core. Sharp. Sensitive. He’s wedged between your legs and lappin’ up each pulse.
Sluuuuurp—!
Long, aching drags of his tongue. They’re roverin’ over the most sensitive spot of your clit, meanwhile his fingers were glazed in slick n’ fucking you stupid already.
Gojo thrusts you through your high as if he was angry at you. As if he can’t get enough. As if he’s losing his damn mind and you n’ your pussy are the only reasons why-
It takes you only a minute more for your wave of bliss to taper out, fully riding through it.
And then only another minute more for you go from fucked straight to overstimulated by a few more of his rovering thrusts. He swabs your g-spot once more and you think you’re bawling- “S-Satoru, I’m already done-”
But he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even seem to hear you.
In fact, you couldn’t sworn that he was grabbing onto your right thigh with his free hand and keeping himself plastered even more into your cunt-
“Satoru—!” You’re calling out helplessly, “Satoru, I’m already- ngh, done-”
“Mhmmmm?” Muttering something wet underneath his breath, and you have to strain your ears to actually hear him. Breathy. Panting. “Research- fuck! More…”
“I can’t even- oh.” It was almost dangerous just how potent he was with his mouth and fingers, and before long your thighs were starting to shake with sensitivity. Causing you to grab onto his scalp even tighter and-
“O-oh.”
And accidentally tug on the long braid of white hair thrown over his shoulder—his kuru.
Did that manage to…
Your breath hitches, and you’re reaching out to graze your fingers down his kuru once more-
“Fuh—fuuuuck.” Gojo throws his head back in a voice that almost sounded like a whimper, his slick lips quivering. His skin covering in goosebumps. His erection throbbing from where you could spy him. His entire large body shakes with the zaps of hypersensitivity going down his spine, “D-don’t think you know what you’re getting into, beloved…” His murky breath clouds out in front of him.
“You sure?” You challenge - what a privilege it was to see him break.
The olo’eyktan grits his teeth—-“I’m warning you…”
But when were you ever one to listen to warnings?
Without thinking much of it, you tighten your hand ‘round his kuru and tug—
And then he’s on you in a split-second.
He’s not even moving- he’s grabbing onto your hips and bodily puuuulling you right back down till your cunt lips kiss his cock. He’s pushing your legs up until your kneecaps hit your tits. He’s hunching his entire body forwards and-
“Sh-shit.” Your eyes widen, “Satoru, did you just-”
“Yes.”
Just you teasing his kuru is enough to make Gojo spuuuurt out in creamy wads of cum once more, coating the outer part of your pussy in a thick layer. It feels hot and wet on top of you, streaming down to drench the coating. Before he’s swervin’ his swollen tip inside and fucking you-
No hesitation. No preparation.
You’re getting what you deserved, and that was to be fucked like an absolute anima by the Na’vi.
“You don’t know what you’ve done.” He’s spitting- straight into your hotly opened mouth. Those sharp canines of Gojo’s nipping at your bottom lip, “You don’t know what you’ve done- you don’t know what you’ve done-”
“Shit, shiiiit—Satoru.” Moaning out his name like a broken record player. He’s bullying out harsh semi-thrusts against your cunt that leave you scrambling for breath- just shovin’ his puckered tip inside, just tasting the inside of your pussy with his cockhead, just trying to fucking fit.
“Sayin’ my name like that and you don’t even fucking—” Before Gojo feels your soppy walls clench tightly ‘round him, and his lips part a little before racing down and spitting on your cunt. “Fucking fit.”
“You say that like it’s so easy-” You sob out.
He was pistoning his hips into you ferally.
The only thing he was doing was stretchin’ out your cute hole a few times, just so big that you’re being push-push-pushed up the fur coat you were splayed out on-
A hand at your throat.
“Don’t. Fucking. Run.”
And you don’t have the chance to tell him that you weren’t actually running and in fact it was just his roverin’ hips forcing you upwards- but before you could do that, Gojo’s already rendering you speechless with his cock.
He’s grabbing an even tighter restraint of your neck.
He’s manhandling your entire body down like he’s crazed.
He’s juuuuuust barely managing to squeeze in a sultry inch of two of his massive length- the mere sensation of that in itself enough to send your mind bursting into a heap of stars. It was almost numbing on your lower half, to have this much of him fitted inside you.
Stuffed inside you.
Throbbing inside you.
And it seems that the only one more affected by that fact wasn’t you - it was Gojo Satoru himself. Head falling into the crook of your neck. Tail flinching as it now wraps around your right thigh. Mouth parting with an agonized groan.
“F—fuck.” He’s echoing out hollowly into your ear, “Fuck, you’re so fucking…tight.”
Gojo spits out the word as if it was the very reason the olo’eyktan was shattering right about now. And almost on cue, those sopping wet walls of yours clench ‘round his tip and makes the Na’vi yelp—
“Fuck, don’t do that.” He’s shuddering through his sloppy strokes, his split-ended tip filling you up with dewy precum. “Fuck, don’t do that unless you want to be taught what happens when you pull on the kuru of a Herwi like me, little scientist.”
“What happens?” You ask innocently.
“S’why I’m telling you to fucking—oh.”
Just a few more pulsating clenches of your cunt, and Gojo shivers as though he’s being held hostage by your wet walls.
He bears his canines and snarls at you in the way you’d seen Na’vi do when they want to signal, to intimidate, to mate.
But you stare up at the olo’eyktan of the Herwi clan with determination.
And he’s giving you one final probe-
“I’m going to get you fucking pregnant.”
He breathes out against the shell of your ear, almost like the last whisper of his sanity before Gojo stares into your wide heart-eyes—and he’s reeling his hips back to plunge.
Uncaring how unready your poor entrance was.
Uncaring how your tiny human body shakes underneath his larger one.
His fat cock swipes between your glittery folds and puuuuushes against the instinctual restraint of your hole, all the way until you start to tremble- and he knows he can’t push any more. He knows he can’t break you.
He’s fighting back every sudden primal urge in him that just wants to fuck you all the way inside- and furiously pumps his solid inches back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Keeping a hand always on the top of your stomach for when he’s feeling his hard globular tip push upwards.
Gojo was just so big that he could feel himself sinking in from the outside-
“And that’s not a promise, beloved.” Gojo’s pale brows furrow as his cockhead starts swabbin’ even deeper after each thrust, “That’s not a promise- that’s not even a challenge-”
“Th-then—?” He’s pushing doooown on your overstuffed core and you find it hard to breathe, both pressures from between your legs and from Gojo pushing on your cylindrical tummy bulge was just…
The olo’eyktan grins when he watches his cute lil’ human struggle to take his entire cock, the bluish hue of it spreading apart your thighs. He reels his slender hips back in quite the long drag—before ultimately hammering- “It’s an oath. Before Eywa.”
A divine oath.
Added to the fact that Gojo was slamming his ruddied tip into you with each syllable- and you could never forget about the sheer size difference. The way that it helped him bend over you and fold you in half as though nothing but a lawnchair—your ass was cleanly dangling off the floor with how much Gojo was bending you.
A mating press. The meanest one you’ve ever seen.
You’re hit with the sudden inclination that you weren’t about to walk out of here any time soon.
And Gojo seems to be doing well on that fact- he hadn’t completely bottomed-out yet, but he was still drilling into you with such fervour. Streaking his cum from before across every inch of you, a layer of white that you feel from the inside.
Feverish cocktip swabbin’ all the way at the back of your cervix, full balls smacking your cunt.
Every time he was hurtling his hips forwards, it almost felt as if the ground beneath you was trembling.
It almost felt as if he was hitting each of your geysering spots without even needing to try. Just so big that the veiny sides of his cock rubbed n’ dubbed up against those orifices unfairly.
It almost felt as if you were losing it-
“So I think you’ll have a loooot of fuckin’ research, beloved.” Gojo snickers, his tail flicking you playfully. And at this point you’re not even sure what the conversation was about, just knowing that it was the background music to the lecherous thwacking of his hips on yours.
So hard that you could feel the wads of his high from before glazing your insides. Dripping all the way near the rim of your cunt before being pumped back inside.
He pushes down on top of that bulge once more and watches you whine, “I almost don’t want to, mmm, ask what it’ll be about…”
“Ohhh, y’know—” Gojo trails off airily, something shaky in the back of his tone that sends shivers up your spine. It makes you almost content to know that you’ve gotten him so pussydrunken- but then again you weren’t too far behind. He tilts his head to the side and looks at you through partially closed eyes, smiling. “-human-Na’vi babies.”
And it’s with that that Gojo finally - finally - drills his cock all the way to the hilt.
Bottoming out.
His breath catches at the realization.
Blue eyes widening. Mouth watering.
It feels so different to have your hot innards surrounding him entirely- and fuck, Gojo wasn’t even sure whether a human like you would be able to take all of him. But it seems that you really were made for him, yes? Every curve and edge of you. Every bit of your cunt that he gives an experimental buck into, before pumping inside like a madman-
Pounding you into the smooth ground of the celestial temple.
It feels like you’re being thrust into heaven itself because of the way he was so big, big, big—all the way from the purple-ish tip that was zig-zagging your walls, to the oversized tummy bulge he was fucking into you, to the way he had you folded. Manhandled.
Gojo’s only lasting a few strokes before he’s crushing you to him so hard that it almost hurts- “Right here—right here.” The hand atop your stomach pushes down where his ruby-red tip was kissin’ and kissing at your womb. “You’re gonna have a lot ta research about fucking- ngh, getting bred by the fucking olo’eyktan. A lot to research about carrying my next heir, yeah?”
“Yes…” Arching your back into him.
“And then here—” That very hand now drifts down to the in-betweens of your pussylips and rubs his thumb over your clit. He’s drawing little circles and hearts on top of your sensitive nub that makes you wrack with pleasure, “Yer gonna have to research giving birth to such a biiiig baby, beloved.”
You shiver at the thought, mostly excitement.
And he purrs as he rubs his cheek against the sweaty crown of your head, “But s’okaaaaay- I’ll help you through every step of it, beloved. My mate.” The Na’vi’s staring down at you lovingly, fucking you filthily. “M’gonna breed you all full, okay? You might just have to research more about Na’vi phenotypes- heh.”
You can only nod. “Please…”
And before you can dwell too long on that last particular word—mate—he’s continuing. “And then you don’t have to worry ‘bout a thing- I can take care of eeeeverything. I’ll wash our kid. I’ll dress our kid. I’ll feed our kid. I’ll do everything and anything just please-”
“Y-yes?” Your voice cracks.
And he winks down at you almost mischievously, “Let’s do some research together on when I’ll be able to breed you all full of my cum next, hm?”
And with only a few more vicious thrusts, you’re feeling your second wave of pleasure tonight take over. You knew it’d been bubbling inside your veins for some time now- and right now it almost felt as if that euphoria was overflowing.
Overspilling.
Just like the gushing wads of slick that drivel over the front slit of your cunt and leave you so wet that you feel like a waterpark. Just rhythmic bursts of your high that leave your body loose and limp, shaking a bit every time that Gojo’s cockhead plummets inwards.
Head muddled.
Eyes rolling to the very back of your head.
This might just be the best orgasm of your entire life, and your wave of pleasure is looooong and drawn-out with how many times Gojo thrusts his cock in to fuck you through it. “Shit, Toru—”
Again and again and again.
Each time hitting the target of your g-spot dead-on and watching as you gush around him even more.
You were at Gojo’s complete mercy…almost.
Shaking. Your hands find themselves in his hair once more- or more precisely grazing the long length of his kuru. “Satoru.” You’re breathing out as he shivers carnally, “Satoru, I want it- ngh, inside.”
His eyes widen, “Demanding something of the olo’eyktan, are you?”
“Inside, Toru.” Desperate now.
To emphasize, you’re lightly tugging on his kuru and watching as it makes the Na’vi above you shudder. His cock pouring out heaps of precum that only act as a warning for something…more. “F-fuck, better keep this all in until tomorrow-”
At the very least.
You’re honestly not sure if you can keep it all in even now—because then Gojo’s throwing his head back and cumming long and hard. Harder than he ever thinks he has before- his seed dribbles out of him like a gooey waterfall, taking place inside every nook and cranny you have.
Heavy balls clenching almost aggressively as they empty out inside you.
He’s swervin’ each ounce of it inside by dragging his globular tip, that reddened cockhead making you swear you taste Gojo all the way at your throat.
Flooding.
Your toes curl, it almost feels as though he’s fucking you into a third and fourth high altogether-
“Until tomorrow-” Gojo barks out through his smoky tone, “Until always-” After reaching his high so many times in one night, his sparks of euphoria just rip through him. And you can feel the sheer intensity of it by the way his slippery slick thwacks! against the back of your pussy, hot and heavy. It seems to inflate you from the inside, “Until we have our…fuck.”
And it’s not like Gojo to let up a sentence. Especially one that wavered with emotion.
“Until I have…” He starts again, blue eyes twinkling. “…you.”
Right now he was cupping the side of your face with his left hand- accidentally…or perhaps not…dslodging the translating device from your ear.
And then the Na’vi olo’eyktan leans with his forehead pressing down on top of yours.
Dragging his hand down the side of your head, where his beads for you twinkled in the glow of Eywa’s tree. Breathing out the words—“Oel ngati kameie, muntxa si.”
He looks at you with a slightly sad smile as if he was almost bitterly glad you didn’t understand. Though little did he know…“Oel ngati kameie, Satoru.”
And the look on his face was worth all the time you’d spent poring over Na’vi language books with Shoko these past few days. At least you understood this.
You grin, “I did a bit of research myself.”
He holds you tight, he holds you as if he wanted you two to become one.
More so.
Eventually—after about four or so more rounds, and once you were thoroughly shattered and kept on begging for it, Gojo had swiped his long kuru into his hand and raised it up to you. You yourself didn’t have one, but if there was anything you learned from being with the Herwi people—it’s that love comes in all forms and differences.
You press your lips to his flower-like nerves at the very end of his braid. Immediately, a rush of something between you two and you understand what he meant about being mates.
You feel what Gojo sees.
You feel what Gojo smells.
You feel what Gojo hears.
You feel what Gojo tastes.
You feel what Gojo feels.
You feel complete.
.
.
.
Day #6 in the Herwi village (day after the mating):
The ancient of the Herwi clan were one of the only believers in fated mates, of one who had been destined to walk beside you upon this good planet through Eywa’s will. It was said that life does not flower until one meets one’s fate, not even the skies shall migrate, not even the ice shall melt.
Two souls bound to meet.
And until then one can only look up, up, up…
This scientist was found in quite the curious position as mate to the olo’eyktan on the morning after.
Re-entering the village, hand-in-hand, it was inevitable that the Herwi people would stare. Not only was it quite past the deadline of six moons given, but each bore resemblance of a mating session that could’ve been spotted a smile away.
Bite marks. Bruises. Slight falter in walking.
Not to mention that it seems word had spread about the…inoccupancy of the Tree of Winter just the night prior. (Additionally for more on Herwi stamina read Page 69…)
Circling back, the stares were rather unabashed. Some gasping. Some ribbing. Some tuts by elders of the clan who then again turned around with a smile.
It was obvious that they had been praying for the olo’eyktan’s happiness for a long, long time.
It must be noted that congratulations were doled out heavily at the communal dinner that night. Food. Dances. Parades.
It must be noted even further that preparations for coronation at the Herwi tsahìk shall be taking place in a week’s time. Who would have thought, a human being a tsahìk? Who would have thought that humans had fated mates as well?
For this scientist’s final note, preparations are already being planned meticulously for the arrival of a new heir to the Gojo name.
And that leaves the scientific community with one last thing, now that fluency in the Na’vi language is on the path to be attained: the glossary.
Tsahìk - Head shaman, high priest, interpreter..
Olo’eyktan - Male clan leader.
Mawey - Calm.
Txeylan - Best friend.
Ì’awn - Stay.
Fnu - Be quiet.
Txen - Awake.
Nga lu rusey- oh, nga lu rusey. - You’re alive- oh, you’re alive.
Oe'm lefpom. Txen? Lu nga txen? Tsal pung? - I’m happy. Awake? You’re awake? Are you injured?
‘Upe lu nga fwew? - What are you looking for?
Yawne? Oe'd tìng aynga. - Beloved? I’d give you anything.
Oe pey ngim krr. - I’ve been waiting a long time.
Tìnga’prrnen - Pregnant.
Tìnga’prrnen? Oe? - Pregnant? Me?
Nga new ne kanom oe tìnga’prrnen. - You want to get me pregnant?
Fì'u - This.
Irayo nga - Thank you.
Oe ke ronsem tsonta lu tìnga’prrnen. - I wouldn’t mind being pregnant.
Lake Yapay - Lake Steam.
Hona beads - Endearing.beads.
Mt. Hoet - Vast.
Kuru - Neural queue.
Oel ngati kameie, muntxa si. - I see you, my mate.
Oel ngati kameie, Satoru. - I see you, Satoru.
A/N. It must be acknowledged that Herwi culture was influenced by some aspects of Inuit culture, as well as some aspects of my own Sinhalese culture! Both such beautiful cultures that I was honored to research more in-depth on. Also this Na'vi vocabulary bank was used, and for longer Na’vi sentences this translator was used and might not be fully accurate ahhh-
there's nothing better than getting absolutely railed after a long day.
or, in steve's case, doing the railing. he has you folded in half, knees pressed to your chest and your ankles dangling limply over his shoulders. pressed so deep that you can hardly get a word out, cock ramming into you and punching the breath out of your lungs with the sheer force of it.
“that's it,” he grunts, arms braced on either side of your head. “taking that dick like a fuckin' champ.”
not the sweetest praise—though still technically praise—but you're hardly in a position to complain. he loves you like this: slack-jawed, head tipped back into your pillow and keening like a slut. so pretty with your forehead coated in sweat and your eyes rolling back as he fucks into you with wild abandon.
“mmmfuckk, you’re squeezing so—” he breaks off into a low moan. “think she wants it, huh?”
your pussy, he means. you know deep down that it should turn you off when he refers to it in the third person, but anything he does when he's like this is hot. hell, he could give it a name and you couldn't care less as long as he was buried balls deep in you and groaning your name.
and the thing about steve is that he's a very visual, concrete thinker (and, okay, maybe he has some extreme abandonment issues). so nothing compares to the idea of cumming deep inside your cunt and then watching himself drip out of you. for it to take and knock you up with his kid.
a rogue hand leaves your pillow, finding your parted lips and pressing two firm fingers into your mouth. you close instinctively around the digits, sucking on them as they press down on your tongue. “wants me to fill her up, ah—“
and god, you’re just gushing around him. the plap, plap, plap of his balls smacking against your cunt is obscenely loud, the creamy mess letting him sink right in with no resistance every time he rocks his hips. the pads of his fingers slide towards the back of your throat until it clenches tight. a wet gaggle bubbles up, muffled around his digits, and he moans wantonly at how fucking hot you look with saliva pooling around his fingers. his hand withdraws from your mouth, sliding down between your sweaty bodies to rub at your neglected clit. your entire body jolts, and his mouth lifts in a lopsided smirk, pleased with himself.
“you want it, don’t you?” he pants, shoulders flush against your ankles and keeping you bent in half. you can hardly move, stuck taking the relentless pressure of his body weight and his cock sinking into you. you aren’t sure how you’re meant to get out a reply, too preoccupied with mewling prettily every time he hits that sensitive spot so deep inside you that your vision blurs at the edges.
“want me to— mmm— make a mess of this pretty pussy? c’mon, baby, tell me you’ll take it.” steve loves this part: when you beg for it, crying and squirming until you cum so hard around him you forget your own name. “want to put a baby in you.”
“w-want it—!” you cry out, back arching up into the little space you have as the pressure on your clit increases. “i'll take it, steve, jus' cum in me, please—”
he's absolutely unabated in his desire to finish in you. it's endearing in its own way, though you're hardly thinking about the consequences of steve wanting to knock you up right now. somewhere, dreamily, you think about raising a family with him... right before he bottoms out again and fucks the thought right out of your head.
“there we go.”
you have a lot of tells when you're about to finish; steve doesn't have to be a genius to figure them out. your eyes get all glassy, mouth permanently open while your cunt flutters around him, walls squeezing in the approach of your impending orgasm. there's a slur of right there, feels'so good, oh my god right before—
“s-steve!”
you clench down around him, squeezing his cock so tight his hips stutter. he coaxes every last wave of pleasure out of you, fingers circling your clit mercilessly. he hasn't slowed down in the slightest, still rutting into you as he chases his own orgasm. steve likes to think he has stamina, but he's long since learned that he's no match for your tight heat.
“jesus, baby, you're— nghhh— perfect,” he grits out, pelvis grinding against you as his hand leaves your clit to plant both of them on the backs of your thighs. he's captivated by the sight of this flushed cock disappearing into you with each stuttered thrust, sucking him in until he's on the brink of something earth-shattering. “gonna cum. can't hold it, haaah—”
once upon a time, he would have pulled out at the last second, smearing himself across your stomach or your chest. back when he was king steve and it was some stupidly boyish symbol. now, boyfriend steve buries himself right to the hilt and brokenly groans out your name as he finishes. he spills into you, flooding you with spurt after spurt of silky heat. and he watches, captivated by the sight of white spilling out around where you're still stuffed full of his cock.
“jesus, steve, my legs,” you pant, pushing weakly at his shoulder in a shitty attempt at being stern.
“huh? shit, yeah, sorry. just... just gimme a sec.”
there's just something about the sight of your spent pussy dripping with his thick seed that triggers some juvenile, prideful part of his brain. because he did that. he put that there. and hell if he doesn't keep it there. his slick hand glides from your thigh to press his fingers against your twitching hole, fucking it right back into your sensitive cunt until you're squirming.
“don't be an ass,” you protest feebly.
“sorry,” he mutters, though you both know he couldn't give two shits about overstimulating you. he finally leans back on his haunches, easing your legs back down so you aren't bent in half. steve rubs apologetically at your thighs, eyes glued to where his release is still seeping out of you.
warnings: warnings: no use of y/n, established relationship, difficulties dealing with drunk-ness (steve), brief talk about anxiety, all around fluff
summary: you and steve are both new to this relationship thing, unsure if this will finally be the one — but it's already clear to everybody else that you two are perfect for each other and everything in between. based off "in between" by gracie abrams.
It’s everything new and fresh, yet frightening between you and Steve.
The way that you both had found yourselves here without knowing if what was happening was right for either of you. If the decision to finally act upon feelings was going to be the end of broken hearts and tearful nights and replace them with mended tapestries and starry eyes.
For the both of you, it seems scary, giving love another chance after the horrible paths that you two had previously been on, but it seems like everyone else already knows that you’re both walking hand in hand on Lover’s Lane.
Something hopeful connecting you two together and bringing you both where you needed to be — becoming everything in between.
Robin likes to tease Steve in the beginning stages of your relationship. Poking fun at him for the way he has always been irrevocably whipped and enamored by you even before he had finally asked you out.
He tries to play it cool like his persona, but deep down she knows it’s all just an act and he puts up so that it doesn’t seem like he’s moving too fast.
Her feet rest comfortably in his lap as they pass around the popcorn bowl, enjoying the new tape they had smuggled from Family Video. Not that they cared, since Keith never noticed. The couch seems a lot bigger without the rest of their friends there to hog it, but Steve still doesn’t mind the less than pedicured toes in his lap because it’s his best friend.
There’s a ring that comes from the house phone which is mounted to the wall on the other side of the room catching her attention quicker than the feeling of her legs getting pushed off his thighs as he rushes to answer it.
“Hey!”
It’s sick, honestly down right repulsive by the way he never lets the phone ring for more than a second or two when he knows it you on the other line. And she knows, he knows that it’s you calling because he just feels it in his bones — even when it could be one of the kids prank calling at this late hour; he knows that it’s you.
“Hi Stevie!”
She can practically hear you bubbling on the other side of the receiver and she swears Steve smiles a little harder just at the sound of your voice.
She doesn’t hear you ask how movie night is going, too busy with stuffing her mouth with popcorn entertained with the way Steve is leaning against the wall and acting like a total school girl over the fact that you called.
He only makes eye contact with her for a split second before he’s wiping the smile off his face to the best of his ability seeing the way his best friend is smirking like an idiot over the way he’s acting.
“Y-yeah, it’s great! Just some boring movie about spaceships and aliens — Oh, yeah, Robin’s just eating all the popcorn right now. She doesn’t mind.”
Steve shakes his head, not wanting to hang up the phone so soon. If he could, he’d talk to you for the whole night and he’s pretty sure Robin wouldn’t mind at all because it’d be way more entertaining than the forgotten movie on the tv.
“Tell her I said hi and I can’t wait to see her tomorrow!” You say enthusiastically and Steve does everything but groan, knowing that this will probably lead to some sort of teasing that from Robin’s end.
He pulled the phone away from his ear, holding it out in the air towards Robin as he speaks, “She says hi and she can’t wait til tomorrow.”
She chews, a smile still splaying on her face as she swallows and licks the crumbs off her lips before shouting out loud enough for you to hear.
“Hiya sunshine! Miss you bunches, but not more than your lover boooyyy!” She singsongs with a cackle erupting as soon as Steve snatches the phone back to his ear.
Your own laughter overlaps Robin’s, and it silences the embarrassment that Steve’s feeling because the last thing he wants is for you to think that he’s moving too fast. But for you, he’s moving at the right speed, the speed that has you throwing your hands in the air with butterflies filling your stomach in all the right ways.
“Ignore her. She’s trying to be funny.” Steve tries to quip, yet you’re still giggling, and it’s the kind that makes his cheeks heat up because he knows you’re blushing and smiling like a maniac.
He wishes he were there to see it for himself, the way you’d try to hide your face behind your hands because of how hard you were smiling and how he’d have to plead for you to put them down just so he could catch a glimpse and save that mental picture in his head forever.
Your voice is laced with sweetness as your giggles die down and only a second or two of silence comes before you speak.
“Don’t leave Robs hanging and go watch your movie…I’ll call in the morning, lover boy.”
He sure as hell doesn’t let the first ring even finish before he picks up the next morning and Robin is quite pleased because it doesn’t wake her up.
Steve’s house always seems to be the gathering place for get together’s, mostly because his parents are always gone and partly because the amount of room there is to roam around. And while there isn’t always alcohol at the functions because of the presence of the sneaky kids, when there is Nancy can always smell the anxiety in the air.
For her she knows that a piece of Steve is still mortified from the Halloween party a few years back which ended with spiked punch spilt all over her, a dramatic drunken argument, and the end of her and Steve.
She lives with that regret wishing she had been sober so she could’ve at least let him down easy and even after she had apologized she still knows that it haunts him, especially because she can see his face fall when she brings him a very intoxicated you.
“Woah, woah, hey,”
She guides you into his arms, watching the way he’s already grabbing at your shoulders and lifting your chin up with his thumb and forefinger. She sticks around, not knowing if she’ll need to help if you fall backwards in his living room. You definitely seem and look wasted, droopy eyes staring into Steve’s as you try your best to stand up straight.
“She might have had too many drinks.” Nance winces, looking back at the kitchen where empty solo cups are scattered over the kitchen table.
Steve breathes in, nodding his head and working your arm over his shoulders to keep you upright, “thanks, I’m gonna bring her to the bathroom to clean up.”
She nods, nibbling back a comment about how he shouldn’t bring you to the same upstairs bathroom that he had brought her in. It would be too much for him to handle this kind of situation again in the same place where she had broken his heart, but she knows you aren’t going to do that to him.
He proceeds, doing most of the holding up and walking, guiding you slowly up the stairs and down the hall to his bathroom where all your stuff is stored in your very a drawer he had cleared out just for you.
“Let’s sit, yeah?” Steve mutters quietly, closing the toilet lid and sitting you down on it.
He’s unsure of what to do, seeing as though you haven’t even spoken a word since Nancy brought you to him. Yet he knows you can hear him. The way your sluggish eyes stay on his let him know that you’re still aware that he’s here with you, he just doesn’t know what you’re thinking.
What is about to come out of your mouth when you finally begin speaking?
If it’ll be something that’s going to tear his heart apart and begin to make his eyes prickle. If he’ll have to beg you to not walk out because you’re not thinking straight. If this was all his love was ever going to amount to and end like this.
“S-staring,” You hiccup, your shoulders jerking
He furrows his brows, kneeling on the floor and squeezing your knee lovingly.
“Huh? What was that?”
You swallow back another hiccup, rubbing your fingers over your eyes, smudging your mascara, unknowingly.
“I said y-you’re staring.”
Steve watches when you pull your hands away, black pigment covering your finger tips though you don’t seem to notice or feel the slight sting of the product getting in your eyes.
Despite it all, a smile tugs up at the corner of your lips as you reach forward and wrap your arms around Steve’s neck, wanting to be close to his touch. You’re slouching into him, resting your forehead against his as he does his best to not laugh at the mess around your eyes.
“I was staring because you look like you had a lot to drink,” he says, smoothing your stay hairs behind your ear and cupping your cheek.
You close your eyes blissfully, taking him with you as you lean back slightly and reel in the feeling of his gentle touch.
“I think I had three…no four! cups of gin and tonic.” You mention, not bothering to open your eyes to catch his bemused look.
“Hmm, I believe it, sweetheart. Why don’t we take off your makeup then get you some water and a snack downstairs before bed?” He proposed met with your eyes opening and your head nodding.
He guides you towards the sink as you do your best to keep yourself upright against the counter as he swipes the damp makeup wipe over your face paying extra attention to the delicate skin around your eyes as he tries to get most of the mascara smudge off.
He knows which bottle is your face wash because he’s watched you do it a million times over at your place and he picked up a bottle to stay at his for when you spent the night. It’s like muscle memory for him even if this is the first time he’s doing it for you and he hopes it isn’t the last because it’s calming him down in a weird way.
What he had thought was going to be an explosive fight in his bathroom all over again was just you smiling and humming as his fingers glided over your face, happy that it was him taking care of you. Apparently you seem to enjoy it just as much, giggling as he smears the moisturizer over your face and rubbing it into your skin.
The task alone seems to wake you up enough that you’re beaming and talking a lot more than before.
“My face feels so soft!” You grin, tapping your palms on either side of your cheeks while Steve guides you back down the stairs and towards the kitchen.
Chuckling, Steve hoists you up on the countertops as he rummages through the dishes, finding a clean glass and filling it up with some ice and water.
“Really? You think I did a good job?” He urges as he carefully places the cusp between your lips and tilts it enough for you to sip slowly.
When you push your head forward, he knows you had enough, drawing it away and setting it on the counter. Both of his palms rest on either side, caging you in as your gaze is fixated on his face.
“The best job, ever…kisses?” You ask, playfully puckering your lips towards him.
He knows you mean, “can I kiss you for doing a good job” but he still gets it, flashing you a tender smile.
“Yeah, sure, why not,” He snickers, leaning closer as you hold his face in your hands and smile, “kisses, baby.”
A giddy smile plays on your lips as his lips touch yours. For you it feels just as special as the other’s kisses you two share even if your brain is half buzzing from the alcohol. But for Steve, it’s a wave of relief, one that washes away the cold and empty feeling from the past. All he wants to do is savor the sweetness of your lips and hands, keeping him grounded here with you.
“You’re gonna get me drunk.” Steve jokes against your lips and you giggle, pressing your lips harder against his to shut him up for a moment.
“Is that even possible?” You ask finally pulling away and running your thumbs over his cheekbones.
He shrugs, leaning into your touch, “Maybe, but I don’t mind.”
You grin, pressing one last kiss to his lips before pointing to the bag of Lay’s that sits unopen.
“Can I have some chips?” you request
“Sure, you can have the whole bag if you want,” He replies, reaching for it and tearing it open.
Steve’s more than happy to oblige, feeding you and offering you occasional sips of water while you both stay in the kitchen totally forgetting about the party around you.
It’s an endearing sight that Nancy can’t help but smile at from her place on the couch. She’s fulfilled with her own love that she shares with Jonathan, the boy who’s resting his head on her shoulder, tracing shapes on the scar in the palm of her hand.
But she’s especially fulfilled with the fact that she and Steve are on better terms now, one where they can be happy for each other now that they’ve found their person. She watches the way both of your faces light up with laugher and smiles even if you’re still a little tipsy. Steve doesn’t look at unease at all. If anything, he’s at peace knowing it’s you and this time, it’s different.
His home has seen plenty of ups and downs, tears and heartbreak, but love had found its way back in and new memories were replacing bad ones. It had been a long time coming and enough waiting around.
She knows you two found each other — the ones who will always care about each other and will always be there for one another.
Steve isn’t sure if you are just trying to be nice or if you genuinely don’t mind that the kids tag along to the places you two go. He knows it’s the latter, but still likes to question it.
The movie at the park seemed like a great idea, at first. It was something different rather than just going to the theaters or watching it on his couch, and to top it all off it was a showing of your favorite movie, “Can’t Buy Me Love.”
But it was a great idea before the kids begged to tag along, promising that they wouldn’t talk during the movie and would even bring their own blankets and money for snacks. Steve tried to oppose the idea, giving the reasoning that it was a date which meant two people: him and you.
But you had shaken him off, telling them that you wouldn’t mind if they wanted to come along and if anything the more the merrier.
And who was Steve to argue?
For once, the kids were really on their best behavior, paying attention to the movie and passing their snacks and drinks around while they watched, but that was before their sugar rush caused them to crash, bringing fatigue to their eyes.
“Poor things,” you pout at the sight of the children sprawled out a few feet in front of you and Steve.
He snorts, seeing their jumbled limbs stretching over each other. You both tried to convince them to space out across the grassy area, but they insisted on being squished together like sardines in order to get to the snacks easily.
“S’okay, they probably needed the nap.”
He rubs your arm, keeping you warm against the chilly night breeze as you settle the back of your head against his shoulder, wrapping your arms across yourself.
“They’re gonna miss the best part.” You say wistfully, slumping into him.
“Honey, you practically spoiled it on the car ride here. I don’t think they’ll miss much.” He badgers as you turned your face into his chest and stifle your giggle there.
Your laugh is infectious, like music to his ears that he’d much rather listen to compared to the static-y audio that plays over the low quality speakers. There’s a kiss he lays on the crown of your head as you turn your sights back to the sleeping teens, hoping they’re not too uncomfortable with the lack of pillows and a comfy mattress on their backs.
“Remember how you said I have a soft spot for these twerps?” You mention serenely.
He hums, resting his chin on the top of your head, “yeah, what about it?”
“You’re right, but I just can’t help it. They’re adorable and I’d let them crash all our dates if you’d let me.”
Steve jokingly scorns, swinging his head against your, “Oh, don’t start, they’d never leave us alone.”
You roll your eyes half heartedly, turning your attention back to the movie. Meanwhile, Steve’s focus is still all on you, wrapping his arms over the front of your body and nuzzling his face between your shoulder blade to give the space beneath your ear a kiss.
“I’m so lucky to have you…even those little shit heads are lucky to have you.” Steve admits out of nowhere.
He can’t resist telling you how much he appreciates you even with a cheesy movie and his annoying children a few feet away. To him, you’re his world no matter what’s in front of him. You maneuver your head enough to look up at him as you swat his chest playfully, trying to brush off his compliment that has you blushing.
“No I mean it,” he insists, leaving another sweet kiss on your skin before cradling your face in his warm hands.
“You’re so beautiful and kind. You don’t ever get annoyed at the kids for crashing our dates. You don’t get annoyed at me for getting annoyed at them.”
You hide your cheek in your shoulder, wrapping your fingers over his wrists where he still holds you.
“Yeah, well, you’re not too bad yourself.” You nudge him with your elbow.
“Yeah?” He smirks with a curious glint in his words as you nod, “care to share?”
“Believe it or not, you’re so patient. I’ve never seen a guy handle teenage kids as effortlessly as you do. You’re so hardworking and even when you’re tired you give me all your time in the world. You’re generous and—”
He can’t resist interrupting mostly because if you keep talking he’s sure he’s going to permanently etch the world’s biggest smile on his face forever.
“Alright, alright, I get it, babe. I’m like the whole package and the best boyfriend ever.” He gloats jokingly, pulling your face closer to his in order to connect to your lips.
“Yeah you dork, you really are.” You hum, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him deeper into you.
The movie is now long forgotten by you and Steve, too infatuated and caught up in each other to care about the corny love story that plays. You know that yours is better than any movie out there even your favorite one — you and Steve top them all.
Unbeknownst to the both of you, the kids hear every single word you and Steve had uttered to each other thinking that they were asleep. For them, they know every word is true, the two of you always bragging about how special the other half is when they aren’t around — the fact that you two say it without reservation when you think no ones around to hear makes it clearer that you two are meant to be.
By the time the movie is over, you’re softly shaking the kids awake and Steve’s folding up the blankets.
“It’s already over?” Lucas yawns stretching his arms up dramatically.
“We missed it?” El says disappointedly going the extra mile by rubbing the ‘sleep’ out of her eyes.
You hum sympathetically, nodding your head, “You guys dozed off, but you didn’t miss much. Ronald and Cindy live happily ever after in the end.”
“Just like every other cheese rom-com.” Dustin sighs standing up and brushing the grass off his clothing.
Max rolls her eyes, lending out a hand toward El and helping her up, “that’s the whole point of rom-coms, idiot. They’re supposed to be cheesy and have some stereotypical trope. It’s more entertaining than realistic.”
You smirk, picking out a shard of grass from her red hair, “You’re right, because real romance is totally different. More special, you know.”
The kids don’t miss the way you look back at Steve and hold your hand out for him to take as you all begin walking towards the parking lot ready to load into Steve’s car and commence a night full of drop offs.
“Oh trust us, we know.” Will hailed out with a knowing smile.
They watch as Steve presses a kiss to your cheek, opening the passenger door and letting you in before everyone else.
“Ugh, they make me so sick,” muttered Mike with feigned annoyance, secretly happy that he got to sit in the trunk far away from you and Steve’s sappiness.
As far as everyone else was concerned, the movie in the park was a hit. It was totally worth it seeing the best love story play out — they just didn’t know they were the exclusive viewers.
Joyce and Hopper finally tied the knot in a very small and intimate ceremony in their backyard. Steve had brought you around for the first time, though Hop and Joyce were pretty much familiar with you already, hearing so many good things from Steve.
He appreciated how they instantly welcomed you in, hugging you and thanking you for the small gift you had brought along to celebrate their special day. The two of you sat on the picnic benches, hands held underneath the table as you watched the pair share their first dance as husband and wife.
Half-way through, you had leaned into him, resting your cheek on his shoulder, and he promptly leaned into you, cushioning you snugly as you watched with adoring eyes.
“They look so in love.” You spoke faintly, looking up at him through your lashes with a grin on your face.
He glances down at you, pecking at your lips and nodding, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hop dance.”
You pursed your lips, shaking your head as you held back your laughter, “I guess love really does its thing.”
“It does.” He smiles, kissing your temple as the music dies down to something more upbeat and alive.
“C’mon, people, get up here and dance!” Joyce whistles, gesturing everyone over though everybody seems to hesitate for a moment.
But not Steve.
“Wanna dance?” He smirks, squeezing your hand as you lift your head.
You nod, looking up at him while he stands holding his hand out for you, which you gladly take without a second thought.
“I should warn you, your toes might get stepped on. I’m not the greatest at dancing.” He confesses kissing your head as you giggle and shake your head.
“I won’t mind, long as you’re the one carrying me off the dance floor by the end of it.” You say giving his hand a squeeze.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” He promises.
The two of you seamlessly sway back and forth, your arms draped over his neck and his wrapped tightly around your waist. You guys don’t seem to notice or care that you’re the only other couple on the dance floor — too much in your own world.
There are whispers and smiles that you and Steve share as you both loosen up to the music. His hand guiding you into a spin that makes you giggle and fall back into his chest, looking up at him dizzily.
While the dance floor isn’t anything special, just freshly trimmed grass underneath your foot, it feels like holy ground. A scared, special, one of the kind place that the both of you feel so safe in that it doesn’t matter if everyone else is watching.
“How long until you think they’ll get married?” Hop asks his wife, leading her to the picnic tables to catch a quick break.
She snickers, pinching his arm fondly, “Won’t be surprised if they ask the officiant to stay a little longer.”
They’ve got a front row view to a sight that reminds them of their own love. The younger versions of themselves that wished they had gotten together soon, but they’re more than happy for the both of you, clapping and cheering as Steve dips you low and presses a kiss to your lips.
You two can feel the fireworks, their plans to extinguish never dare to exist. It’s just you and Steve, the holy ground beneath you, and the sparks flying.
Hangouts don’t feel the same when you’re not there, for Steve especially it feels like a missing piece that he’s thinking and worrying about even if you’re just working a night shift. He knows he’ll get to see you bright and early the next morning — will probably even call out of work just so he can be your human pillow while you caught up on sleep.
He tries not to think so hard about it, focusing on Eddie’s high score that he’s trying to beat on the Nintendo while Dustin breathes down his neck and the others watch the television screen.
“Mom! Phoneeeeeee!” Mike yells as the landline begins to ring.
It nearly throws Steve off and by this point he feels like he should just give up because he doesn’t stand a chance beating Eddie’s score. Yet he still tries to focus, thumbs nudging the joysticks and tugging his bottom lip between his teeth, almost drawing blood by how hard he’s trying.
The basement door swing open, Mrs. Wheeler covering the receiver with her palm as she speaks loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Steve, it’s your girlfriend.”
Only then does the controller drop from his hands like it doesn’t matter. His legs spring up, quickly looking up the stairs to give Karen a smile before she nods and closes the door.
“Dude, you almost had it!”
Dustin groans tugging at his curly roots, realizing he now owed Mike and Lucas $20 for the stupid bet. Eddie slaps the top of his head gingerly, urging them to be quiet as they all zero in on Steve picking up the phone.
“Baby?” He says hurriedly with a confused glint to his voice.
He can hear your sniffles and a small cough leaving your mouth on the other end. Worry and anxiety fill his veins on instance. Something is telling him that there’s something wrong, and he’s proven right when you finally reply weakly.
“H-hey, how’s game night?” You try your best to keep it together, to not let him know you’re holding back tears.
His foot comes tapping on the ground and his body begins to shake not knowing what’s going on.
“Y-you’re crying? What’s the matter, sweetheart? Did something happen? Where are you?”
Steve’s spitting out questions faster than you can answer and the others who are listening can only grow more concerned knowing that the Steve their seeing on the phone isn’t his sappy lovey self.
You swallow, sniffling again, “I’m okay, babe. I—I just needed to hear your voice.”
His heart aches hearing the obvious sadness in your voice that you’re trying to mask, but all it does is cause more worry. You’ve cried to Steve a hand full of times and each time it still breaks his heart, but it hurts even more that you’re far away and he’s not able to see you face to face.
“You’re scaring me. I’m gonna come there and get you.” He offers immediately, patting his pockets checking if he has his car keys which he doesn’t have.
“No, no, it’s fine, I called because I quit…I quit my job.” You explain with a heavy sigh.
There’s silence for only a quick moment, a breath of relief coming from Steve knowing that you aren’t in danger, but he’s prompt to offer to come and get you again.
“Oh…baby, I-I’m sorry. Did you want me to come there and pick you up? Eddie could drive your car back home and we’ll take my car together?”
He’s speaking gently, peering over his shoulder at Eddie who is already nodding and standing up ready to go wherever you are, knowing that Steve needs to know you’re safe.
You take a shaky breath, collecting yourself before speaking, “You don’t have to do that. I’m fine to drive…it’s just that I needed to hear your voice before I got into the car. Just a long night, I’m sorry for worrying yo—”
Steve shakes his head, waving his hand over towards Eddie, telling him that it’s okay and he can sit back down before mouthing a “thank you” before turning back to the call.
“Hey, no stop, don’t apologize. I’m right here okay? Not gonna hang up until you’re ready. I’ll be waiting for you as soon as you’re ready to hang up okay?”
You don’t try to hide it anymore, letting your sniffles and sobs loose. Every second that passes by is tugging on his heart strings wanting to do nothing more than to rush wherever you are, but he knows you’re going to be fine, you just need some more time with him.
“O—okay, just had a really long night. I was trying to just get through my shift but, I…I just couldn’t do it.”
You sound pissed off at yourself, irritated that you couldn’t make it through the night shift. But he knew it was for good reason if it made you up and quit — he didn’t blame you and he was far from mad.
“And that’s perfectly fine, sweetheart. Whatever it is, we’re gonna figure it out alright? We can look through the newspaper for job offerings and I can take you to drop off resumes. It’s all gonna be okay, ok?”
“Okay,” you whisper faintly, swiping away at your tears and nose.
He knows it’s important that you calm down before you get behind the wheel. If you don’t, he’ll drive down there himself, not wanting to risk you driving when you’re feeling like this.
“I’m right here with you, baby. Deep breath, in and out. That’s good, babe.” He guides you through it, hearing your shaky breaths slowly easing.
Steve doesn’t have to turn his head to know the worry etched on his friends’ faces is apparent. They’re anxiously waiting, wondering what’s going on, only being able to hear parts of it through Steve’s tender words that he offers you.
They know they all have a habit of teasing him and poking fun at the way he’s whipped over you, but this is a different side of him that they rarely get to witness. The vulnerable side that only comes out when he’s with you even with the distance that’s keeping you both apart.
“Okay, I’ll see you soon, alright, baby? Drive safely.” He speaks, nodding his head to himself before he places the receiver back on the stand and turns to face his friends.
“Is she okay?” Eddie asks worriedly as Steve nods and brushes a hand through his hair.
“She had a tough night and quit. She’s heading her now.” Steve reveals and everyone nods before Robin stands up and pats him on the back.
“C’mon, let’s go wait for her upstairs.”
The gang had migrated from the basement to the living room, awaiting your arrival. They had tried to do everything to reassure Steve, to get him to sit down and wait patiently, but they weren’t surprised that he didn’t budge and instead kept his place by the window, watching the driveway.
Everyone has their eyes on the clock, watching the minutes pass by and glancing every so often when headlights pass the street, thinking that it’s you.
The worried expression doesn’t leave his face until he finally sees two headlights turn into the driveway.
“She’s here,” Steve says under his breath, not wasting a moment to dash out the front door, slamming it behind him.
He’s at the driver’s side before you can even put the car into park. His fingers wrap around the door, pulling it open as you don’t hesitate to get out and wrap your arms around him, hiding your teary face in his neck as you melt into his embrace.
“Shhh, I’ve got you,” He says quietly, keeping one of his hands on the back of your head while the other rubs comforting circles on your back.
He presses a kiss to the top of your head and he can feel the tears springing from your eyes, trailing across his skin. The feeling burns him in every kind of way that tears his heart apart slowly. How he wishes he can take the weight of what you’re feeling off your shoulders and instead he can carry it for you. But all he can do right now is hold you, brush his hard over your head and pull you as close as he can get you, and whisper words of comfort, hoping it will take the pain away.
“I—I really needed you. I just kept thinking of how badly I wanted to run into your arms when I walked out of there. They made me feel so stupid and useless and I—”
He shushes you smoothly, shaking his head and tearing you away from his neck so you can see him.
“Screw them, baby. We can write a complaint or something because you don’t deserve to get treated like that, alright?” His voice is firm full of determination not showing you how angry he is at your boss or co-workers for letting this escalate.
Your palms come up to your eyes, rubbing them as your voice breaks. “I know, but I just feel so d-dumb—”
He shakes his head, tugging gently at your wrists to stop you from hiding, “Hey stop, don’t say that. You don’t know how much you mean to me and how much I hate when I hear you say those things about yourself.”
You sniffle, smiling at him apologetically, “Sorry, I know…I—I’m just happy to be here with you.”
“Yeah, well, I’m glad you called and I’m happier to know you’re okay. I was scared shitless.” He grimaces, grazing his sights over every inch of your tear-stained cheeks and puffy eyes.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you say softly, “I was just planning on showing up here, but I guess everything was just building and building and when I finally quit and walked out of there I felt like I was going to collapse and I just needed you.”
His heart swells with love and admiration, for a minute it replaces the worry and anguish. It’s stupid because he shouldn’t be smiling as wide as he is right now with tears prickling his eyes in the best way possible.
You’ve never held back on telling him how much you cared and appreciated him for being the best boyfriend in the world…but to be needed is a whole different level that he’s new to. One that mends his heart of all the traumas and has him holding your face in his hands while he blinks the tears down his cheeks as you watch.
You’re confused, brows pinching together as you swipe your thumbs across his cheeks and wonder what he’s thinking and smiling about. It’s only when he speaks that you understand what’s happening.
“I love you, you know that?” His voice quivers, teeters on the edge of fear and letting go.
Your jaw trembles, new tears falling down your cheeks, this time in a happy way that has you forgetting about the horrible shift you had just endured.
None of that matters when you’re standing in the arms of the man who’s telling you that he loves you.
You’re laughing through the tears, feelings the comfort and safety in his embrace, “Y-yeah?” you ask stupidly, as if he could ever change his mind.
He nods, laughing weakly,“Yeah…like a lot. I love you so much and I’m always gonna be here…not gonna go anywhere. Right here whenever you need me.”
“I love you too, Stevie.” You cooed, standing up on your tiptoes and kissing him with every ounce of your being.
Your lips move in synchronicity, the familiarity of each other never building contempt, instead making you both stronger. It’s a feeling that will never get old and that neither of you would get tired of experiencing. Even at your worse, you know it’ll always be okay as long as you have him to keep you tethered.
Time freezes for everyone, not just you and Steve — your friends watching in the window and smiling at the scene before them.
They’ve always known that you and him were in love since the moment you two said hello. It’s just that now, it feels a lot nicer being able to witness the moment you two finally realize it. The love you share and everything in between.
💌 reblogs, tags, comments, + likes are greatly appreciated! leave a comment and let me know if want to be added to my taglist!! 💌
a/n: i hope you guys like this little something something i wrote based off "in between" by gracie abrams. i absolutely love this song and it's so underrated (ITS UNREALEASED KINDA LOL). anyways, let me know what you think!
dad!steve having the feral urge to breed you immediately after you give birth to your first son )):
let it be known that steve harrington had never been quiet about his urge to have lots of kids and a big family. he’d known since he was a young teenager that was what he wanted — a family of his own, little harringtons running around the yard and causing a ruckus whilst he barbecued and his trophy wife laid on her sun lounger, getting a tan in her pretty bikini. that was all he ever wanted in life, all he could ever remember wanting.
and then he met you. he knew from the get go that you were the one. he wanted to see you with a big pregnant belly, parade you around town and show you off like you were the hottest piece of ass in town (you were, to him). let everybody know he was the one who knocked you up, was the cause of your shapely body, child-baring hips, fatter ass.
you got pregnant not even a month after getting married, because of course you did. steve was insatiable, fucked you at any given opportunity on your fertile days — went as far as showing up to your office and pounding you in the toilet cubicle on your lunch break. you might’ve known you’d both be ridiculously fertile, twenty-somethings fucking like rabbits tended to end up in this situation quickly.
the day he noticed the pudge of your belly looks different, rounded and a little harder than usual, he fucked you so hard you saw stars. whispered sweet nothings in your ear about how sexy you looked, how much your belly turned him on.
the bigger you got, the less he could keep his hands off of you. and you can’t say you complained, the pregnancy hormones drove you just as wild, had your pussy aching and sopping wet for him all the time. steve took advantage of it, of course he did, he would’ve been a fool not to. he’d never been so horny in his life, so desperate for a fuck.
you give birth to a boy. he’s the most precious little guy, has the thickest head of curly hair and his dads pretty brown eyes. you’re both besotted, in love, and you’d never seen steve take to a job as well as he took to being a dad. you knew then he that it was clearly what he was destined to do, and you’d do anything to keep him this happy.
you both love being parents. but the no sex is hard, especially with your whirlwind of hormones, and the fact steve hadn’t gone longer than a day without stuffing your pussy for the last year. you yearned for each other, but headed the warnings your midwife had given you — six weeks minimum, no goddamn exceptions.
he pounces on you the second you get through the door from your six week postpartum appointment, all he needs is your subtle nod of the head and he’s backing you up against the wall — hitches your leg over his hip and grinds into you through the thin material of your panties, sundress slipping up to expose you to him.
he kisses you like a man starved, six weeks of not fucking you felt like a lifetime, and all he wants is to shove his cock in you and fill you with his seed. get you all nice and pregnant with another harrington sprog — and he knows how fertile you are at this stage, knows just one slip up will have you knocked up again and it makes his cock ache.
you’re just as eager for it, of course you are. the sad, stressful healing stage was over three weeks ago and the hormones swirling through your body were showing themselves as sexual frustration. you paw at steve’s loose basketball shorts, tug him closer until you’re slipping the material down his toned thighs, dragging his boxers with them to pool at his feet.
he doesn’t waste time after that, pulling the damp material of your panties to the side and exposing your soaked cunt to the air. you gasp against his lips; feel the thick head of his cock slide in between your folds, running over your clit just barely before he moves back down, pushing the tip into your hole with minimum resistance.
you’re lifted onto your tiptoes with the sheer force of steve slipping his cock into your sweet, wet pussy. he buries his face into your neck and let’s out the prettiest gasp once he’s fully sheathed, stilling for just a moment to make sure you’re okay and nothing hurts.
it’s endearing in an otherwise feral, highly charged situation. you whine a little, hand reaching to card through his messy hair, in hopes it’ll get him to just move. you feel so full, his cock stretching you in this achingly delicious way, and your walls spasm around his length, causing him to grip your thigh just a bit harder.
“fuck, baby. never felt you this wet before, shit,” steve talks like he’s struggling to catch his breath, rocks into you and let’s put a stifled groan, like he’s trying to stop himself from coming on the spot. you feel his cock pulse inside of you, more or less confirming your thoughts.
“need you to move, steve,” you gasp, begging quietly for him to just fuck you. he cranes his neck from his place in your own, looking at you with lust blown eyes, puffy red lips spit-slick, “c’mon, babe. show me what i’ve been missing.”
steve grunts at your words, lifts you up from the ground completely with his strong arms, tapping your thigh twice to get you to wrap your legs around him. you do so willingly, whining as the angle makes him slip just that little bit deeper into your pussy, knocking your cervix. you don’t think you’d ever get used to the sheer size of him, how you were able to feel every ridge and vein. he was right, though, — you were wetter than usual.
he plants his hands firmly under the curve of your ass, helping lift you off of his cock, then guiding you to sink back down. you can’t help yourself, back arching off the wall as you mewl, a shuddery moan puffing from your lips.
“you’re so tight, baby, goddamn,” steve grunts, eyes rolling a little as your cunt engulfs him in wet hot heat, the two of you picking up a rhythm with you bouncing and him fucking up into you, “fuck, you feel so good. missed this, missed your little pussy.”
you choke out a sob at his words, hand tightening in his hair as you lean forward to kiss him — it’s half hearted, you’re just panting into his mouth, mostly. his cock is so deep you feel him in your guts, know he’s going to shoot his load so deep there’s no way you’re getting out of here without getting knocked up.
steve pants against your mouth, not taking his eyes off or you as he pounds into you, keeping you lifted up like it’s fucking nothing, “gonna knock you up again, would you like that, baby? want your belly all full for me again, need it.”
you nod your head fervently, crying out as you sink down and the angle changes slightly, has the curve of steve’s cock brushing your spongey spot perfectly, “please, please. fill me up with your babies. want everyone to — shit, right there! — know your f-fat cock did it.”
steve glances down, catches the sight your tits by accident. all hard and leaking, making a mess of your pretty little dress. he can’t have that, have you sore and aching, that wouldn’t make him a very good husband now, would it?
he drags you over to the sofa without pulling out, sits down gently until you’re back to being fully seated on his cock, and almost in a complete juxtaposition, rips down your dress to expose your tits to the warm air. you hiss, nipples pulled tight and leaking liquid gold. you hadn’t even noticed, too wrapped up in the feeling of being split apart.
“babe, you have no idea how much i’ve wanted to do this,” steve sighs, leaning down to latch onto one of your nipples, causing you to let out a startled little yelp that quickly turns into a moan. it’s fucked up — you’re both fucked up, getting off on him suckling at your tit like he’s starving, lapping at your milk like he’d die without it.
you bury your hands back into his hair, tugging him impossibly closer as you slide your hips back and forth, gaining purchase on your clit, enough to have your tummy tightening and core aching, “oh my god,” you cry, tears pricking your eyes at the relief you feel all at once — from your sore tits, your desperate cunt, every little bit of you relaxing at once.
steve looks up at you with innocent eyes, dragging his mouth from your left tit with a small thumb over your nipple, putting his attention on the other one and suckling on it instead. you’re dripping wet with milk, leaking down your belly and soaking your dress through. you can’t find it in you to care when steve’s looking after you like this, gently bucking up into you from below.
“c’mon, steve, finish the job,” you sigh eventually, pawing at the back of his head and tugging the tresses between your splayed out fingers, “cum in me, wanna feel you dripping out of me later, hmm?”
steve takes that as his cue, unlatches from your sore nipple, grabs hold of your hips extra tight and begins fucking you like he means it — hard, fast, enough to have you doing no work as he throws you around like a damn rag doll. your nails claw at his shoulders, the sound of wet skin slapping and your sopping wet cunt engulfing your senses, having you crying out.
“that’s it, baby,” steve grunts, sliding a hand over the front of your pussy and planting his thumb on your clit, circling it quickly, the sensation enough to make you almost scream, “gonna cum all over my big cock, yeah? milk me with your tight, wet pussy?”
you nod your head, crying out as the warmth begins to pool in your belly, the ruddy tip of steve’s cock brushing your g-spot rhythmically, mixing with the feeling of his calloused thumb running over your clit sending you hurtling to the edge quickly, “i’m cumming steve, fuck, fuck—!”
your pussy clenches sporadically as you come, grinding down against steve’s pubic bone as you ride it out, fingernails digging into his shoulders so hard he hisses, slaps your ass in retaliation. you swear you’ve never came so hard in your fucking life, whole body tensing and going lax just as fast.
“that’s it, honey. cum all over me, shit, you’re so fucking wet,” steve’s losing composure, fucking up into you sporadically, going crazy over the sounds and feeling of your wet cunt dripping all down his shaft, wetting him right down to his balls, making a mess of your expensive sofa, “gonna fill you full of my jizz, get you all pregnant, can’t wait to see you with a belly again — fuck, m’gonna cum,”
you’re moaning uncontrollably, body basically limp under steve’s touch as he fucks you with purpose, chasing his own release. you squeeze around him again, milking his cock and that does it — his hips stuttering, grabbing hold of you to force you down onto his shaft deep as he comes, head thumping back onto the sofa cushions, eyes rolling in his head.
you can’t say you’re surprised when your period doesn’t arrive on time. you’re even less surprised to see the plus sign on the blue test five minutes later.
summary: Steve gets his wisdom teeth removed. You dote from his bedside, even if, post-anaesthesia, he seems to have completely forgotten you’re his girlfriend.
[3.6k + established!relationship + fem!reader]
There’s a faint beep from a machine tucked in the corner, but other than that the room is quiet.
As quiet as it can be, at least. Hospitals are never truly silent, you think. The whole building hums with the coursing thrum of rushing doctors and the buzz of fluorescent lights; a hive for busy bees.
Steve’s room is decently tucked away from any of the busyness of the some of the more frantic floors, thankfully.
Occasionally, a nurse does a round and you spy them walking by through the slats in the blinds. But besides that, it’s just you and your twiddling thumbs to keep yourself company until Steve wakes up.
The nurse who’d let you in left maybe 20 minutes ago — about how long she said it would take for Steve to wake back up. You don’t have a watch on, but the room has a big clock that ticks silently, the second hand juddering around the clock face.
You’ve been watching it, waiting to put said twiddling thumbs into action the moment Steve stirs.
And if you’re not keeping track of the time, you’re studying your boyfriend’s face.
Steve looks a bit silly and a bit lovely all at once.
He’s out cold in the hospital bed and his cheeks are stuffed with cotton, making him resemble a chipmunk, to stem the bleeding in his mouth. His face is lax and his cheek is slightly squished against the pillow.
There’s a touch of drool from the corner of his mouth. Well, just a touch is generous of you to say.
You’d wiped it away initially, doting and caring, but Christ almighty, he’s definitely out cold. It’s a river of slobber.
Your search for tissues was futile and after the second time you’d wiped it with your sleeve, you decided the pillow is soaking it all up just fine.
He must be on something really strong. Deep roots, the doctor told you whilst explaining why Steve was under so much anaesthesia.
Your lips purse worriedly as your eyes roam over his face. You hope the whole procedure won’t hurt him much.
Steve’s been through the wringer these last couple years, so much that one would expect something as minuscule as a wisdom teeth removal shouldn’t warrant too much worry — except it has the opposite effect on you. Left on your own, your worry grows exponentially.
You eye the clock again.
How long since that nurse left again? How long before Steve’s been asleep for too long? He's had one too many concussions, which you did tell the doctors about, but maybe they missed something. Maybe you should hit the call button anyway.
The clock ticks forward.
A nurse passes by the window.
On the bed, Steve’s fingers twitch.
A breath of sigh presses its way out your lungs, warm relief flushing through your chest, and you reach forward to click the call button in an instant. You’re on your feet quickly, crowding in closer.
The cool bar of the bed presses into your upper thighs as you reach across it to hold Steve’s hand.
Evidently groggy, Stave’s eyelashes flutter open. You’d think he looks like a Disney princess if his mouth wasn’t gaping open and drooling with blood. He groans, long and languid, reeking of pain and the subsequent painkillers.
Before he's even opened his eyes, he's shifting about. The muscles in his neck tense as he tries to lift his head.
“Hey, hey," You speak softly, thumb rubbing gently across the back of his hand. Your other hand brushes against his forehead, urging him to lay back down. "Just take it easy there, tiger."
Steve makes another gravelly groany noise but relents against your touch, sinking back into the pillow in one magnificent slump. His eyes are open, hazel peering at you curiously as he blinks slowly.
"Wuh?" He manages to say, his jaw barely moving.
Despite how you try to resist, an endeared smile pulls at your mouth.
They did say he would be a little dopey when he came to. You're just now finding out how dopey that means.
Glancing at the door, you wonder how long you should wait before hitting the call button again. You're pretty sure Steve, proactive as ever, is gonna start pulling the cotton out of his mouth as soon as he realises its there.
"—Wuh 're 'ou?—"
To Steve, perhaps, those were real words. You're not entirely sure what he's meant to say, though you hazard a guess he's asking who you are.
In the same moment you go to answer, Steve's eyes drift off to the ceiling, unfocussed.
He raises the hand you aren't holding and bumps it against his jaw, then releases a long, drowsy owwwwwww in response.
Are you gonna lose good girlfriend points for laughing at this? Your lips purse together once more, this time buttoning in your laughter.
You rescue Steve from himself, reaching out and grabbing the other hand before he can prod himself in the face again.
"Wah 'appened?" He says, his eyes sluggish as they drag back over to you. It looks like it takes immense effort and you reward him with a loving squeeze of his hand.
"Your wisdom teeth, baby. You got them taken out."
Steve's eyebrows rise at a snail's pace, his face slowly forming an astounded expression.
"My teef?" He says, baffled. "'Ey took them?"
He extracts his hand from yours, raising it back up as if he's going to search his mouth for the very missing teeth.
You capture it midway up, tugging it back down. "Careful, you don't wanna touch it again. It'll be very sore."
Steve, bamboozled by just how exactly his hand rapidly changed course, takes a long moment to register your words. He blinks, one eye at a time, like a frog.
"Ow?"
You can't resist a little grin, nodding. "Yeah, baby, ouch."
That seems to get the message across. Steve doesn't try to raise his hand again, however, instead he realises that you're holding both of them. He's very unsubtle, half-lidded eyes peering down the bed with a suspicious squint to them.
Then, very slowly, he begins to pull both his hands away.
You let him do so, amusedly releasing your soft grip. Maybe hand-holding — usually one of Steve's favourite things — isn't so nice when you're high as a kite. You only want your boyfriend to be as comfortable as possible.
Except, when you glance back up at Steve's face, the narrowed, suspicious gaze is now directed at your face.
"Y'ur nice." He slurs, the compliment completely at odds with his sceptical demeanour. His hands are still pulled to his chest, tucked up awkwardly. "'N gongeous. But—"
He manages to raise one finger up straight, the only movement of his hands.
"Am—"
The end of his sentence is stolen by the hiss of the door, pushed open by the same nurse from earlier. You didn't catch her name.
She's a nice looking woman, dressed in green scrubs, and she smiles upon seeing Steve up and awake on the bed.
"Why hello there, Steve," She greets casually, sidling up to the other side of Steve's bed with a clipboard in hand. "How are we feelin'?"
Steve's turned to face her but you can see the clear hesitation in his face, evidently searching for any hint of recognition.
The hands held up against his chest sway a bit. Steve blinks slow.
"Who 'r 'ou?" He repeats the same question he asked you in the exact same cadence.
The nurse smiles at that, which is a nice way of letting your anxiety know you're not allowed to be too worried.
"I'm your nurse, Marissa. We met a few hours ago before your surgery. Do you remember that?"
It's a careful probe, seeing just how much Steve's recall is working. He thinks about it real hard, eyes staring in the distance as his tongue poking out a bit in concentration, before he moves his head in a way that's probably a no.
"That's okay, Steve. Everyone reacts a little differently to general, but it shouldn't last longer than a few hours." She reassures him.
The clipboard in her hands has a few pieces of paper clipped to it and she flicks through them. You sort of wish you had Steve's hand to hold, just to comfort yourself. The bar on his hospital bed will have to make do.
When Marissa speaks, she glances over at you, talking to both of you. "Looks like everything went to plan, no hitches or issues. You'll be free to take him home in another 20 minutes or so—so long as nothing crops up."
You nod, grateful to hear that. Though, you're not looking forward to wrangling your loopy boyfriend out the door and to the car when he's in this state.
"Thank you very much." You express the gratitude for both you and Steve, knowing he's hardly thinking of manners at the moment. He'll thank you for it later. "I did have a—"
"—pssssssst."
You stop talking at the abrupt interruption, both you and Marissa surprised by Steve's interjection.
His attempt at a psst doesn't quite work to the normal effect and instead, he's painted his bottom lip in a bit of blood.
He's looking at Marissa, not you. One of his bunched up arms raises up to his mouth as though he's trying to cup it and hide his words. You resist the urge to pull it back down, worried he'll knock his jaw again.
Marissa, sharing a playful glance in your direction, smiles kindly at Steve.
"Yes, Steve?"
"Can 'ou tell th' nice lady," He's trying to whisper but failing miserably. "That I'm.... I'm..."
Steve scrunches up his face to try to think of a word. He regrets it quickly, another hissed and sluggish owwww leaking out as pain radiates through his face.
Your fingers curl tighter around the bar. It takes effort not to reach for his hand again — or jump in and ask Steve what he wants to say to you. He's clearly trying to be stealthy for a reason, even if it isn't working.
Marissa's pager beeps. She flashes a quick look at it, silences it, then turns back to Steve.
"I'm... 'ot bullshit." He finally spits out.
That surprises you.
Marissa, conversely, seems to be undeterred by such a proclamation. You wonder what else people have said whilst coming back up from anaesthesia. She pats Steve on the arm gently.
"No you aren't."
Steve appears to be bolstered by her agreement, his own head giving a slow nod. He's still speaking in that groggy way, not at all helped by his cotton-stuffed mouth. "Yuh, and I 'ave a— a girlfiend."
Huh?
Marissa catches on a moment before you do, a certain cheek creeping into her smile. She checks her watch, then focuses back on Steve and nods.
"Uh huh, big guy. Your girlfriend's actually here, did you know?"
As her words sink in, Steve's eyes blow wide. He looks equal parts stunned as he does excited.
You realise why he asked who you were and withdrew his hands all at once.
Your smile dissolves into a giddy grin, entirely too endeared by Steve's unbreaking loyalty to you, even if he is barking up the wrong tree.
"S'e is?"
"Yep." Marissa says. She nods in your direction. "And she's gonna take good care of you, alright?"
You wonder if this is the most fun part of her job.
"My girlfien'..." Steve sighs quietly, his eyes hazy. You don't think you're meant to hear it.
Marissa smiles at that and finally begins to backtrack towards the door. She checks her watch again, then says to you, "15 minutes. Then you're free to go."
She waves at Steve as she's disappearing through the door. "I hope you feel better soon, Steve."
Steve makes a valiant attempt at a wave back, but his hand barely hovers above the sheets for a second before he's dropping it back down.
He sighs loudly and a little more blood freckles his bottom lip. He reaches up for his face again and you intercept.
"It'll hurt more if you touch it." You say to explain, then quickly let go of his arm.
It slumps back down and you watch as Steve's face morphs through several different expressions, from frowning distaste to a disbelieving awe.
"Are 'ou..." He asks, slurring out the word. His hand picks up off the bed to curve up, pointing a finger back at his chest. "My girlfiend?"
It comes out tinged with astonishment. You laugh without meaning to.
"Is that so hard to believe?"
Steve struggles to compute your response, given by how his eyes shift away lazily, then slide back to you, still wide.
"Yurrr lyin'," He lolls out the words. He waves one hand up, as if brushing off the joke you're supposedly telling.
"Am not!" You laugh. Then just to prove your point, you reach out and take his hand in yours, cradling it between your palms. "We're pretty serious, baby."
"Yo're 'etty," Steve counters, though pretty comes out strangely as he tries to not move his lips much.
The fact he can flirt back whilst so out of it is a feat, though it proves some of his charisma is just that inherent.
You notice, as he gazes at you, the surprise from earlier has somewhat sapped away but the awe in his face remains.
Steve's hand in yours turns over and he grips one of your thumbs tightly.
"I s'love... bein' a boyfiend," He says, deadly serious. Another roll of dribble escapes the corner of his mouth, yet somehow you're entirely captivated by his small admittances. He loves being a boyfriend.
"'ut dunno if 'mmm good at it. Am I?"
He wants to know if he's a good boyfriend. There's a little wobble in your heartstrings at his genuine concern.
You curl your fingers back around his hand tighter and nod. "Definitely."
Steve exhales a big sigh of relief, his eyes slipping shut as he gives your thumb a half-hearted squeeze.
"S'good." He mumbles.
As you soothe your fingertips over his hand, you hope his loopy mutterings aren't a manifestation of some constant worry you don't know about. It's normal to want to be a good partner. But Steve's own mention of bullshit is enough to make you unsure.
Is this what worries him? Are you not doing a good job at communicating back just how happy Steve makes you?
On the bed, Steve's eyes open again, seeking you out in languid, sleepy blinks. Upon finding you, he smiles. Well, you think he smiles.
What really happens is his face twitches and then he's making another drawn out owwww as he moves around his fresh wounds too much.
"Try not to move too much," You remind him. "It will keep making it ow, baby."
Despite what you've said, Steve continues to shift about—though you realise he's merely trying to inch closer to you. He's twisted a little, his shoulder curving towards you, but his head still laid flat.
"Can I 'it up?"
His speech is clearing up a bit, the words coming out better formed now. You nod at his request and shake off his grip on your thumb to hold his forearms, gently urging him up. It takes a moment, but he manages.
He's curved over like a shrimp, slumped and struggling to support himself.
You quickly stack the pillows behind him into more of a support and lead him to lean back against them. Steve lets you, gripping your forearms tightly as if he's afraid you'll drop him.
One settled, he releases his tight grip and gives another loud sigh. You're not fast enough to intercept his hand this time, Steve raising the back of it to wipe his mouth with.
It comes away with a smear of blood and saliva.
The volume of it must surprise Steve because he's dragging his hand back from his face, that same suspicious squint back on his face. He spots what he's wiped from his face and his eyebrows crease.
"Eeeew."
A giggle titters out of you. Steve is instantly distracted from his gross hand, his expression smoothing out as his head swings toward you.
"Hafta tell you somethin'," Steve says. His head sways a bit unsteadily as he thinks hard.
His groggy gaze draws down and up your face intently and you realise after a moment, he may have just checked you out.
"Yeah? What do you have to tell me?"
Steve nods as though he's the one who's spoken.
"Yea," He murmurs, then holds his hand up like he wants you to take it. It's the non-slobbered one, thankfully. You do take it, resuming the same soothing hold from earlier, this time intertwining your fingers.
Steve does another frog-blink, staring at your interlaced fingers. He drags his gaze up and slurps a bit as he inhales. "There waz... another lady here. But I tol' her. Tol' her."
He nods seriously, staring at you like he's waiting for you to nod along.
Your mouth twists into a poorly restrained smile. You wonder if he's talking about Marissa or if he's forgotten you were the other lady here earlier too.
"Told her what?"
"Tol' her," Steve repeats surely. He squeezes your hand and then shifts, not liking the intertwined fingers. He resumes his hold around your thumb. "I speaken."
Okay, you're getting a little bit better at decoding loopy Steve-speak, but this one? Lost on you.
You wiggle your thumb in his hold and furrow your brows a bit exaggeratedly so he can catch on that you don't quite understand.
"I," Steve slurs. He's moved his other hand up to jab himself in the chest, referring to himself — then he casts it in the direction of the door. "Taken."
It takes a moment, but his gesture is enough to clue you in. Another sugary, giddy wave singes your nerves. God, he's sweet.
You grin at him adoringly, leaning in to brush a piece of hair back from his face. Steve's skin is warm beneath your touch.
"You're told her you're spoken for, huh?" You coo softly, petting his hair back.
Steve preens at your understanding, managing a nod and a bright-eyed adoring gaze at you.
You run your hand over his hair again because he seems to like it and his eyes flutter under your sweet ministrations. His head nearly lolls back to dip into the pillow, but he catches it at the last moment.
"Yuh," He says absently. He nods again, focusing hard on meeting your eye. "Tol' her." He repeats again.
It seems it's very important to Steve that you know he would never ever think about cheating on you — even if it's with, well, you.
"Thank you, baby," You say, meaning it completely.
Steve smiles as much as he can, a sluggish half-motion that somehow makes him look even dopier. His eyes wander and he catches sight of the glob of blood and spit atop of his hand.
His eyes widen almost comically. He frowns worriedly and picks his hand up, holding it out in front of him, "Oughhh, wuh 'appened?"
The genuine concern in his words and his apparent very short-term memory makes it hard not to snort in amusement. Squeezing his hand again, you try to remain composed.
"Your wisdom teeth, remember? They took them out because they were hurting you."
"You're s' nice," Steve says, dropping his hand limply, the blood on it quickly forgotten. His fingers around your thumb tighten, giving another weak squeeze. "'M glad you're my girlfiend."
"I'm glad you're my boyfriend." You assure him sweetly.
"Yea?" Steve's gone back to that slow blink. He leans forward, shoulder hunched over, the whole motion seeming conspiratorial. He tries to whisper again. "Have'a 'nother secret."
Your brows raise. Another secret?
"Wanna tell me it?" You ask.
Steve nods sagely. He beckons you in closer with a limp wave of his hand, tugging slightly on your thumb. You lean in closer, unable to hide your grin at his antics.
"I," Steve pauses for a long, long moment. You watch as his eyes track back and forth sluggishly, very clearly trying to put his rapidly disappearing thoughts into order.
"I t'ink," He finally says, sounding more sure this time. "I lov' you. But shhhhhh. S'itsa secret."
Oh. Now, that is a secret. You and Steve have been dating for a while now, like you said it's serious, but not quite long enough to exchange any I love you's. Not just yet.
Only it's not really secret after all. You know.
You know in the same way you already know Steve's favourite perfume of yours and the way he likes his coffee in the morning. How he loves to hold your hand and doesn't ask, but loves it when you kiss him on the temple.
You've never asked. Enough time spent together and you just know these things.
Like how you love Steve and he loves you.
You grin brazenly, not even trying to stop it now.
"I'll keep your secret safe," You promise him. "Wanna hear one of my secrets? I love you too."
Steve clings to your hand preciously and his face takes on an expression which you can only describe as utterly starry-eyed. His hazel eyes, bright and less foggy now, stare at you owlishly. You'd give a handful of pennies to know what he's thinking right now.
"S'good," He finally says. Which makes you bark in laughter, as if he's saying glad that's settled.
"Yea' s'good." He inhales a big, slurping kind of breath and exhales. His shoulders sit a little more relaxed now and you wonder how long he's been waiting to tell you that.
You wonder more how he'll react when you tell him he spilled the beans while high out of his mind.
Then, just to spoil it — or sweeten it, depending on how you see it — he leans back over and whispers, "Wha's your name again?"
summary: Quarantine blows. Marginally less so when you're with your boyfriend, but, hey, even that isn't without it's whinging and complaints.
You decide it's worth risking an encounter with Murray (ugh), if it means getting the chance to surprise your love. It just doesn't occur to you that someone else might have the exact same idea.
[established relationship, 4k of nothingness and sweetness <3]
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Funnily enough, despite Steve's eager insistence, quarantine is not what one would describe as fun.
You knew it wouldn't be.
Steve, on the other hand, had insisted on playing devil's advocate.
You think he'd been hamming it up for your sake—or maybe because trying to make light of a little lockdown is far easier than trying to make light of the potential end of the world.
An impossible task on either hand, in your opinion.
Which means, of course your boyfriend gave it his best shot.
"Means we get to spend all this time together," He'd murmured into his kiss, his hands cupping your face sweetly.
It had been just a couple hours after the earthquake rocked through Hawkins and the kisses seemed to well from an endless stream of thank fuck, you're okay, you're okay, you're alive.
Well, they'd started that way.
Then he'd just been kissing you because he loves to do it.
"Like that's new," you'd retorted – though it hadn't come out as snarky as you hoped, given it was smothered beneath Steve's next kiss.
"Yeah, but it's like," He'd stopped and you could see the gears in his head ticking, trying to find a good way to spin this. "We're stuck together," He'd grinned, mouth pink from the kisses. "Couldn't get away if you wanted to."
Then, he seemed to hear himself, reeling it back in with a half grimace.
"Okay, not like, in a controlling way, or anything. In a romantic way. It's romance. You're being wooed right now."
You'd cracked and laughed then, and Steve had captured the noise with another kiss, tasting the sweetness of it on his tongue.
You had to admit, you did admire his perseverance in the face of pretty bleak conditions. Steve's always been one to soldier on despite the wounds. To lead with his heart.
It makes sense that he, in all his loverboy glory, can make the end of the world a little more heart-shaped.
Even if you had been right.
Quarantine sucks.
For some reason, you'd expected to feel a little more… bonded with the town of Hawkins. You're all in this together now, after all. One great big wound in the earth, one great big wall to keep you all in.
It had, just a couple months ago, felt like a traitorous thorn in your side, that you were stuck battling the Upside Down, for the better of Hawkins and the world, whilst the rest of your sleepy town seemed to be none the wiser (not all of them, considering, you know, the flesh monster of '85).
It had been a tough swallow, the sour envy you'd harboured at your other classmates, so unburdened and so unaware – and so, so unlike yourself.
But, at the same, their lack of knowledge meant there was normalcy threaded through your days.
The grocery store shelves had stayed stocked, shelving done by perpetually bored 15-year-olds who dented the cans.
Pizzas still got delivered, so warm the cheese piled up on one side, showing off the lean it'd been on the back of some teenager's bike.
There had still been new records, new movies, new music coming out, filling up the shelves — little things that tell you, despite how the world literally split open at your feet, the world kept turning.
You'd been envious before, a little bitter that you'd been straddled with such a burden and then sworn via NDAs to secrecy.
Why did they get normal?
Why didn't you deserve it too?
The thought seems so childish looking back, hindsight on your side. Now, without any of it, you miss what little normalcy had remained.
Maybe it's why the little gifts are so nice. It's a sense of normal.
Steve has always been the type. It's as though he's got a sixth sense, sniffing out little presents, treats and trinkets he thinks you'll like. Says they remind him of you.
A large part of your shelves hold those memories, mementos of Steve's love to you, littered all around your room.
Ticket stubs, love heart shaped candles, flowers you've pressed in a book to keep.
That's what it used to be like before the quarantine.
Turns out, if put up a big wall, almost nothing new gets in.
Now, gifts look a little different.
Gifts looks like… Always taking the morning drive out to WSQK radio, so that Steve can finish his breakfast in the passenger seat.
Eating and fumbling for sound bites? Not a good combo, he's found.
Besides, there's something honeyed and lovely about watching you drive his car. You have to adjust the seat so you can reach the pedals – which always makes him smile, even if he has to readjust on the drive home.
You fiddle with the mirror longer than you need. You always grumble under your breath about the change from 2nd to 3rd gear.
He watches you lovingly the whole drive, and almost always misses his mouth because of it.
(The crumbs on his floor aren't a gift, but, at the very they are a pleasant reminder.)
It's songs dedicated to you, broadcast out over the airwaves, like little love notes pinned to the radio of every sorry son of a bitch who lives in Hawkins and deigns to listen to the Morning Squawk.
You've had Springsteen and Peter Gabriel, longing and loving. Duran Duran and Madonna, slow jams and love ballads— all requested in the name of making you smile.
You can hear it in Robin's tone when it's for you, her ew, dingus is being sappy voice, that she can't quite contain.
But it never beats when Steve takes over the mic, a murmur over the radio, as he says, "And this one? This one is for my baby."
It's a gift you can't hold, not really, except for in your heart.
It's… putting up with a horrifically strange interaction with Murray, so that you can request a box of Peanut Butter Boppers for your boyfriend.
You try to interact with Murray as little as possible.
He's loud. His eyes are beady in a way that gets under your skin. And quite frankly? He gives you the heebie jeebies. Capital H, capital J.
Plus, you really hadn't liked the look he'd passed around from Nancy to Jonathan to Steve, and then to you, upon your first meeting.
"Ah, so this is Steve," He'd exclaimed giddily – making Steve frown in confusion, his hand tightening on your waist.
"Yeah, I'm Steve, so what?" Steve had said.
He, like you, hadn't been very fond of Murray's 'knowing' look, that was flicking between him and Nancy.
"Nothing! Nothing whatsoever, pretty boy," He'd mused, with a little chuckle to himself.
You'd heard Steve mutter pretty boy? under his breath in confusion.
"It remains a delight to see just how life's plan for us unfolds, doesn't it, Miss Wheeler? I'm just happy to see two happy, happy couples!"
He'd clapped his hands together merrily. Nancy hadn't looked him in the eye, her pinched face pointed down.
You'd been thankful for the extra squeeze Steve had given your waist – softened more when you and Steve shared, what could only be described as, a bitchy look between you.
So, yeah, Murray's strange, mostly harmless, and someone you'd never interact with, if given the choice.
But… your boyfriend has decided boppers are at the top of his quarantine wish-list — as you've discovered through his long, lamented complaints.
The shelves that used to have them in Bradley's Big Buy have long since been empty.
Nothing much new comes into Hawkins that isn't considered essential, something you're painfully aware of. Steve's complaints do dip into the finicky qualities of what qualifies as 'essential'.
It's sugar. You, like, need it to live. Look, I paid attention in Health class – okay, not a lot, but I know that you do need some sugar to live. Babe, why are you laughing?
You're technically not even supposed to ask Murray for personal favours.
Hopper had drilled it into everyone's head, gaze stern and his police-chief voice on. Nothing unnecessary.
Eyes fixing on him through the window of the soundbooth, his headphones on, one pencil behind his ear, and brows furrowed in concentration, you find you consider it pretty necessary. It'll at least stop the complaints.
Or, much more importantly, it'll make Steve happy.
And damn, if you aren't a sucker for that.
Today is delivery day. You'd managed to sneak your order in with Murray last week when he'd been here – and really hadn't appreciated his wiggly eyebrows in response.
"The lady wishes to bequeath her sir with a gift, huh?"
You'd squinted at him, put your hands on your hips, and groused, "Look, can you get them or not?"
Which, unfortunately, had only made Murray laugh, a hearty sound with his head tilted back. It had snapped back upright and he'd stopped laughing in the same moment. Jarring, and precisely why you didn't like talking to him.
"Ah, you two are adorable and you don't even know it." He'd said, the same knowing glint in his eye. "Hush your impatient lips, you'll get your boppers."
Then he'd swung himself back up into his truck and promptly slammed the door in your face.
So, today is the day, now the hour of truth — whether Murray could pull or through, or whether he would stack on another reason to never interact with him again.
"…and frankly, who needs access to the great big wide world? Not me."
Robin's voice glides through the microphone, practised and at ease.
The ON-AIR light above tints the studio a soft red and you watch as Steve punches his new favourite inflatable chicken with a grin in your direction. Robin rolls her eyes at the microphone.
"For those still listening along, hey! Thank you! Really, given your wide, wide range of channels to choose from, we're grateful to be the ones coming through your stereos. So, from those here at WSQK, stay golden, Hawkins…"
She hits a button, record spinning, and then the dulcet harpsichord sounds of Golden Brown by the Stranglers fades in.
She looks over her shoulder, at Steve, and you watch him deliver an encouraging double-thumbs up, a crooked smile of his lips.
Her hair flies as she flips around to face you, grinning, brows raised and you match Steve's motion.
"Four thumbs up, huh?" She says excitedly when she scampers out of the recording room, the ON-AIR sign no longer illuminated. She's bouncing on her toes a bit. "I'm pret-ty decent at this, if I do say so myself. Which I do. I do say."
"Yeah, yeah, no one likes a show-off Rob," Steve says, following her out.
His hairs a bit mussed up from the headphones, one piece sticking up in a funny direction. He's smiling though, widened when Robin turns to him with a scowl.
"Says you, Steven," She says, easily melting back into her smiles.
She pokes out her tongue — a motion which Steve returns in an instant.
"Yes, yes, children," You chide jokingly. Steve's wandered over to your side, drawn like a magnet. His hand is warm on your lower back. "If you'd stop bickering for a moment, you might hear the wonderful sound of deliveries."
Both Steve and Robin, who had devolved into pulling faces at each other, straighten up.
You see Steve tilt his head, almost like a dog, listening for what you know you've heard.
You can spot the moment he hears it too – tires crunching along the dirt road. Brows raise, eyes brighten, a hazel you adore dancing in your direction. Steve's grinning – and honestly, looking probably too excited for a regular delivery drop.
He couldn't know what surprise you had in store for him. Could he?
You think of Murray and his strange glee at your request and wonder if he sold you out in an instant. He probably would. Bastard.
"Ugh," Robin says, cutting off your train of thought as she wrinkles her nose. "Can you perchance not get that expression at the thought of seeing Murray?"
Steve's smile turns to a frown of confusion. He opens his mouth to retort, but you beat him to it.
"I second that," You say, letting the warmth of Steve's hand slide off your back as you begin to wander towards the door.
You throw a teasing smile towards your boyfriend, watching as he flounders for words for a moment. "No one should be that excited by Murray."
"I– oh, c'mon." Steve throws his hands up. "A guy in quarantine can't be excited for deliveries?"
"Not that excited, dingus," Robin says, barely smothering her own teasing grin as she heads towards you as well.
Pushing through the door to the outside, sunlight forces your eyes into a squint. The rumble of the engine grows louder, closer, until there's a sudden squeal of the brakes.
Following Robin, you round the building's edge and your eyes fall on the truck in the middle of the dirt road, engine still idling. You can hear the crunch of Steve's sneakers behind you.
In the body of the truck, you can see a figure moving with a strange motion – and realise when he sticks his head through it, that it's Murray, cranking open the window.
"Ahoy, kiddos!" He calls out.
In your peripheral, you see both Steve and Robin cringe.
There's a rustle within the truck cabin, Murray shifting back in, and then with a drone, the engine shuts off. The door swings open. Two booted feet hit the ground.
You let Robin take the lead.
It's a well-oiled motion for Murray now, evidently, the way he twists the lock on the rolling door at the back of the truck, before sending it up with a loud rattle. The supplies reveal themselves, boxes stacked upon boxes within the metal body of the truck.
At a first glance, it does actually look like a grocery supply—but you know better about what's hidden away under it all.
Grenades beneath the pastel blue of the Rice Krispies boxes, ammunition under the bright colours of the Funyuns bags, weapons of all kinds buried under packing peanuts.
Eyes hunting through the back of the truck, looking for a particular box, you miss the glance Steve gives you.
Nervousness. Poorly restrained anticipation. It mixes together to create a look that is undeniably fond.
Steve's pretty glad Robin doesn't see it, because she'd rib him to death for it.
"Riiight," Murray announces, rubbing his hands together with the likeness of a fly. "Business matters first, then the matters of pleasure, hm."
He turns and delivers an over-the-top wink in your direction.
You wonder if the man has ever looked up the word subtlety in the dictionary before–or if he's doing it just to spite you.
Steve shifts beside you, inching a little closer. Robin looks the same way you feel – nose wrinkled in discomfort at Murray purring out the word pleasuuuure.
She glances back at you when Murray's not looking, clambering up into the truck. You frown a little, scrunching your nose up too, and it's enough to make Robin snort in laughter.
A sudden slam! within the truck steals all your attention back.
"Usual business," Murray says with a smile, a crate now at his feet. "Few new rounds of ammunition, grenades, and the like for Hopper. Gatorade for El."
He slides the crate topped with various cereal boxes across til it reaches the edge. Steve takes the charge, arms flexing at the weight as he lugs the crates to the ground.
You watch, eyes catching on the bulge of his biceps – until you catch Robin's withering glare.
(She's had to put in place a strict 'no flirting while we're at work' rule, which has since escalated to "no heated and charged looks of desire" for her sanity's sake.)
For good measure, you at least try to look apologetic for oogling at your boyfriend's arms.
Whether you're successful, well, that's neither here nor there.
There's only a handful of crates today — the last couple crawls have been overwhelming uneventful — so before too long, you're bouncing on the balls of your feet, eyes eagerly scanning over the remaining crates.
"And now," Murray turns with a flourish, a new crate in his hands. He wiggles his eyebrows, emphatic and resembling two dancing caterpillars behind his wire-rim glasses. "Pleasure."
He drops the box in his hands at his feet – then, like he's done with all the others, he pushes it with a kick, sending it sliding towards the edge of the truck.
Steve catches it just before it slides off the edge, plummeting into the dirt. He pulls it to sit on his hip, arm straining with the weight, body angling it slightly away from you.
You rise on your toes, trying to get a peek instead.
Steve, mouth pulled into somewhat a smirk, only angles it further from your view.
"Have at it, kids." Murray says. You, Steve and Robin all watch as he's scampers down from the back of the truck, pulling the roller door down with him.
It slams shut, making Robin twitch. You're inclined to agree with her reaction, though not due to the truck. Murray's general presence, despite the fact he's apparently done you a favour, still skeeves you out.
As if hearing your thoughts and deliberating doing the opposite, Murray pauses.
Except, he doesn't turn to you. He turns to Steve instead, a smug and very punchable look on his face.
"But–" He begins, looking over his glasses at your boyfriend. "I better not find out that that peanut butter or carbonation led to any… strenuous activity. Okay?"
He claps his hands together loudly, and this time you, Steve and Robin all jump.
"We're in a war people! I don't wanna be having to track down a pregnancy test to sneak in here next, huh? Do I? Do I?"
That sentence took so many turns you're not surprised to see the wrinkle of confusion on Steve's brow.
He clutches the crate tighter, like Murray might take it away from him, and says weakly, "…No?"
"Correct!" Murray exclaims. He claps Steve on the shoulder. "Smart boy." Then he casts a sharp glance to you, then Robin. "Stay safe until the next time, kiddos."
Then, finally, he leaves.
The truck engine starts back up, roaring to life, and leaving only a trail of dust and a handful of crates behind. Robin heaves a crate up into her arms, then peers at you and Steve, hovering around the one particular crate, and sighs.
"Ugh. Don't take forever out here, okay?" She says, spinning on her heels and heading back into the WSQK. She calls over her shoulder halfheartedly, "My queue won't last long, Steve!"
"Got it!" He calls back — but you can tell his focus is on the crate in his hands.
He turns back to you with a grin, eyes bright, and then at the exact same time you both speak.
"I got you something—"
"—I have a surprise for you."
You blink. Something warm prickles over your skin, a genuine delight at the surprise.
Then you grin, realising what Murray had meant about you adorable kids.
You've both tried to surprise each other at the exact same time.
"You got me something?" Steve says, frowning for a moment, before he looks down at the crate in his hands in dawning realisation.
With probably too much force, he plants it in the dirt and sends a few packing peanuts flying. You watch as he digs through them, looking for the contents inside.
Unexpectedly, a can comes shooting up.
You fumble with it for a moment before catching it, clutching it against your chest. Scowling at the lack of warning, you look down at Steve – but he's nodding to your hands, already smiling, eager to see your reaction.
Pulling it back from your chest, the white coloured tin reveals itself as a… Cherry Coke.
Probably the whole damn can in all of Hawkins, given how they'd been out of stock since the first week of quarantine which had driven people to insanity in Bradley's Big Buy.
A can that, yeah, sue you, you've been craving. One that's been your favourite since your first date with Steve at the Hawk and Cherry Coke was the next big thing.
One big cup, two straws shared between you. Here and now, it's a memory re-gifted to you.
"I was gonna, y'know, sneak it back home and let it get all cold first," Steve explains, not even attempting to keep hunting for his own surprise.
He's still knelt down, hands still in the box, but he's looking up at you – squinting even though you're blocking the sun from his eyes.
He's smiling crookedly, pleased with himself — as if he knows he's earned the next kiss you'll give him already.
"Was gonna, like, put it in a glass and see how long it took you to notice." Steve continues, grinning as he watches the affection bloom on your face. Even if he hasn't committed to holding out on the surprise, the thought has clearly been put in.
He raises his hands to a do a pathetic attempt at jazz-hands, paired with an enthusiastic, "Surpriiise. Pretty good boyfriend, huh?"
He's intolerable. Endearing to you, beyond reason. Your horribly whinging, wonderful boyfriend.
With him still kneeling, you have to bend over to kiss him — but Steve knows it's coming. His hands curl on either side of your thighs, keeping your balance for you.
Your hair falls in your face, like a curtain, and you hold it back with one hand. You can't spare any hands to cradle his jaw, but given the ardent shine in Steve's eyes, you can't imagine he minds.
"Pretty great boyfriend," you murmur your agreement, just before you kiss him.
His lips are warm, soft. He's still smiling like he's won the best prize. His hands, gentle where they hold you, flex a little.
You kiss him twice, just because you can. It makes Steve hum against your mouth, a pleased noise, and it's like another gift altogether.
"Now find mine," You mumble when you pull back.
Steve squints in confusion, wiped away when you nod down at the crate still at your feet. He grins, hands diving in, packing peanuts sticking with the static electricity. He shakes them off as he uncovers your own surprise, a box of—
"Boppers!"
You might think boppers contain the secret to killing Vecna, the way Steve lights up at the box in his hands.
"Get outta town!" He gasps, turning them over in his hands, as if he's not quite convinced they're real.
They are. You realise you've signed yourself up for peanut-buttery kisses for the rest of the week now – if they manage to last that long.
"Oh my god, babe," He straightens up, box still clutched in his hands before he looks up at you.
Then, unexpectedly, he tosses them haphazardly into the crate and reaches for your waist.
You're not expecting it – getting tugged forward into his arms, that is – so you stumble a bit. His hands, large and warm around your middle, keep you steady.
"Woah," he says teasingly, hazel eyes affectionate. "Easy there, tiger."
Your own hands have come up to rest of his broad chest, one still holding the can of Cherry coke. You use the opportunity to flick him in chest with your free hand for his teasing. As if he isn't the reason you're stumbling in the first place.
"Easy yourself, Harrington," You mumble in response. It's not nearly much of a comeback as you'd like, but either way, Steve just grins and draws you in a little closer.
"Boppers, baby," he says, his grin bordering on cocky now. "Are you… flirting with me?"
You're sighing before he's even finished his sentence – which only serves to make Steve tug you ever closer, far too pleased with himself.
It's this stupid running joke he loves to make; pretending that you two haven't been dating for years and are, instead, still just dancing around your feelings. Only flirting.
Sometimes he'll fake-whisper a secret to you—and the secret is always that he's got a big, fat crush on you.
You find it annoyingly endearing. It's probably why Steve keeps doing it.
"Oh my god," you mutter, rolling your eyes, though your amused smile gives you away. You push his chest lightly, stepping out his hold, then wave the can of coke lightly. "You're about to lose all the points you just got for this." You warn.
"Impossible," says Steve, bending down to scoop up the crate from the ground.
He puts it atop another and hefts both of them up into his arms, charming smile directed your way.
"We just tried to surprise each other at the exact same time. We're freaking adorable, babe. Points can't touch that."
He says it so factually it must be true. The sky is blue. Hawkins has monsters. You're adorable together.
Though, you're sure Robin's doubting it when she sticks her head out the station door and sees you both still dawdling. Number one reason for Steve's slacking always comes back to him making heart-eyes at you.
"STEVE!" She yells. "SOUND-BOARD!"
"Yeah, yeah, coming!" Steve calls back, a touch of exasperation in his voice. He turns back to you, adjusting the crates in his hands with a subtle flex of his arms. "Jeez, you'd think we're getting paid for this, the way she runs it."
He's shaking his head, tongue pressed to his cheek. The wind ruffles through his hair, playing with the collar of his unbuttoned shirt. A flash of chest hair peeks through, taunting you.
He's so damn handsome you find yourself clutching the can in your hard tight enough that the lip of it bites into your palm.
Steve seems to realise, given the look he gives you – eyes skirting up and down, that smirk back on his face. Insufferable. Unbearable – in the best way.
"C'mon," he urges, tilting his head in his direction. "One last kiss before we head back inside."
You roll your eyes, but press up on your toes to reach his mouth.
"You're welcome." You say, Steve's eyes keenly trained on your lips as you pull back from the kiss.
You hear him make an absentminded uh-huh in response. He's likely too heart-eyed to hear a damn thing.
And with the can held in your hand, Steve's gaze all softened with fondness, that feels like a whole new gift as well.
౨ৎ summary: The scents you surround yourself with remind Steve of you in ways he can’t ignore, eventually leading to your first heartfelt “I love you.”
౨ৎ warnings: Implied romantic content, cozy/heartfelt themes, teasing, mild fluff, late-night and intimate settings. A whole lotta tooth-rotting fluff.
౨ৎ word count: 3.9k
౨ৎ note: Here’s a fic filled with so much fluff because I just couldn’t get the idea out of my head. I’m also really tired and exhausted, so I haven’t read through it fully. Consider this your heads-up!
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`· . 𐙚
The night has stretched on longer than you meant it to.
Your desk is cluttered in the way late study sessions always are, open notebooks, loose papers, and a pen you keep tapping against the wood instead of using. A single lamp casts a warm circle of light, the rest of your room dim and quiet, wrapped in the low hum of a house settling in for the night.
Behind you, your boyfriend Steve is sprawled across your bed like he’s made himself at home. One arm tucked behind his head, the other draped lazily over his stomach, sneakers kicked off and abandoned somewhere on the floor. He’s staring up at your ceiling, occasionally glancing your way, perfectly content just being there.
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and rubbing your eyes.
“I read something today,” you say suddenly.
Steve hums, not even looking away this time. “Uh oh.”
You turn toward him anyway, excitement breaking through the exhaustion. “No, listen. Apparently if you associate a certain scent with an activity, your brain starts recognizing it. Like, it switches modes faster. Studying, relaxing, sleeping. Your brain just knows.”
That makes him sit up a little, propping himself on his elbow. His mouth quirks into that familiar amused smile. “You’re telling me you’re gonna Pavlov yourself?”
You laugh despite yourself. “It’s a real thing, Steve.”
“Mmm,” he says, nodding like he’s taking this very seriously. “So what, you light a candle and suddenly you’re a genius?”
“That’s not—” you start, already smiling. “I haven’t tried it yet. I want to. I’ve been thinking about which scents would work best.”
That’s when he fully turns toward you, eyes bright with interest now, not because of the science, but because you’re talking to him instead of staring at your notes.
“Well,” he says, tilting his head back slightly, eyes unfocused, “studying’s gotta be something sharp. Clean. Like… lemon.” He stretches his arms out above his head, fingers splaying, like he’s physically reaching for the scent in the air. The light from your desk lamp catches the edge of his jaw, highlighting that smirk already forming.
Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, actually—”
“And sleeping,” he continues, lowering his arms but letting them linger in the air a second longer as if reluctant to release the thought, “lavender. Obviously.” He tilts his chin slightly, eyes closing just for a beat, taking in the imaginary aroma, chest rising with a quiet sigh of satisfaction.
You point at him, leaning forward, grin tugging at your lips. “Okay… why are you kind of good at this?”
He opens his eyes and squints at you, cocking one eyebrow, arms now folded across his chest but shoulders loose and relaxed. “Born talented,” he says with a shrug, voice playful but confident, like he knows exactly how endearing he looks right now.
“And for hanging out?” you ask, half-curious, half-testing him.
Steve leans back, letting the weight of his body sink into the bed, fingers brushing the covers, eyes flicking toward the ceiling as he pretends to search the cosmos for the perfect answer. “Motor oil.”
You grab the nearest pillow without hesitation and swing it at him. He catches it midair, letting out a laugh that shakes his shoulders and makes the bed dip where he lands. “I just like when you look at me like that,” he says, voice softening, his grin lingering even as he flops back, playful and almost lazy. “Way better than watching you stress yourself out.”
You roll your eyes but crawl onto the bed anyway, abandoning your desk completely. Shoulder brushing his as you settle next to him, you mumble, “You’re impossible.”
He lets out a soft chuckle, shoulder pressing just a little closer, fingers brushing your arm lightly. “Yeah,” he says, voice warm, teasing, almost intimate. “But you’re not studying anymore.”
And somehow, that feels like the point.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
You don’t tell him when you start.
It slips into your routine so naturally it almost feels like it’s always been there. A lemon candle lit beside your desk one afternoon, the flame small and steady, the scent sharp enough to make your head feel clearer the second it reaches you. You don’t expect anything dramatic. No sudden genius. No cinematic montage.
But an hour passes.
Then another.
And you realize you haven’t once stared at the wall or picked at the corner of your notebook or sighed like the world is ending. You’re just… there. Present. Focused. When you finally lean back in your chair, you feel lighter, almost impressed with yourself.
So you try again.
Lavender the next night, when the house is quiet and the day feels heavy in your bones. You sink into a bath, steam curling up toward the ceiling, and for once your thoughts don’t race ahead of you. They slow. Settle. The world feels softer around the edges.
After that, it becomes intentional.
Something clean and woodsy when you’re cleaning your room, windows cracked open, music low. Something citrusy when you need energy. Each scent starts to attach itself to a feeling, an action, a version of you. Like you’re training your own brain to know what comes next.
Steve notices before you ever explain it.
The first time, he doesn’t say anything right away. He just pauses in your doorway, keys still in his hand, eyes drifting from you at your desk to the little candle flickering beside your books. His nose wrinkles slightly, like he’s filing the information away.
A minute later, casual as anything, he goes, “You studying?”
You blink. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
He nods toward the desk. “Lemon.”
After that, he starts teasing you about it relentlessly:
Like when he’ll step into your room, take one exaggerated sniff, and announce, “Okay, so today we’re either stressed, or pretending not to be stressed.”
Or he’ll flop onto your bed and go, “Nope. Lavender. No big conversations. You’re in relax mode.”
It shouldn’t work as well as it does, but it does.
Sometimes you catch him smiling to himself when he guesses right, like it’s a private victory. Like he’s learned a new language and it’s just yours. And the thing is, he starts adjusting too.
Or when he’ll walk into your room and pause like he’s crossed some invisible line, one hand still hooked around the doorframe. His shoulders lift as he takes an exaggerated sniff, brows knitting together in mock concentration.
He steps into your room like he always does, quiet but not sneaky, keys tossed onto your dresser with a familiar clink. You’re at your desk, shoulders tense, pencil moving fast across the page.
He pauses.
Takes a slow, exaggerated breath through his nose.
You feel it before you hear it, that shift in the room, that Steve’s-about-to-say-something energy.
“So,” he says carefully, leaning against the doorframe. “This one means no distractions, right?”
You glance over your shoulder. He’s watching the candle by your books, mouth tipped into a knowing little smirk.
“Yes,” you say. Flat. Warning.
He hums. “Got it.”
You turn back to your notes. Relief settles in.
Briefly.
He crosses the room anyway, footsteps light, deliberate. You can feel him behind you now, close enough that his knee bumps the chair, close enough that his warmth bleeds into your space.
“But,” he adds, voice dropping, amused, “I feel like you say that every time.”
You don’t even get the chance to respond. One second you’re reaching for your eraser, the next his hands are on you, lifting you clean out of the chair like it’s nothing. You gasp, instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders as he laughs, low and quiet, like he’s been waiting for this.
“Steve—!” you start, but it dies when he drops you back onto the bed, the mattress bouncing under you as he follows, bracing himself above you.
He looks down at you like he’s pleased with himself. Like this was always the plan.
“No distractions,” he repeats, mock-serious. Then his mouth curves into that familiar grin. “I lied.”
Before you can throw another pencil, he leans down and kisses you, slow, warm, and unhurried like he’s got nowhere else to be.
“You’re such a doofus,” you giggle, shaking your head as he clocked your mood again without even a conversation.
He glances up for a second, corner of his mouth lifting. He shrugs, easy, unapologetic. “Hey. If I know what’s going on in that little head of yours without you having to say it?”
He lets the silence stretch, eyes warm when they meet yours as he continues to kiss the corners of your mouth.
“That’s kind of a win for me.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The room is quiet in a way that makes you realize how rarely quiet feels like this, soft, full of warmth, and completely yours.
You’re sitting on his lap, legs curled against his side, shoulder pressed to his chest, and the steady rhythm of him breathing soothes the tension you didn’t realize you’d been holding. His arm is draped lazily around your waist, fingers tracing tiny circles against your side, warm and steady.
“You remember when Dustin tried to convince Lucas that the Demodogs liked cheese?” you giggle, tilting your head back against him.
He laughs, low and fond, nuzzling your hair. “Yeah, and Lucas fell for it, of course. Classic Lucas.” His nose brushes the top of your head as he shakes his head. “And Mike just yelled at them both… man, those kids…”
You laugh again, letting yourself relax into him completely. He shifts just a little, drawing you closer, lips brushing your temple. “I miss you,” he murmurs softly. “Every single time I leave, I—”
“Steve,” you interrupt, giggling at how earnest he sounds, “we’re literally in the same room.”
“I know,” he says, grin tugging at his lips, “but still… I miss you anyway.”
He leans back slightly to meet your eyes, and you catch that faint shimmer of something softer there, the part of him that’s just Steve for you, without any of the world’s weight. You press a kiss to his cheek, and he hums, satisfied, settling again against you.
Then he pauses mid-breath, nose lifting slightly, eyes narrowing as if trying to place something. “Hey…” he murmurs, voice low, curious. “Is… something different?”
You look at him, eyebrows raised. His gaze drifts from your face to the subtle flicker of the candlelight nearby, as if he’s just noticed it. You can feel him observing, adjusting, already silently taking in the change.
He hums again, lips quirking, like he’s caught off guard by it but also quietly pleased. “What’s that?”
You glance at him, smiling softly. “It’s… gingerbread,” you say, voice quiet but warm. “I thought it’d be perfect for winter. Cozy, you know?”
Steve leans back just slightly, pretending to think it over, then his lips curl into a mischievous grin. “Cozy, huh? All it’s making me feel is… hungry,” he teases, letting out a low chuckle.
You scrunch your nose at him, playful but mock-exasperated. “Hungry? Really? That’s all you got from it?”
“Hey,” he counters, mock-offended, “I’m being honest! I mean… smells like cookies. Warm, sweet… I can’t help it.”
You giggle, rolling your eyes, and poke him lightly in the side. “You’re ridiculous.”
He hums, nuzzling the side of your head as he settles more snugly against you. “Yeah, but you love it.”
You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face as you lean into him, heart warm at how natural and soft he is when he’s like this — teasing, affectionate, completely himself.
A couple days later, your pen hovers over your notebook, the late-night lamp casting a soft glow across the scattered papers. You’ve been going through formulas and notes for hours, and your mind is teetering between exhaustion and determination. The sudden jingle of the phone on your desk makes you start slightly, heart skipping a beat.
You grab the receiver and lift it to your ear, and immediately the familiar warmth of his voice wraps around you.
“Hey, babe,” Steve says, a grin practically audible in his tone. “You want anything before we head over to Robin’s for boardgame night?”
You lean back in your chair, stretching your tired arms over your head. There’s a soft smile tugging at your lips despite the weariness. “Actually…” you begin, letting yourself relax for the first time in hours. “I’ve been craving a sweet treat in the bakery across Family Day? You know the one?”
Steve chuckles lowly, the sound smooth and teasing. “You got it,” he says immediately, his voice bright and playful.
You can picture him now, keys in hand, jacket slung over his shoulder, that easy confident smirk on his face, and it makes your chest feel warm. “Thanks, Steve,” you murmur softly, leaning forward to rub your tired eyes, “I don’t even care what you get me, just anything from that bakery please.”
“Consider it done, baby” he replies, chuckling again, almost like he’s savoring the thought of it. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
The line clicks softly as he hangs up, leaving you with the quiet hum of your lamp and the lingering echo of his voice. Even through a short call, he’s already managed to make the corners of your lips curve into a smile.
Steve pushes open the bakery door, the little bell jingling above him. The warmth of the place hits first, ovens humming, sweet aromas weaving together, the faint chatter of late customers. He’s thinking about your treat, picturing your smile when you bite into it, imagining the way you’d laugh if he brought the wrong one. Muffins? Brownies? Maybe a cinnamon roll just because he knows you’ll squeal.
Then it hits him.
Gingerbread.
Not from the treat he’s holding, not from any display, it’s in the air, drifting softly, and instantly recognizable. His steps slow, shoulders lifting almost unconsciously as he breathes it in. His mind flashes to a few nights ago: you curled into his chest, candle flickering nearby, laughter spilling over stories of Dustin and Lucas being ridiculous, the cozy warmth of the room, the way your head fit perfectly under his chin.
For a second, Steve just stands there, frozen mid-stride, the keys still dangling from his fingers. A slow, surprised grin tugs at his lips. That scent… it’s you. It’s comfort. It’s laughter. It’s warmth.
He realizes it suddenly, almost with a jolt: the theory works. Not just for you, but for him too.
He inhales again, letting the aroma fill him. The memory washes over him, making him ache with a longing he hadn’t expected. He misses you deeply in a way that makes him want to turn around and race straight to your room.
Shaking himself slightly, Steve chuckles under his breath, an amused and tender sound, almost like he’s caught off-guard by his own feelings. Grabbing the treat anyway, he moves toward the counter, holding it a little tighter than necessary. Even amidst the warmth of the bakery, the sweetness of gingerbread, the world feels clearer because it’s tied to you.
A few days later, Steve finds himself standing in the small candle aisle, fingers hovering over the rows of scents. He doesn’t hesitate. Without thinking too hard, he picks up the gingerbread one.
It’s ridiculous, a little silly, but when he gets home, he sets it carefully on his nightstand. The first time he lights it, the soft flame flickers, shadows dancing across the walls of his room. He’s folding laundry, muttering quietly to himself about how he’s somehow managed to turn clothes into a heap on the floor, and the scent drifts gently through the air.
Later, he changes shirts, flops onto his bed, and just sits there. Listening to the faint hum of the street outside, the soft crackle of the candle. It feels… right. Comfortable. Safe.
He doesn’t consciously plan to tell you. He doesn’t mention it when you come over. But each time he lights it, he feels calmer, almost like he’s letting himself carry a piece of you with him.
He doesn’t question why. He doesn’t need to. It’s simple. The scent is warm, familiar, and every time it curls around him, he thinks of your laughter, your shoulder pressed against his, the quiet comfort of the way you fit together in those small, perfect moments.
By the next week, it’s become routine. Folding his shirts, stacking his records, flipping through the movies he’s been meaning to watch, the gingerbread candle burns softly beside him. He lights it the moment he’s home, and it’s a little ritual he doesn’t even realize he’s waiting for.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Baby?,” you call, your voice carrying across the quiet of Steve’s apartment.
“Bathroom!” he replies, just as casual as ever, though there’s the faintest trace of amusement in his tone.
You grin to yourself, weaving past the scattered shoes and board games as you make your way to his room. Everything feels comfortable, familiar. You toss your bag onto the corner of his bed, hang your jacket in the extra hanger he built next to his. The one taller, sturdier, perfect for your coats. The little key holder by the door catches your own, dangling neatly beside his. Your old slippers sit tucked in the corner, waiting for when you want to kick off shoes and socks.
The moment you plop onto his bed, sinking into the familiar mattress and soft blankets, it hits you. A scent, warm and cozy, drifting softly in the air.
Gingerbread.
It’s subtle at first, a faint sweetness that makes your chest tighten with a quiet flutter. But then it hits fully, the warmth, the comfort, the memory of those nights with him: curling together under candlelight, soft laughter spilling across the room, or the way he always found a way to make you giggle even when you were exhausted.
You sit up slightly, breathing it in, and your chest fills with that soft, emotional swell. That homey, safe feeling he always manages to create without trying.
Steve’s footsteps are anything but quiet as he rounds the corner, fresh from the bathroom. Before you can react, he leaps onto the bed with a loud thump, landing on top of you.
“Hey! Steve!” you yelp, caught completely off guard, laughing as he squishes you beneath him.
He grins, eyes sparkling with mischief, but there’s something soft in the way he nudges his forehead against yours. “You missed me, didn’t you?” he murmurs, voice low and needy.
You try to wiggle away, still laughing, but he’s not letting go, hands gently bracing you as he nuzzles closer. His presence is chaotic, but it makes your chest tighten in a warm, fuzzy way.
Then he notices it, the way you’re giggling more than usual, your laughter bubbling over even as you try to catch your breath. His brow furrows slightly, playful curiosity mixing with concern.
“Hey… what’s going on, huh?” he asks, tilting his head, eyes scanning your face. His voice is soft now, but there’s a tinge of that familiar Steve intensity, like he genuinely needs to know.
You can’t stop smiling, and he leans closer, cheek pressed to yours, letting the chaotic energy melt into something sweet, small, and intimate, all while still sprawled on top of you like the goofy, affectionate mess he is.
“Hey…” you murmur, nudging him lightly, teasing but soft. “What’s that smell?”
Steve freezes mid-movement, eyebrows shooting up. For a moment, he looks… sheepish. It’s subtle, but it’s there, that twitch of embarrassment in his eyes, the way his fingers fidget with the edge of his sleeve. “Uh… it’s… uh…” he stammers, voice quiet, like he’s trying not to give anything away.
You watch him, amused, but your gaze softens when you notice the slight flush creeping across his cheeks. “Steve,” you press gently, poking him in the side. “C’mon. Be honest. Don’t lie to me.”
He exhales, a mixture of a sigh and a laugh, leaning back just enough to bury his face in the crook of your neck. “I… I dunno,” he mutters, voice low, embarrassed. “It’s… it’s nothing. Just… something I like. No big deal.”
You laugh, but it’s tender this time, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Steve… I can tell when you’re lying.”
He freezes again, eyes darting to yours, caught. “I’m… I’m not,” he says, but his pink cheeks give him away. “I mean… I didn’t… I just… it’s… okay, fine. I bought it.”
You grin, delighted, but you press further, leaning closer so your foreheads touch. “And… you like it?”
Steve hesitates, then whispers, voice barely audible: “Yeah… I like it. A lot.” His lips brush against your temple as he buries his face closer into your shoulder
He didn’t even notice at first that he’d been caught. The scent had become routine, something familiar, comforting, like a background hum he didn’t think twice about. It was just… there, like it had always been, a quiet part of his room and his day.
But the way you looked at him, the teasing sparkle in your eyes, made him pause. And suddenly he realized: yeah, you noticed. You noticed the gingerbread.
He swallows, heart suddenly fluttering in a way it hadn’t in a while. “Okay,” he admits, voice low, hesitant. “I… I light it because it reminds me of you.” His fingers fidget with the edge of the blanket, the little gesture giving away how nervous he suddenly feels. “Not… not just the smell. It’s… you. It’s… warm, cozy… like how it feels to hold you, to sit here with you. It’s… it gives me… butterflies, okay? Right here.” He taps his chest lightly, sheepish.
“I… I light it on the days I can’t see you, or when I’ve been down it’s like a little Y/N fix. My reminder of. . . this.” He gestures between the two of you, fumbling with the words because it’s all a little too much, all a little too real.
You reach out, letting your hand rest on his, and the warmth between your fingers seems to steady him. “Steve…” you whisper, voice soft, gentle, “that’s… really sweet.”
He exhales, a little laugh escaping, nervous but relieved. “Yeah… I guess I’ve been hiding it. But… now you know. And yeah, it’s… it’s exactly how it feels.”
The candle burns quietly beside the bed, the familiar scent wrapping around both of you. It isn’t just gingerbread anymore. It’s you. It’s the way he misses you, the way he thinks of you, the way he’s slowly learning that some habits, the ones that make his chest flutter and his heart beat faster.
He swallows, heart hammering in a way he can’t hide, and finally lets the words slip, raw and unguarded.
“I love you,” he breathes, soft but certain, like he’s been holding them in for longer than he realized.
You blink, chest tight, and the words tumble out of you before you can stop them. “I love you too,” you whisper, voice shaky but full, and it’s like the air between you shifts, lighter, warmer.
He grins, almost disbelieving, and pulls you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “God… I’ve been waiting to hear that,” he murmurs, nuzzling against you.
“And I’ve been waiting to say it,” you admit, curling into him, letting the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, and the quiet flicker of the candle wrap around you.
The gingerbread scent fills the room, sweet and cozy, and neither of you says another word — no need. It’s quiet, perfect, intimate. Who would’ve thought that a little candle could finally help both of you say the things you’d been holding onto for so long?
You can’t help the grin tugging at your lips. “So… all this time, I was right,” you tease, eyes sparkling as you tilt your head. “About the candles, about the scent. . .”
He freezes for a heartbeat, pretending to glare, but there’s a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Okay, okay, get over here,” he says, voice low and playful, like a challenge.
And just like that, the room fills with laughter, warmth, and the soft, sweet scent of gingerbread, a quiet reminder of how it all started, how something so small could lead to something so perfectly… chaotic but whole.
