Liyah

Aaliyah🤍| 22 | She/They | masterlist

[bittersweetlyblue]

it's become a running joke in the daily planet that clark kent has a girlfriend.

i mean, are we even talking about the same guy? clark kent, the one who habitually slouches in his chair, making himself look shorter than the six feet three inches brute he is.

clark kent who drops objects, trips over his own feet or stumbles into furniture. the clark kent who has poorly-fitting clothes which don't do any justice to the figure underneath and with thick-rimmed glasses that mask his facial expressions and eye colour that looks a little too similar to superman's if anyone ever thought twice about it.

he bought it up when lois was talking about her current boyfriend and she asked if anyone else had any partners. "yeah, me and my girlfriend have been dating for a few years now." he said with undiluted pride.

clark will always recall the way the whole room went quiet. jimmy had blinked like he had something in his eye as he squinted. even lois, who wasn't even looking at clark swung her entire head towards him. perry, who had secretly been eaves-dropping the entire time, nearly dropped the coffee he was making.

"girlfriend." jimmy repeated, fucking gawking.

clark turned a shade scarlet. "yes, my girlfriend."

"what's her name?" lois asked.

"y/n."

"pretty name," jimmy said after some silence.

"yeah, she's an extraordinarily pretty girl."

there was some silence again before perry moved over and slapped clark so sharply against his back that the poor man almost flinched. "crude sense of humour, boy, but i appreciate the effort."

clark hadn't even managed to scrounge up a wrinkled eyebrow and a question forming around his lips before the room dispersed. mainly, he presumed, to talk about the confident "joke" he had just made.

that night, when he comes home to you, the shy, farmer boy facade wiped off completely, he slides next to you in the bedsheets as you nestle against his bicep.

"how was work today?" you ask.

"good." after some silence where you just run your hand over his face, he adds, "they don't believe me."

"about?"

"us. that i have you."

you laugh, resting your cheek against his skin as you look up at him. "really?" he nods, brushing his fingers against your cheek. but you don't think much about it.

clark, on the other hand? well, he tries not to, but it's pretty hard when jimmy slides by him the next day and prods him a little too hard in the ribs and makes a joke about saying you have a woman just because you want them.

nor does lois, who talks to jimmy again about it and talks a little bit too loud about her partner.

"i'm not lying," clark says a little aggressively, the next week, at lunch, through gritted teeth as another jab is once again made. "i have a girlfriend."

"sure." perry says without missing a beat, stirring his coffee. "and you're superman."

well.

after about a few months of this banter, clark asks you to walk him to the daily planet that morning with his said reasons, and you're more than happy to obey.

when lois spots clark standing next to you, she thinks for a second that he's helping a very pretty lost woman even despite their proximity.

until he bends down and kisses you.

lois's jaw drops open as she swivels her head to perry, who seems to be seeing the same thing.

"am i? am i?" perry blinks, coffee long abandoned.

clark tries to act nonchalant about it while he introduces you to them, hand around your waist. and when jimmy appears, seeing you extend your hand to your lois while clark's nose is close to your temple which he can't even pass as friendship, well he almost faints.

oh, just wait until they found about who clark really was.

© BITTERSWEETLYBLUE. do not copy, translate, edit my work then claim it as your own, attempt to plagarise or repost it on any other website nor feed into AI. you will be blocked.

[satellite-evans]

new superhero in town?

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: You disappear during lunch, come back bruised, avoid questions, and somehow never react to Superman. Clark is completely convinced you’re secretly a superhero. The truth is far less glamorous.

Word count: 8k+

Warnings: fluff, mention of bruises and injuries

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Clark wouldn’t call himself an observer.

Sure, he noticed things. He had to. It came with being Superman. He listened for collapsing buildings beneath the noise of the city, watched for danger hidden in crowds, caught details other people missed because if he didn’t, people got hurt. But he never really focused on one person before. Never poured all his attention into memorizing someone’s habits, their expressions, the way they moved through a room.

Until you came along.

You were one of Perry’s newest hires, fresh blood thrown into the Daily Planet bullpen like bait into shark-infested water, except you never seemed intimidated by any of it. Most newcomers either tried too hard or shrank into themselves. You did neither. You found this impossible balance that made people gravitate toward you without realizing it.

Kind, but not overly sweet in a rehearsed way. Professional, but still willing to join after work drinks. Funny, but not enough to earn Perry’s eternal annoyance the way Jimmy did after getting warned three separate times about “inappropriate use of humor during serious editorial meetings.”

You fit too easily into their world. Beautiful without trying, smart enough to keep Lois interested in conversation, sharp enough to challenge Perry during meetings, and somehow constantly showing up to work covered in bruises with absolutely no explanation.

The first bruise Clark noticed sat just beneath your jaw.

Not because he was staring. He absolutely was not staring.

It was only there for a second when you tipped your head back laughing at one of Jimmy’s terrible jokes, the collar of your sweater slipping just enough to expose the faded purple mark against your skin. Clark’s fingers paused over his keyboard immediately. His hearing dimmed beneath the sound of your laugh.

A bruise.

Not the kind someone got from bumping into a door, either. It looked darker than that. Finger-shaped almost.

Something ugly twisted in his chest.

He wanted to ask if you were alright. Wanted to know who put their hands on you hard enough to leave marks. But there was something guarded about you too, hidden beneath the easy smiles and sarcasm, and Clark worried that asking would make you retreat entirely. So he stayed quiet, even while the image lingered in his head for the rest of the day.

Three days later there was another one.

This one wrapped around your wrist, peeking beneath your sleeve when you reached up to grab a file from the top cabinet. Clark caught sight of it from across the bullpen and looked away so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash when your eyes flickered toward him.

“Smooth,” Lois muttered without glancing away from her computer screen.

Clark blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

“I am not.”

The immediate defensiveness in his voice only made Lois snort.

“Oh, you absolutely are.”

“For your information,” Clark said stiffly, “I was looking at the cabinet.”

“The cabinet wearing glasses and cardigans?”

Clark cleared his throat and suddenly became very interested in the article on his monitor. Lois leaned back in her chair with a knowing smirk.

“You know,” she said casually, “normal people ask coworkers out instead of conducting FBI investigations.”

His ears burned instantly. “I’m not investigating her.”

Except he was.

Because there were patterns.

Clark noticed patterns.

You arrived every morning carrying coffee from the tiny stand three blocks over, despite always claiming you were running late. You wore thin-framed glasses that slid down your nose whenever you got stressed, and every time you pushed them back up, Clark had to physically stop himself from staring. Some days, there were scratches along your knuckles. Other days, bruises bloomed beneath your sleeves in places too deliberate to ignore.

And then Jimmy mentioned it. You disappeared almost every lunch break and came back twenty or thirty minutes later looking flushed and disheveled, your hair windswept like you’d been sprinting across rooftops.

“She disappears for hours sometimes,” he said one afternoon while tossing gummy bears into his mouth at Clark’s desk. “Like full mystery mode. One second she’s here, next second poof.”

Clark tried to sound casual. “Maybe she just likes being alone.”

Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “You're defending her because you’re in love with her?”

Clark nearly inhaled his own saliva.

“I am not in love with her.”

Jimmy looked unconvinced.

The thing was, Clark disappeared during lunch too, so he never actually noticed you leaving. Usually, he was halfway across the city, stopping a robbery or preventing some catastrophic disaster before rushing back to the Planet pretending he hadn’t just held up a collapsing bridge. But now that he knew you were vanishing too, every weird little detail about you started clicking into place.

And the biggest thing of all?

You somehow never reacted to Superman.

Everyone reacted to Superman.

Jimmy lit up like a little kid every single time Superman came up in conversation. Lois always had opinions, whether she admitted it or not. Half the newsroom stopped working whenever he flew past the windows.

You?

You barely looked up.

Like you’d seen stranger things before. Like the flying alien in blue wasn’t remotely the most interesting thing in your life. You never pitched Superman stories. Never fought for front page exclusives about him the way every newcomer usually did trying to impress Perry. Sometimes Clark caught you listening quietly when the others talked about Superman, your expression unreadable behind your glasses, but you never joined in.

It drove him insane.

Clark leaned back slowly in his chair one evening, staring at you across the bullpen while realization settled into his chest piece by piece.

Another superhero.

It had to be.

You weren’t active in Metropolis. He would know if you were. He would have seen you during patrols or heard whispers about a vigilante operating nearby. But another city? Another state?

A hidden identity.

A superhero.

The thought should not have thrilled him as much as it did.

Yet suddenly every interaction with you felt charged with something heavier. Something electric. Because maybe you understood him in ways no one else could. Maybe you understood the exhaustion of splitting yourself into pieces for the world. The balancing act. The secrecy. The isolation. The terrible loneliness that came with carrying things no one else could know.

And once the idea rooted itself in Clark’s mind, it refused to let go.

“You’re doing it again,” Lois said without looking up from her laptop.

Clark’s head snapped upward so quickly it was almost suspicious on its own. “Doing what?”

“Staring.”

“I’m not staring,” he said immediately. “I’m observing.”

Lois finally looked at him then, one eyebrow lifting slowly toward her hairline. “That somehow sounds significantly worse.”

Across the newsroom, completely unaware of the crisis currently unfolding at Clark’s desk, you sat cross-legged in your chair flipping through interview notes with one hand while absentmindedly chewing on the end of your pen. Your glasses had slipped halfway down your nose again, and every few seconds you nudged them back up without even noticing you were doing it. The soft yellow light hanging over your desk caught against the side of your face and illuminated the faint purple bruise resting high along your collarbone just above the neckline of your sweater.

Clark swallowed hard.

It looked fresh.

Not severe enough to panic over, but enough that his stomach twisted unpleasantly anyway.

Lois followed his line of sight with painful ease, then let out one long dramatic sigh like she was exhausted by his existence.

“Okay,” she muttered, shutting her laptop halfway. “Spill it, Smallville.”

Clark immediately lowered his voice despite the fact nobody around them was paying attention. “I think she might be a vigilante.”

Lois stared at him blankly.

Clark pressed forward before she could interrupt. “Or a superhero. I’m not completely sure yet.”

For three full seconds, Lois said absolutely nothing.

Then she burst into laughter loud enough that three people looked over, including Jimmy, halfway across the bullpen.

Clark frowned immediately. “I’m serious.”

That only made her laugh harder.

“Oh my God,” she wheezed, grabbing the edge of the desk for support. “You are serious.”

Clark crossed his arms defensively. “There’s evidence.”

“The fact that she’s pretty is not evidence.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Mmhm.”

“She disappears every lunch break.”

Lois deadpanned. “So do you.”

Clark blinked once.

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Clark opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Lois smirked victoriously before continuing. “Clark, this is Metropolis. Half the city disappears during lunch because something explodes every twelve minutes.”

“She comes back injured.”

Lois snorted. “I got clipped by a taxi last month and still came into work. Last week Jimmy walked into a parking meter and got a concussion.”

“Hey,” Jimmy called from across the room. “That was one time.”

Clark ignored both of them. “These aren’t normal bruises.”

Lois glanced toward you again, her expression softening slightly as she caught sight of the mark on your collarbone. “Okay, maybe they’re not ideal, but you’re jumping from concern to full conspiracy theory pretty fast here.”

“She hides behind glasses.”

Lois stared at him slowly.

Very slowly.

“Clark.”

“Yes?”

“You also wear glasses.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

Clark opened his mouth again.

Then closed it.

Because honestly, hearing it out loud made his entire theory sound insane.

Lois rubbed both hands down her face. “You have a crush and your brain stopped functioning.”

“It’s not a crush,” Clark said immediately, far too fast to sound believable.

Like he’d been summoned by the sheer force of gossip, Jimmy suddenly appeared beside Clark’s desk holding a soda and an expression full of dangerous curiosity. “Who has a crush?”

“No one,” Clark answered at the exact same time Lois said, “You.”

Jimmy gasped dramatically loud enough to earn a glare from Perry’s office.

“On Y/N?” he whispered aggressively.

Clark nearly inhaled his own tongue.

Jimmy’s grin widened instantly. “Dude.”

“I do not have a crush on her.”

“You stared at her for like six straight minutes yesterday,” Lois said.

“I was thinking.”

“About her mouth?” Lois shot back.

Clark physically choked.

Jimmy looked delighted. “Oh my God, you’re down bad.”

“I’m not down anything.”

Jimmy leaned against Clark’s desk with all the confidence of a man who enjoyed making situations worse. “You should ask her out.”

Clark immediately shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

Because what if you really were risking your life every night somewhere? Because what if getting involved complicated things for both of you? Because what if you looked at him too closely and saw through every carefully built layer separating Clark Kent from Superman?

Because maybe a part of him desperately wanted you to.

Clark looked away instead.

Jimmy squinted at him suspiciously. “Wait.”

Clark already hated that tone.

“Are you scared of her?”

“No.”

“You totally are.”

“I’m not scared of her.”

“She is kinda intimidating,” Jimmy admitted thoughtfully. “In a hot way.”

Lois gagged.

Jimmy ignored her. “Last week I saw her come back from lunch with blood on her sleeve.”

Clark went completely still.

Every sound in the bullpen seemed to dull instantly around him.

“Blood?” he repeated carefully.

Jimmy nodded, suddenly less amused now that he had their full attention. “Yeah. Not a ton, but enough that I noticed. She was trying to hide it.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I saw her scrubbing it out in the bathroom sink afterward.”

Lois sat up straighter now too, concern flickering across her face despite herself. “Okay, that is a little weird.”

Clark’s pulse started hammering.

Jimmy continued, oblivious. “And she looked exhausted after too. Like she’d been in a fight or something.”

Clark’s stomach dropped.

A fight.

Lois pointed a finger at him before he could spiral further. “Do not start building your murder board yet, Kent. There are normal explanations for this.”

Clark looked unconvinced.

“She could’ve gotten a nosebleed,” Lois argued. “Or spilled ketchup on herself. Or helped somebody who got hurt.”

Jimmy made a face. “Who spills ketchup directly on their sleeve?”

Lois ignored him. “My point is you are going from zero to one hundred.”

But Clark barely heard her anymore.

Because across the newsroom you laughed softly at something another reporter said, completely relaxed, completely normal, while absentmindedly tugging your sleeve lower over your bruised wrist like you didn’t want anyone noticing.

Like you were hiding something.

Clark narrowed his eyes slightly.

Definitely a vigilante, he thought to himself.

If only Clark knew how catastrophically far he was from the truth.

You were not a vigilante. Not a superhero. Not a masked protector operating out of another city with a tragic backstory and secret double life.

You were just unbelievably unlucky.

That was genuinely the entire story.

Your apartment building elevator broke so often you were convinced it had developed personal hatred toward you specifically. Twice a month it jerked violently enough to send you crashing into the wall, and once it trapped you between floors for nearly an hour while you sat on the ground eating stale crackers from your purse and contemplating every bad decision that led you to Metropolis. You bruised absurdly easily too. The smallest things left marks on your skin for days. You once woke up with a bruise on your thigh so dark and dramatic that you genuinely convinced yourself you had some terrifying hidden illness before remembering you’d walked into the kitchen counter half asleep at two in the morning looking for water.

Another time?

A pillow.

An actual pillow.

You had dropped face first onto your bed after a sixteen hour day and somehow managed to bruise your shoulder against the wooden headboard in the process.

Your body simply refused to cooperate with you.

It became such a normal part of your life that eventually you stopped noticing the bruises entirely until other people pointed them out. You were always distracted, always thinking too fast, always halfway somewhere else mentally, which meant you regularly walked into doors, clipped corners, slammed your hips against desks, tripped down stairs, or forgot objects existed directly in front of you. Half the bruises on your legs appeared without explanation because apparently your body just enjoyed creating mysteries.

The rest of your “suspicious behavior” was equally uninteresting.

Your disappearances during lunch breaks were usually spent crying in your car from stress, scarfing down vending machine snacks while answering calls from insurance companies, or sprinting halfway across Metropolis trying not to miss your younger brother’s physical therapy appointments. Since your parents passed, taking care of him became your responsibility, and balancing that with the Daily Planet nearly killed you some days. There were mornings you barely made it to work because you’d spent hours arguing with doctors or trying to convince your brother not to give up on recovery entirely.

The blood on your sleeve?

Your brother dropped an entire cherry slushie directly onto you after laughing too hard at one of your jokes.

You spent twenty minutes in the Planet bathroom trying to scrub fluorescent red sugar syrup out of your cardigan while wondering if adulthood was punishment for something you did in a past life.

That was it.

No secret missions.

No hidden enemies.

No rooftop fights.

Just terrible luck and a rapidly deteriorating mental state.

The only thing Clark had accidentally gotten right was the Superman part.

Because the reason you barely reacted to him anymore was simple.

You had already met him once.

Technically, though, he definitely didn’t know that.

It happened three years ago during what remained, to this day, the worst night of your life.

You’d been visiting Metropolis for a college journalism conference when the bridge collapsed.

Even now the memory felt sharp enough to cut.

You remembered screaming. Metal twisting like paper. The deafening sound of concrete splitting apart beneath hundreds of terrified people. Cars tipping sideways. Smoke everywhere thick enough to choke on. One second you were sitting in the backseat of a taxi answering emails on your phone, the next the entire world tilted violently and disappeared beneath you.

The impact shattered something in your leg instantly.

You still remembered the pain.

White hot and nauseating.

You had been trapped beneath mangled steel and broken concrete while people screamed around you in complete panic. Somewhere nearby a child was crying for their mother. Someone else was praying loud enough for you to hear every word. Smoke burned your lungs every time you inhaled and your vision blurred from the pain until honestly, truly, you thought you were going to die there.

Then suddenly everything changed.

There had been blue.

Bright against all the gray dust and smoke.

Then warmth.

Strong hands lifting impossible weight like it meant nothing.

And a voice.

God, that voice.

Gentle. Calm. Steady in a way that made the panic inside your chest loosen instantly despite the destruction surrounding you.

“I’ve got you.”

You remembered staring through tears as Superman crouched beside you in the wreckage, one hand braced against collapsing concrete while the other carefully untangled twisted metal from around your leg like he was terrified of hurting you further.

You remembered his cape moving in the wind behind him.

You remembered the symbol on his chest.

But mostly?

You remembered his eyes.

Kind.

Not performative kindness either. Not the polished, public version the world saw during interviews and press conferences.

Real kindness.

The kind that reached all the way down into a person.

You had looked at him while shaking from pain and fear, and somehow he made you feel safe immediately.

Like nothing terrible could happen while he was there.

He stayed with you until paramedics arrived even though half the bridge was still collapsing around him. You remembered him brushing dust from your forehead carefully, asking if you could breathe alright, speaking softly enough that only you could hear him over the chaos.

Then he smiled at you.

A small thing.

Quick.

But warm enough that your chest hurt afterward every time you remembered it.

For months after that, every man you met felt disappointing in comparison.

Not because they couldn’t fly or lift buildings or stop disasters.

But because none of them looked at people the way Superman did.

None of them carried gentleness so naturally.

Then you started working at the Daily Planet and met Clark Kent.

Clark Kent, who smiled exactly the same way Superman did.

Clark Kent, who tilted his head while listening exactly the same way Superman did.

Clark Kent, whose voice dropped softer whenever someone was upset.

Clark Kent, who had the exact same eyes as Superman did.

You figured it out in less than a week.

Honestly, it was almost concerning nobody else had.

The glasses helped more than they should have, but still.

Sometimes Clark would disappear for suspiciously long stretches of time right before Superman appeared downtown. Sometimes he came back looking exhausted with his tie crooked and his hair windblown while pretending nothing happened. Once you watched him return to the bullpen with ash smeared along his sleeve less than fifteen minutes after a chemical plant explosion Superman had supposedly been rescuing people from across the city.

You nearly laughed out loud.

But you never said anything.

Because it wasn’t your place.

The secret clearly mattered to him. Deeply. You could see it in the careful way he carried himself, always slightly restrained, always holding pieces of himself back. If Clark ever trusted you enough to tell you the truth himself, then he would. Until then, you would protect it too.

Besides, there was something strangely endearing about watching him maintain the act.

Clark tried so hard sometimes.

Too hard.

He’d intentionally stumble over absolutely nothing whenever people looked too closely at him. He lowered his voice around the office compared to Superman’s. Occasionally he pretended not to understand basic sarcasm because apparently Clark Kent was supposed to be awkward and harmless and incapable of throwing someone through a wall.

It was adorable.

Especially because underneath all of it, he was still just Clark.

Thoughtful. Sweet. Quietly protective.

You noticed the way he always carried extra snacks in his bag because he knew you forgot to eat during deadlines. The way he stayed late helping interns finish assignments without asking for credit. The way he checked if you got home safe after rough weather warnings.

That was the thing. Even as Clark Kent, he was still Superman.

“Hey.”

The sound of Clark’s voice pulled you out of your concentration immediately.

You looked up from your desk to find him standing there awkwardly between the rows of cluttered cubicles, broad shoulders slightly tense beneath his blue button up, two coffee cups clutched carefully in his hands like he was afraid he might spill them if he moved too quickly. His glasses had slipped lower on his nose again, and there was something almost unbearably nervous about the way he hovered there waiting for your attention.

Your stomach betrayed you instantly with a ridiculous little flip.

Which was honestly unfair.

A man should not be allowed to look like that while also being sweet.

“Hi,” you said, trying to sound significantly calmer than you felt.

“Hi.” Clark cleared his throat softly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I got your order.”

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise as he handed one of the cups toward you. “You remembered my order?”

Immediately, his entire expression changed.

Clark looked flustered so fast it was almost painful to witness.

A faint flush crawled up the back of his neck, his grip tightening slightly around the remaining coffee cup while his eyes darted away from yours for half a second before returning.

“Well,” he started carefully, “you order the same thing every morning, and I just happened to notice, and I was already there anyway, so I thought maybe…” He trailed off awkwardly before adding quieter, “You looked tired today.”

Something warm unfolded in your chest so suddenly it nearly hurt.

Because of course he noticed that too.

You smiled softly as you accepted the coffee from him, your fingers brushing briefly against his. The contact only lasted a second, but Clark went strangely still afterward, like he felt it too.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “That’s very sweet of you.”

The tension in his shoulders loosened almost immediately at your reaction. Just slightly, but enough that you noticed. Clark always looked like he carried invisible weight around with him, something heavy tucked behind his eyes even during lighter moments, but right now he looked quietly pleased in a way that made your chest ache.

Then his gaze dropped downward.

Your wrist.

Ah.

You had forgotten about the bruise.

It wrapped faintly around the inside of your arm, darker today than it had been this morning, peeking beneath the sleeve of your sweater where it had ridden upward while you worked. You followed Clark’s line of sight automatically and watched concern settle over his features almost instantly.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

The sincerity in his voice caught you completely off guard.

Clark wasn’t asking carelessly. He wasn’t fishing for gossip or trying to satisfy curiosity. There was genuine worry in his expression, in the slight furrow between his brows, in the way his body leaned toward you unconsciously like he was already prepared to help if you needed it.

And suddenly your heart felt painfully full.

You glanced down at the bruise before offering him a small reassuring smile. “Yeah,” you said gently. “Just clumsy.”

Clark looked profoundly unconvinced.

Honestly, insultingly unconvinced.

His eyes lingered on your wrist another second too long, jaw tightening slightly like he was debating whether or not to push further. You could practically see the thoughts moving behind his eyes, all that concern tangling together with whatever conclusions he’d already convinced himself of.

“You can tell me if something’s wrong,” he said quietly. “You know that, right?”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly hard.

Because he meant it.

God.

He really meant it.

Clark looked at you like helping people was as natural as breathing. Like caring was instinctive for him. And maybe it was. You had seen Superman pull strangers from burning buildings with that same expression on his face, gentle and determined all at once.

Now, Clark was looking at you exactly the same way.

The realization sent something dangerous curling low in your stomach.

For one reckless second, you wanted to reach up and touch his face.

Wanted to smooth out the worry between his brows with your thumb. Wanted to tell him he didn’t have to look at you like you were breakable. Wanted to know if his skin felt as warm as you imagined.

Dangerous. Extremely dangerous.

Especially because Clark already occupied far too much space in your thoughts.

You looked away first before the feeling could settle too deeply inside you.

“I’m okay, Clark,” you said softly.

The newsroom buzzed around you both, phones ringing somewhere in the distance while keyboards clicked endlessly across the bullpen, but for a second the noise felt strangely muted beneath the weight of his attention.

Clark studied your face carefully like he was trying to determine whether you were lying.

And maybe you were, just not in the way he thought.

Because no, nobody was hurting you.

But there were things exhausting you. Things wearing you down piece by piece until you barely recognized yourself some mornings. Bills piling up. Hospital visits. Sleepless nights. Fear. Responsibility. The constant pressure of trying to hold your life together with shaking hands.

You wondered briefly what would happen if you told him all of it.

Something in Clark’s expression softened further, his concern melting into quiet helplessness when you held his gaze again. Like he wanted to fix whatever burden you carried even without understanding it.

Finally, after a long moment, he nodded slowly.

“Okay,” he murmured.

But he still looked worried.

And somehow that affected you more than it should have.

Two nights later, Clark followed you.

The decision sat horribly in his chest from the moment he made it.

It felt invasive. Hypocritical. Wrong in ways he couldn’t ignore no matter how hard he tried justifying it to himself. Clark spent half his life protecting his own secrets, carefully balancing two identities and guarding every vulnerable part of himself from public scrutiny, and now he was trailing you through the city because he couldn’t let go of a theory.

But then he remembered the split across your knuckles that morning.

The bruise beneath your eye.

The way you smiled through it anyway like pain was something you’d learned to carry quietly.

And suddenly the guilt became easier to ignore.

That morning had nearly driven him insane.

You walked into the bullpen ten minutes late with your glasses slightly crooked and exhaustion written across every inch of your face. There was a bruise shadowed beneath your eye, dark enough that even makeup couldn’t fully hide it, and when you reached for your bag Clark saw the raw split across two of your knuckles.

His stomach dropped immediately.

“Come on,” Lois had said the second she noticed. Her voice softened with genuine concern as she leaned against your desk. “This is not nothing. What happened?”

You barely looked up from your laptop while setting your coffee down carefully. “I walked into a shelf.”

Jimmy stared at you. “With your face?”

You laughed quietly. “It was a very aggressive shelf.”

Nobody laughed with you.

Clark sat frozen at his desk watching you too closely, chest tight with something ugly and helpless. The bruise beneath your eye looked painful. Angry. Fresh.

And the worst part?

You looked tired. Not just physically, soul-deep tired.

The kind of exhaustion Clark recognized immediately because he saw it in the mirror some mornings after nights spent saving people until sunrise.

“Yeah, you can tell us,” Clark added carefully, trying to keep his voice light despite the tension in his chest. “I’m friends with Superman. I can make sure nobody’s hurting you.”

The second Superman left his mouth, you laughed.

Actually laughed.

Not mockingly, just this surprised little breath of amusement that made your shoulders shake slightly.

Clark blinked.

That was odd.

You rubbed at your forehead afterward and smiled tiredly. “I’m fine, seriously. Like I said, I’m just very clumsy.”

Clark did not buy that for one second.

Not remotely.

So yes.

He followed you after work.

Metropolis blurred gold and gray around him as the sun dipped lower between buildings. Clark kept enough distance that you wouldn’t notice him, perched silently atop rooftops while watching you move through crowded sidewalks below.

You looked painfully ordinary.

That somehow made him more suspicious.

You stopped at a pharmacy first. Then a bookstore. Then, finally headed toward your neighborhood, disappearing farther into the rougher parts of the city where streetlights flickered weakly, and buildings leaned tiredly into one another.

Clark’s confusion only grew.

No secret headquarters, no underground base, no suspicious contacts waiting in alleyways.

Just a rundown apartment building with cracked windows and buzzing hallway lights that barely worked.

You disappeared inside.

Clark perched silently on the rooftop across the street, cape tucked close as he frowned down at the building below.

Maybe this wasn’t where you operated from, maybe the real entrance was hidden somewhere else. Maybe you were intentionally throwing off anyone following you.

Twenty minutes later you emerged again wearing loose sweatpants and carrying two grocery bags.

Clark stared.

That was somehow even more confusing.

You adjusted the bags against your hip while locking the apartment door behind you, expression distracted like you were mentally planning tomorrow already.

Then suddenly you froze.

Clark heard it at the same moment you did.

Shouting.

It was sharp, aggressive, coming from the alley beside the building.

Clark straightened immediately.

Two men crowded near the dumpsters, one of them gripping the arm of a terrified teenage boy clutching a backpack against his chest. The kid looked maybe fifteen at most, eyes wide with panic while one of the men shoved him hard against the brick wall.

Clark moved instinctively.

Ready to intervene, ready to land between them before anyone got hurt.

But then you moved first, and Clark wanted to see what you would do.

Your purse hit the nearest thug square in the chest hard enough to stagger him backward.

“Hey!” you shouted, stepping directly between them and the teenager without hesitation. “Back off, don’t hurt him!”

Clark blinked.

The men laughed immediately.

One of them looked you up and down dismissively. “Mind your business, sweetheart.”

You shoved him backward before he could touch you.

The entire alley went still for half a second.

Then chaos erupted.

One of the men lunged toward you, and you punched him directly in the throat. Not with trained precision or with impossible strength.

Just pure instinct and adrenaline.

Clark watched in stunned silence as the fight spiraled. He waited for you to use your powers.

You got hit almost immediately.

Hard enough that your head snapped sideways against the brick wall.

Clark nearly intervened right then.

But you kept moving.

Kept fighting.

You grabbed a broken broom handle off the ground and swung it wildly, breathing hard while shoving yourself between the terrified kid and the men trying to grab him. One of them caught your wrist hard enough to bruise instantly, but you twisted free and slammed the broom into his ribs with enough force to send him stumbling backward cursing.

It wasn’t graceful, it wasn’t superhuman but God, it was brave.

Eventually the men fled swearing under their breath after attracting too much attention from nearby apartments. The teenager bolted immediately afterward, clutching his backpack while mumbling a terrified thank you over his shoulder.

And you?

You just stood there breathing hard.

One hand pressed tightly against your ribs while the other wiped blood from your split lip.

Clark landed behind you before he could stop himself.

The sound made your entire body tense instantly. Slowly, cautiously, you turned around.

Your eyes widened behind your glasses.

“Superman?”

For a second genuine confusion crossed your face before suspicion followed immediately after. “What are you doing here?”

Clark stared at the blood on your mouth.

The bruise already forming along your cheek.

“You’re hurt, ma'am.”

You let out a weak laugh despite yourself. “Little late for that observation, don’t you think?”

“You could’ve been killed.”

The words came out harsher than he intended. It was not Superman speaking; it was Clark. His theory was wrong, and he hated that he doubted you for a second. Instead of asking you, he followed you like a creep and watched you get hurt.

Fear still pulsed violently through him.

You looked startled by the intensity in his voice before your expression softened slightly.

“So could that kid.”

Clark stepped closer before he could stop himself. “Why would you do that?”

Your face changed then. Not dramatically, just enough that something inside Clark’s chest tightened painfully.

“Because no one else was going to,” you answered quietly.

God.

You looked exhausted. Bruised. Completely human standing there beneath the flickering alley light.

Not invincible, not secretly powerful.

Just good.

Clark suddenly felt unbelievably stupid.

“Oh,” you said after a second, voice softer now.

“What?”

A tiny smile appeared despite the split on your lip.

“ You watched the fight. Probably heard it before it happened, yet you didn't intervene. Because you thought I could handle it, didn't you? You followed me back to my neighborhood. Clark. You thought I was a superhero, didn't you?”

Clark’s entire face burned instantly.

“No,” he lied horribly.

“Clark.”

“I just…” He groaned quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, okay? I just didn’t believe someone could actually be that clumsy.”

That made you laugh again, a real laugh this time. Warm and breathless and bright enough to completely wreck him.

Then you winced sharply halfway through it, one hand clutching your side.

Clark crossed the distance between you immediately.

“Easy, easy. I got you.”

His hands settled instinctively against your waist to steady you.

The second he touched you, both froze.

Clark became painfully aware of everything all at once.

Your breath caught softly as Clark’s hands settled against your waist. The warmth of his body this close to yours made your head spin a little, especially when your eyes slowly lifted toward his and found him already staring. Your heartbeat fluttered fast beneath his hearing, but not from fear.

His own pulse thundered in response. For a long second, neither of you moved, caught in this strange quiet tension that suddenly felt too intimate for the dark alley surrounding you.

And then it hit him.

You called him Clark. Not Superman. Clark.

Like you already knew. Like you saw through every careful layer, every disguise, every attempt to separate the two identities, and still looked at him like he was just himself.

Clark’s expression shifted instantly, something stunned and uncertain flickering across his face.

“Did you just call me Clark?” he asked softly.

Then softly, almost teasingly, you murmured, “You know, for someone hiding the biggest secret in the world, you’re surprisingly bad at recognizing them in other people.”

Clark froze completely.

Every sound around him vanished. The city disappeared, his hands tightened slightly against your waist before he caught himself.

“You…”

Your gaze met his steadily, affectionate in a way that nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

“I know, Clark.”

For one horrifying second he forgot how to breathe.

Then your hand lifted carefully, fingers brushing lightly against his arm like you were grounding him before he could panic.

“I figured it out almost immediately.”

Clark stared at you in complete disbelief. “You knew?”

“You’re not exactly subtle.”

“What? I am subtle.”

You gave him a look, and Clark immediately deflated a little. “Okay,” he admitted, “maybe not all the time.”

Your smile softened at that. “You wanted privacy. It wasn’t my place to say anything.”

Something tightened painfully in Clark’s chest. Most people reacted to Superman with awe or fear, but you were looking at him like he was just Clark, and somehow that affected him more than he could explain.

“You’re not scared of me?” he asked quietly before he could stop himself.

Your expression softened almost heartbreakingly. “Clark, I watched you hold a collapsing bridge together while comforting strangers so they wouldn’t panic.” His breath caught as you smiled faintly. “I think you’re the safest person I’ve ever met.”

The intensity in his chest became almost unbearable. Before he could overthink it, Clark reached up carefully, his thumb brushing beneath the bruise on your cheekbone with impossible gentleness.

“So all this time,” you murmured, amused now, “you thought I was fighting crime?”

A sheepish smile finally pulled at his mouth. “Cut me some slack, will you? You disappear constantly. What else was I supposed to think?”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “I have a brother with a disability. He needs constant care, so he stays in a hospital where they can help him properly.” Your voice softened. “I don’t really have other family left, so I try to spend as much time with him as I can. I don’t want him feeling alone.”

Clark stood completely still.

Every stupid theory he’d built over the past weeks collapsed instantly into embarrassment.

You kept talking quietly.

“Sometimes I come in late because we lose track of time playing Uno together,” you admitted quietly. “I think he lets me win now because his hands shake too much to hold the cards properly, but he still smiles like he used to, so I pretend not to notice.”

A faint smile crossed your face before fading slightly. “And sometimes I read stories to the kids in the pediatric wing during treatments because they get scared. It helps keep them calm, and the extra money helps me cover bills.” You looked away for a second. “I think I just… know what it feels like to be stuck in a hospital room wishing somebody would stay.”

Your laugh came softer after that, almost fragile. “Children are brutal critics, though. Apparently my dragon voices all sound the same.”

Clark honestly did not know what to say anymore.

All this time, he had built this entire version of you in his head. A masked vigilante slipping out of the Daily Planet during lunch breaks to save people somewhere across the city. Someone carrying bruises like battle scars, hiding secrets behind nervous smiles and thick framed glasses because they understood the impossible balancing act he lived every day.

Meanwhile, you were just… taking care of people.

Your brother. Sick children. Strangers in dark alleys.

You carried all of it alone without powers, without recognition, without anyone stepping in to help carry the weight with you, and somehow that affected Clark far more than the idea of you being a superhero ever had. Because there was nothing separating you from the pain of it. No invulnerability. No super strength. No ability to fly away from exhaustion or grief or fear.

Just you.

Still choosing kindness anyway.

Clark looked at you standing there beneath the flickering alley light with a split lip and bruised ribs after throwing yourself into danger for a stranger, and something deep inside his chest ached painfully.

“What about the bruises?” he asked softly after a long moment, almost like he was still trying to piece you together properly now that he finally understood.

You looked nearly offended. “Clark, I told you. I’m clumsy.”

“You had one shaped like fingerprints.”

“I sleep weird.”

Clark blinked at you slowly. “...how?”

“I genuinely don’t know.”

The seriousness in your voice nearly made him laugh again.

“And the blood Jimmy saw on your sleeve?”

This time you actually looked embarrassed, your hand lifting to rub the back of your neck awkwardly. “That would be the cherry slushie my brother accidentally launched directly at me.”

Clark stared at you for half a second before closing his eyes briefly.

“Oh my God.”

The sound of your laughter echoed softly through the alley then, bright and warm despite everything, and Clark felt something inside him loosen unexpectedly at hearing it. You looked exhausted, bruised, and emotionally wrung out, but you were still laughing.

“So this whole time,” you said between laughs, “Superman has been secretly investigating me because I walk into furniture too often?”

“When you say it out loud, it sounds bad.”

“It sounds insane.”

Clark finally laughed too then, helpless and warm and completely unable to stop himself. The sound bounced between the alley walls as he shook his head, looking down at the ground for a second in disbelief before meeting your eyes again.

And suddenly neither of you could stop smiling.

The tension that had followed both of you for weeks dissolved so naturally it almost felt unreal. The alley somehow seemed smaller now, quieter somehow despite the city noise surrounding it. Intimate in a way Clark wasn’t prepared for.

His hand was still resting gently against your face.

Your fingers still curled softly around his wrist.

Clark looked at you for a long moment before speaking softly. “You know what?”

“What?”

A small smile pulled at his mouth then, warm and almost disbelieving at the same time. “I was right.”

You blinked at him. “About what?”

“You are a superhero.”

The teasing smile on your face faded slightly into something softer as Clark stepped a little closer, his thumb brushing carefully against your cheek again despite the bruise there. The touch was impossibly gentle, and somehow that made the words hit even harder.

“You take care of your brother by yourself. You carry work and bills and hospital visits and all this weight every day, and somehow you still show up smiling like none of it hurts.” His voice lowered quietly, full of something that made your chest ache. “You throw yourself into danger for strangers even though you’re scared and human and breakable. I think that’s a lot braver than flying.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

Nobody had ever looked at your life and called it brave before. People called you responsible. Stubborn. Overworked. Occasionally a disaster. Nurses at the hospital constantly told you to sleep more, and your brother liked to joke that you were secretly a seventy year old woman trapped inside a twenty something year old body. But brave?

Never brave.

Yet Clark stood in front of you looking at you with the same certainty he probably used while telling terrified people everything was going to be alright during disasters. Like he truly meant every word.

“That’s not really the same thing,” you said softly after a moment, trying to laugh it off despite the warmth spreading painfully through your chest. “You literally stop meteors.”

Clark shook his head immediately. “That’s easy.”

You stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“For me,” he clarified quickly, his expression turning thoughtful, almost frustrated by his inability to explain himself properly. “I was born like this. Flying, strength, hearing buildings collapse from miles away, none of it feels difficult because it’s just…” He hesitated briefly. “Part of me.”

Your expression softened immediately.

“But you,” Clark continued more quietly, “you’re human.”

Something about the way he said it made your pulse flutter.

Not lesser. Never lesser.

Clark said human like it meant something sacred.

“You get scared anyway and still choose to help people,” he murmured. “You’re exhausted all the time, carrying responsibilities that would crush most people, and you still stop for strangers.” His gaze flickered briefly toward the alley where the teenager had disappeared earlier. “You don’t have powers protecting you.”

You looked down for a second, suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity in his voice. “I was a little terrified back there,” you admitted quietly. “I genuinely thought that guy was going to break my nose.”

Clark’s jaw tightened instantly at that. “Don’t worry,” he said, voice low and certain. “He won’t touch you again.”

The protectiveness in his tone sent warmth straight through you, immediate and dangerous. God, you really needed him to stop doing that. Stop sounding so soft and protective while looking at you like you mattered more than anything else around him.

You tried very hard not to think about the fact that one of his hands were still resting carefully against your waist.

“Honestly,” you admitted with a quiet breath of laughter, “I mostly acted before thinking.”

Clark huffed softly. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“It’s a problem.”

“It’s also why that kid got home safe tonight.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly ruined you.

Your eyes lifted back toward him slowly, and suddenly he felt very close again. Close enough that you could see every tiny detail in his face beneath the dim alley light, the soft curl of dark hair near his forehead, the faint shadow along his jaw after a long day, the tiny crease between his brows that only appeared when he worried.

And God, Clark Kent worried about you constantly.

The realization settled warmly into your chest.

Clark looked at you like he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with how much he liked you, and maybe that should have scared you more than it did. Instead, it made your entire body feel strangely light.

“You’re laughing,” he said quietly after a moment, sounding almost surprised by it.

You smiled faintly. “So?”

“You don’t do it enough.”

The softness in his voice stole the breath straight from your lungs.

Somewhere along the way your life had become schedules and hospital rooms and bills and exhaustion, and people stopped looking closely enough to notice when you were genuinely happy versus when you were only pretending to be okay.

But Clark noticed.

Of course he did.

He noticed everything about you.

“You notice a lot for someone who claims he wasn’t investigating me,” you murmured.

Clark actually looked embarrassed by that. “I can explain it.”

“You followed me across the city.”

“…in hindsight, that sounds concerning.”

You laughed softly. “In hindsight?”

“I really thought you were secretly fighting crime,” he admitted, the warmth in his voice returning.

“You thought I was Batman, huh?”

A helpless laugh escaped him then, low and unfairly attractive enough to make your stomach twist. The teasing lingered between you for another second before fading naturally into something quieter, softer, the space between you suddenly feeling charged again.

Clark didn’t move.

Neither did you.

His eyes dropped briefly toward your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again, and your heartbeat stuttered immediately at the look on his face. Slowly, carefully, like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away, Clark stepped closer.

“You know what the worst part is?” he asked softly.

Your voice came out quieter than intended. “What?”

A faint smile touched his mouth, but there was real vulnerability underneath it now, the kind that made your chest ache. “I think I started liking you before the conspiracy theories.”

A startled laugh escaped you immediately.

“I tried not to,” Clark admitted quietly. “I thought maybe it would make things complicated.”

“You mean because you thought I was secretly fighting crime at night?”

“That was part of it.”

“And the other part?”

Clark looked at you for a long moment before answering, his expression softening into something painfully honest. “Because when I care about people,” he said quietly, “they get hurt.”

Your heart cracked a little at that.

You could hear it then beneath all the teasing and softness. The fear. The loneliness he carried around hidden beneath careful smiles and gentle hands. Clark said it so simply, but it sounded like something he had convinced himself of a very long time ago.

Before you could overthink it, your hand lifted carefully to his face.

Clark went completely still beneath your touch.

“You don’t get to decide other people’s choices for them,” you whispered.

His eyes searched yours carefully.

“I know what you are,” you continued softly, your thumb brushing lightly against his cheek. “And I still…”

The words caught in your throat suddenly.

Still what?

Still wanted him?

Still trusted him?

Still felt your entire chest tighten every time he looked at you?

Clark’s gaze dropped briefly to your lips before lifting back to your eyes again, his voice turning almost unbearably soft. “Still what?”

Your fingers curled slightly against his cheek. “Still think you’re worth knowing.”

Something in Clark’s expression changed after that.

Not dramatically.

Quietly.

Like he had spent so long expecting fear or rejection that simple acceptance hit him harder than anything else could have.

Then, slowly, almost cautiously, his hand slid upward from your waist to rest against your jaw. Warm. Gentle. Careful enough that your breath caught immediately.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly.

And God.

Nobody had ever sounded like that asking before.

Like it mattered.

Like you mattered.

You nodded once, barely managing the movement before Clark kissed you carefully at first, tentative like he was afraid pushing too hard might shatter the moment completely. Then your hand slid into his hair and something in him gave way.

The kiss deepened instantly, warm and aching and full of weeks worth of tension neither of you had known what to do with. Clark kissed like he cared too much already, one hand cradling your face while the other tightened carefully at your waist like grounding himself against you.

And maybe the craziest part was that for the first time in a very long while, you didn’t feel exhausted anymore.

You just felt safe.

Safe.

That was the only word your brain could hold onto as Clark kissed you beneath the flickering alley light, one hand cradling your face like something precious while the rest of the world carried on around you unnoticed. You had blood on your lip, bruises already forming beneath your skin, your ribs aching every time you breathed too deeply, and somehow none of it mattered when he touched you like that.

For a few dangerous seconds, you forgot about everything else completely.

The hospital bills waiting on your kitchen counter disappeared. The exhaustion clawing constantly at your bones vanished. The pressure sitting heavy on your chest every waking moment, the schedules and responsibility and fear, all of it faded beneath the warmth of Clark’s mouth against yours.

Maybe that was what made the kiss feel so overwhelming.

Not just because it was Clark.

But because nobody had held you this gently in a very long time.

Your fingers tightened slightly in his hair without thinking, and the soft sound that escaped him nearly ruined you completely. Clark kissed you slower after that, deeper, his thumb brushing carefully along your jaw like he was still trying to convince himself this was real. There was something almost unbearably restrained about him, like he wanted far more than he was allowing himself to take.

Then suddenly he pulled back.

Not far.

Just enough for both of you to breathe.

His forehead rested lightly against yours while you stood there dazed beneath the dim alley light, your glasses crooked from his hands in your hair and your lipstick probably smeared all over his mouth by now. Clark blinked at you once, still looking slightly stunned, and for one quiet second neither of you said anything.

Then you both started laughing.

Soft at first.

Then harder.

Not because anything was particularly funny, but because the entire situation felt completely absurd now that the tension finally snapped. Clark Kent had followed you across Metropolis because he genuinely believed you were secretly a vigilante, accidentally discovered you already knew he was Superman, watched you nearly lose a fight with a broom handle, then kissed you in the middle of an alleyway like this was somehow a normal Tuesday night.

Clark rubbed a hand over his face with a breathless laugh. “Okay,” he murmured. “Wow.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Wow?”

“Sorry,” he admitted, still laughing softly. “I had a much better sentence in my head five seconds ago.”

“I’m sure it was very impressive.”

“It really was.”

You laughed again, but the movement pulled sharply at your ribs this time. The wince escaped before you could hide it, and Clark’s entire expression changed immediately.

The softness melted into concern so quickly it almost startled you.

His eyes scanned over your face again, lingering on the split in your lip, the bruise darkening beneath your cheekbone, the way your arm instinctively wrapped tighter around your side now that the adrenaline was fading.

“You’re hurt,” he said quietly.

You waved him off automatically. “I’m fine.”

Clark gave you a look so deeply unconvinced it almost made you laugh again. His hands slid carefully from your waist to your arms instead, gentler now, almost hesitant like he was afraid of hurting you further.

“We should go to the hospital.”

The immediate groan that left you made him blink.

“Why do I feel like that’s the exact opposite reaction people usually have to hearing that?”

“Because hospitals hate me.”

“I seriously doubt hospitals hate you.”

“You’ve never seen me filling out paperwork.”

Normally that would have made him smile, but Clark’s expression stayed stubbornly concerned. His eyes never left your face.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” you argued. “They’re just going to tell me I bruised a rib and charge me eight hundred dollars for breathing near a doctor.”

“You could have a concussion.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I feel fine.”

Clark stared at you in disbelief. “You fought two grown men with a broom.”

“One and a half grown men,” you corrected immediately. “One of them was kinda skinny.”

“You’re joking right now?”

“I cope through humor.”

“That explains a lot actually.”

A faint smile pulled at your mouth, but Clark’s concern only deepened as he watched the exhaustion settle back into your body now that everything was over. Your shoulders had started slumping slightly, your breathing slower now, careful. You leaned subtly against the brick wall behind you for support without even realizing it.

Clark noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

Without thinking, he lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles lightly beneath your eye again, so gentle it made your chest ache.

“So stubborn,” he murmured.

“You literally fly into burning buildings,” you pointed out softly. “I don’t think you get to call other people stubborn.”

“That’s different.”

“That’s exactly what you said about the glasses thing.”

Clark sighed dramatically. “I hate when you use my own arguments against me.”

“You’re going to have a terrible time dating a journalist.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Both of you froze.

Clark’s expression changed slowly, beautifully, the realization settling across his face while warmth spread through your entire body in immediate humiliation.

“Dating?” he repeated carefully.

Heat crawled instantly into your face. “I mean hypothetically.”

“Hm.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Don’t make that sound.”

“What sound?”

“That smug sound.”

Clark laughed softly then, low and warm enough to make your stomach flip all over again. But the amusement faded quickly back into concern as his eyes searched your face.

“Seriously, though,” he said more quietly. “Let me take you to get checked out.”

The sincerity in his voice made it impossible to joke your way around it completely.

Because Clark cared in this overwhelming wholehearted way that made refusal feel almost cruel.

You looked away with a sigh. “I really am okay.”

Clark stayed quiet.

Reluctantly, you glanced back at him. “Probably.”

“Probably.”

“It’s a very optimistic probably.”

“Y/N.”

The way he said your name should genuinely be illegal.

Soft. Patient. Concerned enough that guilt twisted faintly in your chest.

You exhaled slowly. “Fine. Maybe urgent care tomorrow if I still feel awful.”

Clark frowned immediately. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

“Tonight.”

“Clark.”

“What if you cracked something?”

“Then I’ll simply suffer dramatically.”

“That’s not a real plan.”

“It’s been my plan for years.”

He stared at you for another long moment before something softer crossed his face suddenly, realization settling quietly into his expression.

“You really don’t take care of yourself enough, do you?”

The disappointment in his voice hit harder than you expected because he wasn’t judging you.

He just sounded sad about it.

Your gaze dropped briefly toward the ground. “There’s not always time.”

Clark’s expression softened instantly, and God, you hated how quickly he understood things you never actually said out loud.

He stepped closer again, one hand settling carefully against your cheek despite the bruise there, his touch impossibly gentle.

“There should be,” he said quietly.

The words settled somewhere deep inside your chest.

For a moment neither of you moved. The city hummed faintly around the alley, distant sirens echoing somewhere far away while Clark looked at you with that same impossible tenderness that made it hard to breathe properly.

Then he sighed softly through his nose like he was losing an argument internally.

“At least let me walk you upstairs.”

You blinked at him. “You want to walk me home?”

Clark looked genuinely baffled by the question. “I followed you across the city and watched you fight people with a broom,” he said. “At this point it feels irresponsible not to.”

Taglist : @fire-joestar @sunlightkent @mollymal @clarkswhore-jpeg @kristne13 @slytherinscreamqueen

[graywrenhart]

TALK NERDY TO ME

pairing: Walter "Keys" McKey x Female!Co-worker!Reader

summary: When Keys learns you're into dirty talk, he can't help but indulge his curiosity late one night at work. Thanks to an accidental headphone swap, you get to help him with his…research.

tags: MDNI [smut] [co-workers to lovers] [listening to a spicy audio together] [dirty talk] [nervous] [SWITCHY] [blowjob] [flustered to confident msub] [praise] [use your words] [semi-public sex] [fingering] [thigh riding] [kinda sweet, really slutty] 9k words.

God, Keys really needs to stop eavesdropping. 

It’s already a bad habit of his—listening in on other people’s conversations at coffee shops, or when he’s sitting on the bus.

He just can't help it, okay? It's not his fault he's a curious guy by nature. And it's not like anybody ever sprints over to his corner office to tell him the new gossip, so he’s literally the last to know anything. 

Like now, for example, standing at the shared coffee bar at work. He really should walk away and give you and your co-worker, Briana, some privacy for your conversation.

But he can’t. 

Because he’s pretty sure he just heard the word sex.

His vision vignettes as he pours another sugar into his styrofoam cup of coffee. He only likes two, but now he’s lost count, opening packet after packet just to give himself an excuse to stay here.

Morning light pours in through the open windows on the east side of the office building, bathing you in gold. You’re so bright and beautiful, Keys can hardly even look at you. 

Briana’s voice filters through his thoughts, tuning him back into the conversation. “I like him and everything, but the sex is just—I don’t know—”

“Bland?” you offer. 

Briana pauses, giving you a weighted look before correcting. “Silent.”

You make a sympathetic sound, oblivious to your eavesdropper, whose cheeks are turning a charming shade of pink. 

“There’s nothing worse than a silent man in bed,” you say, stirring your coffee. “I mean, we want to hear what we’re doing to them, you know? Like, moaning a little won’t kill them. And add in a little dirty talk? God, that shit never fails to get me off.”

Another sugar packet rips in his fingers and he pours without really thinking. Good lord, this coffee is going to be undrinkable.

But the cup of joe is the literal least of his worries, since he’s shoving his hips up against the edge of the table just to keep from getting a hard at hearing you talk like that. You’re his co-worker. You sit across from him every day.

He can’t be getting hard at work. And especially, not right next to you. 

“Exactly!” Briana groans, enthusiastically. “So, I don’t know what to do about it.”

Keys’ head turns towards the open office floor, but his feet feel like they’ve grown roots, planting him right there in the dingy carpet, forcing him to listen. 

You hum, a familiar sound that means you’re thinking. “Well, if he’s into it, maybe listen to some spicy audios together? There are some really talented creators out there that can give you both some inspiration.”

He glances up just in time to watch Briana’s dark eyes cut over to you mischievously as she takes a sip. 

“Good idea,” she says, “I’m going to…” 

Somehow, Keys finally uproots himself and slips away with his cup of sugary bean water. 

He barely registers the rows of cubicles and windows swirling around him in colors of gray, blue, white, and black, too busy replaying your words over and over in his head.

…nothing worse than a silent man in bed.

…add in a little dirty talk?

…never fails to get me off.

His office chair squeaks under his weight and his glasses land on his desk with a clatter. Planting his elbows on his armrests, he breathes a deep sigh and scrubs his hands over his face. 

Focus, Keys. 

He replaces his glasses, and shifts forward in his chair, forcing his eyes back to his waiting code. The predictability of numbers—those never changing zeros and ones—usually settles him. But, not today. 

He tries hard to force all thoughts of you from his head but—oh, it’s useless. 

There you are, spread out on his navy sheets, writhing underneath him. His mouth trails soft kisses down your throat, over your shoulder, and lower…

You let out a needy whine, hands twisting up in his hair, legs parting for him on instinct. And in his imagination, he opens his mouth to say something hot—anything—but no words come. He wouldn’t know what to say. 

He has a few trademark moves in bed. I mean, who doesn’t? And the girls he’s been with always leave happy. 

But…is he silent? He doesn’t really know, actually. Never recorded himself…or anything…maybe he should—

“You good?” 

The world whips back into focus, and Keys jumps in his chair. Suddenly, the overhead light’s too bright, and the AC feels like an icy blast, and you’re there, standing over your desk, staring at him with concern. 

“What?” he squeaks, then clears his throat. “Y-yeah. Yeah, of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

You shrug, and take your seat across from him. “I don’t know, you just look…tired, I guess.”

He just grunts and returns his gaze to his computer screen. “Just…work stuff.”

You hum in agreement and turn back to your screen as well. 

As much as he bitches about being shoved up in the corner of the floor, the only space with a huge window immediately to his left, the spot really does have its perks. 

It’s annoying because it’s so bright he has to squint to see his screen most of the time. But the way the sun shines through the blinds, painting you in thin lines of shadow, lighting up your eyes and lashes?

He wouldn’t trade this spot for anything. 

Shit. Now he’s staring. 

Irritated, he forces his gaze away and pushes his glasses up higher on his nose. 

His hand finds his mouse and he navigates to his work, but for one fleeting second, his curser hovers over the new tab button. 

Now, Keys is a complete and total nerd, so, of course he’s no stranger to the internet. Especially the deep, dark parts of it. He’s fallen victim to those late night deep dives on reddit pages more times than he can count. And somewhere, in the back of his mind, he remembers coming across those ‘spicy audios’ you gushed about earlier. 

What did you call them? Talented creators? Which ones were you talking about? What things did they say? What did you like about it?

All it would take is a few clicks on his keyboard, and he’d get all those answers to his questions. But he quickly shakes his head to clear it and pulls up his code with a guilty look over his shoulder.

The white wall stares at him, disapproving. 

What the fuck has gotten into him? He cannot be looking this shit up at work! 

He really has it bad.

When he’s back home, in the comfort of his own gaming desk, only then will he let himself investigate this newfound scrap of information on you. 

Later, he promises himself. Later. 

Well, it’s later. 

And Keys hasn’t got a single fucking line of code done yet. 

Which is why he’s stuck at work late, miserably trying to catch up on his project after everyone else has left for the day.

Everyone, that is, except for you.

Apparently, you also got behind, and you can’t afford to. Not with the new launch coming up.

Vinny came by to collect the trash a while back, and he didn’t see you in the back corner, so he turned off the lights, plunging you both into darkness. Neither of you have gotten up to turn them back on, choosing instead to work by the dim lights of your computer monitors. And even though the two of you keep saying you’re going to leave “any minute,” those minutes turn to hours, and you’re both still here. 

Alone.

The printer hums in the corner, and that blinking blue light on the side is driving Keys crazy. It keeps catching in the edge of his glasses, and the clicking of your mouse fills his ears. 

It’s constant. Unlike his. Which means you’re actually getting work done. Unlike him. 

Finally, your voice breaks the silence. 

“The street’s kinda loud tonight, isn’t it?”

Keys makes a noncommittal sound in this throat and doesn’t look up. 

Honestly, he hasn’t noticed the traffic humming far below the window, and he’s trying so hard not to look at you, not to think about you, that he doesn’t notice when you reach across over and grab his headphones by accident. 

It’s easy to get them confused. They look exactly the same, tangled up together at the edge of where your desks meet. Black. Standard issue. Company logo on the side. 

When Keys glances up and sees you with the headphones on, he sighs quietly in relief. 

It’s ridiculous, but up until this moment, he was hyper-aware of everything he was doing. Was he breathing too loudly? Could you hear his heartbeat? Was he readjusting himself too much when every thought of you in his bed gave him a hard-on? 

He tries to focus, he really does, but the numbers blur together on his screen. 

Music. 

That’s what he needs. 

He grabs the other pair of headphones, and when he settles them over his head, all he can hear is his own heartbeat slamming in his ears, reminding him of what a fucking loser he is. 

He should just ask you out. Like a normal person. But no. 

The foam cuffs press into the ear piece of his glasses, reminding him why he usually prefers the wired earbuds. But he’s lost them somewhere, and he can’t afford to go looking at the moment. 

The click of his mouse is silenced as he maneuvers it to pull up his music library. But, his cursor gets distracted on the way, hovering over that damn new tab icon in the corner.

He risks another peek at you. 

Your brows furrow and you readjust your headphones, eyes still on your screen.

Resisting the urge to scrub a hand over his face in frustration, he turns his gaze back to his computer. If he’s honest with himself, he won’t be able to get any substantial work done until he satisfies his curiosity.

It’s risky, doing this at work. But there’s no way you can hear anything, and Keys is getting desperate. 

After a few hasty searches, he’s navigating the depths of…erotic audios. 

His eyes widen as he scrolls past the sprawling inventory of tropes and storylines. There are so many different kinds of fantasies, how would he know what you’re into? He leans in closer, scrolling carefully down the list until he hesitates on one in particular. 

Talk Nerdy To Me. 

The small blurb underneath catches his eye. 

Your tutor tries a new tactic to get you to study for your big test. Just how sexual can his acronyms get before you decide to study anatomy a different way?

His cursor hovers over the LISTEN NOW button. 

This is harmless enough, right? There’s even a little story. Like an audio book. Just way shorter. And way more explicit. And…yeah, this is so wrong, on so many levels. 

Beneath his conscience, however, sits a burning curiosity. Keys is analytic at heart. If there’s a question, he wants to find the answer. And, if listening to this will help him figure out what to say in bed…

Fuck it. 

The silenced click of his mouse through his headphones is as loud as a gunshot.

He waits, breath caught in his chest, heel tapping restlessly on the carpet as the little blue progress bar starts to move. 

But he doesn’t hear anything. 

He frowns and readjusts his headphones. 

Nothing. 

On impulse, he skips to the middle. Just in case there was a silent lull there at the beginning. 

Still nothing. 

He leans towards the screen nervously, and as he shifts, he glimpses you from behind your computer screen—and freezes. 

You’re staring at him, cheeks flush in the dim lighting, chest fluttering with every breath. And small smirk begins at the corner of your mouth. It’s rueful and sinful, and… 

His stomach drops. 

Oh no. It’s in your headphones, isn’t it?

Oh, no, no, no, no—

His heart leaps in his chest as his hand flies to his mouse, scrambling to turn it off. 

Oh, God, where’s the stop button? 

There. That’s pause. Oh—he accidentally presses it twice. Now it’s playing again. 

HOW DO YOU CLOSE THIS FUCKING THING?

You chuckle breathlessly, watching your genius coworker—who can code literally anything, by the way— flail around like a fish out of water when all he has to do is simply push the little red X on the top right of his screen. 

The mouse starts to slip around in his sweaty palm and Keys gives up, slamming the power button on his computer, and enveloping the both of you in silence. 

You stare at each other over your desks for a long second. 

Then, Keys rips his headphones off and rakes a hand through his hair. 

See? This is what he gets for being fucking curious. It gets him in trouble. He just needs to stick with what he knows—

He opens his mouth to apologize, to explain, to—beg for his dignity back? But you just slip the headphones down to hang around your throat and level his gaze with a soft smile. 

“Was that Bennett Brooks?” 

“W-what?” Keys croaks, shoving his glasses further onto his burning face. 

“I recognize the voice actor. Haven't heard his stuff in forever, though. He’s good—voice is a little raspy for my taste,” you shrug prettily. “But good.”

He swallows. “Oh.” 

The silent office presses in around you, so quiet he can almost hear your lashes click together when you blink at him. Suddenly, you whip his headphones off your neck and thrust them onto his desk. 

They land with a clatter. 

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to take yours. By all means, don’t stop on my account.”

Keys lets out a choked sound, caught somewhere between a laugh and a cough. This is definitely making it into the top three most embarrassing moments of his life. 

“I’m n-not...” he stammers, “Not into that. Like…that.”

You shoot him a knowing look. “No?”

“No! Listen, I just—” he scrambles for an explanation as you just fucking sit there watching him. Smiling at him. “It was just research. Okay? Not a big deal—” 

The words barely escape his lips before he realizes his mistake. 

“Research?“ Your eyes light up and you lean forward in your seat. His eyes drop to the white V-neck button down you’re wearing—that third button you leave unfastened haunts him every single day. “Research is my specialty, Keys.”

Yes, he knows that. You’re a data analyst for the company. One of the best in the region, actually, wasting your time at the desk next to his. He should apologize again, or confess he overheard your conversation at the coffee bar. 

But the embarrassment burns hot, so instead, he clears his throat and hooks a finger in his shirt collar that’s currently suffocating him.

“It’s stupid, really,” Keys says at long last, and he hates how it comes out crackly. He clears his throat again, like that will help dislodge the panic in his chest. 

It doesn’t. 

You shrug, tilting your head in that cute way you do. “Didn’t sound stupid to me.”

You’re being so nice about it. Why are you always so nice?  “You know, I could help.” Your eyes linger on him and the air seems to grow ten degrees hotter. Then softer, you add, “…if you want.”

And just like that, all thoughts of project and deadlines glitch and vanish from his mind like a crashed browser. 

He’s nodding before he’s even really given it much thought.  

You smile and sit up in your chair. God, you’re radiant. “Okay. Let’s start with what exactly you want to research. Is it audios, specifically? Or—”

“No, no, it’s just…I think I…” Keys’ bottom lip catches between his teeth before he heaves out a heavy breath. “I want to get better. I guess.”

“Better at what? Sex?”

This time, Keys doesn’t hesitate. “Dirty talk.”

“Oh.” Your eyes flick to his lips for a split second before meeting his again. “Well, you’ve come to the right place.”

Keys adjusts in his chair, his dick is already twitching in his pants. “Yeah? So, you like this sort of thing? Guys’ voices dirty talking you and stuff. That…” He swallows hard. “Gets you off?”

You shrug again casually, like you’re talking about the weather. “It’s one way, yeah.”

Keys nods again. Too fast. Way too fucking fast. 

“So, do you have anyone in mind?” You ask. 

His pulse leaps. “What?”

“Well, you’ve got to be researching this for a reason, right? I mean, curiosity is a valid enough, don’t get me wrong. But is there someone…?” you trail off, unsure of how to finish. 

A silent moment stretches out between you as Keys decides how to answer. The digital clock on the wall, the rise and fade of the passing lights, all seem to look between you—waiting for something. 

Finally, Keys sighs. “Well, there is this girl.”

“Aha!” You lean your elbows on your desk, eyes brightening with interest. “Tell me.”

“It’s new. Like—” he chuckles, averting his gaze. “Really new. So.”

“It’s okay, Keys. We’re friends! We can talk about this kind of stuff.”

“I know!” he says defensively, although he’s not really sure why. “She’s just…into this sort of thing. Dirty talk. I think.”

“You think.”

“Yeah.”

You nod slowly, encouraging, if not a little teasing. “Okay…so, give me the rundown here. When’s your next date?”

“Uh. First one, actually. And…it’s…Thursday,” Keys stammers. 

“Thursday? Okay.” You look out the window. A passing car’s headlights shine across your face for a second before the computer light consumes you again. “Lucky girl. Where are you taking her? I mean—before the inevitable trip back to your place.”

 You swallow hard and busy yourself with re-organizing your pen cup as he scrambles for an answer. 

Chinese. 

You love that. 

He knows because the one time he picked you up for work when your car was in the shop, he caught a glimpse of your apartment through your front door. Your coffee table was littered with little takeout boxes, and he filed that away like a crow picking up a shiny screw and calling it a treasure. 

Yeah, he has it bad. 

“Uh. I was thinking that Chinese joint on the corner of Cross and Elm."

Your jaw drops. “I love that place!”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, raking a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know.”

When you look up at him again, there’s a hint of a smile on your lips.

“Okay, so, we have three days to prepare you. What questions do you have?”

Leave it to you to make this sound like a standardized research paper. Well, now’s a good a chance as ever. He might never get this chance again.

Keys straightens in his chair, heel tapping the carpet so fast his leg is bouncing. 

“What do you—do girls,” he quickly corrects himself, “—want guys to say?” 

You frown. “What do you mean?”

Heat rushes to his face. “I mean, like, do they tell you how to…touch yourself? I don’t—I can’t even—”

“You’re overthinking it. There’s no magical combination of words to use." You gesture to his computer. "Here, let’s listen to the audio, it’ll help me explain—”

“Oh, no! We don’t have to do that!” Keys squeaks. 

You shoot him a look. “You said this is for research, right?”

“Yeah! Obviously. Totally.”

“Then you can’t half-ass it. If you really want to learn how to dirty talk for this girl, you gotta commit.”

He hesitates. 

“C’mon, Keys.” Your teeth close over the end of your pen and you gesture to his computer with your eyes, smirking as you settle into your chair. “Press play.”

Fuck. 

Your coworker, Keys, has been acting weird as fuck all day, and now you finally know why. 

He totally overheard your conversation with Briana at the coffee bar, earlier. 

Maybe it had something to do with the way you raised your voice on purpose, hoping to get through that head of hair and those brown eyes that seem to see everything except all the signals you’ve been dropping his way since you first started here. 

From behind your desk, you watch him eye the power switch on his computer like it’s some gigantic red button that says ‘don’t touch’ or else it will somehow World War III. 

Come to think of it, you might start World War III if it means getting your oblivious-as-he-is-cute-coworker to finally make a real move. 

Still, though, there’s a part of you that feels for the guy. He’s so nice, and good, and sweet, and fuck if you don’t want him to corrupt him a little.

Only in the ways he wants to be corrupted, of course. Which, apparently, involves digging into ancient audio porn on reddit after work hours. 

Oh, you are so into it. 

“Why are you so embarrassed, Keys?” you say gently. “Look, this is normal, okay? Being curious. And you want to make this girl feel good, right?”

The girl has to be you.

After all those coffees he’s brought you from that fancy place that he insists only adds three minutes to his commute, but in reality, probably adds, like, twenty? And the way his hand accidentally finds ways to brush yours, and then he acts as if he’s not jumping out of his skin at the contact?

If this girl is not you, then this crush you have on your nerdy, hot co-worker is about to be devastating. 

Keys blows out a breath. “Okay, fine.” 

His computer powers up with a familiar hum, and blue light cascades over his features again. 

God, he looks nervous. Why is that such a turn-on?

He looks so alone over there behind his desk as one lock of brown hair falls over his eyes, brushing the rim of his glasses, and suddenly, you get an idea. 

“Wait, actually, no—” you mutter, standing up from your chair. 

Keys jumps like you’ve shot him. “Yeah,” he says, scrambling to turn distract himself with something else on his computer. “Yeah! No, we don’t—this is—”

“—I’m coming over there.”

“What?” Keys’ gaze snaps to yours. Then, he gestures to the space beside him in his workspace. “Here?” 

But you’re already rolling your chair over the carpet and behind his desk. It’s a tight fit, with these ergonomic chairs. Their wide armrests knock together as you slide in beside him. 

Keys’ cubicle is different. 

Technically, it’s the exact same as yours. The dimensions are the same, as well as your surroundings, but it smells like his cologne, and there’s that stack of board games he keeps hidden under his desk. 

“Okay,” you sigh, settling back in your chair. “If we’re going to do this, we do it right. Which means, starting from the top. Clearly, you know nothing of the subject—”

“I—” he starts, but you shoot him a look that has his jaw snapping shut. 

“Now, dirty talk is a broad subject, so, what kinds of things are you into?”

Keys shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess, it depends on what she’s into. I mean…” He threads his fingers behind his head and leans back in his computer chair in an obvious attempt at casualness. “What are you into?”

Smooth. Real smooth. 

You decide to go along with it. 

“I like a little of everything. Praise, instruction, degradation, fantasizing…but not every girl is the same—”

“Okay, let’s just do that, then,” he cuts you off, nodding once like it’s been decided. 

You have to bite your lip to keep from smiling. “Okay, I’ll press play.” 

You shift lean forward and your palm closes over his mouse. It’s slightly damp, like Keys’ fingers were clammy when he last touched it. 

“Wait!” His hand shoots out and grabs your wrist. “Like…out loud?”

You gesture to the darkness beyond. “Keys, no one is here.”

“No, I know, but…” his eyes sweep the empty floor, shoulder hunched to his ears. “Okay fine, just do it.”

You nod and turn back to the monitor. “We’ll just pick up where you left off, okay?”

“Oh. I didn’t—”

Bennet Brook’s voice cuts him off, filtering through Keys’ computer speakers with that deep, raspy voice of his. 

“—was pretty good. Okay, now let’s do the carpal bones. I have a mnemonic for this, actually, you want to hear it? Okay. Some Lovers Try Positions That They Can’t Handle. Yeah, it’s a little…suggestive? It just—it helps people remember okay? Yes! The sluttier the better. Look, it goes from thumb to pinky proximally, then pinky to thumb distally. Here, I’ll show you…”

You risk a glance over at Keys. He sits perfectly still, breath bated as Bennett leads the listener through the scene. 

“Now you’re getting distracted,” Bennet laughs breathlessly. “What positions do I—I’m trying to help you study. Oh my god, you’re so annoying. Look. If I answer, will you study? Yeah? Okay, fine. My favorite is—”

You reach forward and press pause. The silence in the office rushes in to fill the empty space, and your stomach swoops as you turn to Keys. 

“What’s your favorite sex position?” you ask abruptly. 

He looks at you, eyes wide. You don’t miss the way his knuckles whiten around his arm rest, clearly doing that thing where he resists the urge to push his glasses up again out of habit.

“What does this have to do with—”

You sigh. “Just trust me, and answer the question.”

“Uh…missionary?”

“God, okay.” You roll your eyes and reach over to hit resume again. “That’s such a lie, but whatever.”

Keys stops you with that hand on your wrist again. “Wha—lie?”

“Yes. Lie.”

He finally turns to face you, incredulous. “Oh, and you’re suddenly an expert on what I like in bed?”

Heat shoots down your spine at his words, but you just scoff. “You play as a fucking stripper cop in Free City. Now, tell me the real answer.”

After a moment Keys groans, then looks away. “I don’t know the word for it. Like, the name, or whatever.”

“Oh! That’s not a problem.” 

You reach for his keyboard, and before he knows what’s happening, you’re opening a new tab, and then, right in front of him, is a list of sex positions. 

With pictures. 

“Jesus!” He hisses, looking over his shoulder as if the wall behind you is somehow going to open up and reveal your boss or something. “I’m going to have to scrub my search history clean after this.”

“Relax,” you say, settling back in your chair. “Now, point.”

Keys lets out a heavy, resigned sigh and sits forward, squinting at the screen. Ten seconds later, he shakes his head. 

“It’s not there.”

When he looks over at you, he immediately rolls his eyes, because the look on your face is the clearest I-told-you-so look he’s ever received. 

“God, with how freaky you are, Keys, it’s a wonder you’re silent in bed—”

“Hey!” He interjects, glaring over at you. “I never said—woah, okay, why are you standing up? What are you doing?”

You plant hands on your hips, looking down at him. “Look, just maneuver me into whatever position it is, and I’ll find the name of it for you.”

“This is ridiculous.”

You huff. “This is a part of the research. If you don’t want my help, that’s fine, we—”

Without looking, he reaches out and grabs your waist. The warmth of his skin bleeds through your thin work shirt and a surprised squeak escapes you as he tugs you down.

You land in his lap with an undignified plop, facing him. Your stomach plummets as his knee presses against your core, but he makes a disgruntled sound, and grabs your thigh, pulling one leg up and over until you’re straddling him. 

Your pulse hammers in your ears as you steady yourself with your hands on his shoulders and peer down at him. 

The dim blue glow of the computer reflects in his glasses and as his gaze meets yours, his expression makes your chest ache. There’s something so sweet there. Soft. Like flower petals against your skin. Fragile, too. 

“This is it?” you whisper.

A small smirk crosses his lips. 

“Okay, so, this is just straddling…” you say, but your voice trails off as his hands spread over your waist. They’re so big. How have you never noticed how big his hands were before?

You swallow hard. “Or, I think, it’s technically called seated cowgirl.”

“Really?” he asks, squinting up at you with a hint of cockiness you could get drunk on.

In your next breath, Keys’s fingers dig into your hips, and he spins you around on his lap. His chest is warm against your back, and his computer desk digs into your belly. You wiggle your hips back slightly to get away from the sharp edge, but still when his hard length presses into your clothed core. 

“What’s this one called?” His voice is deeper now, threaded with heat, and it makes your hands clench against the cool metal of his desk. 

“Reverse seated cowgirl,” you say, fighting to keep your tone even. “So, this is your favorite? Tell me why.”

His breath stalls in his chest, you can feel the way he hesitates against your spine.

The printer hums in the far corner of the office, and a car horn blares distantly from the street below. 

After a long moment, he exhales, and his breath ghosts over your ear, making your lashes flutter. 

“I like the view,” he admits softly. “Painted in blue-light, all needy—” Then, he lets out a quiet, “Fuck.”

Heat pools deep in your belly. He sounds…wrecked. Already. And you’re just sitting in his lap fully clothed. 

God, you could make this man beg. 

You tilt forward and look over your shoulder. His eyes lift to yours, then drag down to your mouth, your hips, and his bottom lip disappears between his teeth.

“What else?” you whisper.  

He doesn’t hesitate this time. “I like the control of it, you know? Like—” he huffs out a quiet laugh, like he can’t believe he’s saying these things. “Like maybe I’m just playing a video game, and making you keep my cock warm. And you just… just have to sit there and take it.”

His words—so filthy and shy—stir hot embers of arousal between your hips. 

“Shit, Keys,” you say with a breathless laugh. “That was so good!”

His eyes meet yours again. “Really?”

“Yeah! Okay, I’m pushing play again. I’ll skip forward a little, too, just so we get to the good stuff.”

He clears his throat. “You’re going to stay right here?” He taps your leg and his fingers linger on your skin. 

You pretend to jolt in his hold. “Oh! Sorry, I can move if you—”

“No, no,” he shakes his head. “It’s fine.” 

‘It’s fine’, he says, as if he’s not raging hard underneath you, holding onto your leg like he might die if you slid off him right now. 

He’s too easy. 

You press play. 

Immediately, sounds of kissing and rustling fill the room. Keys inhales sharply, his erection growing against your ass, and you barely resist the urge to grind down on him. 

“That’s it,” Bennet croons. “You take it so good for me, baby. Fuck, you’re incredible.”

The wet sound of hips meeting has Keys’ mouth dropping open. His eyes dart off the screen, like watching the loading bar is somehow equivalent to seeing these imaginary people fuck. 

“That’s praise,” you whisper over your shoulder. “Obviously.”

Keys looks at you, then. Really looks at you. You can feel the way he takes in the slight shift of your hips as you try to find some friction to release the building ache. 

He’s reading you. Analyzing the data. Recalculating.

Classic Keys. 

The sight pulls at something in your chest. Truthfully, that’s the reason you like him so damn much, the reason you’re pulled to him like a ship to a lighthouse. 

Because with Keys, you would be fully, and utterly known. 

“…always so needy?” Bennet groans. “Just wanna be bent over a desk and fucked, huh, baby? This what you need? So dirty, I swear to God.”

“Degradation,” you murmur, turning back to the computer. 

Bennett keeps going. “Oh yeah, just like that? C’mon, baby. Tell me what you want. Use your words.”

 “Instruction,” Keys says, beating you to the punch. 

You’re grateful your back is to him so he can’t see your self-indulgent smile. 

“…thought about this a lot,” Bennet groans, the sound effects growing faster and louder. “Like in the library on campus? When we’re trying to study but you’re sitting across from me, and I can’t focus…”

Your breath catches at the exact same second Keys goes still beneath you. 

“…I see it, you know. The way your hand brushes mine when you hand me a pencil. You think I don’t notice? Fuck—of course I’ve thought about you. Are you kidding? Every time I jerk my cock I think about you. How you’d sound when I’m fucking up into you like this. Oh, you like that, huh? Get you so cock drunk— oh, baby, that’s it—”

You swallow hard, mouth suddenly gone dry. 

That’s fantasizing.

But for some reason, you can’t even bring yourself to repeat it. To solidify it. To make it any realer than it already is. 

Can Keys tell how much you relate to Bennett's words? That every time you’re in bed at night, thoughts of him keep you up late, you’re rubbing your aching cunt, whining his name into the empty ceiling?

You’re soaking through your underwear now, but mostly from listening to Keys’ uneven breathing behind you. His fingers flex over and over against your work skirt, like he can’t quite get up the courage to slip them under the hem that’s riding up your bare thighs. 

In an effort to relieve his aching erection, Keys shifts in his chair. It’s a small enough movement, but it’s just enough to send his elbow into a cup on his desk. It falls with a dull thud, the water inside instantly soaking into the carpet.

You smack the space bar on his keyboard, cutting Bennet off mid-moan, and leap to your feet. 

Keys cringes and moves to stand, but you disappear behind your desk before he can blink, and reappear a second later with a roll of paper towels. 

“Here,” you say gently as you kneel in front of him. “Let me.”

Keys reaches down at the same time you raise up on your knees, and when you lift your chin, you find your faces only an inch apart. 

He doesn’t jerk back like you expect. Instead, he just finds the paper towel on the ground and gently pries your fingers off it, resuming the blotting himself. 

Your hands find purchase on his knees for balance, and they spread wider under your touch, almost subconsciously. 

Almost. 

You swallow. “Keys?” 

His shoulder muscles flex under his T-shirt as he works. “Yeah?”

“Do you want to keep listening to the audio…or…do you want to practice?”

“Practice?” He doesn’t look up, but his voice cracks. 

“Only if you want.”

Keys sits back into his chair, tossing the wet paper towel into the nearby waste basket. Then his eyes settle on you for what feels like the first time all night. 

Through his work khakis’, his erection presses an angry imprint. God, it looks so hard it probably hurts, confined like that. The air between you shimmers with that unsaid tension, the kind that releases butterflies in your stomach and in the chambers of your heart. 

But while exciting, it’s equally terrifying, putting yourself on display like this. You feel strangely vulnerable, even though you were just teasing him a few seconds earlier. 

“What are you thinking about right now?” you ask, voice soft. 

Keys looks away, jaw clenching. 

Suddenly, you wonder if you’ve misread this. Have you made him uncomfortable? What if there actually is a girl, and it’s not you, and you’ve just—

“Your mouth,” Keys says, cutting off your thoughts. 

Hope renewed, your gaze snaps to his. 

“Where?” 

He rakes a hand through his hair, and his glasses slant adorably on his nose with the motion. His chest rises and falls once, twice, and then he whispers, “My cock.”

God, just hearing him say that makes your panties slick. 

“Good,” you breathe. “Now, put it together.”

He huffs, a surprised laugh slipping from him before the heat returns to his gaze.  “I’m thinking about your mouth on my cock.”

The damp carpet fibers dig into your knees as you watch his Adam’s apple bob on a swallow.

“Do you want me to do that?” you ask carefully. 

There’s a certain irreversible tension sitting between you right now. It feels a little like waiting behind an ancient door, not sure if it will creak open and invite you in or vanish into a cloud of dust. 

After a long moment, Keys nods.

A triumphant thrill zips through you, but you keep yourself together and hold his gaze. “You have to say it—”

“Fuck, I want it.” The words rush out of him in a gasp, like they’ve been sitting behind his teeth, waiting their turn the whole night. “I want my cock in your mouth. Please.”

He’s barely got the words out before your fingers fly to his zipper. 

“Forgot about begging,” you mutter more to yourself, but he hears you anyway. 

How could you have forgotten that very important category of dirty talk? It’s one of your favorites, and it flew from his lips unprompted. 

He’s perfect. 

“W-what about the—cameras,” he protests weakly, even as his hips lift from the chair to help you slide his pants down his thighs. 

“The cameras don’t reach back here,” you assure him.

Hooking a finger in the band his underwear, you pull them down and reveal his cock. It sits hard and heavy against the happy trail on his lower stomach.

He sputters. “W-what? Wait—really? How do you know that?”

It’s only natural, digging into dark spots in the security systems at a new job. Especially when you have a coworker as hot as Walter McKeys.

Instead of answering, though, you shuffle forward and take him in your hands. His head tips back on a ragged groan and you relish the hot, velvety feel of him. It’s long and hard, and somehow, you always knew Keys would have a big dick. 

It’s always the nerds. 

Your pussy throbs, fluttering around nothing as you imagine him easing his length inside your slick core, whispering in your ear, telling you how well you’re doing, how much he’s wanted this. 

Keys sits ramrod straight, breathing sharply through his nose as you let your hands explore him. You stroke him from base to tip, fondle his balls, then reach down and palm his thighs. His stomach flexes beneath his shirt, and on impulse, you reach up and lift it until the fabric bunches just below his ribs. 

Soft tummy with muscles flexing underneath. A dark happy trail leading down. A glimpse of thicker hair littered across his chest. 

God, he’s delicious. 

What you wouldn’t give to have this man naked in your bed right now. Saliva builds in your mouth at the thought.

Can you die by horniness? Better research that later. 

You stroke him firmly a few times, and when you lean down, he groans softly.  

Glancing up, you search for any sign to stop, but his eyes aren’t on yours anymore.  They’re glued to your chest. 

You tilt your chin down to see what he’s looking at. 

The three unfastened buttons of your work shirt give him a clear view of your cleavage, and the glow of the computer monitor illuminates the dips and valleys prettily.

A relieved gasp escapes him as your hands start undoing the rest of the buttons. He nods as if you read his mind when your shirt falls open, revealing your black bra. 

Thank God it’s your cute one. Not lingerie by any means, but your nipples harden under his gaze, poking against the fabric. 

You keep your shirt hanging loosely over your shoulders, just in case someone were to walk in. Although very unlikely, the thought of getting caught with Keys still shoots a wicked jolt of pleasure through you. 

Wordlessly, you run your hands up his legs again until your fingers find his cock and resume your attention. 

Keys says something—more like whines it—but it’s too quiet for you to hear. The carpet presses into your knees as you lean in. His thick thighs bracket your shoulders, and when your breath ghosts across the head of his cock, they go hard as rocks. He makes a muffled sound in the back of his throat, then clears it roughly. 

You lean back to catch his eye. 

“Whatever your voice, or breath, wants to do…just let it happen,” you say. “Don’t worry about being loud, there’s no one here.”

He nods, drunk on the sight of you, desperate for your mouth. 

Those big hands reach down and gather your hair, and you scoot even closer, close enough to tap his dick against your lips with a soft smack. When you blink up at him, Keys curses under his breath, then stops himself. 

“Stop swallowing it down,” you chide. “Let me hear.”

Before he can say—or do—anything, you lick a broad, wet stripe up his length. His hips jerk in your hold, a ragged moan tumbling from his lips, unabashed. Your eyes shine with pride when you look up at him. And fuck, he’ll do anything to see that look again. 

You stroke him lazily. Like you have all the the time in the world here in the office after hours. Like you’ve been thinking about it for a long, long, time. 

Drool pools in your mouth as you coat him with your tongue. Then, your lips wrap around him and you slowly work your way down, inch by inch, listening to his whimpers, feeling the way his body vibrates underneath you. 

He’s still holding himself back, so you draw back up and suck gently on his tip before popping off him.

“Sorry,” he gasps. “Fu-forgot I was supposed to talk.”

You nod. “That’s okay. How do you like it?”

He starts to respond, but you envelop him in your warm, wet mouth again, and all words die on his lips. 

“Feels so good, I can’t—can’t—mmmph,” he groans as you relax your jaw and take him deeper, then whimpers pitifully when you come off him again. “My brain’s fried. Like, actually short circuited. I can’t think—”

You press your tits together and tilt your head. “It feels good, right?”

He chuckles, a ragged soft sound. “Fuck—yeah.”

“Just talk to me, then,” you murmur, fluttering your tongue along the ridge of his cock as it twitches in your hold. 

Something seems to click in his mind at those words, and his eyes harden as he stares down at you.

“You want to know why I’m always so tired?” he says, chest heaving. “I stay up all night, trying to get the work done I should be doing when I’m sitting at my desk. But I can’t. Because I’m—fucking hard—all the time. Because of you!”

You decide to reward him for that little speech—a great example of fantasizing and degradation—and relax your jaw again, sliding him deep into your throat. Deeper than before. Keys throws his head back on a groan. The stretch brings tears to your eyes, but you blink them back so you can look at him properly. 

His hair looks so pretty illuminated in soft streaks of blue from the computer, and gold from the street far below. Like a painting. 

Arousal floods your core, coating your underwear, and you can feel your clit pulsing in time with your heartbeat. 

You slide up and off of him to let your lungs expand and he inhales with you, like that took his breath away as much as it did yours. 

“Can’t stop thinking about what you’d feel like under me,” Keys pants. He watches you with heated eyes as you suck on his tip, stroking the rest of him steadily with both hands. “Or—or on top of me. What you’d t-taste like.”

Without thinking, you shove two fingers past your waistband, and straight through your soaked folds. The contact has you moaning around his cock, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure down his spine. 

Then, you slowly withdraw them. They glisten in the glow of the monitor as you raise them up to his face, and Keys wastes no time leaning forward and capturing them in his mouth. His tongue strokes up to your knuckles eagerly, and as the first taste of you floods his mouth, it seems to unlock something in him. Some rusty, spider-web filled, creaking lock shoves open. 

“Aghhh yeah,” he moans when you withdraw your fingers and suck him deep again. “That’s how I like it. However you do it, that’s how I like it, baby. Holy fuck.” 

Your eyes actually roll back at that, and your hand flies down to circle your clit without thinking. 

His eyes track the movement and he chuckles darkly. “Oh, you like that? You like hearing how well you’re doing?”

You whimper. Fuck, yeah, you do.

He bucks underneath you, like your mouth is just the best thing he’s ever felt in his life. “Just—fucking—on your knees for me? Shit."

Your eyes slide shut, lost in the salty taste of him as his precum mixes with your spit. His hand leaves your head and reaches down to tap your chin. 

“Eyes on me, baby,” he rasps. Your eyes flutter open in surprise.

You swallow around him in response and his jaw drops. He grips your hair again on instinct and you moan in encouragement as he starts to push you gently up and down his shaft. 

“Is t-this okay?” he asks, breath ragged. 

You nod, lashes fluttering as he hits that soft spot at the back of your throat. 

Truth is, you love this. 

Taking your rigid, calculating co-worker and turning him into something needy and honest. He’s wild, but with an edge of control. And somehow, you just know Keys could take you to the brink and keep you there like no other. 

You hollow your cheeks as he grinds in and out of your wet mouth, pulsing against your tongue and spitting out the filthiest words you’ve ever heard him say in your months of working across from him. 

You rub your throbbing clit faster, and he blinks down, watching you touch yourself to the feel of him in your mouth for all of three seconds before he’s yanking up on your hair. 

Your scalp tingles as you disobey his silent order, determined to have him come in your mouth. His base is slick against your puffy lips, and he damn near chokes on his tongue when your nose hits his stomach. 

“Holy—I’m gonna come,” he grunts, hips bucking. “Shit—baby, you’ve gotta—do you—”

He breaks off with a ragged moan as you grip his thighs and swallow around him—and then he’s spilling down your throat. 

His abs tense and release over and over in your view, and the view is so intoxicating, you’re only a few seconds away from your own release when he finally slips from your drooling mouth.

You don’t know what you expected him to do when he finished. Maybe probably crawl back into that shy, nice-guy, missionary shell of his. Instead, when his chin falls to his chest, his soft brown eyes have gone molten. He reaches down and pulls his pants back up, tucking himself back into his briefs, but he doesn’t bother with the zipper. 

“C’mere,” he demands, grabbing you by the wrist and yanking you up. Your legs wobble, but he catches you easily and pulls you down into his lap. “Ride my thigh.”

Your mouth drops open. “Ride your—”

“You heard me.”

In one smooth motion, he plunges a hand under your skirt and yanks your panties down your legs. His knuckles brush your wet folds and you gasp against him, grinding down instinctively against his knee. 

“Look at you,” he whispers. “Taking instructions. Soaking through my pants like that? Fuck yeah.”

Your breasts heave as you try to catch your breath, but now, you start to wonder if maybe you’ll just be in an oxygen debt forever at this point. Because with the way he’s looking up at you right now, there’s no way you can breathe. 

Your hips roll smooth and fast, and when he shifts his leg up slightly, meeting your movements, sparks shoot up your spine. Your head drops back, eyes slipping shut, but Keys is quick to pull your gaze back to his with a hand around the nape of your neck. 

He clicks his tongue. “No, I want to watch you. Wanna see you fall apart for me.”

“God, Keys,” you pant, “you’re a quick learner, I’ll give you that—”

He cuts you off by pinching your nipple through your bra, and when he grabs a handful of your bare ass under your skirt, your lungs officially forget how to expand. 

“Please,” you beg. “Keys—”

His hands fly to your hips, helping you rock back and forth on him. “What is it? What do you need? Need me to touch you?”

You whimper. “Yes.”

“Tell me where.”

You grab his hand and guide it under your skirt, but he pulls back at the last second. 

“That’s not telling me.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you laugh, breathless and irritated. 

He smiles, then. And it’s positively radiant, white teeth winking in the dim light. 

“C’mon, use your words, or else I’ll have to stop,” he warns. 

But you’re not listening, because at that moment, he dips his head and captures your aching breast in his mouth, pulling a deep moan from your throat and putting an arch in your back. 

Your thighs burn, hips slowing to devastatingly desperate swivel in order to keep his mouth on you. The threads of his pants are warm and completely soaked through underneath you, and he’s licking and sucking your breasts through your bra like he’s trying to find a way to imprint his smell, his taste, onto your body.

The duel stimulation feeds that sprawling drive for more. Tremors start to run through your hands, making them claw restlessly at his shoulders and dive into his hair as your orgasm grows closer. 

Suddenly, Keys pulls back. He ignores your whine of protest and blinks up at you from behind his glasses. Your tongue darts over your bottom lip as your eyes drop to his mouth. 

His perfect…perfect fucking mouth. Soft lips, parted just slightly as he breathes heavily beneath you. The timber of his voice reverberates against your stomach as he talks. God, it’d be so easy just to lean in and press your mouth against his, feel that gentle glide of his tongue against yours…

Wait, is he saying something? You can’t fucking think—

“…not going to tell me, I have to stop.”

It’s only when his hands leave your body that the world slows to a stop. 

Cold air rushes in where his hands just were. Now you’re just needy and wet, grinding down on his pants leg in the middle of a dark office. 

“W-what?” you ask dumbly.

He shrugs. “I told you what would happen if you didn’t use your words.”

Your brain feels foggy, like your thoughts are traveling through a cloud, all the blooding your body pooled in your clit instead. 

“But I...” you whimper, “But, what—”

He rolls his eyes. 

“But I—but Keys—I just—” he mocks you, voice going higher on his register, and your mouth drops open in shock. 

He smirks at the look on your face and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “What? you thought I wasn’t serious? You made me do all this—and don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it. I watched you getting off on the power trip of it all, and now it’s my turn. So, go ahead. Tell me what you want me to do to you."

Where the fuck did your nerdy, shy coworker go? And who have you turned him into? Your breasts heave in his face as you blink down at him, but he doesn’t so much as glance at them. 

“I’m right here,” he urges. “Go ahead. Ask for it. Anything you want, I’ll give it to you.”

After a moment, you finally find your voice. 

“I-I want you to touch me.”

His hands instantly resume their place on your hips and your breath shutters in relief. 

Then he leans in, lips ghosting over your jaw. “That wasn’t so hard, huh? Where do you want to come? On my fingers?”

“Yes!” The word leaves your mouth broken and desperate. 

He hums. “Put it together.”

You exhale sharply, panting towards the ceiling in frustration. “Walter, I want you to finger fuck me until I come.”

He smiles against your throat. “Good girl.”

His hand finds your clit immediately and he rubs tight, hot circles that have your back arching.  

“Oh, God, don’t stop!” you beg. 

Your shirt slips from your shoulder and then his mouth is there, kissing the soft skin like he’s trying to memorize the shape of it. 

The muscles deep in your core flex with your impending pleasure and you writhe against him desperately. Through it all, his hands stay steady, never wavering. Constant, and grounding. 

You raise up on shaky legs as his two middle fingers circle your entrance and your pelvis tilts, eagerly seeking that internal friction. 

He presses in, just a little, and your body welcomes him greedily. The sound of his fingers disappearing inside you making him groan out a slurred curse. 

“Shit, baby—both at once? So wet for me, oh my God.” 

When his fingertips brush that spongey spot that makes you see stars, your chest vibrates with your moan. The pressure on your clit is too much, and not enough, and everything all at once—it’s overwhelming. It's perfect. 

Your hips snap into his palm, driving his fingers deeper and he lets out a choked sound as you whine, needy and breathless. 

“There you go. That’s it,” he murmurs into your neck. His glasses knock into your throat as you tip your head back to give him better access. “Take what you need.”

That white-hot band of pleasure finally snaps as you clench around his fingers, and your orgasm rushes through you in a torrential wave of bliss. Keys slowly withdraws his fingers and helps bring you back to each with soft kisses to your chest, thumbs tracing circles into your thighs as you collapse on top of him. 

“Holy shit,” you gasp, running a hand through your hair, gazing down at him through heavy lids. “That was…”

“Good?” he asks eagerly. 

You smile. “Perfect.”

And you mean it. You really do. 

His fingers brush over your bare shoulder and your breath catches again as your eyes connect with his. The stoplight on the street below turns green, reflecting in his glasses, and because you can’t help it, you smirk down at him. 

“So, about this girl...” he murmurs. 

Your stomach flips. “Yeah?”

“This date—”

“Yeah?” you say again, eagerly, cutting him off. 

As you stare at each other, chests heaving, faces flush, a laugh builds behind your ribs. 

He clears his throat. “I was kinda hoping…you’re free Thursday? I was thinking about that place on Elm and Cross—”

“Fuckin’ knew it,” you murmur, and the rest of his words die against your mouth as you lean down and kiss him. 

a/n: Oh, hi. So, the way I feel about this fictional man, is actually pretty close to the actual definition of feral. Also, I just want to say, there are many more kinds of dirty talk out there, but these categories just fit the plot lol

Also everyone blame Jules (@tellcherhesgone) for putting this idea in my head, because she posted one thing about Keys definitely knowing what GoneWildAudio is, and that shit stuck with me lol

keys taglist: @emotionallyaslut , @subtlesposts, @oliviaharrington, @drifting-daydream, @dracomalfoypilled , @mysticfluffyness

divider by @cursed-carmine | keys masterlist | drop by my desk

[beskarandblasters-deactivated20]

𝙄𝙣 𝙏𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙪𝙚𝙨

Inexperienced!Din Djarin x F!Reader

Main Masterlist | Din Djarin Masterlist

Author’s note: This is for @janaispunk’s 1500 kisses challenge! I was given French kissing with Din 💋

Summary: You give Din some lessons on kissing.

Word count: 830

Warnings: reader is able-bodied, canon divergent (long live the Razor Crest), established relationship, helmet comes off, allusions to smut, kissing, some tongue action of course, pet names (cyar’ika), no use of y/n

You never thought you’d have to teach a grown man how to kiss… Until you met Din. Given his creed and all, it makes sense. It’s been cycles since he felt someone else’s lips against his. 

You’ll never forget the first time he removed his helmet, shaky hands lifting it off his head as you waited with bated breath. It was overwhelming but in a good way, taking in every aspect of him; his wide brown eyes, matted curls, patchy facial hair, and lines deep in his face. It made you wonder about the life he lived before he met you. And it was a reminder more than ever that he was never just some faceless person moving through life, he’s a soul experiencing the galaxy just like you. 

You felt honored by the amount of trust he placed in you then, and continues to put in you now. He told you about all the other times he revealed his face to others, about the dire straits he was in. But there he was, sitting in the bunk of the Razor Crest getting ready to show you his face on a random afternoon. But you both knew the reason as to why he was doing this. He didn’t need to say it. 

The moment you kissed him was electric. You leaned forward and felt him freeze up against your touch, unsure of what to do, or where to place his hands. The kiss was chaste at first before you pulled away and asked, “Something wrong?” 

“No,” he said quickly. “I just don’t know what to do.”

It was quite funny to you at the time but you didn’t dare let him know that. This man had stuffed you full of his cock, folded you into positions you didn’t even know were possible. This man had killed people without even looking at them, capable of facing copious amounts of danger at any given moment. 

And yet there he was, shaking like a leaf under your touch, afraid to kiss you. 

“Just follow my lead,” you said softly, leaning forward and kissing him again. 

Learning to kiss was enough for one rotation. But by the end of the week, things change quickly. 

You’re straddling his lap, hovering above the bulge in his flight suit. He moans against your lips, desperate to be inside you already. But you’re enjoying just kissing him, hands entangled in his hair. You flick your tongue against his lips, asking for access. And that’s when he freezes, hands rigid on your waist. You can sense his internal panic so you pull back and say, “I think it’s time for another lesson.” 

“What kind of lesson?”

“Teaching you how to use your tongue.” 

“Oh,” he says, immediately flustered. 

“Don’t be nervous,” you coo, leaning forward and pressing a kiss in the spot where his neck meets his ear. His breath hitches in his throat, his Adam’s Apple bobbing up and down. You trail kisses down his jawline, his facial hair tickling your face. You run your hands through his curls just as your lips land on his. 

“Watch and learn,” you whisper, rolling your hips into him.

You brush your tongue against his lips again and this time he opens his mouth, letting you explore. He moans into you, hands roaming up and down your outline. You can’t help but get drunk off each other’s taste and scent, senses completely engulfed in the other person. 

You pull back again to check in, watching his face chase yours. You smirk and say, “That good, huh?”

“Yes,” he says quickly. “Please don’t stop.”

“No can do. It’s your turn.”

He groans but you don’t give in, leaning forward and whispering, “Show me what you learned.”

He grabs either side of your face and kisses you, leading the way. He starts slow and gentle but soon his kiss grows passionate, slotting his tongue against your lips. You give him access but give him no guidance, wanting him to learn what feels right on his own. One hand migrates to the back of your head and the other slides down your back, cupping your ass. He’s a fast learner, his tongue reduces you to a needy mess. The wetness in your core is undeniable, leaving a spot in your underwear as you grind your hips into him. 

He takes your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging on it gently. He follows with his tongue, licking the slightly tender spot he just made. You’re putty in his hands. 

You pull back with a wild look in your eye but he cocks his head to the side and asks, “Too much?” He’s so eager to please you. 

“No,” you breathe. “You’re a natural.”

“Thanks, cyar’ika,” he smiles, cheeks heating up at your praise. 

You whisper in his ear, “I think it’s time to show you something else.”

“I’m not done yet,” he whimpers. 

“No?” you chuckle. 

“Nope. I could kiss you until the end of time, cyar’ika.”

How can you protest? 

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics

Dividers: @saradika-graphics

[jesus-hotwheel-christ]

Let me make it up to you?

(Older!Coach!Steve Harrington x fem!reader)

Summary : Your sweet husband was supposed to come home hours ago. You're pissed off, anxious, and have to go to bed by yourself. How will he make it up to you?

Warnings : MDNI!!, angst (?) with a happy ending, established relationship (married), Eddie is alive cause I said so (au I guess, no mentions of the upside down or anything), mentions of intrusive thoughts and anxiety, fluff, fingering, p in v unprotected, kinda lazy apology sex (speedbump position), creampie, breeding kink, talks of trying to get pregnant.

A/N : It's finally here! The summer term is kicking my ass, but I finally managed to finish this one. I'm afraid I kinda cooked with this one guys, at least in my opinion. Hopefully you enjoy it as much as I do!

WC : 4,983

************

“God dammit,” you mutter, pacing back and forth in your living room before sinking onto the couch with a huff. Your arm jerks in front of your face, your watch displaying a time that only fuels your anger even more. You let your arm fall back on the cushion as you stare up at the ceiling, your jaw clenching and unclenching in waves of frustration.

It’s dark outside – no moon in the sky, the only soft light coming in through the windows from the lamp posts down the street. The house is quiet. So quiet that it makes the usually unnoticeable ticking sound of your grandma’s grandfather clock annoyingly loud and sinister.

Steve was supposed to be home almost three hours ago. His team of little rugrats had a game that night after school, which sadly you couldn’t attend because of a late shift at work, making you miss out on checking out your hot husband sweating in the sun. Then, after the game, he was going to hang out with Eddie at his trailer for a beer or two. “Home by eleven, honey,” he had told you just this morning.

Now here you are, 1:53 AM being pointed at by that damn clock in an honestly mocking way at this point, with absolutely no pile of brown hair and tan skin to hold you close.

Even though you’ve already tried several times, you get up and stomp over to your pastel yellow phone hanging on the wall. You quickly dial Eddie’s number, knowing it by heart now that you’ve called probably five times already, and wait. It rings and rings and rings and then nothing. “Ughhh…” You snap the receiver back in place forcefully, ire and worry mixing inside you as you slump against the wall.

Being married to Steve had really been a joy. He’s a thoughtful husband, caring, sweet, a little spicy when he needs to be. But sometimes, he gets so excited to be hanging out with his friends that he simply loses track of time. It’s not really his fault, you know that. It’s actually one of the things you love about him, how he gets so enthralled and fully present in the moment that everything else falls away. It’s made you feel like the most important person in the world more than a few times.

But as you have told him time and time again, you just wish he’d call to warn you beforehand. A simple “hey, sweetheart. I’ll be home later than I thought, s’that alright?” Because it’s not like you want to cut his fun short, you know how important his friends are to him and you don’t mind if he’s out late. It’s the not knowing that makes you worry.

When it’s only been fifteen minutes, you can just shrug it off. Maybe he got delayed by a parent after the game, or maybe he stopped at the gas station for a few snacks. But the later it gets with no updates, the less you can easily ignore the thoughts that pop up in your mind. What if he got into a car crash, or what if he’s lying to me and he’s not at Eddie’s. Even though they weren’t always rational, because of course Steve would never deliberately hurt you nor was an accident very likely to happen, those ruminations still buried their roots deep and triggered that buzzing and tight sensation in your chest.

Tonight, it’s no different. Deep down, you know he’s probably in Eddie’s yard, sipping on a beer and talking about God knows what, unable to hear the phone ring inside the trailer over the music they’re listening to. But you still get those intrusive thoughts, and you get pissed off that your husband always forgets to call.

You make your way to your bedroom, slipping out of the sleep shorts you had put on earlier just to be in your comfy oversized shirt you stole from Steve when you were only just dating. An old and softened gray cotton shirt with cracked yellow letters – an almost unintelligible Hawkins High. You slip under the covers, resigning yourself to at least try to sleep. You curl yourself into a fetal position, turned toward your nightstand as you take deep breaths. It takes a few moments to calm your anxiety, but you do eventually fall asleep, the cold darkness of the room cocooning you instead of your husband’s warmth.

Meanwhile, at Eddie’s place, inside the rusty fireplace the metalhead got at a yard sale, the embers are glowing faintly with every soft gust of wind. Steve is talking about his job over the radio, tuned at a station playing nighttime music. He’s been nursing the same beer for over an hour, repeatedly telling Eddie that he needs to leave soon, before they both launch into a new tangent for another thirty minutes.

Eddie’s a night owl. He works afternoons and evenings at an auto repair shop in town, so he doesn’t mind going to bed late.

Steve, on the other hand, finally starts to feel the tiredness. He lets out a yawn before checking his watch. His eyes widen in slight panic, the time having seemingly slipped away from him again. He immediately thinks of you and feels a crushing pang of guilt.

“Shit, man… I’m sorry, but I really gotta go.” Steve says as he gets up and brushes off some dirt from his white baseball coach pants.

Eddie nods and gets up as well, dunking the rest of his beer on the embers to get them to die down even more. “Yeah, no problem, Stevie. S’getting late.”

Steve walks up to Eddie and holds out his hand. The tattooed man shakes it, before he wraps his arm around his friend’s shoulders and pats his back. “T’was good hanging out, man. We should do it more often.”

Steve pulls back with a smile and a slight shove of the other one’s shoulder. “Agreed. Night, Eds.”

“Goodnight, big boy.”

Steve chuckles as he hastily makes his way toward his car. He peels out of the gravel driveway and drives slightly over the speed limit the whole way home, even though he knows he’s way too late for it to actually make a difference. He curses himself internally, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. Every few taps, the gold band on his ring finger catches against the leather, making the knot of guilt grow tighter inside his stomach.

Later, once he finally gets home, it’s about 2:30 AM. All the lights are off, the only sound that creepy grandfather clock. You’re probably asleep, he thinks, so he tries to be quiet as he removes his dulled sneakers and hangs his 'Coach Steve' jacket on the hooks near your front door.

He softly pads down the hallway to your bedroom. He opens the door and peaks inside – you’re turned away from him, your chest expending and shrinking softly, soundly sleeping. He smiles at the sight. Maybe you had fallen asleep earlier and you wouldn’t even know that he’d gotten home late. The knot inside him loosens slightly.

The door clicks shut as Steve makes his way back down the hall toward the bathroom, in desperate need of a shower. He peels off his coaching outfit, the striped baseball shirt, white pants and the socks that almost go up to his knees. Then his boxers come off, before he immediately puts the pile of dirty clothes in the washing machine for tomorrow.

He looks at himself in the mirror, the dust from the field clinging to the skin of his forearms. Speaking of them, his arms are slightly more tanned than the rest of him – a casualty of teaching kids how to play baseball under the hot sun all day. He turns to the side, eyeing the way his belly is a bit softer than how it used to be when you two first met. His hand goes over it, a nagging feeling of insecurity pulling at his flow of consciousness.

But then he remembers your sweet voice just a few nights ago, whispering in his ear how handsome your husband is as you run your hands over his body, grinding against his stomach. You had told him so many times how hot you found his body, peppering soft kisses down his abdomen and licking through his happy trail. It makes him feel better to think about that, a soft smile spreading on his face.

He then bends over the sink to look at his face more closely. He sees the tiny wrinkles starting to become permanent at the corners of his eyes and close to his nose. He sees the very few gray hairs starting to season his brown hair. For some reason, these additions don’t bother him as much. The shallow crow’s feet, the smile lines, the hair – it all makes him feel like he’s getting wiser. And Steve likes that.

He finally gets into the shower, the warm water washing away the dirt and lingering disappointment of his team losing earlier tonight. He’s not even thinking about the fact he came home late anymore.

Once he’s out and mostly dry, except for his damp hair, he makes his way back to the bedroom, cautious to not make a sound. He reaches into his thankfully already opened drawer for a fresh pair of boxers. He pulls them on before he lazily slides into bed next to you, exhaustion starting to weigh down his limbs.

You feel the solid heat of him press against your back as he wraps an arm around your waist, kissing your shoulder softly in an effort not to wake you. But It’s futile. As soon as your husband gets in bed, it’s like your body knows. You awaken and before you can fully comprehend what you’re doing, you wriggle gently out of his grasp with a soft huff.

Steve lifts his arm and pauses, his brows furrowing. You never were one to refuse cuddles, and for a split second he’s confused. Maybe she’s dreaming. “Honey? You awake?”

You sigh and wrap the covers tighter around yourself. “Mm.”

And then it hits him. You had been up waiting for him, and now you’re mad. Shit. His fingers softly graze your spine under the covers, trying to be soothing. “Come on, baby. I’m sorry, okay? ‘M here now.” His voice sounds wrapped in velvet, attempting to get you to forget it.

You don’t turn, frustration and anger still souring your mood. “Just go to sleep, Steve.”

The use of his actual first name makes him physically recoil. He’s used to pet names and nicknames from you, or at least a cute little ‘Stevie’. But tonight, he’s not getting that, and that makes him get defensive. “Fine. ‘Night,” he mutters, turning to face away from you.

You try to ignore how cold the bed feels with that distance between you as you drift back to sleep.

The morning arrives quietly. A warm limb around your waist. Soft breaths hitting the nape of your neck. A hand possessively splaying over your belly under your shirt.

You wake up slowly, feeling confused for a moment. You’re still turned away from Steve, facing the wall, but it’s like he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out for you and holding on in his sleep. The guilt from getting home late and leaving you in the dark was probably too much, and he needed to feel you close.

A soft sigh leaves your lips. You don’t want to give in so easily, to forgive him in an instant like you always do because of those damn puppy dog eyes that are still the same now at thirty-something-years-old.

But he’s so warm against your back. So solid. So… him. Your loving husband.

Fine, just a few minutes. He’s asleep. He won’t know, you tell yourself, sinking back into his sleepy heat.

It lasts for about sixty seconds before you feel the soft press of his slightly chapped lips against the base of your neck. You don’t move, trying to save face and make it seem like you never woke up at all. It’s pointless though – he felt you lean into him.

His voice is rough with sleep when he speaks, a low chuckle leaving him first. “Not mad at me anymore, baby?”

You huff, sure, but you can’t bring yourself to move. Your mind might be a warrior, but your body is weak. “Still pissed, Harrington.”

He coos and kisses your shoulder, his thumb rubbing arcs over the skin of your stomach. “Aww… you know I’m sorry, honey. What can I do to make it better, hm?”

The slow and syrupy quality to his voice is vibrating against your back and resonating through those empty spots inside you that belong to only him. You still hold your ground, though. Maybe your body is weak, and it wants him, but you can still turn this to your advantage. You deserve it after last night.

You scoot just a few inches away, keeping your tone soft. “You could start with a massage.”

You can’t see it, but you can pretty much hear him smirking. He lets out a breath and shifts to sit up against the headboard. “Fair is fair. Come on, sweetheart.”

You look back at him. And you shouldn’t have, cause now it’s incredibly hard to keep your detached and unbothered attitude intact.

His hair is mussed from sleep, looking soft as it sticks out in every direction. The sheets are pooled around his thighs, but he pushes them away to spread his legs, making room for you. Your treacherous eyes linger over the planes of skin scattered with moles, tracing the shape of him. His strong forearms, biteable biceps, broad shoulders and chest, soft stomach… The patch of hair over his thorax that thins just a bit going down his belly, before it thickens under his navel and disappears into his boxers. And oh. His morning wood looks indecent, straining against the fabric and tempting you like a cookie being dangled in front of a starving dog.

Fuck.

He looks entirely too pleased with himself, but he doesn’t comment on your staring. Relaxation emanates from him, and he actually looks like he’s got no ulterior motives. He motions for you to sit in front of him.

You manage to move, the mattress dipping under your weight as you sit in between his legs, your back to him. Instinctively, you reach up to move your hair from your neck and over your shoulder.

His hand finds your waist as he bunches up the shirt you’re wearing. “Can I take it off? It’ll feel better.”

You hum approvingly, raising your arms so he can slip the worn shirt over your head. His hands are immediately splaying on your skin, starting to rub up and down your back to warm you up.

He doesn’t speak at first. He concentrates on making you relax, on taking out the tension he created by being out so late and causing you all that anxiety. His thumbs knead in those spots between your shoulder blades where he knows you carry the most of it.

Soft little sounds spill from your lips, and you can’t help them from coming out. He’s way too good with his hands.

“I really am sorry, you know.” It’s almost a whisper, sincere and unguarded. “I… lost track of time.”

You nod gently, eyes closed, still focussing on his rhythmic motions. “I know, Stevie. I just wish you’d at least remember to call.”

He hums in acknowledgment, his hands going up over your shoulders and squeezing lovingly. He truly feels awful. “I know, baby… Were you worried?”

You let out a soft sigh and nod, your hand finding his knee and curling over it. “Yeah. You know me.”

He hums again, and this time, he sits up and presses his chest to your back, wrapping his arms around you as he leans back against the headboard. The movement makes you rest back against him, and you let it happen.

He feels warm and reassuring, your head tipping back to meet his pec and shoulder. Comfy. His hands start stroking over your stomach as he speaks against your temple.

“I didn’t mean to make you stress, honey. I never do.” He places a soft kiss against the hair there.

“Then why don’t you call? I don’t mind you getting home late, I just want to know so I don’t have to worry if you’re dead in a ditch somewhere.” Your voice is still gentle, not looking to start a fight, just explaining why you were so frustrated.

You feel his hand wander between the valley of your breasts as the other goes down to your thigh.

“S’not an excuse, but it’s like I get too excited or something and I just forget to call. And I don’t even know how that’s possible ‘cause you’re everything to me.”

His head dips down as he starts leaving soft kisses down your neck. You relax more against him. “You really are just a big puppy masquerading as a man, huh?” You say the inside joke with a small smirk, the anger ebbing out of you at his loving words and touches, being replaced with warmth.

Okay, maybe you’re not that much of a warrior after all.

He chuckles and presses his face against the junction of your neck and shoulder, breathing you in. “Let me make it up to you, yeah?” You feel calloused skin cupping your breast tenderly, kneading it as if you also hold tension there.

You let out a non-committal hum, your eyes still closed. But of course, your legs spread slightly without you even giving them the neurological command to do so. Like a stupid reflex – you’re body being so responsive to him. Not giving in was way harder than it should have been.

“S’that a yes, sweetheart?” His hand that was still on your thigh moves to cup your heat over your panties, feeling the damp patch there. He rubs light and lazy circles over it.

Your breath hitches. “Don’t know if you deserve it yet, Stevie.” You try to sound stern, to have some semblance of control, but you both know it’s futile.

He nips and licks over your neck once. “Oh. No? Even if I said I have a whole apology day prepared?” He presses just a bit harder against your pussy, feeling your lips get puffier through the cloth.

You turn your head slightly toward him, brows furrowing as you open your eyes. “An ‘apology day’?”

He smiles at you and nods, before pinching your nipple between his thumb and middle finger. His voice comes out so unaffected, as if he’s not touching you like that and driving you absolutely crazy. It’s both infuriating and insanely hot. “Mhm. I’ll take you to that diner you like for breakfast.”

Your eyes roll back as he finally dips under the waistband of your panties and finds your wet core. He starts to gently trace up and down, gathering some of your arousal on two fingers to start rubbing gently over your clit.

“T-that’s all?” you ask, moans not leaving you yet as you try to stay composed.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Greedy girl. But no, that’s not all. Thought we could go to that shop on Fifth Street, you know the one with all the - “

“Lights?” You finish his sentence. He knows how much you like that home decor shop, loving to walk around the aisles and looking at the set-ups, getting ideas for your own house. They have an incredible lights section, and it never fails to amaze you when you walk through it.

He smiles again, looking down at your lips. “Yeah, that one. I’ll let you get anything you want.” He’s still massaging your breast and pinching your nipple, and now you can feel his fingers circling your entrance.

A whimper leaves your throat, your back arching against him like you’ve finally let yourself feel what he’s doing to you. Your thighs spread wider, silently begging for more.

His mouth opens in reverence as he feels you respond, a low and pleased moan rumbling through him. You can feel his thick length pressing against your lower back, neglected. But he doesn’t care.

“But you know what else, honey?” He asks, his cheek pressing against the side of your head as your hips start rolling against his hand.

You whimper as he slowly presses his middle and ring finger inside you. “W-what?”

The pressure starts building low in your belly as he curls his fingers against your front wall, his wrist making slow circles that makes the heel of his palm rub maddening pressure on your swollen clit.

“I’ll do better. I promise you I’ll call in the future. Can’t have my perfect wife worrying over me for no reason.” He kisses the tender spot behind your ear, the one that smells the most like you as he keeps fucking you with his fingers. His other hand leaves your breast to grip your hip instead, helping you buck against him.

The promise and the way he knows exactly how to touch you after all these years – it gets you close to that sweet edge embarrassingly fast, your walls starting to flutter and tighten around his fingers.

“Fuck, Stevie… gonna c-cum.” You moan out, reaching back to grip his hair as your other hand squeezes his thigh.

“Mhmm…” is all he manages, sucking on the skin of your neck and keeping his hand movements steady as you release around his fingers.

Your hips stutter as your whole body relaxes, the force of your orgasm spreading like a wildfire throughout your body, before making way to a slow-moving wave of relief. Your husband’s fingers slowly come to a stop after he helped you ride it all out, whispering soft praises against your skin.

“There you go.” He says simply, almost looking proud of you, as he lifts his slick covered fingers toward his mouth to suck them off.

Now, Steve meant to stop there. Get you off, take you to breakfast, maybe buy you a nice new lamp. He was perfectly content to not get anything in return. This was about you, after all, and how he could make it up to you after his blunder last night. But at the first taste of your pleasure – as soon as your arousal hits his tongue – all his resolve flies out of the window.

His eyes roll back as he hums at the flavor, a needy and breathy “Fuck” is the only warning you have before he closes your legs and flips you on your belly. He wastes no time tugging your panties off and slipping a thin pillow under your hips.

You’re still recovering from your orgasm, face flushed and pressed into the mattress, so it’s no wonder that you didn’t register him taking off his boxers until you feel him straddle your thighs and press his body over top of yours. The hair on his chest tickles your back, and you can feel his hard and leaking cock against your ass, making you push your hips up slightly.

His breath comes out heavy against your ear, his hands tracing your curves reverently. “Still can’t believe you’re my wife, honey. So damn beautiful. Gonna let me have you, yeah?”

“Please, Stevie…” you nod eagerly.

He grins at the nickname and your pleading tone, pressing a gentle kiss on your shoulder. He sits up and brushes the hair away from your upper back, before running his hands down the expanse of skin. When he reaches down past your hips, he squeezes the globes of your ass and spreads you open, marveling at the wetness slicking your pussy and inner thighs from your first orgasm.

“Look at you.” He lets some spit dribble out of his mouth and onto his cock, making himself slippery as he gives it a few strokes. He lines himself up with your slit before slowly sinking his length into you. “Oh my god…” He says breathlessly, like he still cannot fathom that he gets to be the one to do this.

The stretch is always something, even after all this time. You whimper into the mattress, and he knows that it’s a bit much just by how you sound. He stays still, letting you relax around him. His hands start kneading and massaging over your back again. “Relax for me, honey. Let me take care of you.”

The feeling of being filled to the brim while Steve massages your back so tenderly is definitely up there on your very own list of ‘best sensations in the whole fucking world’. Fairly quickly, the slight sting from the stretch goes away and turns into a dull pressure that just makes you want more.

You push your hips back a bit, as much as you can with your husband’s weight pinning you down, making him go just a bit deeper. You whimper – a sound so addictive that Steve would gladly give up listening to music if it meant he could hear it on loop. “Please, Stevie… Move.”

His hands that were steadily working out tension over your shoulders slide down your back until he reaches your hips. He pulls out almost all the way, only leaving the tip in, making you mewl at the emptiness. “Anything for you. Anything.”

He pushes back in and starts a slow pace designed to make you feel every inch of his thick cock splitting you open over and over again. He always knew when to be rough and when to be gentle.

“Taking me so well, honey.”

“Look at that, so perfect for me.”

“Wanna make you feel so good, angel.”

He keeps praising you as his eyes are transfixed on his dick disappearing inside you, your arousal coating his length and leaving a milky ring at the base. The hair there, trimmed but still kind of bushy, is flattened down from the wetness.

Your fingers are clenching the sheets, face buried in them as your moans grow louder. There’s no where you can go when you’re on your belly like this, and you’re more than happy to just take it.

Steve’s moans grow heavier, some sweat starting to bead at his forehead. He pushes his hair back before leaning over you, bracing one hand next to your head as his other keeps holding your hip. The new angle hits that spot inside you, the one that has you seeing stars.

“Oh fuck, Stevie! Right t-there!” You take hold of his wrist by your head, your needy moans sending a shiver up your husband’s spine.

His hips keep a constant, devastating, but still slow enough pace for you to feel everything. “Yeah, baby? Right there, huh?” He moves to sink his fingers in your hair and tug gently, making you turn your head so you can see him.

You nod and whimper, your bottom lip stuck between your teeth as the coil tightens in your belly. You feel your abundant slick drip down on the mattress, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“D-don’t stop…” You whimper out, your walls tightening around him like they never want him to leave.

Steve curses under his breath, his hand grabbing your hip again to keep you at the perfect angle. “Wasn’t planning on it. Ahh… Fuck, I can feel it. Come for me, baby.”

Your moans get higher, the coil tightening impossibly tight, but missing that little something to catapult you over the edge.

He can sense it, how your walls are starting to flutter around him, his own orgasm getting dangerously close. But no, you have to get yours first. His rhythm falters slightly, his breath shaky. “Gonna fill you up. S’that what you want? Wanna try again?”

Your orgasm crashes through you at his words – the idea of being full of your husband’s cum has always been a kink of yours, so when you had started to try to start a family, that was definitely a huge perk. You gush around him, moaning a broken version of his name as you fall apart.

The rhythmic contractions of your pussy trigger his own release, his cock twitching inside you as he buries himself deep and he coats your walls with his milky spend. “Fuck, baby…”

His body collapses over top of yours, though he braces himself a bit on his elbows so he doesn’t fully crush you. He nuzzles his face into the back of your neck and your shoulder, leaving gentle kisses on your overheated skin.

You sigh contentedly, still feeling him buried inside you, softening slowly. The minutes drag as you soak in the feeling.

“Mmm… you’re forgiven.” You say, reaching back to pat his thigh.

He laughs lowly, slowly lifting himself off of you as he pulls out. His hands stroke reverently over your back as you turn on your side to look at him.

“Still taking you to breakfast. And that store.” He reaches out and cups your neck, pushing some of your messy hair back as he strokes your flushed cheek with his thumb.

You smile at him lovingly, spent and full. “Well, my forgiveness is conditional to that, but still.” You chuckle and turn your head to kiss his palm.

When you look back at him, your breath catches. His eyes are soft, almost glistening in the delicate morning light spilling through the curtains. His hand leaves your neck to splay over your stomach, the golden band on his ring finger shining against his tan skin. “I can’t wait…”

“It’ll happen, Stevie.” You lace your fingers with his. “We just gotta keep doing… that.” You smirk.

He chuckles at your words and pulls you close, tucking your head under his chin. “Anytime, honey.”

************

Taglist! Decided to start one, even though I'm not sure how😅 If you want to be added or taken off, just comment!

@bearwithegg @lacywithdrawal

[jobean12-blog]

Protecting What's His

Pairing: Din Djarin x princess!reader (he's basically like a bodyguard :) and light enemies to lovers- featuring Grogu ofc)

Word Count: 6.2K

Summary: Your father is stirring trouble with the Empire and he worries for your safety so he hires you a bodyguard.

Author's Note: So I've been working on this for foreverrrrrrrr. I just don't have time and with a story like this I had to do some plot to build the tension and all that. Anyway, after my last Djarin story I just can't stay away. I'm hoping to do more stories with him but shorter so I can get more out in a timely manner. Thank you all so much for reading and sharing, much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy!🥰

PS This takes place on the planet Naboo- you can look up the city of Theed and the Kaadu creatures here You can also look up her droid here

Warnings: fun banter, tension and flirting, some SW action, little angst here and there, implied sexy times, def spicy at the end, soft moments and lots of cute Grogu

The moment the words leave your father’s mouth you choke on your drink, wishing instead you had been three glasses deeper and much less keen to the weight of his words. You stare at your father, trying to master your expression and there’s a challenge in his eye, a dare to argue…but you don’t, knowing it will be worse if you do.

You force a smile and nod.

Back in your room you pace, feet stomping unceremoniously as you throw profanities out left and right, causing your poor BD-3000 droid, KT-12 , or as you lovingly call her, buttons, distress.

She’s following you back and forth, arms raised in the air, eyes rapidly blinking as she tries to calm you down.

“Just because he’s too busy to keep me safe doesn’t mean he can just hire some random bounty hunter to follow me around all the time! It’s an invasion of privacy!”

You finally stop and Buttons nearly slams into your back. She tsks. “Perhaps it’s for the best my lady. Things between your father and the Empire have been getting…heated.”

You whirl around, eyebrows drawn in and fury etched into your features, ignoring her placating words. “And I can’t imagine how much this bounty hunter is getting paid! It’s always about the money!”

She holds your gaze and if her face weren’t built so mechanically you’d be almost sure there was a hint of sympathy there. You plop down on the plush coverings of your bed, falling backward dramatically and sighing even more dramatically.

“You don’t suppose he’ll be devastatingly handsome and kind and we’ll end up falling in love and he’ll rescue me from this place…?”

Buttons moves over to your discarded robe and begins to fold it. “I’ve never found humans to be all that handsome myself, but I suppose you’re a better judge of that.”

A hint of a smile pulls at your lips, and you sit up. “Well, guess it’s time we found out.”

Before entering the formal throne room you glance around from the threshold. Buttons runs into your back, urging you forward.

“Hey,” you squeak as you take a falling step inside.

“There you are,” your father says, giving you a fake smile.

Your eyes dart from side to side, searching for your new bodyguard but all you see is your father’s guards.

“And where is he?” you ask, holding your chin high and your shoulders back. “I thought you said we were meeting promptly after dinner.”

Footsteps echo behind you and you turn at the sound of a deep and gravelly voice.

“Forgive me princess,” the bounty hunter says when he walks in. “I was…preoccupied.”

You narrow your eyes, your gaze sweeping over his body. A body completely covered in Mandalorian armor. At the hint of sarcasm in his voice you scoff.

“Hmm. Well…now that we’ve met I’d like to retire to my rooms.”

You start to turn on your heel, but your father clears his throat, and you squeeze your eyes shut, silently cursing him before you relent and stay put.

“This is Din Djarin. The Mandalorian I’ve assigned to protect you.”

“You mean paid,” you grit out.

Your father ignores your jab. “He’ll be with you wherever you go.”

“Even my bathing chambers?” you answer back, a wry but saccharine smile lifting your lips.

Again, you’re ignored by your father, but you don’t miss the way Djarin steps closer to you, hands seated comfortably on his hips, his shoulders relaxed when he whispers, “only if you want me to Princess.”

Your blood heats and you lift your finger to point it at his chest, both distracted by his armor and what might be hidden beneath.

“First of all, don’t call me Princess. I have a name. And secondly, you’ll stay as far away from me…and my bathing chambers…as possible.”

His head cocks to the side as he seemingly studies you. You hate that you can’t see his face.

“As your protector I can’t make any promises. I have a job to do…Princess.”

Before you can speak again your father dismisses you and Djarin. “Very well then,” your father says. “On your way.”

The feel of him at your back makes your shoulders tense and when you get your room you startle when he reaches around you to open the door.

“Let me do a sweep.”

“I’ve been gone for half an hour!” you say with an eye roll.

“Wait here.”

His gruff command leaves no room for argument, and you cross your arms over your chest, huffing out your frustration. Button’s stands beside you, her metal fingers resting gently on your shoulder in a supportive pat.

Suddenly, you hear some commotion from inside and you reach for the doorknob.

“I wouldn’t my lady,” Buttons says.

“He’s probably rifling through my underwear drawer!”

A second later the door opens and you see Djarin standing with a smoking and broken spy droid dangling from his gloved hand.

If you could see his face you’d be sure he was wearing a smug look. “Next time don’t fight me when I need to do my job.”

You lift your chin defiantly but don’t answer back.

“You’re all clear,” he says before stationing himself just outside the door. “Yell if you need anything.”

“I won’t,” you state and slam the door.

The next day passes and you only leave your room when absolutely necessary. Your defiance is all you have to hang on to, and you refuse to give in easily. Djarin stands guard day and night, though you wonder if he ever sleeps because even when you do leave your room he’s right behind you.

And today, he decides you both need to get outside.

“Would you be willing to show me around the palace a bit more? Maybe the gardens?” he asks, now striding right next to you as you head for the library.

“I was going to read.”

You don’t elaborate and start to walk faster.

“Please,” he says quietly and it stops you in your tracks.

“So he does have manners,” you muse, raising your brows.

He sighs and waits. And you drag out the moment, enjoying his suffering.

“Fine. Let’s go for a walk,” you finally agree.

He extends his elbow for you, and you narrow your eyes, reluctantly taking it.

“Lead the way Princess.”

You bring him out to the gardens, sighing when you feel the warm sun on your face.

“Sorry you kept yourself locked away for so long?” he asks, tone snarky.

You don’t bother glancing his way and continue walking toward the seating area, making yourself comfortable on a bench.

“Feel free to go where you like,” you tell him, motioning to the expanse of the gardens.

He inclines his head in thanks and turns on his heel, seeming to wander aimlessly until he turns a corner around some bushes and disappears.

At first, you pay him and his absence no mind, enjoying the warm air and the faint floral scent carried on it. But then you start to hear his voice, muffled but raised and a small series of something akin to squeaks.

“What in the….?” You mutter and stand in the direction he went.

When you turn the corner you are not expecting to see him kneeling in front of a small green alien, arguing with it.

“You can’t have anymore. You’ll get sick,” he says as he pulls a cookie out of its little hand.

The alien’s big dark eyes look up at you, blinking slowly as he coos.

Djarin turns quickly and tries to block your view.

“He’s so cute. Why can’t he have more cookies?” you ask, stepping around him to see the alien again.

“Shit,” Djarin says and rests a hand on his helmet.

“What?” you ask before kneeling to say hi to the alien.

You say your name and point to yourself, and the alien’s small hand reaches out toward your face.

“His name is Grogu,” Djarin says. “He’s in my care.”

With a smile you fish inside your dress pocket and pull a snack free, handing it to Grogu. He takes it with a happy squeal and shoves the whole thing in his mouth.

“That’s not helping,” Djarin says with a sigh, hands now resting with resignation on his hips.

“Have you been keeping him out here?” you ask, suddenly angry at the thought.

“Well…” Djarin starts, holding his palms up.

“That’s terrible! It’s not safe and it gets cold and…”

“Will you just listen for a minute” Djarin interrupts.

Stomping your foot you start to walk off but he grabs your arm, stopping you and spinning you gently back to face him. He leans in closer and you hold perfectly still.

You shiver and he looks down at your arm, watching the goosebumps erupt over the expanse of your exposed skin. He releases you and reaches for the small cloak secured around his neck.

He drapes it around your shoulders, and you press your lips into a thin line.

“Relax Princess. Just being a gentleman.”

You roll your eyes. “Not very gentlemanly to leave that sweet little guy out here all alone.” When you bump his shoulder and go to storm by him he hooks an arm around your waist and twists, pinning you against the bushes. You look up at him with murder in your eyes.

“Still being a gentleman?” you ask, tone cheeky.

Even through the material of his gloves you can feel the warmth of his skin and then you feel a traitorous shiver crawling up your spine- and not from the cold. You squirm in this grip, causing the edge of your skirt to catch on one of the branches of the bush.

He looks down, his body tensing at the sliver of exposed skin that’s now revealed, then he slowly lowers his hand, eyes staying focused on the spot, clearly waiting for you to protest. His fingertips brush along your thigh, knuckles grazing something hard.

“Planning to use this?” he asks as his fingers toy with the dagger secured to your leg.

“Are you going to give me a reason to?” you counter, furious that you can’t see his face as you hope to keep your own features schooled.

“You can’t tell anyone about Grogu.”

Your chin lifts and he presses harder against you.

“For his safety,” he pauses, “please.”

That one word catches you off guard and for a second you forget how frustrating this whole situation is. You gather yourself, hoping your emotions are as hidden as his.

“Then you have to let him stay with me. Inside the palace.”

He sighs and you add, “for his safety.”

“Fine,” Djarin says. “But no one can know.”

“Don’t worry. I’m very good at keeping secrets,” you assure him, giving him a light shove to release you.

He does but you don’t let him get far. “As long as you tell me why he’s in your care and why it’s so important he stays hidden.”

He hangs his head with a slight shake. “You’re a pain the ass, you know that.”

His comment makes you laugh. It’s the first real laugh you’ve had in days, and it feels good and Djarin’s never been more thankful to have his face hidden. The sight of your smile takes his breath away.

“Oh you have no idea!” you say as you reach for Grogu’s hand.

When Djarin follows you and Grogu into your chambers you don’t refuse his presence, noting the urgency in his voice as he explained the situation to you during your walk back to the palace.

 “I can make him a place to sleep here and bring him food after meals,” you say as you flit around the room and gather blankets.

Once you’ve set up the space you take a deep breath, turning to find Djarin filling your space. He grabs your wrist, and you freeze, looking from his large, gloved hand to where you imagine his eyes would be.

You try to pull away but he pulls you closer, seemingly holding your gaze as he slides his fingers gently up and over your knuckles.

“Thank you,” he says in a whisper.

You’re imagining he’d brush his lips across your hand if his face weren’t forever hidden behind his helmet. Heat rushes through you at the contact and the thought and you nod your head.

“Forgetting you can’t stand me?” you say to break the spell, the corners of your mouth tilted up.

He drops your hand and steps back. “Wouldn’t dream of it Princess,” he says but you hear the smile in his voice.

The palace has been bustling with activity over the last week due to tonight’s wedding of your cousin. Your father offered to host in the hopes of keeping the family in a positive light. You’ve stayed as far away from it all as possible, enjoying your time with Grogu.

He’s playful and adorable and doting on him has taken your mind off the constant presence of Djarin, who on the other hand is distracting. Just the sound of his voice makes your traitorous body react and you’re dying to find out what’s beneath all that armor.

Just as your imagination is drifting to the wide set of his shoulders and the way his hand so easily wrapped around your wrist there’s a knock at your door.

“Come in.”

Djarin steps through the door with Buttons right behind him.

“My lady we need to prepare you for the wedding,” Buttons says as she walks to your closet.

Djarin checks on Grogu, speaking softly to him before he turns your way.

“When you’re ready I’ll be waiting outside to escort you to the festivities.”

“Shouldn’t you be in more formal attire?” you ask as you look over your shoulder. “Surely for one night you can wear something else.”

He clasps his hands in front of him. “As much as I’d love to be your date for the evening Princess, I can’t risk your safety just to look good.”

The playfulness in his voice takes you off guard and you smile softly.

“Hm. Too bad.”

Taking that as his dismissal he leaves the room and Buttons holds up a dress. “How about this one my lady.”

You look it over, your eyes lighting up in delight before you say, “actually…I know exactly which dress I want to wear.”

As you exit your room you’re purposefully placed cloak swishes behind you, cascading over the floor as you walk to meet Djarin. He bows his head slightly and ushers you toward the ballroom. When you reach the entrance Buttons fusses with the hem of your cloak, but you hastily remove it, revealing your dress beneath.

If it weren’t for the music playing in the next room you’d be sure you heard his quick intake of breath. You hand the cloak to Buttons. “It’s warm enough tonight. I don’t think I’ll need this.”

You feel his gaze immediately even though you can’t see his eyes. You smile and lift your brows.

“Staring is rude you know.”

He clears his throat. “I wasn’t staring.”

You trail your fingers along the neckline of your dress, pretending to adjust the pendant resting against your skin before you step into the room.

He grabs your arm. “Let me go first.”

You roll your eyes with a scoff, stepping to the side to allow him to pass. At first you watch him to a sweep of the room but once you lose him in the crowd you turn toward the ornate and elaborate decorations near the doorway.

“How much do you think these cost?” you say more to yourself than Buttons, who as usual, is standing diligently at your side.

Suddenly, warmth fills the space at your back, and you feel Djarin behind you, his body pressed to yours. Your heart kicks into a faster rhythm as his gloved fingers skim your arm.

“Everything appears to be safe,” he whispers, low and gruff, “but…”

You stop breathing when he dips his head lower, not even the helmet blocking the caress of his words against your skin. “There’s a man here…there’s something about him. He’s wearing a purple cloak. Stay away from him.”

“Ok.”

Your voice is too breathy, but you can’t stop it with him this close. He hums against your neck, and you clench your thighs together involuntarily. Trying to deny your attraction to him would be ridiculous at this point but it doesn’t make you any less angry.

You’ve never even seen his face. The illusion can shatter with just a glimpse.

He moves away and you feel the loss like a punch to the gut. It steals your breath and you turn to find him tucked behind you, leaning along one of the pillars in the ballroom. Even as you walk away in search of a drink you can feel the weight of his gaze.

The rest of the evening goes by without much excitement. You’re asked to dance several times, noting the way Djarin is always in your line of sight. When you finally get free of the dance floor and find some sanctuary by the outdoor balcony you’re not surprised when that familiar deep voice greets you.

“Why do you dance with them if you don’t want to?” he asks.

“Who says I wasn’t enjoying every minute of it?” you counter, turning your face to the light breeze.

“You hated every minute of it,” he says, his tone so sure if makes your fists clench.

“And how would you know,” you grit out.

The slight tilt of his helmet is all you get in response and you have to close your eyes and take a deep breath. Then a slow smile spreads across your lips.

“Or maybe…you’re just jealous.”

“Wouldn’t that make you happy Princess,” he chuckles.

A commotion on the dance floor pulls you both from the moment and he instantly has you secured behind him as he assesses the situation. With his hand on the gun at his hip he slowly moves forward but the instant there’s a space between the people on the dance floor you let out a barely contained snort.

“Oh don’t worry. That’s just my father pretending to make a drunken scene. He’s really laying it on thick,” you drawl.

Djarin continues to study what unfolds before him, not letting you pass and not removing his hand from his blaster.

“And it’s also my signal to go to bed,” you add.

“Not interested in seeing how this plays out?” Djarin asks with a light tone.

“I’ve seen it a million times. He does this just to try to win people over. It’s total bullshit.”

You wave a dismissive hand and start to head for your room. Djarin falls in step beside you.

“You’re not going to stay and enjoy the party?” you ask. “I’m sure there’s some beautiful lady who’d love to get that helmet off you.”

Ignoring your comment he responds with, “where you go I go Princess.”

“I’m aware,” you reply wryly.

“Would you mind if I check on Grogu before you retire for the night?” he asks softly.

“Be my guest,” you say as you wait by your door, knowing he’s going to go in first for a security sweep anyway.

Once it’s clear there are no safety breeches he calls you inside. He’s leaning against the wall near your bed, looking down at Grogu who’s snuggled into his blankets with a cookie.

“I don’t know where he keeps finding these snacks,” Djarin tsks with a shake of his head.

You clear your throat. “Oh, I have no idea either. But he’s cute enough to get away with a lot.”

Grogu looks at you, blinking slowly and making  a soft cooing sound. You smile and wink.

“I’m going to have a bath. You can see yourself out.”

With that you head into your bathing room and shut the door, quickly testing the bath water that Buttons had set up for you. It’s warm and inviting and you let your dress slip from your shoulders, sliding your undergarments off then stepping into the large tub.

You’re not sure how long you spend submerged in the bath but as you stand and retrieve your towel you hear the door creak open. It startles you at first and you quickly cover yourself with the towel, peering through the low light to see who’s at the door.

Grogu waddles through, his ears bent backward and his eyes bigger than usual. He holds out the small sack you gave him to hold his cookies, showing you it’s empty.

“Did you eat them all?” you ask with a smile.

He nods and his expression turns solemn.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you more.”

After hearing that he starts to chirp and coo excitedly, making far too much noise for the time of night it is. You try to quiet him down but before you can Djarin barges into the bathing room, poised and ready to attack.

You let out a scream and nearly drop your towel.

“What the….?” you start, your fingers in a vice grip on the material as you stand there still dripping water.

“I heard…something,” Djarin says. “Are you ok?”

“We’re fine,” you say in a whoosh of breath. “He just got excited over...”

“Cookies?” Djarin finishes for you.

“Yeah,” you laugh. “And what is that?” you ask, pointing to the large gun looking thing slung over his shoulder.

He relaxes his stance but doesn’t pull his gaze away from you. “A flamethrower.”

“Oh. Bigger than I thought,” you muse.

“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” he shoots back.

You place a hand to your chest, feigning shock. “Did you just make a…joke?”

He scoffs and lowers the flame thrower. For a moment you think he’s going to engage but he just seems to be staring at you, although you can never quite tell with his helmet on. You suddenly remember you’re standing there in your towel, and you swallow hard, all the built of tension rushing back in a flash.

The time stretches taut with heated anticipation, and you sway closer, the urge to drop the towel taking over.

Grogu interrupts with a whistle and you’re released from your daze, looking down at him slowly.

 “Come on Grogu,” Djarin say as he turns to leave. “And no more cookies,” he shoots over his shoulder.

Your exhale is long and slow as you watch him leave, Grogu following slowly behind with disappointed look.

The next day you’re thrumming with energy, the need to leave the palace and find some solace from this ever-growing tension between you and the Mandalorian becoming overwhelming.

The problem is, wherever you go, he goes.

As you’re sitting on your bed watching Grogu munch on a cookie your eyes light up with an idea. You smile mischievously at him, and his ears instantly flatten to the back of his head.

After you’ve explained your plan to Grogu, going over it several times until he was nodding in what you hope is agreement you grab your pack and change into something less conspicuous than your usual regal garments.

You give Grogu the signal and he heads toward the door of your bedroom, sneaking out into the hallway to get Djarin’s attention. You peek out of the door and see Djarin turned the other way and reaching for Grogu to take him back inside.

It’s now or never. You slip away with silent footsteps and once you’re out of sight you sneak toward the stables. You make quick work of saddling your Kaadu, ignoring its light protests to you riding out unescorted.

You soothe the creature with soft touches and words until you’re picking up speed, and the palace grows smaller behind you.

The city of Theed is alive with the thrum of people coming and going, the marketplace full of vendors shouting to every person who passes by and you’re thankful for the hood you pull up and over your face.

Your Kaadu waits impatiently at the stables, and you know you don’t have much time. The energy of the freedom of the city keeps your feet moving forward and after a few minutes you start to relax.

When you pass a particular vendor selling sweets your nose stops you in your tracks, the smell a familiar one that brings back a flood of childhood memories. You stop and eye the treats, knowing you’re not the only one who will enjoy them.

You reach for your bag of money and realize that you forgot to take some. Your stomach sinks at the thought of going home empty handed. You look around the marketplace, checking for anything that seems out of place then look to the stall owner, noting that his focus is on the customer ahead of you.

Your movements are slow and careful as you reach for a handful of the treats…

“HEY! YOU!” the vendor in the stall next to you yells. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Your hand flies back and you quickly look around, noticing that you now have the attention of several people, including the owner of sweets stall.

“Uhh…” you start, eyes darting from side to side.

Then without thinking you make a grab for the treats, taking a large handful and stuffing them in your bag before turning and dashing off into the crowd. You can hear the commotion behind you, the vendors yelling, other patrons shouting as they get knocked into and pushed aside.

You don’t look back, just continue running as fast as you can until you reach one of the large cylindrical buildings and it’s many arches. You disappear into the shadows and plaster yourself against the wall, listening as the small group that was chasing you passes by in a flurry of agitation.

Releasing a breath you smile to yourself, feeling the exhilaration of the adrenaline moving through you and the triumph of escape. You check your bag one last time, happy to see the treats are intact and check around the pillars before starting to make your way back to your Kaadu.

Just when you think you’re out of harms way you turn the corner and walk straight into the solid white armor of a storm trooper.

“And just where do you think you’re going…Princess.”

“Shit,” you mutter before another pair of hands grabs your wrists from behind you and secures them.

“Let’s go,” the second Stormtrooper says. “And don’t make a scene or we’ll be forced to silence you.”

“Where is she?” Djarin hisses, slamming the door to the bathroom shut as he stares at Buttons.

“Sir, I have no idea where she could have gone. I was tending to the laundry and when I came back the only one here was the little alien…covered in crumbs.”

“Do you know where she is?” Djarin asks, spinning to face Grogu.

Grogu’s ears go back, his dark eyes wide, telling Djarin exactly what he needs to know.

“Shit!” Djarin growls. “You’re not supposed to make my job harder!”

Grogu makes a soft squeak, lowering his head at the admonishment.

“Don’t move!” Djarin commands and then looks at Buttons. “And you either. Keep an eye on him!”

He storms for the door, steps heavy and purposeful before he turns to face Grogu again. “And no tricks!”

You’re practically dragged into the underground passage, your feet tripping over each other as you try to keep up and the damp smell of Earth assaults your senses.

“Where are you taking me?” you huff out, defiant still in the face of danger.

“You’ll find out,” answers the Stormtrooper who’s pushing you forward.

The loud rush of falling water grows louder until you’re shoved through a high archway that brings you to an opening with a waterfall at the back. Two other tunnels lead off from the center, but both are blocked by guards.

You look around, trying to measure your surroundings as quickly and efficiently as possible before you hear the distinct gruff voice of Moff Gideon. Your lip curls in a sneer as you meet his eyes.

“And what a lovely surprise it is to see you Princess,” he drawls.

You scoff and don’t offer him a greeting instead shooting back with, “whatever it is you want I won’t do it. You’ve made a grave mistake.”

He smiles. “And why is that? We know you’ve had contact with the alien child, and you will tell us where he’s hiding.”

You lift your chin. “I will tell you nothing.”

One of the dark troopers barring a tunnel entrance takes a step in your direction. Your heart drops into your stomach but you school your features.

“Always so uncooperative,” Gideon sighs.

The stormtrooper pushes you forward as the dark trooper advances. You brace for pain, your body tense but instead you feel the whoosh of a blaster shot, the storm trooper crumpling at your feet right before the dark trooper does the same.

Instinctively you duck and rush away from the chaos, backing yourself into the wall and seeing Djarin blaze through the farthest tunnel, shots firing and several enemies falling to the ground.

He’s just about to end the last of the troopers when you hear Grogu’s squeal, his small body appearing at the opening of the other tunnel. You lunge for him, only to have one of the remaining dark troopers grab you. Gideon slips through the shots being fired, using the commotion as his shiel to scoop up Grogu.

Djarin advances, his gun now poised at Moff Gideon.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you Mandalorian,” Gideon sneers. “I have what I want and you’re going to let me go.”

You struggle against the dark troopers hold and Djarin’s head turns your way.

“Let them go,” he growls. “Now.”

Gideon laughs. “No. Surrender and they will be remain intact.”

Gideon pulls out a small blade and holds it against Grogu’s throat before he looks to the dark trooper who then pulls out a blaster and aims it at you.

Gideon presses the blade closer to Grogu’s skin, and he lets out a small whimper. You see Djarin go completely still and you hold your breath.

“You’re going to pay for this,” Djarin hisses as he lowers his blaster and raises his hands in surrender.

You struggle again and the dark trooper tightens his hold, shoving the blaster into your side.

“Seize him,” Gideon states, motioning to the last dark trooper. “And remove his helmet.”

You suck in a gasp of air, frantically trying to come up with something to do. The dark trooper takes Djarin’s hands and wrenches them behind his back, dropping him to his knees. He secures his wrists with a binder and then places his hand on Djarin’s helmet.

Grogu releases a series of agitated squeaks and squeals just before the dark trooper pulls the helmet from Djarin’s head.

Your eyes instantly lock with his, their dark brown color warm despite the situation as he stares back at you. His equally dark hair is mussed, some soft pieces falling over his forehead as his plush lips lift into a small smirk.

“Hi Princess,” he murmurs.

“Hi,” you say, the effect of the reveal clearly apparent in your breathy tone.

He doesn’t take his eyes off you, drinking you in with a sweep of his gaze from your head to toes.

Gideon’s overexaggerated laugh drags your eyes away from each other. “Isn’t this just grand,” he says. “Now I have two things that are important to you.”

Djarin grunts and tests the binders at his wrists. The dark trooper gives him a hard shove, and you struggle again in the your own restraints. Gideon laughs and starts to back up.

“Once I’m free of these tunnels kill them both,” he says with a sinister smile.

Then he turns and starts to run with Grogu toward the exit. In the seconds between your scream and the next breath you hear a loud thud from the tunnel, the sound of Gideon’s voice suddenly muffled before Grogu waddles back into the center room, his arm outstretched and aimed at the dark trooper who has a hold on Djarin.

The trooper flies backward into the wall, slamming into the stone hard before it falls to the floor in a heap. The next few seconds happen so quickly you barely register anything. Djarin stands and turns his wrists toward Grogu, who instantly breaks the binders then he has his blaster in his hand and the dark trooper holding you falls backward slowly, the hole in it’s head still smoking.

Djarin rushes for you, grabbing your hand. “Come on. We have to get out of here.”

You stare at him, closer now so that you can see the shadow of stubble along his cheeks, and the long dark lashes that frame his eyes.

His gaze holds yours before dropping to your lips and impulsively your tongue darts out to trace their shape. He groans but urges you behind him before putting his helmet back on.

“We don’t have time,” he says, signaling for Grogu. “Let’s get to safety.”

Your escape back to the palace is a blur of movement and urgency and it isn’t until you’re secured back in your room, legs cramping and breathing ragged that he unleashes his anger.

“What were you thinking?” he shouts. “You could have been killed!”

Before you can answer, he whirls on Grogu. “And you!”

Grogu’s ears fall back and he lowers his head with a sad whistle. He retreats to his bed area looking thoroughly chastised and you watch the anger in Djarin deflate with a sag of his shoulders.

But still you shoot back, “don’t yell at him,” throwing your finger out and crowding Djarin’s space. “It was my fault. I put him up to it. I…I just wanted to get out of here for a little while.”

Your last words soften as the air leaves your body and you start to sway forward with the weight of everything that has transpired.

He catches you easily, one arm around your waist, as your breathing starts to even out. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He removes one glove and then the other, placing his fingers under your chin to lift your face to his. Your body comes alive at the feel of his skin against yours, his thumb softly tracing the curve of your jaw.

His lips tenderly brush your cheek, his nose gently bumping yours before he kisses you. It’s not just some quick affection. This is a kiss you feel everywhere. You’re hyperaware of all the places your bodies touch, of the way, even through his armor, you fit together perfectly. He holds you to him, his large hands softly cupping your face.

When you pull away you’re breathless and Djarin’s eyes wander deliberately over the features of your face, his head dipping to kiss you again.

“Careful Mandalorian,” you whisper against his lips when he retreats just enough to hold your gaze. “You’re looking at me like you’re forgetting you can’t stand me.”

The corner of his lips tilt upward into a smile and the lines around his eyes deepen, sending a rush of warmth through your body.

“I could say the same for you,” he murmurs.

He leans in, skimming his nose from the junction of your shoulder up your neck, breathing you in.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” He whispers the words into your skin before inhaling again.

A shiver runs along your spine as his breath ghosts over the rapid pulse in your neck. He hums appreciatively, groaning before he kisses you again. When he pulls back, he searches your face for any sign of hesitation and when you give him none he drops his hand between your bodies, searching for the hem of your shirt and slipping his hand beneath, calloused fingertips gliding over your soft skin.

One of your hands thrusts into his hair, yanking his head closer to kiss him, and his barely controlled restraint snaps, his free hand curling around your thigh to lift you into his arms. He walks you backward toward the bed, spinning until he’s seated and you’re straddling his lap. He never breaks the kiss, his hands steady but urgent in their exploration of every curve of your body.

He shifts, trying to ease the strain of the hardness between his legs.

“You’re wearing far too much clothing.” The words are a challenge against his lips, and his eyes snap up to meet yours.

His hand slides up to your neck, and his grip tightens on your throat, the feel of your pulse beating harder and harder against his fingers.

“You are temptation,” he whispers, “and I want to take my time…”

“But…”you purr.

“It’s been torture since the moment I laid eyes on you. I need you to be mine.”

Your lips spread into a smile against his. “Then make me yours.”

[thecreelhouse]

always ready to be left out in the cold

Paring: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Getting stuck with Steve in the van on crawl nights fucking sucks. Getting stranded in a snowstorm, forced to cuddle up next to the one person you cannot stand, all to share warmth and hopefully survive the night? You’re almost certain you’d rather freeze to death. Almost.

WC: 18k+

Includes: bitchy idiots to lovers. one bed & forced proximity tropes. hurt/comfort. angst w/ some fluff to balance it out. language. steve’s trauma. reader’s trust issues. smut- heavy petting, humping, oral (f receiving), PiV sex, dirty talk. reader has no descriptions beyond breasts & vagina, and she/her pronouns. fic takes place in the winter, pre s5. prob some inaccuracies re: treating hypothermia; everything I researched was conflicting with other info, so for the sake of the fic, pretend any errors work lmao. lmk if I forgot any tags. // MDNI 18+ as always with my fics, please respect that.

A/N: Said I wasn’t gonna even try to write a van fic, the fandom has enough, and then this idea slapped itself permanently into my brain after vol. 1, and unfortunately took me months to finish. So... sorry if you’re sick of the van fics, but here’s one more 😅 title is a lyric from hard - hayley williams, and the fic is loosely (very loosely lol) inspired by the song itself. dividers by @/cursed-carmine.

‎♪ always ready for the piano to fall / always ready to be left out in the cold / armor’s heavy, never suited me at all / but it’s the devil I know ♬

This has to be the worst night for a crawl yet.

Much to your dismay, you're stuck with Steve in the van tonight.

Dustin's sick with the flu, Will is still restricted from ever leaving Joyce's sight at this point, and you were more knowledgeable on telemetry tracking than Jonathan.

Leaving you- alone- with your least favorite person, for the rest of the night.

Yeah, lucky you.

This isn't the first time you've been paired up with him, nor would it be the last, you're certain. However, tonight's forecast called for snow and plummeting temps; accurate as ever as the evening grew near, with grey-white clouds blanketing the skies, flurries fluffing up by the minute.

You tried warning the others about the weather, understanding that crawls were usually non-negotiable, keeping flexible to the military's burn schedules, unbeknownst to them.

It still had to happen; any chance to find and defeat Vecna is a chance to end this nightmare, once and for all.

And that's never your call to make.

Creaking the passenger side door open, the first greeting that hits you is a miffed grumble, "Jesus, took you long enough."

"Yeah, hi to you too, Steve," you deadpan, careful to climb in backwards, kicking as much snow off your boots as you can before shutting the door.

He gives you a once-over, poorly stifling an ill-fitted chuckle.

Rolling your eyes, you glare over at him. "What?"

"You look like that kid from A Christmas Story with all those layers."

"Ha-ha, very funny." You struggle to cross your arms, puffed up and padded down with your winter coat.

"There's heat in the van, y'know." Glancing over his shoulder, he throws a thumb to the back of the van. "That box of stuff is back there, too, but… kinda just a waste of space, don't you think?"

"Oh, for the love of—" you crawl between the front seats, shoving Steve's shoulder in the process. Reaching the medium-sized cardboard box, you drag a well-loved and worn blanket out. "We've been over this, Steve."

"We get it, your circulation sucks, or whatever. I don't see how that's anyone else's problem."

"If I have to put up with you leaving all those goddamn Boppers wrappers around, you can deal with the emergency box." Holding a hand up, you add, "Which, is for everyone, by the way."

"Yeah, well, a sleeping bag's a little much. And extra socks? A sweatshirt? C'mon—"

"Last week Dustin was glad I packed that sweatshirt when it dropped to 40 degrees at night," you settle in the back, unlocking the wheel on the ceiling. "Because you refused to shut your window."

Exasperated, he throws his arms up. "The cold keeps me awake! Sue me!" Steve turns around, lip curled upward in disgust. "Also it's gross you just… leave socks for other people to use."

"They're new and I wash them if they get used! I wash everything in here, you fucking mor—"

"Hey, guys, you good to go?" Robin's voice through the tinny speaker of the walkie disrupts the insults you had on standby for Steve.

Glaring at Steve while he reflects his own sharp stare, you respond, "As good as we're gonna get."

There's no room for Steve to bite back; you're already tugging the headphones over your ears, focused as you fidget with the knobs. Your main concern isn't him, it's tracking Hopper to keep this as successful and safe of a crawl as possible.

Steve's gaze lingers, but it softens, deflates into one of dejection. You feel his eyes on you, but ignore it, thinking he's still trying to hold out on the sign of animosity; it's not that.

Despondency plagues him whenever you're around, and he resorts to cynicism, trapped in its ugly cycle. You hate him, why should he play nice in return?

It's easier to allow bitterness to keep distance between the two of you. Easier to forget how you and Steve were just in reach of something more.

Until you just… left. 

 Friendship break-ups are sometimes harder than romantic ones.

No one ever talks about that weird gap, suspended between acquaintances and beyond, falling into potential friendship, drifting back off into something bitter, a bond you only shared, tip-toeing along a jagged edge.

You'd drift in, drift out.

Grew close, just enough for hope to thrive, only to push him away.

In, out.

All while longing for something more, desperate to ride out a wave that drifts back and builds momentum, only to crash ashore into nothing.

So you cough up water, take a few deep breaths, and dive back in again.

Turns out, that shit gets exhausting over time. Especially when you discover a grim truth, hidden from the start.

When you're not treading water to stay afloat, it's swimming through a naval minefield in murky waters; drift into one, and you're blasted into overthinking what went wrong, what stopped the bond from blooming. And all it takes is one 'what if?' to shift course and bump into one these mines, ruining your day completely.

What if you hadn't moved away after Starcourt's explosive demise, deciding on a fresh start by leaving this nightmare of a town behind?

What if you and Steve were able to become more, if not stay friends, and he had just been honest about the Upside Down from the beginning?

What if you allowed that friendship to swell into something more? Standing him up on a date that could've changed everything; a wave ready to ride out naturally, only to retreat. Withdraw like the ocean before returning full force as a tsunami; why follow the tide out just to trap yourself in the path of imminent destruction?

If you stayed… would it have been worth it?

The two of you were star-crossed; Steve was still hung up on Nancy when you discovered your feelings for him. When he moved on, you found someone else. It almost turned into a sad, little game; when one was ready, the other had been redirected elsewhere.

It was even pitiful, the way you two barely had a friendship to build on, because one wasn't ready, and the other got tired of waiting.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Your time outside of Hawkins brought you steps away from turning fully into stone; get hurt enough times, you refuse welcoming anyone and everyone in so easily. One too many soured relationships had you settled on the idea that maybe you just weren't meant to share love like that.

That hurt transforms your body as a shield for your heart, ribs hardening into steel cages as an added last line of defense; you were one heartbreak away from adding electric barbed wire for good measure.

No one would get in again. Not if you could help it. Not like that.

Coming home wasn't an easy choice, but it was the only one that felt right. Your friends were still here, who you loved as family— bonded through unholy tragedies rather than blood, still family all the same; you had to check on them. You couldn't leave them hanging again.

Because your first thought upon hearing of the destruction, was what if any of them died?

Then you return to find out the worst what if came true: someone among the group died; Eddie's gone. And Max? Well… she's closer to a tragic ending than most of you.

You suffocated yourself in distractions, helping your parents to pack up and move out, promising you wouldn't be too far behind, that you needed to check on your friends immediately.

Unfortunately, coming home right before the town went into quarantine was not part of the plan.

Time away had you forget how downright stubborn Steve could be if he set his mind to something, and all he wanted was to break your walls down, at least to find common ground.

That was still far too much give, and not enough take for you. They're not uncharted waters, you just know you're not meant to navigate them, and know damn well Steve would just stand by and watch you sink.

Those what ifs of your past resurfaced, pulling you under, taunting you to open your mouth when there was nowhere to breathe.

The last place you needed to drown in emotions you couldn't afford was in a town under quarantine. Locked in, fenced off from the rest of the world, with someone you barely had a chance to build a friendship with. Someone you always yearned for more with, yet royally fucked up any chances with.

That more, those chances, they're thousands of meters below a rough, choppy surface, down to the pitch-black depths of the abyssal zone; it's just not in reach, and you've protected your heart this long, you didn't need all that effort to go to waste within a impulsive dive, head first into what would certainly make your heart implode.

You can only tread water for so long, though.

"Hop's going as slow as possible tonight, so we don't have to speed, alright?"

Steve only shoves an aggressive thumbs up over his head, tongue prodding into the side of his cheek.

"I mean, it'll pick up if he hitches a ride on a military truck for a while, but—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don't go fast unless necessary." He grumbles under his breath, "I'm not stupid."

And that stings, because you genuinely weren't insinuating that. In fact, you're certain you've never insinuated that before.

"Steve, I wasn't trying to—"

"Don't." His shoulders tense up, grumbling out, "Unless it's about this crawl, I don't wanna talk. You focus on your job, I'll focus on mine."

His flat tone and curt demeanor makes your stomach churn. Nights like these where you're forced together have you longing for the past. Before you knew of the Upside Down, before he was trapped in a bunker below Starcourt, before you left like a goddamn coward.

Ever since you returned to Hawkins, it's like he resents you for protecting yourself. Your peace. Your sanity.

What the hell was the point of continuing to stick around, pour your heart into a friendship that only opened if you brought the crowbar?

Despite the mutual loathing, you and Steve make a pretty solid team when kept strictly to business.

Keeping up with a telemetry tracker while stuck in a snow storm is tricky, to say the least. Neither of you have a problem blaming the other for what's outside of your control, though.

"Jesus, Steve, slow down." It's hard to sit upright as he keeps his speed— a speed that normally wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for the slick roads. You hiss under your breath,"Fucking lead-foot."

He hears you, snapping back, "You wanna drive? Huh?" His eyes stay fixated on the road. The windshield becomes more obstructed as the snow gains momentum, falling heavily onto every surface within reach. "By all means, be my guest."

"God, you're such a bitch."

"Me?! Have you ever heard yourself talk for even, like, five seconds?" Steve's tempted to turn around to shout at you, but he keeps whatever cool he has left— which isn't much— and continues driving safely. "You're so fucking rude, and- god- you're so annoying, so fucking annoying."

"That's bold, coming from a pain in the ass like you…" you grumble, trailing off as the signal on the tracker drops; Hopper stopped moving. "Steve. Steve!"

"What?! Christ, can't you shut up—"

"Stop!"

"How come I have to stop, but you can keep bitching and moaning—"

"I meant the van, asshole!"

Steve slams on the brakes, hoping to skid to a stop, but the van keeps moving.

Gliding. Coasting. The van's skating on the slick road, completely out of control.

You throw the headphones aside, scrambling to the front to peer around Steve's seat. "Dude, what the fuck?!"

"Shit, shit, shit!"

Steve's death grip wraps around the wheel, knuckles turning white; he's ready to turn it toward the shoulder to get off the road, but you grab his arm and hold him in place. Eyes darting to the floor, you see his foot is still weighed down on the brake pedal.

"Wait— watch it! Harrington, keep the wheel straight!" Voice trembling from the frenzy. Steve's about to slam his foot down onto the brake when you panic, "Fuck, get your foot off the brake!"

Despite sliding, you don't spin. Snowfall rushes around the van, limiting visibility to just a few feet ahead. Even as the van slows, it fishtails. Steve frantically switches into low gear, breaths heavy and jagged as he releases control.

His right arm shoots out, bridging between the seats to brace himself and create a barrier to hold you back. Alarmed, he shouts, "Stay down!"

You don't move in time before impact, but you're projected into his arm with force, restraining you from hurtling over the seats and into the dashboard. The van's wheels rumble as it veers off the road, the ditch finally slowing you down to a halt.

Adrenaline rushing, you pant as you're frozen against his arm, processing that absolute disaster.

"Shit…" Steve gasps, trying to catch his breath. "… You okay?" Scanning over your figure, unable to find immediate concern beyond the fear on your expression, his shoulders begin to relax.

"Uh-huh," you rasp out, glancing up at him. "You?"

He nods firmly and swallows. "M'okay."

Static harshly shoves into the van, with Robin's voice following close behind.

She drones out, "Angry Lovebirds, do you copy? Hellooooo? Where the hell did you two go?"

You cringe at the code name, wishing you could shrink on the spot and disappear.

"Why the hell does she still call us that?" Steve gripes, running his hands over his face. "We've never— I don't even—"

Her voice drops to a mutter and cuts Steve off, asking as if the others aren't on the same channel, "Please tell me you two didn't kill each other."

"Oh my god," Steve rolls his eyes with a groan, head falling back against the seat.

In reluctant favor of answering Robin, you leave the warmth of Steve's side to grab the walkie. You curse yourself inwardly at the misplaced feelings.

Thumb jabbing in the talk button, you exhale a winded response, "We're good, we, uh…" Your eyes meet Steve's before darting away. "We hit black ice, though."

"Shit! Can you make it back safely?" She adds, "We were trying to get a hold of you guys, 'cus we had to call off the crawl. It didn't work out."

So the two of you slid on black ice… for nothing.

Fantastic.

"Um, hang— h- hold on." Turning to Steve, you noticed smoke rising on the other side from the van's hood. "Oh, fuck."

Steve jerks his head up, jumping into action. He kills the engine, immediately cutting off the warmth from the janky heater. Throwing his jacket on, he flings the driver's side door open and jumps out. Snowfall drifts sideways from the wind, and he winces as it pelts into his face.

"Guys?" Nancy's voice takes over now, concerned with the delay. "What's the status on the van?"

"Uh- well, it's actually—" You forget to release the talk button, shouting after Steve. "Wait! I'm coming with!"

Releasing it, a booming voice immediately floods through the speaker. "What the hell is going on out there?"

Hopper.

Oh, boy.

Meanwhile, Steve stands firm, shouting over the brutal, howling wind, "No, you're staying put!" He bites back on his own shivers, already creeping down his spine as he slams the door shut.

Well, can't say you didn't try.

Flicking your thumb against the talk button, your explanation comes to life with nervous laughter. "Hop! Hi. Soooooo… we're stuck in a ditch."

You can just imagine the drawn out sigh he lets out before responding, pinching the bridge of his nose, and all.

"Okay, where are you exactly?"

The glass of the back door window is freezing as you try to peek out. You huff your breath onto the glass, rubbing your sleeve against it to clear it up. It barely helps, with snow and frost beginning to coat it completely outside.

You squint through the narrow opening between patches of snow, gaze landing on the landmark in the near distance.

Groaning, you punch the talk button with your thumb. "The fuckin' cemetery."

"Language."

"Hey, I'm an adult! Last thing on my mind right now is censoring myself," you grumble into the walkie.

"How the hell did you two end up out there? That's not where I was in the Upside Down."

So, not only did the van throw you and Steve around like rag dolls on a failed crawl, but the tracker was off.

Way off.

"I- I don't know."

A frustrated shout cuts through the whistling squall outside. The van rocks as Steve kicks the bumper, cursing wildly at the shoddy engine.

"I thought you said you could handle tracking?"

Your blood begins to boil. Now's not the time for some trivial debate, not when you're possibly stranded in what's shaping up to be one of the worst snow storms Hawkins has seen yet.

There's no chance to respond when another voice, congested and hoarse, cuts in. "She can, she's actually good at this."

Dustin Henderson is a goddamn good egg, even while battling a cold.

You wish Hopper could see the smug grin on your face right now.

"I personally think Hop lost the tracker—" silence cuts in for a second, returning with Hopper scolding him; they have to be fighting over the damn walkie. "Watch it, kid. I didn't lose shit."

You slam your thumb down onto the talk button within another pause, mocking back, "Hey, Hopper? Language."

Another pause draws itself out, and eventually Robin returns with an exasperated huff. "You and Steve did nothing wrong. Hopper definitely lost the tracker."

"I didn't lose the fucking—"

The talk button is released on her end, abruptly interrupting Hopper's rant.

"Anyway… we're not that far from the station, right?"

"Five miles an hour in that van might take way longer, but you're not making it here on foot in this weather. It's not safe."

Woven into the wind is a muffled "son of a bitch!". The hood slams shut, jostling the van before Steve yanks the van door open, gracelessly stumbling inside.

Snow sticks to his hair, his clothes, slowly melting to leave him like a freezing, wet dog.

"This is fu- fuck, it's cold—!". Steve huffs out a mirthless chuckle, appearing nowhere near amused. "S'fucking ridiculous." His teeth chatter as he gripes, eyes falling on you, then to the walkie. "Give m- me that."

Steve's hand brushes against yours as he snatches the walkie from you, frigid and stiff. It takes a few tries to hit the talk button and hold it in successfully.

"Can anyone come get us? The van's f- fucked." With his jaw this tight, he's about to crush his teeth to dust. For a second, his eyes flicker to you, and you swear there's a flash of something genuine within the hazel. "Leaving the engine run is a d- disaster waiting to happen, so we can't use the h- heat."

There's silence on the other end; lack of an instant answer usually never fares well for any of you.

Scouring through the emergency box, you pick out a small, rolled towel, handing it over to Steve. For once, he doesn't look at you like you're nuts for keeping the damn box stocked.

He accepts it with a trembling hand, murmuring a both grateful yet defeated "Thanks".

"It's too dangerous for anyone to drive out, and way too dangerous for you two to try walking back. The nearest tunnel is at least a mile out from you, give or take on where you two ended up exactly in the cemetery."

Steve exhales roughly through his red, wind-bitten nose, handing the walkie back to you. "You t- take it. M'too pissed off to be nice ri- right now."

Nodding solemnly, you grab it back, responding to everyone. "Okay. We'll just… tough it out. I got some stuff to stay warm, so we should be okay for a few hours at least." Sighing, you glance up at Steve, laying out the now damp towel on the dashboard. "But the second it's safe enough, someone needs to come get us."

Hopper presses the talk button early, releasing a weary sigh first. "We'll try when we can."

That's not good enough, not for you, and not for Steve; the two of you cannot be stranded here overnight.

Together.

Alone.

"No, you'll do it when you can. I warned y'all the weather would be shit. You get us out of this mess the moment this storm slows down. Got it?"

A lengthy pause begins to irritate you the longer the seconds pass.

"Yeah, kid. I got it."

In defeat, you chuck the walkie aside, swallowing down the urge to scream.

It's no use to be angry now; best to bury those emotions and redirect that energy into something useful. Like helping Steve.

Even if he doesn't really deserve your help to begin with.

"Okay, Harrington, here's what's gonna happen." He turns slowly, heavy-lidded with fatigue settling into his expression. "I think the clothes in here are your size—"

"How the hell do y- you know what size clothes I wear?"

Would it kill him to be nice? Or quiet? For just five fucking seconds?

"To keep this shit on hand if we need it, and you're welcome, by the way." You toss a t-shirt with the radio's logo on it, wool socks, and sweatpants his way. "There's a reason I asked everyone what their sizes were months ago."

Steve catches it all, just barely, but he's left dumbfounded. Through chattering teeth, he snaps, "Wh- why the hell do I want these?"

"Are you kidding me? Dude, you can't stay in those clothes. You're gonna get hypothermia."

"Whatever," he starts peeling off his clothes, and you take that as a cue to turn around. A faint comment slips under his breath, "It'd be better than being stuck here."

It's still audible enough to you, clear enough to sting. You feel like a damn fool for thinking Steve was finally presenting something other than hatred, for once.

"You're not the only one who doesn't wanna be stuck here." Rubbing your eyes, you sigh.

There's no way you can last the night in here without killing one another; it's too long to put up with his bullshit.

Unless…

There might be one shred of hope left. And okay, sure, it's more a thin, fraying thread that could lead to nothing, but you won't know until you try.

You bundle yourself back up, zipping up your jacket, winding the scarf around your neck tightly, tugging your hat over your head. Steve notices when you're slipping your hands into a pair of mittens.

"Hey, whoa—" Now comfortably changed, he clambers to the back, a little too close for comfort. "No. What are you doing? You're not going out there."

But you ignore his concern, if it's even real to begin with. "That gas station's still down the road, right?"

"Maybe? I don't— that's not—" Frazzled, he stumbles over his thoughts. "You're not walking down there in the snow." His fingers fight against stiffness, winding around your wrist shielded under your coat. "You need to be safe."

"Why? So you don't get the blame if something bad happens?" Irritated, you yank your hand back. "Just… wait here. I'll be quick."

"Quick? Yeah, right. It's not that close by foot." Steve, still stiff from the cold, clumsily shoves in front of you to block the back doors. "Your circulation sucks, remember?"

His attempted smartass comment fails miserably as concern seeps through the cracks of his tone.

"And you said it wasn't your problem," you retort, shoving him aside. "Look, it's right down the road. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll have coffee, or something hot. We both could use something like that right now—"

"You brought your thermos! I haven't seen you use it once." He runs a hand through his damp hair, sighing. "And even if they did have coffee, it'd be ice cold by the time you got back."

"Oh, you watching my every move now, Harrington?" Your voice drops low, dry, sick of this conversation. "That's precious."

He doesn't react, only argues, "What if it's closed?"

Your eyes dart away from him, faltering. "T- there's a pay phone outside," you really thought it'd be easier to shake him. "I can call someone to get us out—"

"No. Now you're just being ridiculous." One hand perches on his hip, while the other waves wildly as he speaks. "Who the hell's coming out after curfew? Especially in this?"

You shrug, shrinking into yourself with a weak lie. "… I might know a guy?"

"Cut the shit, what's out there that's worth freezing to death for, huh?"

"I'm trying to leave you the fuck alone, Steve!" Seething, the explosion silences Steve, guilt and shame softening his expression. "I'm not thrilled to be stranded here with you either, but I was willing to play nice! I was willing to get along, but you don't want that, and that—" You bite back tears, ones born of anger, maybe even a hint of rage. "That's fine. Just trying to make it easier for us both, give some space."

"Wh… what?" He's dumbfounded. "When I said I didn't want to be stuck here, that wasn't about you—"

"Oh, please. Like I buy that for a fucking second."

"I wish you would!" He exclaims, voice fracturing with panic. "You really think I want you to freeze to death 'cause we can't get along? That's the last thing I'd want."

"Yeah, well…" your hand lingers over the handle, glaring back at him, returning the jagged comment to sender. "It'd be better than being stuck here."

It's tempting to tack on "with you" at the end, but you bite your tongue. You're not even sure if you'd mean that.

Eyes set forward, you miss his sullen, wounded stare, etched into his features when you exit the van. You're plunging head first into regret once your boots hit the snow. Instead of swallowing your pride and climbing right back in, you feign indifference as you slam the doors shut without looking back.

The doors never reopen, and he never calls for you; it's clear how much of a relief the space is for both of you.

If you tell yourself enough times that it's better than being stuck in that doomed ice box on wheels with Steve all night, maybe you'll begin believing it.

Before the Upside Down, before losing his friends, losing Nancy, losing the cheap crown on his head in his fall from grace— Steve could fall asleep with ease. His head could hit the pillow and he'd be out.

The typical high school blues were enough to send any teenager into stress-induced sleep loss, but the Upside Down's daunting reminder that the fight was only dormant, forced full blown insomnia to become his closest friend.

Exhaustion would lead him to eventually sleep, but he'd fight it off as long as he could; you can only handle the bloodcurdling screams and cries of your friends dying in your dreams so many times before giving up on sleep completely.

Every creak in his house on nights home alone— loneliness all too common in that house— had him holding his breath, waiting for sudden movements to echo out again. Every light bulb, flickering on its way out for good, froze him in fear of who, or what, lay in wait on the other side. And if a detail, no matter how small, is enough to keep him from sleep, that's an open invitation for his mind to spiral.

Tonight, trying to rest in the van, he notices a gap; it's thin and barely noticeable, between the flimsy plywood floorboards underneath the shag carpet. Steve feels it every time he tosses and turns; it always digs into his left hip, slightly uneven from the other board it should be snug against.

He flips to the right, but no, that feels wrong; he's not a right side sleeper. That changed after '84, and he's not exactly sure why, but he sleeps better on the left side.

And on his back? He doesn't even dare, not after a sleep paralysis episode after those fucking bats attacked him. That one and only episode he felt pinned to the bed, like a bat was choking him all over again. His scars ached for hours after, the one around his throat singed through his skin like some god-awful, hellish rope-burn.

So, yeah, Steve can't sleep, clearly not from the cold; turns out, that sleeping bag of yours was a good idea. He won't outright admit that though. Or, how your emergency box actually was, and continues to be, useful.

He tries to rest, flip-flops between sides to get comfortable, but the minutes you're gone only accumulate in his mind to a concerning degree, like the heavy snowfall outside. Every second that ticks past is a second too long without you.

By car, the gas station is a few minutes away. By foot, in weather like this, bundled up in excessive layers? Shit, even he'd struggle to move quickly. He'd definitely get sick, too.

Time passes, snow builds, and Steve continues to overthink. Eventually, he wonders, Am I really that fucking awful to be stranded in the snow with?

What the answer would be to you, he already knows. You think he doesn't give a fuck, and it's not like he's done much to prove otherwise.

To you, Steve's fears to let you go out into the cold were only linked to the clear concept of: if you got hurt, he'd be to blame.

To Steve, though, it goes beyond blame; he's scared, now rueful, that he didn't fight harder to make you stay, because the thought of losing you more than he already had terrifies him.

The possibilities of what could go wrong were endless: you, losing your way, disoriented from the blizzard. What if you froze to death out there? Or got caught being out past curfew? Though, Steve's pretty sure the military doesn't give a fuck about two idiots stranded in the snow.

The wind howls and whistles, whipping around the van as the snow falls diagonally. Every now and then, he opens each door to slam it again, shaking off the snow outside; there's too much buildup to keep an eye out for you.

He checks his watch; you left about an hour ago. The footprints that trailed behind you are now covered over with fresh snow.

Steve's tempted to radio everyone at the station— assuming they stayed in for the night with the storm— but that means admitting he didn't stop you. He didn't protect you.

You're your own person, though. You don't need to be babied, or protected.

Sure doesn't stop Steve's protective side from caring about you.

It's not like anyone could come out to rescue either of you in the first place. But if you're gone and he says nothing, he'd never forgive himself if you got sick. Or worse.

Jesus, what if you're already freezing to death?

In the midst of internal panic, a thud! with fierce force slams against the van outside. Steve jolts upright, startled enough that it clears his damn sinuses while his heart races.

There's another thump, with a few more to follow, inching towards the passenger side door. It flings open, snow sprinkling in as you flop forward, face against the seat.

"Jesus Christ," is all Steve can manage to say, because he's grateful to see you, alive, but also, you're such a fucking idiot.

You crawl into the van, collapsing onto the floor. "'Idn't wanna get th'carpet wet," you mumble through your teeth, jaw rigid, struggling to close the door as the handle slips through your weak grip.

"C'mon, sit up for me." Steve guides you into the seat while you struggle, clumsy like you're intoxicated, yet your limbs are stiff. Under your freezing wet clothes, he can feel you shiver, practically vibrating uncontrollably.

When you're settled up right, he shoots an arm between the seat and wall, barely managing to grab the door handle and slam it shut.

"Ow… S'loud," you groan.

"Shit, sorry." He drags the box over, rummaging through it haphazardly. A pair of sweats and a sweater lay at the bottom, warm and ready to wear. He lays them aside, leaning over the seat to unzip your coat.

"D- damn, a'least flirt with me first," you slur, lips a muted shade from their normal lively color.

It's a joke, but not an invite for playful banter; Steve bites his tongue, quickly helping you out of your coat. He unwinds your scarf and tugs your hat off, dropping all of them to the driver side's floor.

Your clothes are soaked underneath, too. Though you're still pretty covered, he can see how strained your muscles are from stiffening.

Steve peels your puffy vest, hoodie, and sweater off next— Jesus, he forgot how layered you were. And it still didn't help.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" The fondness in his tone sneaks through the disapproval. When the air hits your skin, damp and frigid, gasp, face twisting from discomfort; it feels like sharp needles prickling along your arms.

"M'fine," yet you look far from it— hair tangled and soaked, frozen in spots, skin dull of its usual shine and shade, lids weighed down like you're drunk and sleepy, even a little puffy.

Funny how concerned you were of him getting hypothermia earlier, when you're already there.

And by funny, it's fucking scary, because there's no way to get you to a hospital tonight.

Really, he doesn't think it's that severe, but at any stage, hypothermia's nothing to fuck with; you're still suffering no matter what, and he hates to see you in pain.

Hates that he just admitted that to himself, too.

"Bullshit," he contends as he pulls another small towel from the box— seriously? You thought of everything with this box.

He'll thank you later. Maybe even apologize for being such a dick about it if it saves your asses.

Steve lays the towel over your head, gently tousling your hair against the fabric to help it dry. You shiver violently, "Hey, the sooner you get changed, the sooner you'll feel better."

"Said m'fine," you grit your teeth, attempting to shove him away, but your arms are still weak and stiff. "Jus' put the heat on."

"We can't run the engine, remember?" Steve throws the towel onto the driver's seat; that's a problem for future him. "C'mon, you can't stay in your clothes."

The moment the words leave his lips, he cringes, waiting for you to snidely remark, insinuate he's a pervert, but you're quiet.

Yeah, you're worse than he thought.

"I'm gonna help, okay?" There's no protest from you. He reaches down to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, but pausing before it passes your belly button. "This alright?"

"M'yeah, s'kay."

If you weren't tumbling into a life threatening condition, he'd poke fun at how wasted you sound.

Steve's perceptive, keeping an eye on your reaction, ensuring he's not hurting you. Prioritizing your safety doesn't make the reveal of you, half naked, any easier to deal with.

Shirt thrown to the side, Steve scrunches his eyes shut, scolds himself internally to behave, don't be a creep. He leans from behind the seat, over you to unbutton your jeans— Jesus Christ, why the fuck did you wear jeans? They're practically painted onto your form after all the ice and snow sunk into the denim.

He sucks in a breath, "Uh… can you get them off yourself?"

"S'okay, jus' leave 'em like this."

"It's really not," he sighs, climbing between the front seats and sliding down to the floor before you. The space is limited, incredibly limited, and he's contorting in a way he's never folded before, just to fit here. And for you, of all people.

He finds the chair's lever, shoving it back as far as it can go, though not much of a difference exists.

"Okay, c'mon, boots first."

Steve undresses you with care, tries not to notice the position you're both in, how close his face is to your core. How he's imagined on lonely, late nights, him kneeling for you, while he strokes himself, cock twitching as always while wondering what you taste like.

Every last ounce of self control is gathered up to keep his composure. You're in your underwear. Nothing else.

And your underwear? Yeah. That's wet, too; bra sticking flush to your chest, nipples peaked enough to reveal their shape through the fabric. He dares to take a lower peek when your eyes flutter shut as you sigh— out of concern, not pleasure, he reminds himself— and the fabric against your core is damp, hugging to the shape of your puffy lips.

He scrunches his eyes shut, runs a hand down over his mouth as he thinks … fuck me.

You shiver and twitch and whimper as the near-numbness finally settles into fucking freezing. It shatters whatever trance Steve was falling into.

"Honey," he frowns at himself immediately, because where the fuck did that come from? "You need to warm up."

There's no way to suggest sharing heat without sounding like a total pervert. Every choice of words could definitely be taken as suggestive, at best.

At worst? Steve's coming off as Hawkins' biggest douche-bag.

"Don't wanna," you whine, petulant and pained.

"It's this or freeze to death," he forces himself to deadpan, afraid of coming off as too concerned.

"You'd— bet that'd make y'happy."

He's not sure if he should file that comment under the usual banter the two of you have, or something worse.

"It wouldn't." Steve crawls up, hands gripping the sides of your seat as he tries respecting your space— the little bit left, at least. And still, he stumbles, catching himself right before he headbutts you. "Shit. Ah— shit, I- I'm sorry."

If he makes eye contact with you right now, it is game over. The whine you just released, though likely in pain, doesn't help his already wound-up, touch-starved thoughts.

"Okay. Okay," he sighs, more to himself, finding his balance again. "C'mon, we're gonna use that sleeping bag of yours to stay warm."

You're slow, painfully, agonizingly, moving at a snail's pace, while Steve moves you out of the seat. He's patient, cautious, already trying to press his body against yours to share warmth from the moment you begin trembling.

"Slow, take it easy," he guides you to the carpet while he murmurs softly. It's a miracle you make it to the back safely, considering how frozen stiff your joints are. "Doing okay?"

That's a dumb fucking question.

"Other th- than my t- t- tits freezing off, m'f- fine."

When you flash a curl of a smirk, just the tiniest one, Steve still feels relief. It's a speck of relief, but he'll gladly accept.

About to sit from your kneeling position, he grabs your hips to stop you. Steve clears his throat, awkwardly releasing you.

"Sorry, just, uh… your, uh… the—" he nods vaguely to your chest, eyes lingering for a second too long, wondering how soft you'd feel. By the time he peels his eyes away to drift lower, he gulps. "Those need to come off."

"Wh- why?" You pout, body violently trembling the longer you go without warmth.

"Just work with me, okay? Dry clothes aren't gonna warm you up enough on their own." He huffs, kneeling near you. "M'not trying anything funny, I promise."

Leaning close, Steve's face is near yours while his hands reach around your torso. His fingers skate up your cold skin, bringing about his own shivers, finding your bra clasp and unhooking it.

Poorly strangling a gasp, it still manages to slip past your lips, and he's almost certain it's because you're in pain. Nothing else.

But it sure sounds like it stems from another source.

Hovering his touch, he halts, eyes wide as they dart to meet yours. "Did I hurt you?"

"N- no, just co- c- cold." Teeth chattering, you grab onto his shoulders weakly as he removes your underwear. He bites back the urge to yelp from how bone chilling your touch is.

You hold your balance against him while shifting onto one knee, then the other, to step out of the soaked garment. "'Vry'thing hurts."

He hears you, knows you're hurting, but your panties, soaked and bunched up in his grip, make his cock twitch. The fabric is nowhere near his face, but your scent is dizzying; he wonders if they're only soaked from the snow, or yourself, too.

What stands between him and dirty thoughts is your fragile state; you need help, not him as… some horny creep.

Steve pushes past the tempting thoughts, for your sake.

"I know," he murmurs, heart aching, wishing he could take that pain away instantly. "It's gonna be okay, promise."

He guides you into the sleeping bag, eyes off and away from your figure out of respect. When you're settled, he rips his clothes off, save for his boxer briefs. One glance down his body and he's reminded how scarred he still is. He falters, swallowing thickly; what if you notice them? What if you're disgusted by him?

That's not like you, though; you've never been shallow like that.

Your teeth clatter together so loudly, it breaks him from those looming insecurities. With a deep breath, he finally slides in next to you.

Steve zips the sleeping bag up, arms hooking around your torso to pull you flush against him. He weaves his legs between yours, careful not to press his thigh against your core. He has to throw his thoughts as far away from you as possible; the last thing either of you need is a poorly timed hard-on.

He thinks of the time he broke his arm in sixth grade, falling off the seesaw at recess. Tries focusing on the concept of race cars and the specific tires they use. Forces himself to wonder how broccoli grows, or if it really matters to separate the dark garments from the lights when doing laundry.

That tangled trail of curiosity leads him to wonder what life outside of Hawkins must be like these days, and if they're forgotten to the rest of the world.

The last one's bleak, so he redirects to thinking about aquariums, and if fish sleep— they sleep, right?

God, he really wished he paid more attention in school. Did they even talk about any of this stuff? What the hell does he care if race cars use specific tires?

Whatever.

It's a challenge to keep his thoughts on a steady path away from you, because every time you breathe, your bare chest pushes against his, and that's— no. Just no.

The plush of your breasts squish up against him, nipples poking through his chest hair and into him like an accusing finger, shaming him for fighting off a natural response to a naked figure entwined with his own.

Doesn't make it any easier that your breaths are shallow, because logically, he knows it's because you're freezing. But every so often, you make these faint gasps as you shiver that sound closer to pleasure than pain.

That's not the case, and he feels guilty for letting his mind wander that far.

Okay, focus. Think about… concrete. Sure. That. Must be fascinating to pour that shit for sidewalks and—

"How come your underw- wear is on but not mine?"

Well, that's not fucking helping when you just out right ask it like that.

Steve's face burns up, rushing out, "Didn't wanna make you uncomfortable."

Your heart is pounding so viciously, he can feel the thumping against his own body.

Which, yeah— you have hypothermia. Of course your heart is working overtime. Just from that. Only that.

He reaches outside the bag to throw a worn, knitted blanket over your bodies, hoping for extra warmth while he's zipping the bag back up.

"Please tell me this shit is helping," he murmurs, fighting the urge to gently rub your back; this isn't supposed to be some kind of cute, intimate moment. And rubbing to create heat isn't helpful for hypothermia.

He doesn't remember why, just that it's unsafe for a situation like this.

"S'helpin'," you shudder against his skin, face tucked into the curve of his neck. Your lips brush against one of his sensitive spots, and he gulps, praying you don't notice. "I sh- shouldn't have lef-f- ft."

Steve doesn't scold you, but he doesn't disagree. "I really wish you didn't." He shivers, nowhere near as violently as you have, but exchanging body heat with someone in this state isn't all rainbows and sunshine. "I wish I didn't let you go. I should've gone with you, or had you stay here while I went out."

The words ache with more desperation than he intends.

"I'm a b- bi- big girl, s'my choice," your body involuntarily twitches, rutting into his bulge.

"A- ah—" Steve manages to swallow down the breathy moan before it can fill the van.

"Sor- sorry. Did I h- hurt you?"

He's quick to shush you, gently, rushing out, "I'm fine." One hand wanders to your head, delicately threading your damp hair through his fingers. "How are you feeling?"

"Fu- fucking cold."

"No shit," Steve dryly retorts. "You have hypothermia, dumbass."

You hum out what he thinks was a shaky hum. "Surprised y'even kn-know anything about i- it."

"At least something good came from me being a Boy Scout for one year," he snorts. "That, and I know how to start a fire... which, not very helpful while snowed into a van. Don't know much more than that."

You don't respond. Whenever he's shared something personal of his past, even just a passing comment, you groan and fuss about "learning Harrington lore against your will". The lack of that snarky response is just another sign of how unwell you're feeling.

Shifting cautiously, your arms bend slowly, snaking between the two of you. Steve's breath hitches, wondering what the fuck you're doing.

Your hands travel north, both to his relief and disappointment, cupping over your chest. "M'sorry, m- my tits hurt." And sure enough, the attention is brought to your stiff nipples, harder than minutes ago, brushing up against him through the gaps between your fingers.

Steve doesn't have the chance to panic, not when he fails to stifle a chuckle before it slips out. That comment was the last thing he expected to leave your lips.

"Be n- n- nice!"

"Sorry, sorry!" He relaxes against you again, tries not to dwell on how much of your figure he can feel against his. "Are you getting any warmer?"

"Why? You h- hate this?" Your tone is dry, but he can feel the curve of your smirk against his neck. "Want me to go back outside?"

The lighthearted energy drains quickly; Steve feels his heart drop just at the mere thought of you enduring the blizzard.

Like a fucking fool.

"Don't joke about that," he mutters, daring to speak aloud, "I thought you were dead."

The shrill, whistling wind draws out the lapse in conversation.

"… Didn't th- think you c- cared."

"I do, it's just—" Steve huffs, pausing. "We can talk about it when you're feeling better. Deal?" You nod slowly, sighing. "Do you think you could sit up? Just for a few seconds?"

You were feeling warmer, still cold, still aching, but nowhere near the severity you felt before your return. "Um… I g- guess?"

"Just hang tight okay? Where's your thermos?"

"S'up by th'cup h- holder," you nod to the front. As soon as Steve moves, you begin to harshly shiver again.

He's quick to snatch it, unscrewing the top to pour out whatever you had inside into it. The warm aroma hits him head on. "Hot cocoa? Damn, if I knew that, I woulda' stole some."

"You could h- have some f'ya' want."

"Maybe later, but you need to drink something warm." Steve slides a hand under your back, arm curling around to lift you upright. He tries to ignore the sleeping bag falling off your chest, leaving you exposed. "C'mon, just a few sips."

"N- no, m'cold, wanna get back in."

"I know, honey, I'm sorry." There it is again, a slip up without warning. Like it's natural, familiar.

You manage to sit up, resting against a crate on the shelf behind you. Reaching a shaky hand out, Steve gently pushes it aside. "I got you, try to keep still for me."

He eases the mug top to your lips, cautiously tilting it while you sip on the hot cocoa. It's slow, but Steve's relieved you're not at the severe stage, where you wouldn't be able to drink anything at all. "That's it, a little more… s'good for me."

Oh god. He's one step away from praising you with a 'good girl, and now is not the time or place for that.

"Promise it'll help," he assures, feeling horrible for dragging you out of the warm cocoon of the sleeping bag. Yet he's desperate to try everything, anything, as long as it brings your temperature back up.

You finish off the mug with a gasp. Steve takes it away, watching as that muted tone in your lips begin to fade. It's subtle, but it's a change for the better, nonetheless. A step in the right direction.

"Can't say th- that shit to me," you pant, forcing an airy, uneasy laugh. "I'm gonna start thinkin' y- you're— you like me, or something."

Oh, if only you knew.

"C'mere," Steve murmurs as he gently brings you close. Guiding you back into the sleeping bag, he slides in cautiously next to you, zipping it shut around the two of you. "Don't make this weird, okay?"

"Make wh- what weird?"

Arms winding around your waist, he reels you in, body flush against your own. It's like every goosebump on your skin brushing up along his he can feel. Every shiver runs out of you and into him, like an electrical current.

The gasp that leaves your lips is unexpected and sharp. "Fu— fuck, Steve, m'so c- c- cold."

"I know, sweetheart." He tangles his legs between yours, large hand reaching up to cradle the back of your head. You bury your face into his shoulder, shivering violently. "Just stay close to me."

"M'tryin'," you whimper as your hips shift closer. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd think you were trying to rock your hips against him, as if you're aching for relief, release.

The airy, shattered, "oh, god", sure doesn't help his imagination either. His cock twitches again.

"You're okay," he reassures, not just for you, but for his filthy mind to chill the fuck out. When you roll your hips again, he seizes them, grip tightening to end the attempt. "Don't— hey." You huff as he firmly holds you in place. "Hey, listen to me. No sudden movements."

"S- sorry, jus'thought friction would help," your teeth chatter as you force you words through them. "… Oh my god. Wait. Oh my god, no, wait."

You sound mortified.

"What?" Steve defaults to panic once more. "What's wrong?"

"I- I swear to go- god I didn't mean it like that." You untangle yourself from him, limbs haphazardly knocking into his own with the limited space in the bag. "I just— friction causes he- heat, and I didn't— I wasn't tr- tr- trying to—"

He nervously chuckles, not at you, just— well, shit. How should anyone react in a situation like this?

"S'okay, you're okay." The reassurance seems to help; you relax against him once more, still trembling from the cold in your bones, though. "Can't warm you up too quickly, it could make you feel worse."

"Well that's fu- fucking stupid."

He chuckles, taunting, "You're starting to sound more like yourself again." It's much more endearing than he wanted to sound.

There's no response, just your steady breaths in spite of your jitters. You hum, winding your embrace around his torso, burying your face into his neck again.

Steve's about to lose it; you've got to stop resting your lips on his skin.

Talk about something else. Anything.

"Hey… thanks for helping earlier," he mumbles. You lean back to meet his stare with a perplexed one of your own.

"Hm? Wi- with what?"

"The black ice," he clarifies. "I panicked and blanked out, forgot how to handle it. I could've fucked up real bad… could've wrapped us around a tree, or something."

"We still ended up in a ditch—"

"Alive. It sucks, being stranded in the storm sucks, but we're alive, thanks to you."

You shake your head, cuddling closer to him, still shivering, still unable to shake the cold. It's not warm in the van anymore, but it'd be more tolerable if you weren't recovering.

"You know how to dr- drive this damn t- thing," you quip, shuddering and clinging closer to Steve. "S'like a fuckin' boat."

Steve laughs heartily, tightening his embrace around you. "Guess we make a pretty good team."

"When we're n- not trying to ki- kill each other."

Emboldened, Steve's lips brush against the top of your head; it's not quite a kiss, but it's enough to be noticed. Enough to mean something. They linger as he takes a deep breath, voice rumbling low against your scalp.

"… We don't have to fight all the time," he suggests, fingers skating along the length of your spine. You arch your back, pushing the hardened peaks of your nipples against his chest. He swallows down a moan. "We don't have to hate each other."

"S'jus'easier," you slur, though, he's not sure it's from the cold.

"Yeah? Why's that?" Face still buried into his shoulder, you shake your head. "No, c'mon," he hopes the low, gentle rasp in his voice is enticing. "You can tell me."

It's quiet for a moment, swirling gusts of wind providing filler noise among your shallow breaths.

"'Cus liking you means letting you in," you're shuddering as the van sways, wind strong enough to sneak into the drafty vehicle. "Letting you in m- me- means this is real, and that's just a set up to be let down— be a let down to you, eventually."

He has to be hallucinating from the cold. Or maybe you're still delirious. There's no way you just said that.

"… What?"

Because since when do you care about letting him down?

"You've been hurt enough, I didn't want to add to that hurt." Steve feels you shift with a whimper, has to swallow back the cocky remark he'd make if you felt better. "Your heart's always g- gonna be elsewhere, anyway."

Steve would do anything— hike through this blizzard, move mountains, face a swarm of demo-bats— if it meant he could use a time machine, return to the moment things shattered before they could flourish. He'd do anything to fix it all.

"Even when it was elsewhere, it—" Your trembling brings him to a pause, a reminder how real this all is. After hoping for so long that you'd return, dwelling too much on the anger of you just… leaving, fleeing so quietly, so abruptly— you're here, in his arms. "You were always in it, but I didn't want hurt you, either."

And look where that got the two of you.

Steve's stunned into silence by your confession, tumbling out in unstoppable waves.

You trail off with a huff, tensing up; Steve's unsure if the cold's at fault, or if teasing went too far. "It's hard to… to trust. It scares the hell out of me."

"Scares me too, but look at you. You're trusting now."

"It was that or freeze to death, Harrington."

"Still chose to trust me after everything between us." His voice softens, moving on autopilot— courtesy of his heart— as he cradles the side of your face. His cheeks grow warm as he whispers your name, just loud enough to be heard over the howling winds outside. "Thank you. For trusting me."

The pads of your fingers press into his skin as you tighten your hold around him. "Thanks for not letting me die."

We're not out of the woods, yet, he thinks. But you should be able to keep warm now.

"I used to hate that you couldn't relate to what Robin and I went through last summer," Steve's got no reason to hide this anymore. "Truth is, I was relieved you called out sick that day."

An aching warmth bleeds through his chest with the confession, one that he hopes is enough to warm you up, even a little.

Or, maybe that's just because Steve's bare chest is pressed up against yours, still generating heat like a human furnace for you.

"I still have nightmares, and I—" He chokes up, arms tightening around you. You return the squeeze with reassurance, leaving patience and silence for him. "Sometimes, in them, they're hurting you, too… and I- I can't do anything but watch."

It feels like is heart is caving in all over again; he had done so well ignoring the hurt, but now…

Now he realizes he only bottled it up, shelved it away for darker times.

And dark times have arrived; here you both are, trapped in a goddamn, broken down, radio station van in the middle of a blizzard.

"Then you just… you left. You stood me up. You were gone not even a month later. We were finally getting close—"

"And I f- fucked it up." A sigh rumbles out of Steve; he doesn't agree or disagree, just… acknowledges it. "This is gonna sound so dumb, but I felt… guilty, for calling out that day. I should've been th—"

"No. I mean it. It's a relief you never went through that shit. And then in the spring…" Except, you came back. Right after the destruction, but you came back. Colder, yet braver than you left. "I get it. I don't blame you for leaving. You were scared." He swallows thickly. "… But so was I."

Scared is an understatement.

He's feared for his life before, the year prior, and before that. He was scared for Nancy, hell, even Jonathan, the night they tried to trap the Demogorgon in the Byers' home.

He was terrified in the junkyard, plastering on a brave face for the kids. No way in hell would he let them down; he was gonna succeed or die trying— to Steve, no other choices existed.

He was convinced he'd die down in that cursed bunker with Robin, and if it weren't Erica and Dustin— two children— that anticipated fate would've played out to truth.

And the Mind Flayer— Jesus Christ— that fuckin'… thing. A grotesque terror on monstrous legs; too many damn legs, arms, everything, if you ask Steve. He can't think too hard about what exactly it was made up of, who specifically turned essentially into human jam and—

Yeah. No. He really can't stomach it. Just like the nightmares of losing you leave him shaken for the rest of the waking day.

Most nights, Steve has to double, sometimes triple check the locks on the doors before he goes to sleep. He latches all the windows. Sometimes unlatches just to re-latch, jiggling the window's frame, just to be certain it's closed. Every room, every hallway, holds a night-light's subtle glow for peace of mind.

Peace of mind from what, exactly? A Demogorgon? Demodogs? The Mind Flayer? The Russian guards, and flayed former classmates? All this time later, he hasn't been able to pinpoint which exactly he wants peace from the most. They're all equally fucked up, all royally fucked him up.

Steve knows his efforts are not enough to stave off these fears forever. They never are.

And Vecna? He's still processing that. After all, it hasn't even been one year since it all happened.

Less than one year since Eddie died, slowly killing Dustin with each day that passes without him; the more Steve tries to be there for the kid, the more he's pushed away. It's taking a toll on Steve, trying to be mindful of Dustin's grieving, trying to remind this kid he's not alone.

Less than one year since Max technically, in clinical terms, died, for over a minute; even a second considered dead is way too fucking long, and for a kid her age? Too damn soon. If it weren't for El reviving her, the party would be in shambles— yet they're on the verge of crumbling while Max is in a coma, anyway.

If anything happened to any of these kids, it'd devastate the rest of them. It'd devastate anyone in this little, yet forever growing, found family Steve's tripped and fallen into years ago.

And you.

You— he can't even stomach the idea of your safety being threatened. It only circles back to the nightmares he still has of you. He fears one of these days losing you will come true, and… and—

It hits him like a nuclear missile, dead on.

He didn't want you to leave earlier, to go out into the storm, because he was afraid one of his greatest fears, losing you, again, would come true. This chance to fix everything, at least make peace with what never came to be, has been right in front of you both for months since you got home.

Instead, it's been spent stuck in a cycle of hate, giving and taking sharp glares and words only dripping in venom.

So much wasted time—

"Steve?"

Reality settles in around him again, eyes focusing on you, remorse taking hold of every thought crossing his mind.

Unexpectedly, even to him, Steve blurts out, "I'm sorry." When your brows furrow, the remorse floods out. "I- I'm sorry for not being honest from the start—"

"You were trying to protect me, I get that now." He feels the tension dissolve out of you. "I'm sorry too." Your voice trembles, not from the cold this time. "Can we… start over?"

A smug smirk curls along his face. "Um… we can, but it'd be pretty awkward to start over like this."

"Oh my god, Steve."

"What? I'm just saying!" He chuckles with a shrug. "When we met, I had strawberry ice cream stains on my shirt, and I got, like, maybe three hours of sleep the night before. This seems incredibly different, considering we're both naked."

"You're not the one fully naked." You stifle laughter, rolling your eyes.

"Oh, what, I'm sorry— did you want me to be blunt instead? Because I am really fucking sorry if I get hard." Flustered, he rambles as you blink up at him, wide-eyed. "Seriously, you keep rubbing against me like that and it's- I'm— fuck."

Your hips are rolling into him again as the corners of your lips gradually quirk upward. "Okay," you say simply, not matching your devious smile.

"… Okay?" Steve scoffs.

"I mean… it's not like you're the only one struggling here," you admit, brash and certain. "Can't tell you how wet I've been since you started holding me."

"Oh, trust me. I know." Steve bounces back, stifling a smug chuckle. "Felt it the whole time."

Mortification contorts its way into your face. You hide again, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder.

"Hey, nuh-uh, no hiding. I thought it was hot." His fingers trail down your spine, sweeping to your side. He rests his hand over the curve of your hip, drawing slow circles into your skin with his thumb. "… Still do."

A shrill, piercing whistle whirls past the van, leading in a wave of howling wind, rocking the van. The instant jostle nudges you against him completely, It taunts you and Steve as you dance around you feelings.

The van's frame sways and creaks as the blizzard continues. You shift, trying to get comfortable, until your thigh presses against Steve's bulge and he hisses under his breath.

"Fuck, shit, fuck—"

Yeah. He's hard.

He tangles himself into you, thick thigh flexing against your slick heat. All carnal desires aside, he's sure fucking relieved to feel some part of you completely warm.

Thinking of being warm, and staying that way, leads him to speaking unfiltered. "Might not be the worse way to keep each other from freezing to death."

"Uh-huh…" you sound breathy, the last of your animosity towards Steve long disintegrated by now. "S'good idea." A shiver down your spine sends your hips bucking forward; Steve's curious if it from the cold or not. "S- sorry, m'sorry, I keep—"

Steve shushes you delicately. "Don't be sorry, take what you need."

Your thighs tighten around his, clit throbbing against him. Arousal builds onto his bare skin the more you drag your cunt against him.

"Just go slow, okay?" His reminder is tender, faces close enough to touch, breaths picking up speed. "Slow, slow, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

"Yeah but—" your fingers hook under his waistband teasingly, breaths growing shallower. "Want you n- now—"

Steve grabs your hands, pulling them up within eyesight. He needs you clear-headed. "Hey, I mean it. We gotta be smart about this."

He doesn't expect you to frown, ego visibly wounded in your expression; what did you hear out of what he said?

"We don't have to do anything if you're not into it."

"No, no, I'm—" Steve puffs his cheeks out, exhaling quickly. His arms rope you back in, pressing up against him with a gasp. "You were freezing to death less than an hour ago—"

"Not to death."

"Only 'cause you came back before it was too late." And that he kept you stable, but he's not seeking recognition for that. His hands rise to cradle your cheeks, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Last thing we need is your heart over-exerting itself."

"But you're the one who suggested—" you collect your thoughts with a deep breath. "You're sending mixed signals, Steve. Do you want this or not?"

"I do, but I want you safe and warm. So, let me take care of you, alright?"

"Okay…" Steve looks down as you trail off, noticing your mood shift. Concern draws your brows together, tugs your lips downward and hushes your voice to a whisper. A cold finger traces the scar around his neck, and he gulps. "When did this happen?"

He was dreading this, grateful you'd been so delirious while recovering that you didn't notice the freshly healed skin, taut and pink— now a little purple from the cold, he's sure; this kind of weather always promises to emphasize souvenirs of the past.

"Last year," he trembles; the more he focuses on trying to breathe steadily, the more he shakes. "… Bats."

"The same that…" He hears you hesitate, holding that one, brutal truth on the tip of your tongue, only to soften it for both of your sake. "Same ones that… that attacked Eddie?"

"Yeah, I guess." Steve shakes his head, "I don't know how I survived and he didn't." His voice drops, laden with guilt. "Kinda fucked up if you ask me."

"Do they hurt?" You ask so tenderly, sincerity woven within your words. It pricks hot tears in Steve's eyes, ones he blinks away quickly.

No one ever really asks Steve if he's okay. Not like this. Not when it comes to the Upside Down.

"Yeah," he croaks out. "Sometimes, yeah." Unprompted, he adds, "Not as much as the headaches, though."

"How often do you get them?" You ask, but Steve only shrugs. It's not enough to quell your concern. "Steve…"

He doesn't need you to know just how bad it gets sometimes. The warning signs leading up to a flare— like how his neck aches and stiffens, how his vision doubles, and the ringing in his ears only grows louder.

Steve doesn't want to worry you, or anyone, of the throbbing, consistent pain; how similar it feels to being cracked in the skull with a fist, something he's experienced more than once— one time too many. The agonizing throbbing that morphs into pounding, and sometimes he can feel it behind his left eye, like it's still swollen shut.

Sounds become unbearably sharp and jagged to his brain. Too much light enrages him. They're more than just headaches, he knows that. Yet he bottles it all up, because emotionally, he can't afford to not be okay. He has to show up for everyone else.

Acknowledging him, you hum softly; he's grateful you've never been one to push him too far on a subject he'd rather avoid. "Should I, um—" you clear your throat awkwardly, "avoid them? The scars, I mean."

Not like this one's much easier to talk about.

Steve's shoulder's tighten while his breath hitches, sharp and obvious and shit, he wishes he caught that in time. That wish strengthens when you grimace.

"I'm sorry. That's— I'm not trying to be rude, just wasn't sure since sometimes they hurt—"

"S'okay," he relaxes after a deep breath. "Don't worry about 'em."

You hum, tracing the one along his neck with your finger. The warmth left in the wake of your touch is another reminder he's safe with you.

It's when your fingertips trail up to his face, palm caressing his cheek before resting there, that his heart skips a beat. And when you gingerly sweep your thumb against his cheekbone, his breath hitches.

"Whenever your headaches start… you'll tell me, right?"

When that simple question, loaded with empathy and laced with tenderness, leaves your lips, something within Steve breaks.

"It's… it's okay, I can handle it on my own."

For the first time, those words aren't convincing enough to lie to himself.

"Steve," you whisper, head shaking as the color of your irises bore into the hazel of his. "You don't have to handle anything on your own."

It's so direct, so honest— how can he even respond to that?

There's so much to say— how he'd always put the kids before himself, no questions asked. How he wants to do his part and keep everyone safe, during crawls and beyond. How his trauma, chronic and relentless, stays bottled up and shelved away, only to have manifested into a physical curse on every nerve ending in his entire being— and he still keeps it hidden away.

The past you narrowly escaped while he was beaten to hell and back, that's not yours to carry, it's his.

"I won't let you handle it alone," you whisper, challenging his unspoken thoughts. "Not anymore."

Feelings for you that he forcefully sunk long ago, rush to the surface and consume Steve. It's overwhelming, and words aren't enough; he surges forward, his lips finding yours while you squeak with surprise.

Steve breaks away, presses his lips to your jaw, kisses down your neck while his hands caress the shape of your figure. His touch is gentle, yet sturdy. Firm, yet sweet.

You bite back a moan, teeth pinning your bottom lip down, but you still shiver. He knows he's making you feel good. If you won't say it, he certainly feels it in the way you grab him, anywhere you can find purchase; his hips, his arms, his back, leaving behind little divots from your finger tips, dug into his skin.

He moves lower, one hand pausing on your breast, kneading it tenderly, kissing down your chest to pause at the other side. His lips gently lingering against the sensitive, pebbled peak is all it takes to begin unraveling you.

The gasp that slips out is one beyond what Steve's dreams could even imagine. His cock kicks as he flicks his tongue on your nipple.

"Shit, Steve…"

He sucks softly, a distinct pop! filling the confined space when he pulls back. He looks up with a thread of spit tethering him to your skin, and you look wrecked already.

He can't even wrap his mind around how devastatingly fucked out you'll look when he's through with you.

"Coulda' kept each other warm all this time," Steve breathes, kissing across the valley between your breasts to the other side. His tongue flits out, lazily teasing your nipple while tweaking and pinching the other. "You just had to be stubborn, huh?"

"Only 'cause you- you— a- ah, fuck…" your hips roll up into his, cunt grazing against his clothed cock, sticky and warm and slick and god… if you weren't so fragile right now, Steve would love to ruin you immediately.

If, you know, you were into that.

His cock twitches as his mind drifts, curious as to what the hell you're even into, and if he'll be lucky enough to have more chances to find out.

The two of you just have to survive this night first.

"'Cause I what?" He should be a little softer, a little kinder, but the edge is returning, and only because of your wanton, needy squirming. "Finish the sentence."

You gasp as Steve nudges his knee between your legs, parting them to flex his thigh against your cunt. You're soaked enough to glide yourself effortlessly against him.

Except, Steve grabs your hips, hovering above you while pinning them in place.

"Finish. The. Sentence."

You clamp your legs tight around the one against your core, but he plants his hands on your thighs, pushing them apart to admire your glistening cunt.

"I wouldn't h- have left if you weren't so m- mean!"

"Yet you're a mess right now." He withdraws, only to use his thumbs to part your folds. "Look at you, dripping and pretending like you're not into this."

Steve licks his lips, one thumb casually gliding up from your hole through your folds, resting lightly over your clit. You jolt from even the slight pressure.

"Bet you were this wet before you left."

Your brows knit together. "I wasn't."

"No?" He taunts you, pad of his thumb circling your clit, so close to where you want him, yet so deliberately distant. "Hm… you sure?" Your hips twitch while you gasp, inflating his ego as he simpers. "Seemed like earlier you were pretty fuckin' soaked."

"From t- the snow!" The more flustered you become, the more Steve's confidence grows, bordering onto being cocky. "Jesus, I was outside in a blizzard, in case you forgot."

Steve laughs. He laughs; it's cruel and runs straight to your throbbing clit, adjacent to his teasing touch.

"I don't think so, sweetheart." With a smug grin, he adds, "Doubt the snow would make you smell this damn good either."

"Steve!" You gasp, taken aback. The line's almost tacky, straight out of a bad porno, but Jesus Christ, he can't help himself around you.

"In fact—" he reaches out of the bag, retrieving the garment in question. Reservations long buried under the snow, he brings the pair to his face, eyes rolling back as he huffs in your scent. A guttural groan tears through him, while you're left speechless. "Been wanting to do that all fuckin' night."

Jaw hanging ajar, you whisper, "Holy shit, Harrington."

The smug expression falters, "Too much?"

"No," you breathe out, "fuck, no."

Relief revives his smirk. "Good. I'm far from done with you."

Trailing wet, painfully paced kisses down your body, Steve begins unzipping the sleeping bag; he'd rather not suffocate in that while going down on you. If anything keeps him from breathing tonight, he prays it's only your slick cunt smothering his face.

He's gentle, mindful, caressing your sides slowly to keep you warm. It softens the mean streak he just held out for your sake.

Parting your legs, he glances up to you. "Doing okay?" His lips drag along the plush of your left thigh, gentle, pointed kisses trailing closer to your core. His strong grip digs into your thighs before switching to the right one. "Need to hear you, honey."

"Mhm, yeah, I'm—" Steve parts your slit, moaning softly as he takes you in. "M'good. Promise."

"Good," he husks, leaving a chaste, open mouth kiss over your core. "Don't wanna neglect this pretty pussy."

You huff with an affectionate eye roll. "Swear to god, Steve, if anyone else said shit like this to me, I'd leave instantly."

"So what you're saying is…" Steve's lips linger on your folds, tongue teasingly flitting out, barely meeting your clit. Your legs twitch while you whimper. "I'm the exception?"

"D- don't let it get to your head, Har—" Sharply, you gasp as he spreads your core apart with his thumbs, only to spit on your puffy clit. "Fuck."

He leans in, mouth working languidly as his lips meet your glistening slit. It's already written in stone that the taste of anyone else won't ever compare; you've effortlessly wrecked him.

And he's already ruined you with each drag of his tongue, leading to your clit to suckle tenderly. He looks up, hoping to see you slowly unravel, and he does; your eyes roll back in time while you clench around nothing, rolling your hips to chase his tongue.

The soft sounds from his mouth cause you to throb, feeling every hum and groan, hearing him lave at your arousal. Hooded stare weighed down with lust, he continues watching you fall apart on his tongue.

Steve's moans tremble through you, with gravelly murmurs in between; every oh shit, and fuck, and little praise in between is enough to roll waves of heat through you. He must be able to feel it.

"See? You just needed to get warmed up." Your hips jolt against his mouth as he laps at your clit, while a thick finger circles your hole. He grins smugly. "Be good for me, and I'll keep you warm."

Your clit throbs against his tongue, and Steve moans. It's almost as pornographic as the sound he let out minutes before. His arms hook around your thighs, tugging you flush against his mouth.

"Is this all it takes to shut you up?"

Though drained and still trembling, your fingers tangle through his hair, pulling to trap his mouth against your pussy. He notices the light pressure in your grasp, mindful of his mention of headaches earlier.

"I dunno, I- I should be asking you the same damn thing."

The switch is subtle, tiny, but it's enough to send Steve's eyes rolling back into his head, whimpering as he bucks into the floor of the van.

"Oh…" you grin deviously. "You're into that, huh?"

The ounce of power, that microscopic switch, falls apart instantly as Steve leans back. Warmth withdraws along with him, your hands fall away, and all pleasure ceases. He slides two fingers up the edge of your folds, spreading them apart to spit directly onto your clit; you twitch and gasp.

"Hey!" Exasperated, you yelp, "Why'd you stop?!"

Steve doesn't answer, only runs his hands along the back of your thighs, gently nudging your legs to fold closer to yourself. He reaches your hips, pushing up to throw a nearby blanket underneath your back.

"What— what are you—" His mouth is back on you, tongue delving into your slit, running around your clit before puckering his lips. "Ohmyfuckinggod— Steve—"

You gasp when he mouths sloppily at your cunt, making out with it, taking his time to explore this part of you he's already dreamed so much of.

This part, this sweet, tight, hot part of you that he's fucked his fist to the thought of almost every night since you've moved home.

Not even his wildest dreams could've conceived what you really taste like. Your scent. How soft you are. And pretty, so goddamn pretty.

And as your hardened personality thaws out, the real you— the one Steve's always pined over— finally melts through.

He's missed you. So, so much.

The obscene sounds, all of the slurping and suckling to make you fall apart, fill the van. Walls clenching around his fingers as they barely enter you, your body sucks him in greedily.

"Jesus Christ," Steve breathes, getting sloppier as you get louder. He angles his fingers differently, and with the way he's got you positioned, you're blindsided by an orgasm shattering through you.

"Oh my god, oh my god—" he brushes up against your sweet spot, triggering your legs to shake around his head. "Fuck!"

Your high's barely over as he kisses your inner thighs, eyeing up your puffy, dripping folds.

"Got one more in you?" His lips and chin glisten with your essence in the low light. You nod breathlessly, hand over your chest as it rises and falls rapidly. His demeanor softens. "Hey, look at me."

Dazed, your eyes flutter open. They lock with his, full of concern.

"Should we stop?" You shake your head, but the silent conformation isn't enough. "Need you to say it if you want it," there's a flash of dull pain as he nips at your inner thigh, kissing away the sting immediately. His hand pulls away, leaving you empty and needy.

"I- I want it."

"Want… what?"

Exasperated, you whine while throwing your head back, "Oh my god, Steve."

"C'mon, you can tell me." He begins taunting you, "Usually you have no problem running that mouth of yours."

"You're so fucking insufferable sometimes, I sw- swear to god." The tremble in your voice is more from aftershocks than the cold.

Even when you were nice, you had an edge, and he missed that, too.

Steve crawls over you, nose nudging against your own. His fingers feather and tease along your slit, retreating as you buck your hips to chase his touch.

"There she is," chuckling, he slips a finger back into you, leaning down to murmur against your lips, "There's my girl."

As you gasp, he takes the chance to kiss you, really kiss you this time. Your back arches while he pumps into your slick heat. Lips parted against your own, slotted together, tasting yourself on his tongue while he licks into your mouth— it's all so goddamn dizzying for the both of you.

You break apart when you palm him over his boxers, rendering Steve speechless for a moment.

"Who knew that'd shut you up so easily too," you snicker, giving a gentle squeeze to his bulge, eliciting a sweet gasp from him. "Fuck, Steve. You're…"

Cheeks heating up to a rosy pink, he freezes, eyes darting down between your bodies, then back to you. "What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. I- I just…" Keeping an airy touch, you trace a finger along his cock. He whines pathetically, head falling forward onto your shoulder. To muffle his sounds, he mouths at your skin. "You're so… big."

He sighs; yeah, he should've expected that.

"It's not a bad thing! No part of you is bad!" You're tumbling into a nervous ramble. "That stuff doesn't matter anyway, y'know, size and whatever. I just- I don't know—" you clear your throat with an awkward laugh, rushing out, "Idon'tknowifyou'llfit."

Steve blinks as the words sink in.

Oh.

"Hey, shh, s'okay," he chuckles softly, confidence flowing back. "We can try, if you want. But there's no pressure."

"I wanna, I really want to, it's— I'm— you—"

He cuts you off with a kiss. There's a soft hum reeled out of you, shaping his lips into a smirk against your own. It's short and sweet, resting his forehead on yours as you break apart.

"One step at a time, okay?"

He's back between your legs as before, allowing you both to relax as he tries to take this slow, almost at a lazy pace, but that lasts all of five seconds.

Because one more taste of you, and Steve's a fucking goner.

Steve juts his face into your cunt, tapering his tongue to fuck into you as you're grinding onto his face. He grants your wordless wish, sinking a finger into you again. In search of that sweet, sacred spot, he curls it, grazing somewhere inside that makes hips rock with desperation while you cry out.

"Harder," he grunts into your core, the rumble of his order going straight to your clit without direct touch. He yanks you closer to his face— as if it's even possible at this point— and his gaze travels away from you, rolling to the back of his head, groaning as you're the only taste on his tongue. In way too deep to speak, he just hums with satisfaction, laced with an air of praise.

Licking into you, the strong bridge of his nose nudges against your clit as it throbs. You buck forward accidentally, but he happily accepts, burying his face between your thighs. He slides another finger into you and smirks as your legs begin to quiver.

"Steve…" You cover your mouth, but he yanks your hand away, while leaning back to spit onto your cunt again.

In between flits and laves of his tongue, he husks, "Wanna hear you again." The vibrations of his gravelly voice are what send you to the edge, but his tender encouragement is what seals the deal. "It's just us, honey. C'mon," he coaxes. "Lemme hear those pretty sounds you make."

Steve works overtime, meticulous in the speed he pumps his fingers, while your essence drips down his hand. The curls and flattening of his tongue between your folds, lapping up every drop you have to offer. Eventually rubbing his nose against your clit while he both tongue and finger fucks you simultaneously.

Bliss rolls through your body, luring out whimpers of his name and babbles of praise.

"Steve—" you gasp, back arching up as your tangled fingers anchor him to you. "Fu- oh my god, fuck—!"

You tremble, you gush, you unravel at the seams, and he'd keep doing this, and only this, all night if you'd let him. Watching you fade into such a fucked out state has his cock throbbing, sandwiched between himself and the van's floor.

Steve feels sticky; that much he expected. But… his boxers are damp, tacky against his skin, along with his tummy, where the tip of his cock lay snug under the waistband.

Oh, no.

"So, uh…" he kisses your core, smirking as it clenches around nothing. Kissing your thigh, he peers up through his lashes at you. "… How hard is it to wash cum out of a sleeping bag?"

Dazed, you're still smiling, dopey and giddy and sighing, "Mmm, dunno. Can't be that difficult—" your eyes pop open before you study Steve, still between your legs. "… Why?"

"No reason, really, just— I'm just curious—"

"Steve."

"M'yeah?" His eyes shift away for a second, guilty.

"Were you— oh my god."

"What?!"

A taunting, victorious smirk comes to life. "Did you hump the fucking floor?"

"Well, when you put it like that…" Steve cringes, blushing intensely. "Kinda?" Your playful stare narrows down at him. "It's not like I was trying to! It just— I— you—" he groans, burying his face into the plush of your inner thigh.

The embarrassment's worth it to hear your laugh, genuine and breathy woven into your comedown. "Better on the damn bag than the actual rug."

He could fall asleep here, so cozy and warm between your legs. You card your fingers through his soft hair, gingerly scraping along his scalp, earning his content hum.

Steve lifts his head to be met with your longing stare, soft, weary smile. It's impossible to hide his own smile. "What?"

"Come back up," you shoot out grabby hands. "M'cold."

"Oh," he snorts, crawling back into your arms. "Is that all I'm good for?"

"Nah, your tongue is pretty great, too."

Rolling his eyes, a smile peeks out as he zips the bag back up, cuddling close to you. Your leg swings over his hip and he reels you in. Fatigue settles in, and it's not long before you're drifting off.

You're not cold anymore, with most symptoms finally fading or completely dissipated; he figures it's safe to sleep. Hell, he could use the rest, too.

It's not until the first, faint snore, that he realizes his goddamn, sticky boxers are still on, and he doesn't have the heart to move you.

A little discomfort is worth it if you're safe and sound in his arms, but… Jesus Christ, this is going to be one long fucking nap.

Steve's unsure when the two of you shifted in your sleep, but with the limited space in the bag, you've ended up spooning him.

It's… kinda nice. He's never been the little spoon before, not with anyone he's ever cuddled with.

By some higher power or sheer, dumb luck, you're warm— fucking finally. You're clinging onto him from behind and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck.

Steve's breath hitches when your lips graze his neck. He chokes back a whine as you brush your soft figure against his back.

He gently murmurs your name into the dark while your arms tighten around his torso. You hum in return, soft and content.

Splaying out your fingers, they creep down his body, teasing around the waistband, dipping just below the elastic of his briefs.

"Mm—" Steve bites back some kind of pathetic sound. "Baby, what're'y'doin'?"

The pet name blooms heat under your cheeks. He hears you hum, feels you shrug. Your fingers sink a little lower, brushing up against the head of his cock.

"S'okay?"

"It- yeah, but—" Steve gasps when your thumb sweeps over the slit on his tip, still tacky from when he came in his boxers earlier. Now, on top of that, arousal weeps his slit on command by your touch.

"But?"

Your hand begins to retreat, until Steve grabs it, shoving it toward the base of his cock. His hips buck into your palm, groan rumbling deep from his throat.

Whether it's because Steve's been touch starved, or just really, really into you (both. it's totally both), your fingertips tracing down his shaft cause him to twitch.

He can feel himself pulsate into your palm as your grip winds around him. You only pump once, twice, three times, and he's quick to begin unraveling.

"I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that," Steve whines, bucking into your fist. "I can't— ah… f- fuck—" he grumbles, forcing out, "I— dammit, I can't afford to come in my pants again. I only have one pair!"

"Then take 'em off," you giggle. "Need you in me."

Any other circumstance, Steve would allow the teasing to drag on, but he can't take any more tension. He flips over to lean above you, switching positions; you're the little spoon now, and you're flustered from the sudden change.

As you roll to your left side, you lean on your elbow to prop yourself up. Steve hastily plucks a condom from his wallet, still in the crumpled, damp jeans he discarded earlier and within reach.

You keep your legs bent as Steve settles behind you, backside on full display to him. Glancing over your shoulder, you've got a perfect view of him, already reveling in the way he's struggling to keep himself together while rolling the condom down his length.

Hand at the thick base of his cock, he drags the ruddy tip between your folds, teasing your clit before catching at your entrance. He repeats the taunting motion, smirk building with each whimper and whine you set free. One last drag through your slick slit, Steve rests the head at your entrance, pushing in only a little bit.

"Still okay?" He asks, eyes flitting to yours. One might think he sounds groggy from a nap, but he's just pussy drunk already.

"Yeah, mhm," your breathy reply makes his cock kick in his hand and against you. "Ju- just go slow, okay?"'

Steve leans down, planting his lips on your forehead. "Promise I will."

And he does; inch by inch, he slides into you, stretching you out to a limit you've never reached before. In awe, he watches himself disappear inside of you, breath hitching the further he goes.

"Fuck— fuck, you're—" his eyes roll back, twitching against your tight, warm walls. Hips tilting, you push your ass back to help him ease in. All it does is make Steve a total wreck. Pathetically, he strains out through bated breath, "…Might need a minute."

"Yeah?" The teasing edge he secretly loves so much is returning; a sign you're feeling more like yourself. "You look like you could use ten."

"Keep it up," he huffs, "you're gonna need a few days 'til you can walk again."

Steve's hips reel back, dragging out torturously slow as you banter on. He leisurely slides back in, stretching you out. Again, he pulls out, even slower this time.

"We talkin' business days? 'Cause tomorrow's the weekend, and I'd love to not be in recovery—" He slams into you, bottoming out in one thrust. "— Christ, Steve! What the—"

Fully retreating, his shaft caresses your silky, slick walls. Fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, he teasingly glides the tip of his cock through your folds, dipping into your entrance.

With each push back, he pulls out; your desire is only met with taunting, dangling bliss just in reach.

"You done talking logistics yet?"

Though your jaw falls open to quip back, only a gasp tumbles out. With another snap of his hips against yours, he fills you again.

That stretch isn't dizzying on one end only; Steve has to gulp down steady breaths to relax. He's wanted this, wanted you, for years now.

No way is he fucking this up now with a pitifully swift finish.

"N'you were worried you couldn't take me," he patronizes, yet your walls clenching around him mercilessly wipe the smug grin off his face. "Jesus fuckin' christ."

"Maybe you can't take me," you dare to challenge him. The teasing ignites something deep within, and, well, you're the one who started a fire you most likely can't extinguish.

Steve lifts the leg closest to him to rest it against his torso. You roll a little more onto your back as he straddles your leg against the floor; similar to missionary, but the angle hits so sinfully as he sinks back in. 

Then, without mercy, void of warning, he relentlessly pounds into you.

Already at a loss for words, all you have to offer are sharp gasps. The plush of your body bounces with each of his thrusts, enticing his grip of one hand to dig into your hip.

What he doesn't expect is your hand to glide down your form, conforming to your curves until your fingertips brush over his knuckles.

Steve's breath hitches, hips stuttering with a faltering pace. Hesitantly, he laces his fingers between yours, and to his surprise, your grip doesn't falter.

It tightens.

Just like the choke-hold his feelings for you have on his heart.

"Don't get sappy on me now," Steve teases, fighting off his own emotions. His eyes flicker down to your hands intertwined, cock twitching inside you when you tighten your hold on him.

The gesture is small, but his heart flutters; what's meaningful to Steve is something you're probably not even thinking twice about. He rolls his hips against you, slow and deep, hoping to distract from his feelings.

"Wouldn't dr— oh!" You gasp, eyes rolling back as he hits the spot that makes you weak. He hears you murmur his name, strung together with expletives under your breath. "W- wouldn't dream of it."

Fog blankets the windows as each thrust rocks the van on its frame. Sweat beads at your brow, and there's relief found in the sight. You feel so warm, only reminding him mere hours ago you were freezing to death.

But you're here, underneath him, closer than he ever imagined to be outside of his dreams. You're here, warm, coherent, safe.

Safe because of him. Alive, because you chose to trust him.

That plucks at his heartstrings, too.

"Steve?"

Your voice is breathy, but concern is laced throughout, tugging him back into the present. He locks eyes with you, but you're blurry. He registers your hand extending to rest on his cheek, instinctively leaning into your tender touch.

"Hey, slow down," you swipe your thumb across his cheek, and it glides against his skin with ease. Too much ease. "Baby, stop for a second. You're crying."

Baby.

Anytime he's been called that, it never felt right. But hearing it from your lips is a whole different story.

Wait, did you say he was crying?

"Sorry, I…" he trails off, glancing away and kissing your palm, panting heavily against it. "M'okay."

"Steve—"

"No, I swear. I'm just—" he shudders out a breath, one with relief. "I'm glad you're okay."

"So much for not getting sappy," you tease, but when Steve only halfheartedly smiles, you fall back into the energy he has. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I'm okay."

"I know." He nods, hair flopping in his face. "I know, I know that. I know."

Maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it.

"St—"

He cuts you off abruptly with a kiss, insatiably slotting his lips against yours. His tongue runs along your bottom lip, silently pleading for more. When you oblige, parting your kiss-swollen, wind-bitten lips, he groans, thrusting without warning into you again.

You break the kiss reluctantly, grabbing his face. "Steve. You should—"

"I'm fine, I mean it," he whispers against your lips, sloppily rocking into you. "I'm okay. Promise."

And, really, he is, he just didn't think those emotions would sucker punch him right now.

You gasp again as he hits your sweet spot, eyes falling out of focus into a dazed stare. "M'gonna cum," you rasp out, staving off a strangled moan. "Steve, I'm— I—"

He unsheathes himself from you, and it pains him to do so, whimpering as the chill of the air around erases your warmth. He glances down to your cunt, watching it clench around nothing.

"Why'd you do that?" You're breathless as you manage to ask, and the heartbroken look on your face almost tempts Steve to give in. Instead, he runs a finger through your folds, dripping and enticing as his touch drags over your throbbing clit. "Oh my god, this is the second time tonight you've done that!"

"M'not letting you finish that easy," he teases.

You whine, tossing your head back against the worn pillow, now damp with sweat. He restrains himself from splitting you open again, ignoring how needy his cock is, throbbing, red, and leaking at the tip.

"Up," he orders, throwing the sleeping bag off your tangled forms. Eager for more, you sit up, a little too quickly for his liking. Immediately his tone softens with concern, "Okay, wait. Careful, slow— Don't need you passing out."

Steve's hand finds your cheek, lips planting on yours, kissing you so sweetly. He smiles against your lips before he rolls a blanket up while nodding to the carpet. "You okay on your knees?"

"Okay?" You climb onto all fours, teasing, "I'm pretty fuckin' great on my knees."

Steve shakes his head, though his smile doesn't fade, "Jesus Christ, and I had the bad lines?" He places the blanket under your tummy, hiking your hips up with the extra support. "That help?"

It's a small gesture, one he probably doesn't think twice about, but it sure sticks with you anyway. "Uh-huh." You wiggle your ass, impatiently eager to be filled again.

His large hands slide over the curve of your backside, squeezing and kneading the doughy flesh. Your core glistens with arousal, practically begging for indulgence.

And Steve? He's in a trance, mouth on you for the third time tonight; he can't get enough of you. No one has ever tasted like you. No one's ever felt as soft as you, been as soaked as you. No one sounds like you, or shows the tiny yet impactful levels of intimacy you do with him.

No one's like you. No one could even compare.

"Fuck…" he lowly sighs out, nose nudging between your folds. "Didn't think you'd get this wet again."

"I—" You cut yourself off with a strangled gasp as Steve's tongue flits out, curling at your entrance, but not quite dipping in. "Hhhohmygod."

Thick fingers drag through your folds as he pulls back, teasing in circles around your throbbing clit, never touching it directly. You push your ass back, but he grips your hip firmly, holding you still.

"Steve," you whine.

"I know, I know," he murmurs, leaning in to suck crudely on your clit, one final time. Lining up with your entrance, one hand roams to your hips, the other, guiding himself into you. "Gonna take real good care of you, honey."

You're already clenching with a gasp. "Can't be saying— a- ah!" Steve nudges the tip into you, barely past the head's flare when you whine out. Sinking in, the delicious stretch lures you both under its spell. "S- sayin' sweet shit to me like th- that."

"I mean it," he groans, eyes rolling back as your tight heat envelopes him again. "Every damn time, too."

"What, this isn't a h- heat of the moment kinda th- thing?"

"Not even close, sweetheart." He digs his grip into the plush of your ass, slowly entering you again. Hypnotized, he watches himself disappear inside of you with each thrust. "Jesus Christ… suckin' me right in."

You nudge back into him. Steve chokes on his breath as your ass slams into him. "I- I need more."

"Yeah?" Thumbs on your lower back circle softly on your skin. He watches the goosebumps rise with satisfaction. "How do we ask for more?"

"Jesus fuckin'—" irked, you grumble. You slump against the pillows beneath you, whining, "Please."

"Please… what?"

"Steve, I s- swear to god—"

"Go ahead," he juts his chin out, smirk strong as he feels a power trip within reach. He wishes you could see how smug he is from there. In a slow retreat, he drags himself out of you, leaving you empty, cold, miserable. "Keep up the attitude, we'll see what happens."

"You're such a—" Steve slams back into you, knocking a cry from your lungs. His cock kicks against your tightening walls. "Oh, fuck…" You clap a hand over your mouth, but Steve yanks it away.

He pins that arm behind your back, thrusting hard and deep.

"Such a what?"

"Nothing. Sh- shut up an' fuck me already." When he doesn't move, you breathe out reluctantly, "… please?"

Steve snaps his hips against your ass, bottoming out within you. The sudden stretch shoves a cry out from the back of your throat.

"Aw, see?” He drags himself out, tauntingly slow. “Not so hard to ask for what you need, huh?" He thrusts again, sinking in to the hilt, "Thaaaaaat's my girl." He moans, rumbling deeply as he fills and stretches you all over again.

 The condescending comment should be that, only that, but instead your breath hitches. It's one that unexpectedly makes Steve's heart jump, his stomach flip; he wonders if you feel the same. 

"I… Yours?"

 Though you can't see him in this position, Steve's eyes flicker away, tongue darting out the corner of his mouth as he tries focusing on fucking you instead.

"Mhm, if…" He groans when your free hand reaches between your thighs, underneath you both to grip his balls and massage them. "Oh, shit, honey… s- so good…"

Fatigue still rests heavy in your limbs, and even with the pillow supporting underneath, you begin to sag down to the floor. It's not much help that you're not holding your own balance anymore.

"Hang on, I got ya'." It's such a basic phrase handled with care, passion coupling with his actions; a strong arm winds around your waist as his thrusts slow. He hoists you back into his lap, kneeling back on his heels while you're sat back onto him.

He moves again, and you cry out from the new angle, feeling him even deeper than moments before. It's almost toointense; your trembling legs are a sign of that.

"Hey, hey, shhh," Steve kisses your neck softly, leading up to your jaw. "Need a minute?" You shake your head, breaths rapid and shallow. "Wanna stop?"

"God, no," you nearly sob, tightly clenching around his cock, almost to keep him inside you. 

"Okay, okay." He kisses your cheek, lips lingering against you as he demands gently, "Tell me what you need."

"Y- you."

Steve chuckles, nuzzling his nose against your jawbone, unable to keep his lips off of you. If this is the only time he has you, he wants to kiss every inch he can reach.

"I'm right here."

Your lips part, but your breath is taken away with each thrust; you can only manage a nod while you whine and gasp.

The smell of sex hanging heavy above you both, the plap plap plap of skin slapping on skin, filling the van alongside your filthy moans; the two of you could put a porn studio to goddamn shame.

And then, there's the mouth on Steve among all of this.

"This pussy all mine?" His head falls back with a throaty groan, hips twitching off-key as embers smolder low in his belly, a fire that's always been easy to build off of.

It's only fair to match his energy.

"Dunno…" You turn your head as he leans over your shoulder, holding you flush against him while relentlessly, sloppily fucking into you. "This cock all mine, Harrington?" You burst into giggles among the breathy sighs. "Got me saying the dumbest shit, that's h- how much I like you."

He doesn't just twitch inside of you, he kicks, with little room to move within your tight walls. The whimper that pairs is one too delicious to ever imagine once, just once.

No, he'll never get enough of you. Not now. Not ever.

"S'all yours, honey," his nose prods into your cheekbone when he kisses the round, soft side of your grin. Huffing and puffing, thrusting into you relentlessly, he adds, "M'all yours."

Steve drives his cock deep within your cunt, dizzy as the stretch barely lets up. The fingers gripped around your chin ease up, two teasing at your bottom lip, tracing it softly. You're so fucked out already, it doesn't register what he's trying to accomplish. Not until he pushes them past your lips. That's when you take him in.

Even just two fingers are thick enough to softly gag you, while your tongue licks and laves at his digits. Warm and wet, you leave him a wreck as he quietly imagines fucking your mouth instead.

God, he hopes this isn't a one time fling; he wants you like this all the time.

"Fuck, you're unreal."

You try and fail to whimper his name around his fingers, drooling onto yourself and his hand.

Steve's fingers slip away, hands sliding down your neck. He loosely holds, gives a gentle squeeze, pushing you right up to the edge. You lean into his palm, tightening around him as you give into trust. His thumb caresses the side of your neck

"St- Steve, m'gonna— I—" his other hand finds your clit, coaxing you to fall into bliss with a steady, tender touch.

"C'mon, come for me," he husks in your ear while his own thrusts stutter, cock pulsing as he follows you into a shared high. He slurs out, "Thas'it. Fu- fuck—"

He spills into you, and you gush around him, yet it's so much more than that. There's a closeness you've craved, finally satiated as you're intertwined and losing yourselves in well-overdue bliss.

Trying to anchor yourselves to one another, there's desperate grasping in tandem with sounds rooted in indulgence. You've got your arm curled behind to tangle your fingers through his hair. Steve's greedily planting his fingerprints everywhere he can reach, digging pressure into every muscle and curve. You pull, he squeezes; the two of you claim one another through frantically passionate touches.

Beyond the lust, this is what you've always longed for with Steve; even if it didn't pan out the way either of you wanted, maybe it was needed to all fall into place.

Wrapped around one another, sweat still drying, smell of sex finally fading, the two of you revel in the afterglow together. Any walls— built with years of spite, grudges, and loss— between you have been demolished.

That doesn't ease Steve's nerves, though.

"Would you…" Steve trails off as self doubt's choke hold tightens on his heart. You lift your head, chin resting on his chest as your eyes find his.

All animosity in your gaze vanishes; he never thought he'd see the day.

"Would you wanna, uh, go out?" Like he didn't just rail you into oblivion, shyness creeps in. He braces himself for rejection, and maybe this question should've waited until after you're dug out from the snow. "Like, on a date, I mean."

Eager, you tease, "Promise I won't stand you up this time."

"Not like you can leave town this time anyway."

Though you scoff, it's playful. There's a smile he never imagined he'd see again, paired perfectly with your sincere laughter that reassures him.

The light in your eyes that radiates a soothing warmth, like spring sunshine on his skin, is back.

"Not sure I'd leave if I even had the chance," you admit. "Not without you."

And the sincerity in those words, it comforts him. Grounds him. For once, just once, the two of you could have something stable, constant, that isn't a threat to your lives.

There's a comfortable silence between you; the blizzard's howling gusts don't sound so lonely and hollow anymore.

"Might be smart to get dressed before the morning." Steve grimaces, reaching between his legs to slide the condom off. "… and clean up first."

"You would ruin the moment with something like that," you groan as he ties it off, sliding an arm out of the sleeping bag to throw it into a small trash bin nearby. "Besides, we're warm and cozy, and—" he smirks, reaching for the zipper next while you whine. "Ugh, no, c'mon— don't open it!"

Steve shrugs, amused. "Then you can explain to whoever ends up rescuing us why we're naked in the middle of a—"

"Okay, okay!" You grumble, stretching over Steve to zip the bag open. Begrudgingly, you shimmy out, rushing to grab the emergency box for clothes.

Despite your protests, Steve helps you get dressed as you grumble over the soreness, no longer numb from the cold. With teamwork and grace, you're back in warm, dry clothes, and Steve follows suit. He helps you back into the sleeping bag, snuggling up next to you once zipped up.

It's effortless, though mindful, how you tangle yourselves around one another. Your leg is thrown over his thigh while you rest on your side. He faces you, slotting his leg between yours and reeling you into his embrace. You tuck your head under his chin, inviting him to kiss the top of your head— and he does.

"We're taking the weekend off," you murmur. It's not a question, it's a firm statement. "No crawls. Not unless they're absolutely certain we're ending this."

"No crawls," Steve agrees, chuckling softly into you hair. "Stay over this weekend? I know it's not the most ideal first date location, but we don't really have the greatest options right now, and—"

"Okay."

"Oh." He pauses, relieved there was no hesitancy from you. "Okay. Yeah. We'll do that."

This might take some getting used to, the whole not being at each other's throats all the time thing. He can't complain, in fact, it's a welcomed change.

"The others can wait, we got catching up to do," you nuzzle your face into his neck, voice vibrating against his throat. "And we'll be dry this time."

He hums with a chuckle low in his throat. "Not sure you could say that for yourself, but sure, okay."

"Steve."

The two of you are too wrapped up in one another to notice the snow finally slowing to something serene, teasing back and forth like you used to. This banter without venom, it's natural now, and he hopes it stays. He hopes you stay. By the way you're so at ease in his embrace, Steve knows you will. 

And he will, too.

[luusygoosey]

A Deal With the Harringtons - Steve Harrington imagine.

(Rich Steve Harrington x fem!reader)

Summary: When you and your mother are on the verge of losing everything, the Harringtons offer you a deal you can’t refuse: marry their son, Steve, in exchange for clearing her debts and saving your home. It leaves you with no real choice but to agree.

word count: 4,830

Warnings: arranged marriage/forced engagement, financial distress, guilt, emotional distress. It will definitely turn into a slow burn or something like that but we shall see...

A/N: This is from a request so thank you to whoever requested it! This is such a fun idea and lowkey might cure my writing slump!! It will definitely be a series if you guys want so just let me know 😋 and my requests are always open, it might take me a while to get to them but I've always written them.

*.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.*

The first thing you noticed was the silence.

Not the comfortable kind. Not the soft hush of early morning before the rest of Hawkins woke up, when the world still smelled like coffee and wet grass and possibility. This was different. This silence sat heavy in the kitchen, pressing against the yellowing wallpaper and the stack of unopened bills on the counter.

Your mother was standing by the sink, one hand curled around the edge of it like she needed it to stay upright.

“Mom?” you asked carefully.

Your mother turned around too fast for it not to look suspicious, a strained smile pulling at her lips but never quite reaching her eyes. “You’re home early.”

“The diner was slow. They let me go.” you dropped your keys into the chipped ceramic bowl by the door. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

That was how you knew something had. You knew that your mom was a terrible liar. Always had been. She could keep secrets when they mattered, could carry pain quietly for months if she thought it would protect someone else but lying outright made her face go soft and guilty. 

You slowly stepped closer, your gaze dropping to the envelope resting on the table. Bold red letters stretched across the front.

PAST DUE.

Again.

You swallowed. “Mom, is that the mortgage?”

Your mom just turned away. “It’s handled.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Mom.”

She shut her eyes, dreadfully. For a second, you thought she looked older than she really was. Tired in a way that made your chest ache. Your mom had always been beautiful, even when life had been cruel to her, but lately she looked worn down by worry, like every bill and every late notice had taken something small from her.

“It’s the mortgage,” your mother finally admitted. “And the hospital bill. And the car.”

Your stomach dropped. “How much?”

“Y/n… don’t worry about—”

“How much?”

Your mother’s voice broke. “Too much.”

The kitchen fell quiet again.

You looked down at the table. The bills. The half-empty mug of coffee. The grocery list scribbled onto the back of an old receipt because you didn’t waste paper anymore. You knew things were bad, but you hadn’t realized they were this bad.

“I can pick up more shifts,” you said.

“You already work too much.”

“I can ask Ted for closing shifts. Maybe weekends too.”

“No.”

“Mom—”

“No.” Your mother’s voice sharpened, but only because she was scared. “You are not going to work yourself into the ground because I can’t keep us afloat.”

You stared at her. “You kept us afloat my entire life.”

Your mother looked down.

That was the worst part. Not the bills. Not the debt. Not even the fear of losing the house.

It was watching your mother feel ashamed.

After everything she had done.

After raising a daughter alone. After working every job Hawkins offered her. After smiling through exhaustion and pretending canned soup was a real dinner. After giving everything and keeping nothing.

Your mother deserved rest. She deserved safety. She deserved one thing in her life that didn’t feel like survival.

So when the knock came at the door, both of you jumped.

Your mother quickly wiped beneath her eyes. “I’ll get it.” But when she opened the door, she froze.

You stepped around her.

A man stood on your porch in an expensive coat that looked ridiculous against the peeling white paint of your house. He was tall, polished, and stiff in the way rich men always seemed to be stiff, like the world had never forced them to bend. Beside him stood a woman in a cream-colored blouse, her hair perfectly styled, her smile perfectly practiced.

Mr. and Mrs. Harrington.

You knew exactly who they were. Everyone in Hawkins knew who they were.

They owned the big house at the end of the nice street. They donated to the right charities. They drove cars that looked too clean for Indiana roads. They were the kind of people who treated small talk like a business transaction.

Your mother’s face went pale.

“Linda,” Mr. Harrington said smoothly. “May we come in?”

Your mother hesitated.

You looked between them. “Mom?”

Your mother’s voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s okay.”

But it didn’t feel okay. Not when the Harringtons stepped into your kitchen like they were inspecting it. Not when Mrs. Harrington’s eyes swept over the cracked tile, the old curtains, the bills scattered across the table. Not when Mr. Harrington sat down without being invited.

You stayed standing.

Mr. Harrington folded his hands together. “I’ll be direct.”

“Please do,” you said.

Your mother shot you a look.

Mr. Harrington barely reacted. “Your mother is in a difficult financial position.”

Your jaw tightened. “That’s none of your business.”

“It became my business when she came to me for help.”

You turned toward your mother.

She looked humiliated. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Something in you softened immediately. “Mom…”

“I was only asking about work,” your mother said quickly. “A loan, maybe. Something temporary.”

“And I offered something better,” Mr. Harrington said. Nothing about the way he said it sounded better.

You crossed your arms. “Which is?”

Mrs. Harrington smiled. “A marriage.”

For a second, nobody moved. Then you laughed once, because it was so absurd your body didn’t know what else to do. “I’m sorry,” you said. “A what?”

“A marriage,” Mr. Harrington repeated, calm as ever. “Between you and our son.”

Steve Harrington.

The name landed like a dropped glass. You knew Steve. Not personally, not really. But Hawkins was small, and Steve Harrington had always been impossible not to know.

King Steve. Perfect hair. Big house. Nice car. Girls following him through school hallways like he had invented smiling. He had been popular in that careless, golden-boy way that made people either love him or hate him.

You had never exactly hated him.

But you had never liked him either. 

People like Steve Harrington lived in a different version of Hawkins. A version with swimming pools and Christmas parties and parents who bought silence with money.

“No,” you said.

Your mother whispered your name. “Please.”

“No,” you repeated, sharper now. “Absolutely not.”

Mrs. Harrington’s smile thinned. “You haven’t heard the terms.”

“I heard enough.”

Mr. Harrington leaned back. “Your mother’s debts would be paid in full. The house would remain hers. Medical expenses handled. A monthly allowance would be arranged.”

The words landed one by one.

Debts paid.

House saved.

Medical expenses handled.

Your mother’s hand trembled against the table.

You hated that you noticed. Hated that the offer worked. Hated that a part of you—desperate, exhausted—had already started calculating what it would mean.

No more late notices.

No more choosing between groceries and prescriptions.

No more watching your mother pretend she wasn’t scared.

“What do you get?” you asked quietly.

Mr. Harrington smiled for the first time. There it was.

The catch.

“Our family benefits from certain financial restructuring. Publicly, it strengthens the image of family stability. Privately, it allows for several arrangements involving assets, trusts, and charitable allocations.”

“So,” you said slowly, “a tax write-off.”

Mrs. Harrington’s eyes flashed. “That is a crude way to put it.”

“But not wrong.”

Mr. Harrington didn’t deny it.

You shook your head. “This is insane.”

“It is practical.”

“It’s marriage.”

“It’s paperwork,” Mr. Harrington said.

Your stomach turned.

Paperwork. That was all it was to him. A signature. A deal. A way to move money around while pretending to be generous.

You looked at your mother, expecting anger, disgust, refusal. Instead, she looked like she was breaking.

“No,” your mother said suddenly. “No, I won’t do this. I should have never let them come here.”

Relief flashed through you. But then she reached for the bills, hands shaking as she gathered them up, like hiding them could hide the truth.

“I’m sorry,” your mother said to the Harringtons. “I can’t sell my daughter.”

The words cracked something open in the room.

Your throat tightened.

Mr. Harrington stood. “Think carefully. This offer will not remain open forever.”

“That’s fine,” you said. But it wasn’t fine. Because your mother was crying now, silently, with one hand pressed to her mouth.

And you knew. You knew what refusing meant. It meant foreclosure. Debt. Maybe bankruptcy. Maybe your mother working herself sick again. Maybe losing the only home you had ever had.

The Harringtons moved toward the door.

“Wait.”

Your mother looked up. “No.”

You didn’t look at her.

Mr. Harrington turned.

You hated him. You hated his suit and his calm voice and the way he had walked into your kitchen and placed a price tag on your life. But you loved your mother more than you hated him. “I’ll do it,” you said.

Your mother gasped. “No, you won’t.”

“Yes,” you said, though your voice shook. “I will.”

Mrs. Harrington studied you. “You understand what this means?”

“No,” you said honestly. “But I understand what it does for my mom.”

Your mother stood, crying harder now. “I won’t let you.”

You turned to her then. “You don’t get to carry everything alone anymore.”

“That is not your job.”

“You made it your job for eighteen years.”

Your mother’s face crumpled.

You stepped closer and lowered your voice. “Let me help you.”

“This isn’t help,” she whispered. “This is your life.”

You forced yourself to smile. “It’s just paperwork, right?”

But even as you said it, you knew it was a lie. Because marriage was never just paperwork. Not even when rich men wanted it to be.

- -

Steve found out the way most things in his life happened—at a table he didn’t control, surrounded by people who already decided for him. At dinner. 

Not a real dinner, of course. Real dinners involved conversation. Laughter. People asking how your day was and actually wanting the answer. Dinner at the Harrington house was crystal glasses, polished silverware, and silence interrupted only by his father clearing his throat.

Steve pushed peas around his plate and wondered how long he had to sit there before he could leave without getting yelled at.

His mother dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Your father and I have made a decision.”

Steve looked up. That sentence never ended well.

“What decision?”

His father did not look at him. “You’re getting married.”

Steve stared. Then he laughed. Neither of his parents did.

His smile faded. “You’re joking.”

“We are not,” his father said.

Steve dropped his fork. It clattered too loudly against the plate. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Language,” his mother said.

“No, seriously, what the hell does that mean?”

His father finally looked at him. “It means you will marry the girl we have chosen.”

“The girl you’ve chosen,” Steve repeated slowly. “Like I’m buying a car?”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m being dramatic?” Steve stood so quickly his chair scraped against the floor. “You just told me I’m getting married to someone I didn’t even choose.”

His mother sighed. “You know her.”

“That makes it worse.”

“You haven’t even asked who it is.”

“Because there’s no name that makes this normal!”

His father’s expression hardened. “Sit down.”

Steve didn’t. For once, he didn’t automatically obey his father like he was supposed to. 

His father’s jaw ticked. “This arrangement benefits the family.”

Steve laughed bitterly. “Of course it does.”

“It also benefits her family.”

“What, did you buy them too?”

His mother flinched. “Steven.”

“No, I want to know. What did you offer?”

His father’s silence answered.

Steve felt sick. He had spent most of his life knowing his parents were cold. Selfish, even. But this was different. This was using people. Buying people.

“You can’t do this,” Steve said.

“It’s already done.”

His stomach dropped. “She agreed?”

“She did.”

Something hot and ugly twisted in him. Of course she did. That was his first thought, and he hated himself for it almost instantly. But the bitterness came easily because bitterness always came easily when it involved his parents.

He pictured some girl agreeing to marry him because of the Harrington name, the Harrington house, the Harrington money. People had wanted things from Steve before. Popularity. Parties. Access. Status. Never him. Not really.

“So what?” he asked coldly. “She gets a mansion and I get a wife?”

His father’s eyes narrowed. “You get stability.”

Steve scoffed. “I don’t want your version of stability.”

“You don’t know what you want.”

That one hit too close.

Steve looked away.

His mother’s voice softened, but only slightly. “Steven, this could be good for you. You’ve been directionless.”

“Directionless?” he repeated.

“You work at a video store.”

“I like my job.”

His father snorted. “You like wasting time.”

Steve’s hands curled into fists. There it was again. The reminder. The disappointment. The fact that he had not become the son they wanted. Not smart enough. Not ambitious enough. Not obedient enough. Now they were arranging his life like they arranged furniture.

“No,” Steve said.

His father stood. “Excuse me?”

“I said no.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

Steve looked at him. “Watch me.”

He turned and stormed out, ignoring his mother calling his name. He grabbed his keys from the table near the front door and slammed it behind him hard enough to rattle the glass.

The night air was cold.

Steve stood in the driveway, breathing hard, staring at his car. For a second, he thought about driving until Hawkins disappeared behind him. Then he remembered he had nowhere to go.

That was the worst thing about being Steve Harrington.

Everyone thought he had everything. But nothing had ever really belonged to him. Not the house. Not the money. Not even his future.

Apparently not even his name.

- -

You met Steve two days later.

The Harringtons called it a “formal meeting,” which made it sound like a business appointment instead of the beginning of a disaster.

Your mom had insisted on coming, even though she looked like she might be sick the entire drive over. The Harrington house appeared at the end of the street like something out of a magazine. Big windows. Perfect lawn. White columns. A house so clean and expensive it felt unlived in.

You stared at it through the windshield.

Your mother parked but didn’t turn off the car. “You don’t have to do this,” she said.

You closed your eyes. “Mom.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“We can figure something else out.”

“No, we can’t.”

Your mother’s voice broke. “I hate this.”

You looked at her. “I know.”

“I hate that I need help.”

“You’re allowed to need help.”

“Not like this.”

You reached across the car and squeezed your mother’s hand. For a second, you felt little again, sitting in this same old car with scraped knees while she promised everything would be okay. Now you were the one making promises.

“Let’s just get through today,” you said.

Your mother nodded, though she looked unconvinced.

Inside, the Harrington house smelled like lemon polish and money. Mrs. Harrington greeted them with a smile that felt rehearsed, then led them into a sitting room where Mr. Harrington was already waiting.

Steve was by the window. He turned when you all entered. For one strange second, you forgot how to breathe. Because Steve Harrington looked exactly like you remembered, and somehow not at all.

The hair was still ridiculous. Perfect, even when it probably wasn’t trying to be. He wore jeans and a blue sweater that looked expensive but rumpled, like he had put it on angrily. His arms were crossed. His mouth was set in a hard line.

He looked furious.

Good, you thought. At least that made two of them.

Mrs. Harrington gestured gracefully. “You two know each other, of course.”

Steve’s eyes flicked over you.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know her.”

Something about his tone irritated you immediately.

“Nice to see you too,” you said.

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

Mr. Harrington cleared his throat. “There will be expectations.”

“Of course there will,” Steve muttered.

His father ignored him. “For the next several weeks, the two of you will be seen together publicly. Dinners, community functions, church if necessary.”

“I don’t go to church,” Steve said.

“You do now,” his mother replied.

You almost laughed but quickly stopped yourself. 

Mr. Harrington continued. “The engagement will be announced as a private family matter. The wedding will be small but respectable.”

“Respectable,” you repeated like you were trying to fully sink it all in. Because you were. 

Mrs. Harrington smiled. “Appearances matter.”

“Clearly.”

Steve looked at you then, and for the first time, something like amusement flickered across his face. It disappeared quickly.

“The living arrangement will begin immediately,” Mr. Harrington said.

Your stomach clenched. “What?”

Your mother sat forward. “That was not discussed.”

“It is necessary,” Mr. Harrington said. “If the engagement is to be believable, she should be seen here. It also simplifies planning.”

“No,” your mother said.

Your heart pounded. “I thought I would stay at home until the wedding.”

“That would be inconvenient,” Mrs. Harrington said.

“Inconvenient for who?” Steve asked.

His mother shot him a look.

You looked at Steve, surprised. He didn’t look back at you. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on his parents.

“She’s not moving in here because you decided it looks better,” Steve said.

Mr. Harrington’s voice lowered. “Steven.”

“No. That’s insane!”

You should have been grateful. Instead, you felt exposed. Like he was defending you because you were something pathetic. Something bought and dragged into his house.

“I can speak for myself,” you said.

Steve finally looked at you. “Then speak.”

Fine.

You lifted your chin. “If moving in is part of the agreement, I’ll do it.”

Your mother whispered your name.

Steve stared at you. “Are you serious?”

“No, Steve, I’m thrilled.”

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t have to act like this is normal.”

“I’m not acting like anything.”

“Then why are you agreeing to everything they say?”

The room went still. Your face burned.

Because I have to, you wanted to say. Because my mother is sitting beside me trying not to cry. Because some of us don’t get to throw tantrums and drive away in expensive cars when life gets ugly.

But you don’t say any of that. Not here. Not in front of them.

Instead, you smiled tightly. “Maybe I’m practical.”

Steve’s expression changed. Hardened. “Oh,” he said. “Right. Practical.”

You knew what he meant. You could just hear the accusation under it.

Gold digger.

Your hands curled in her lap.

“Steven,” Mrs. Harrington said warningly.

But Steve was already looking away, laughing under his breath like he had figured her out.

And something inside you snapped.

“You think I wanted this?” you asked.

Steve’s eyes came back to yours.

But you stood before you could stop yourself. “You think this is some dream for me? Moving into your giant empty house? Being handed a ring like a receipt? Having your parents talk about me like I’m a tax benefit?”

His face shifted.

You kept going. “You think I sat around hoping one day Steve Harrington’s family would decide I was useful enough to purchase?”

No one spoke.

Your mother looked devastated.

Your voice dropped. “My mother gets to keep her house,” you said. “That’s why I’m here. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

Steve said nothing. For the first time since you’d walked in, he looked unsure.

Good. Let him feel bad.

You grabbed your purse from the chair. “I need air.” Then you walked out of the room before anyone could stop you.

- -

Steve found you in the backyard ten minutes later.

You were standing by the pool, arms wrapped around yourself, staring at the water like you were trying to decide whether to scream or cry.

He stopped a few feet away. For once, he didn’t know what to say. That was rare for Steve. Usually, even when he said the wrong thing, at least he said something.

But now every sentence felt useless. So he started with the only one that mattered. “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t turn around. “For what?”

“For assuming.”

You let out a soft laugh, but there was no humor in it. “That I was marrying you for money?”

Steve winced. “Yeah.”

“Well,” you said, turning to face him, “I am.”

He blinked.

You shrugged. “Just not for myself.”

The honesty knocked the defensiveness out of him. You looked tired. Not weak. Not fragile. Just tired in a way Steve recognized more than he wanted to.

“My mom worked her whole life,” you said. “She did everything right. She raised me. She paid what she could. She never asked anyone for anything unless she was desperate.” Your voice tightened. “And now your father gets to act like he’s saving us when really, he’s using us.”

Steve looked toward the house. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “He’s good at that.”

You studied him. For the first time, you really looked at him. Not King Steve. Not rich-boy Steve. Just Steve, standing in his own backyard looking like he wanted to disappear from his own life.

“You don’t want this either,” you said.

He laughed once. “No.”

“Then why don’t you leave?”

The question hit harder than it should have.

Steve shoved his hands in his pockets. “Where would I go?”

You didn’t answer.

He looked at the pool. “Everyone thinks having money means you have options.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Sometimes.” He swallowed. “Sometimes it just means the cage is nicer.”

You looked away. The silence between you both changed. It wasn’t comfortable exactly, but it wasn’t sharp anymore.

Steve glanced at you. “For what it’s worth, I told them you shouldn’t have to move in.”

“I know.”

“You agreed anyway.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

You looked back at the house, at the glowing windows and perfect curtains. “Because if I start saying no, I’m afraid the whole deal disappears.”

Steve hated that he understood. Not because he had ever been in your position. He hadn’t. He knew that. But he understood what it felt like to have your choices held hostage by someone else’s approval.

“My father won’t back out,” Steve said. “Not if it benefits him.”

“That’s comforting.”

“Yeah, I’m known for that.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

Steve noticed.

Then you said, “I don’t want to be here.”

“I don’t want you here either.”

Your eyes snapped to his.

He immediately raised his hands. “Wait. That came out wrong.”

“No, I got it.”

“No, I mean—” He sighed. “I don’t want you forced here. I don’t want any of this.”

You looked at him for a long second. Then you nodded once. “Okay.”

It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was something.

The back door opened behind them. Mrs. Harrington appeared, her smile tight.

“There you both are,” she said. “We have more to discuss.”

Your shoulders stiffened.

Steve noticed. Without thinking, he stepped slightly closer to you. Not touching—just close enough that the two of you looked less separate.

His mother noticed too. Her smile sharpened with approval.

Steve hated that.

But you glanced at him, surprised.

He looked at you and lowered his voice. “Just get through today, right?”

Your expression softened for half a second. Then you looked back at the house. “Right.”

- -

By evening, the arrangement had become real. There were papers. So many papers. Financial agreements. Public statements. Terms and expectations dressed up in legal language. The Harringtons had lawyers for everything, including turning a girl’s sacrifice into a neat stack of signatures.

Your mother cried twice. But you did not cry once. You just couldn’t. You couldn’t break down when you had to be the strong one right now.

Steve noticed.

He sat across from you at the long dining room table, watching as you signed each page with a steady hand. Too steady. Like if you allowed even one tremor, you would fall apart completely. 

He wondered how many times you had had to be strong when you shouldn’t have needed to be. He wondered why that bothered him so much.

When it was over, Mr. Harrington stood and shook your mother’s hand.

“Everything will be handled by the end of the week,” he said.

Your mother looked like she might collapse from relief and grief at the same time.

You hugged her tightly near the front door.

Steve tried not to listen, but their voices carried.

“I’m sorry,” your mother whispered.

“Don’t.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Mom, stop.”

“You’re my baby.”

“I know.”

“You can come home anytime.”

You pulled back and smiled, but Steve could see the crack in it.

“I’m not going far.”

Your mother touched your face, memorizing you.

Then she left.

The front door shut. The house swallowed the sound.

You stood there for a moment, staring at the door.

Steve wanted to say something but his mother beat him to it.

“I’ll show you to your room.”

Your room. Not the guest room. Not a room. Your room. As if you belonged here now. You nodded and followed Mrs. Harrington up the stairs.

Steve stayed behind.

His father poured himself a drink.

“You embarrassed me today,” Mr. Harrington said.

Steve stared at him. “Good.”

His father’s eyes went cold. “Do not confuse this arrangement for freedom. You will behave appropriately.”

Steve stepped closer. “And what exactly does appropriately mean?”

“It means you will not humiliate this family.”

Steve laughed quietly. “You’re doing a pretty good job of that yourself.”

His father’s face hardened.

For a second, Steve thought he might hit him.

He didn’t.

Men like Danny Harrington didn’t need to hit. They had money for that. Lawyers. Threats. Silence.

“You’ll thank me one day,” his father said.

Steve shook his head. “No, I really won’t.”

Then he walked away.

Upstairs, he found you standing in the hallway outside the guest room, holding a small overnight bag.

Mrs. Harrington was gone.

The door was open behind you. The room inside was perfect. Too perfect. White bedspread. Pale curtains. Flowers on the dresser. A room designed by someone who had never wondered if flowers could make a prison feel less like a prison.

You looked at Steve. “Do I have a curfew too?”

He leaned against the wall. “Probably.”

“Great.”

“Welcome to the Harrington house.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“Usually it is.”

You looked down at your bag. It was small. Too small for someone moving into a house.

Steve frowned. “That’s all you brought?”

“I’m not moving my whole life in tonight.”

“Right.”

“And I didn’t know what rich people wear to forced engagements.”

Despite himself, Steve smiled. “Sweaters, mostly. Emotional repression. Boat shoes if it’s serious.”

You looked at him. Then you laughed. It was quick. Small. Gone almost immediately.

But it was real.

Steve felt oddly proud of himself.

Then your face settled again, and the moment disappeared.

“I should go to sleep,” you said.

“Yeah.”

Neither of you moved.

Finally, Steve said, “Listen. My parents are going to try to control everything.”

“I noticed.”

“But you don’t have to deal with them alone.”

You looked at him carefully. “Is that an offer?”

He shrugged, trying to look casual and failing. “Maybe.”

“Why?”

Because I know what it feels like.Because I’m sorry. Because you looked like you were going to cry downstairs and didn’t, and for some reason that made me want to break something.

Steve didn’t say any of that.

Instead, he said, “Because if we’re both stuck in this, we might as well not make it worse.”

You considered him. Then nodded. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine.”

“Great. Romantic already.”

You rolled her eyes, but there was less bite in it this time.

Steve pushed off the wall. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Steve.”

He started to walk away, then stopped.

For some reason, hearing his name from you sounded different now.

Less like an accusation.

More like the beginning of something neither of them understood yet.

He glanced back.

You were still standing in the doorway, one hand on the frame, looking into the room like you were preparing yourself to enter a life that did not belong to you.

Steve’s chest tightened. “Hey,” he said.

You looked over.

“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry this is happening to you.”

Your expression shifted. Not soft exactly. But almost.

 “Yeah,” you said. “Me too.” Then you stepped inside and closed the door.

Steve stood in the hallway for a moment after you were gone.

Downstairs, his parents’ voices murmured faintly. Outside, Hawkins was quiet. And behind the closed guest room door was the girl he was supposed to marry.

The girl who had agreed to ruin her life to save her mother’s.

The girl he had mistaken for selfish because it was easier than admitting his parents were cruel.

Steve exhaled slowly.

This was insane.

Impossible.

Temporary, maybe.

But as he walked back to his own room, one thing became painfully clear.

This wasn’t just paperwork anymore.

*.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.*

[ava-deb]

JOE KEERY as STEVE HARRINGTON — STRANGER THINGS 4 | Volume 2

[snoopyharrington]

fool

summary: when steve gets hurt in the upside down, the party doesn't know who to call — thankfully, he remembers someone he always had a crush on in high school with larger than life aspirations to become a nurse. pairing: nursing student!reader x season four steve content/warnings: mentions of wound care and cuts, scars, bruising, etc, all of steve's injuries are in reference to when he gets attacked by demobats in s4, eddie is alive bc i fucking said so, no nancy slander on my watch, i know absolutely nothing about medical care so i probably got some stuff wrong, slight references to steve's trauma (shitty parents, his king steve era, feeling unloved), major hurt comfort, happy ending!! word count: 4k

The day Nancy Wheeler calls your apartment to tell you about demogorgons and the Upside Down, you think she's playing a cruel, uncharacteristic prank on you.

You're not sure why she'd do that — you graduated high school a year and a half ago and were currently gearing up to return to Hawkins for Spring Break, because where else would you want to spend it? At first, your initial response is to sputter, and then laugh uncomfortably into the receiver of your plastic phone.

You're not even sure how she got your landline number; you live in a shitty off-campus loft and Nancy would probably only know to reach you via your parents' house, where they — and you, up until graduation — have lived their entire lives.

When you ask her that, she pauses, then avoids the question. This clearly isn't the goody two-shoes Nancy Wheeler you remember from high school.

What you do remember, however, is that she got into some hot water when she started dating Steve "The Hair" Harrington — god, what a douche he was — but last you heard, they'd broken up over some stupid misogynistic shit he pulled and she'd moved onto Jonathan Byers. You thought it was an odd pairing, but it wasn't much of your business.

"Anyway, you're in school for nursing, right?" Nancy steers the conversation effortlessly away from your questioning, and you swallow, bumping your hip against the ugly floral wallpaper that decorates the kitchen walls.

Again, you have no clue how she remembers that. You and Nancy were a year apart in school, and you were friends when you were younger, but you'd drifted apart in middle school.

"You there?" she asks.

You clear your throat. "Yeah, I'm a sophomore. Why does any of this matter, Nancy? You're not answering any of my questions, and honestly, you sound like you're on drugs or like you're having some kind of psychotic break—"

Suddenly, you're cut off by some shuffling on the other end, and you think you hear some yelling — a mix of older teenagers and prepubescent ones, then painful groaning. Your eyebrows furrow in concern.

"Nancy? Nancy, are you alright?"

"This isn't Nancy," a male voice croons on the other end. Your eyes widen. "Hi sweetheart, my name's Eddie. You might remember me, I've been a senior for like, four years. Anyway, good ol' Wheeler isn't on drugs and she isn't having a psychotic break, that I can promise. What she's telling you sounds totally bonkers, I know, because I was you a few weeks ago, but she's telling the truth. I promise."

The image in your brain only gets foggier. Was Eddie Munson on the other line? In what weird, fucked up world is Nancy Wheeler hanging out with Eddie Munson?

"So, all that aside, the reason why we're calling is because we need someone trustworthy with medical skills. Is that you? It kinda has to be, because you already know all the nitty gritty details, and we'll have to kill you if you say no."

You fumble. "Um. I- I don't know. I'm only a sophomore."

"Do you know how to take care of wounds?"

"It, um, depends on how bad they are."

"Let's say they're... moderately bad. From an animal. Hypothetically supernatural. Of the bat kind."

"What?"

"How about stitches?" Eddie continues, "Because, listen, I'm no doc, but I'm pre-tty sure Harrington could use a few."

"Harrington?" you echo, "Wait, this is about Steve Harrington?"

In the background, you hear a child's loud voice: "You said you wouldn't tell her!"

"Eddie," you say slowly, "Are there... kids there?"

"Listen, don't worry about that," he says, and it's far too nonchalant for your worrisome nature to take, "Are you able to help or not?"

You glance at your packed dufflebag on the bed. The one that was ready to spend the week at your parents' house before Nancy Wheeler called 30 minutes ago.

"Yeah," you say, grabbing your keys from the hook next to the front door. "Give me a second to grab a pen and paper, I just need the address."

Up until today, you've never been to the Harrington's house before.

In high school, you were never invited to Steve's infamous parties, but you always heard about them at school on Monday — about someone doing keg stands, about some couple, together or not, having sex, about someone jumping in the pool naked... teenage debauchery you were never part of, yet, for some reason, you yearned to experience.

The house is dark from the outside, and somehow, it feels even colder on the inside. A girl with short hair answers the door — someone you faintly recognize — and she immediately seems more down to earth, but more high-strung than Nancy.

"Hey," she greets in a tone that feels kind and familiar, and a part of you wishes you had that effect on people, "Steve's laying down in the living room. Nancy and Eddie took the kids home."

You nod as you follow her through the expansive house, all marble and tacky and wealth expressed in ways that feel frigid.

"I'm Robin, by the way," she says, "Nance said you were someone we could trust?"

You shrug. "To be honest, I'm not sure why. We were friends growing up but we grew apart... I don't even know how she got my number."

Robin waves her off, "That was all Eddie and Dustin. Don't be surprised if they hack your stuff one day."

You can't tell if she's joking or not.

In the living room, Steve Harrington — who you think you may have spoken to once when you were both juniors, and that's it — is laying shirtless on the couch, his eyes lazily half-closed while The Golden Girls play on TV. You want to snort at that, but you're more concerned about the red, bloody lashings and cuts that cover his side and throat. You swallow at the sight.

"I know Nancy kind of gave you a rundown about the whole monster thing but it's probably a little more gnarly in person," Robin says softly. She kneels down by Steve's head and presses a hand to his shoulder, shaking him gently. "Hey dingus, we brought someone to help clean you up since we're all no help."

"What did you guys do for him?" you ask, willing your nerves to fade. There's something different about working on someone you knew in high school — the attractive jock all-star everyone had a crush on, that is — instead of some random person you're practicing on.

"Um, Nance made him a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. And we're not sure if he's concussed or anything, but we've been keeping him awake... gave him water and something to eat and some ibuprofen for the pain. That's it, really... we didn't know what else, and we couldn't bring him to the hospital. He looks like he got mauled by a bear."

"Yeah," you agree humorlessly, opening your first aid kit on the floor. You pull your pen light out and bite your lip. "Do you think we can get him to sit up?"

"Sure, if you help me."

You nod, each of you taking one of Steve's arms.

"Hey Steve, we're gonna help you up a little, alright?" you say gently, tactfully pulling him up into a seating position against the couch cushions. You're surprised that he goes easily, his head flopping back as he groans. "Can you hold your head up for me? I remember you had really bitchin' hair in high school. Do you still have it?"

"'f course I do," Steve mutters, his hazel eyes languidly glazing over you. You flick your pen light on to look at his pupils. "Hey, 'member you."

"Hm?" you ask, distracted by the task at hand. He's clearly exhausted and might have been injected by some... supernatural venom, but he's not concussed, which is a win in your book. You decide to move on to cleaning the cuts on his face.

"I said I 'member you," he repeats, hissing when the alcohol cloth makes contact with the bloodied slices on his skin. "We went to school together."

"We did," you murmur, smiling softly. "We were in the same class."

"Uh-huh. Class of '85, baby!" Steve attempts to pump his fist in the air but quickly retracts in, a zip of pain ripping through his shoulder. This time, you do snort with laugher. "You're pretty when you laugh."

"Looks like you haven't changed a bit, Harrington," you say as you finish tending to the wounds on his face. "Let's take care of this thing on your neck, huh? What happened here?"

Steve shrugs nonchalantly. "Demobat tried to strangle me."

"Right," you mutter, assessing the damage. "Looks like you might have some scarring. You'll need to keep an eye on this and make sure it doesn't get infected. Do you trust anyone enough to stay here and do that?"

You look to where you thought Robin was sitting behind you, but it seems as if she's long gone.

"Don' really wanna bother anyone with it," he replies. "I can do it. 'm a big boy."

You furrow your eyebrows. "Steve, you're in seriously rough shape. Someone should be taking care of you."

He pouts. You hate to admit that it's adorable.

"Don' like asking for help."

You sigh. "It doesn't look like you need stitches or anything crazy, but let me stay the night to keep an eye on you, alright? I don't think you should be alone right now."

Steve, wide-eyed and boyish, looks to you like you just hung the moon for him.

He doesn't fight you as you continue to clean and check his wounds.

Steve sleeps for the next day.

You don't bother trying to move him to his bedroom. He's clearly comfortable, snoring away on the couch, and it sounds like he hasn't gotten enough sleep in the past month. So, you let him.

In the meantime, you don't do much. Robin left her phone number behind, so you call her periodically with updates, not that there are many. You don't know where Steve's parents are, but you remember them being quite sparse in high school, so you're unsurprised that the pattern's unbroken almost two years later.

You live out of your duffelbag and call your own parents to let them know that you got caught up with something at school and you'll hopefully be home in a few days. In the meantime, you occupy yourself with reading books that you brought along from your apartment, and when that gets boring, you watch TV and wait for Steve to wake up.

Eventually, that evening, he does.

You brace yourself. You're not sure what for — in the few hours you've spent watching doctors and nurses treat patients, you've seen some people wake up distraught, some angry, others confused and upset, but Steve does... none of those things.

His eyes blink at you blearily, craning his neck and stretching it against the arm of the couch. He lets out a low groan, one that makes your stomach flip, and you swallow, taking slow steps towards him with your first aid kit in hand.

"Hey," you greet delicately, "How are you feeling?"

Steve looks at you as you scan over the angry red marks on his throat. He has on a shirt on, but you'll need to peel back the fabric to assess the wounds on his stomach, too.

"Shitty," he croaks, his eyes widening some at the crack in his voice, "Went through puberty again, too, I guess."

You smile bemusedly before lowering to your knees and sitting back on your ankles. At eye level, Steve looks far less exhausted than he did 24 hours ago.

"You look better," you say, eyeing the cuts on his cheek. "You should eat something and drink some water. Shower, maybe."

"You saying I smell?"

"Well, if you and all your friends really aren't fucking around about all this demoshit, I would assume they can't smell great."

Steve attempts to shrug. "I've smelled worse. Like Dustin Henderson after demolishing multiple roast beef sandwiches."

You wrinkle your nose, popping open your kit to begin the process of cleaning his cuts and replacing the bandaids.

"Is there a reason why you all hang out with freshmen? Or is Nancy's brother just, like, really attached to her?"

Steve winces when the cold alcohol cloth touches his skin. You murmur out a halfhearted apology.

"'s a long story," he mutters. "I kinda... accidentally got myself involved in this and... now I'm here."

"And now you're here," you echo softly. "Barely walking with a random nurse-in-training tending to your supernatural bat wounds."

"Psshhhh," Steve turns his neck to face you, cocking his eyebrows. "'Random'? I told Nance to call you."

You pause, a mess of used, bloodied alcohol swabs on the ground beside you.

"How on earth did you know I was a nursing student?" you ask, reaching for the stack of bandaids. "We barely talked in high school. I don't even think we signed each other's yearbooks at graduation."

"Um, yes, we did," Steve says pointedly. You arch an eyebrow at him in disbelief. "Go upstairs to my room. Hawkins Class of '85, the yearbook is on my shelf."

"I'll pass for now," you smirk.

"Anyway," he huffs dramatically. "We were lab partners spring semester junior year. You were always really good at science and I vividly remember asking you why you liked that stuff so much — you're the only reason why I even passed anatomy, and you said you wanted to be a nurse."

"You remember that?"

He shrugs. Like it's insignificant. Like you're surprised anyone can even recall your name instead of just passing over your face like a mushy blob.

"I just thought it was cool," Steve continues. "No one I knew at the time had any idea what they wanted to do, and you were so set already. Even when I was a senior, I had no clue. I was just gonna hang around Hawkins and work for my dad and... I just thought, maybe I could be like you, y'know?"

Your face warms, so you busy yourself with tidying the mess you've made on the ground. It feels silly to be so awestruck by Steve Harrington and yet... how couldn't you be?

"That's really nice, Steve. Thank you." you say softly. His face melts, matching the sweet smile on your face, and he almost looks relieved.

"Thank you for coming here," he mumbles. "I know it's not, like... your typical situation."

"I'm happy to help," you reach out hesitantly and place your hand against his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Let me make you something to eat, alright?"

You don't anticipate staying another night at Steve's, but it just... happens.

You make dinner for the two of you while the local news plays lowly in the living room, the TV flashing against Steve's tired face. Together, you eat grilled cheese sandwiches in silence. You hand him a glass of water between bites and then offer him a Gatorade.

After dinner, you run a shower for him in the ensuite bathroom of his bedroom. You lay towels out for him and slowly help him up the stairs, just like he's any other patient, and not the boy who could make any girl, teenager, or woman in Hawkins fall to their knees just with a flick of his eyes. You tell him to shout if he needs you, but you secretly hope he doesn't. You're not sure if you could spare yourself the embarrassment of helped a naked, wet, injured Steve Harrington.

While he showers, you make his bed and prep your supplies so you can tend to his cuts and wounds when he gets out. It's a repetitive but necessary process to prevent any infections, and Steve's lucky he didn't need stitches or anything worse. You're fumbling with your collection of travel-sized bottles of topical antibiotics when Steve emerges from the steamy bathroom in a pair of gym shorts and an old Hawkins High School shirt.

You look up, your polite greeting suddenly lost in your throat at the sight of his wet hair and tired eyes. There's something devastating and boy-like about his appearance, and your heart twists in your chest. You try to shove it down.

"That was exhausting," Steve mumbles, his posture slightly slumped. He eyes his bed, then where you sit on the carpeted floor. "Oh— did you— are you leaving?"

"I hadn't really thought about it," you admit. "I just thought it might be more comfortable for you to sleep in your own bed instead of the couch. And I have to redo all your bandages and stuff."

Steve nods. "Where do you want me, doc?"

"On the bed is fine."

By this point, you and Steve have familiarized yourself with this process, and with each gentle clean and touch, his wounds get a little bit better. You assume he'll be able to do this for himself at some point in the near future, but there's a part of you — the caretaker, nurse part of you, you assume — that really likes doing it for him.

He lifts his shirt, twisting slightly to showcase the bruising and sores on his side.

"Can you stay another night?"

For a moment, you pause. Glance up at him, but his eyes are focused on the Hawkins basketball team pendent tacked up on the wall. You continue adhering the band-aid to his skin.

"I can do that," you say softly. "You're healing up well, though. I can teach Robin or Nancy, or whoever you want, to do this, if you'd like."

Steve doesn't immediately reply. Not when you gently pull down the material of his worn sleep shirt and help him back into a sitting position, and not when he runs a hand through his damp hair.

"Will you grab the yearbook off the shelf?"

Your eyes follow to where he's pointing and you nod, standing from your spot on the bed. You retrieve it and hand it to him, watching as he flips to the back pages. It doesn't take him long to find the masses of autographs — not to mention, a couple of lipstick marks and more than a few phone numbers.

"Looks like you had quite a few admirers." you joke.

"Yeah, and none of them cared once high school wasn't real anymore," he snorts humorlessly. It's a second more before he points to your messy handwriting, shoving the yearbook into your lap. Sure enough, your signature is there, followed by a short message. "Read it and weep, doc."

You roll your eyes. "So? Everyone signs each other's yearbooks at the end of the year. It's a whole nostalgia thing."

"Read it."

"To Steve," you read aloud, "It's been great going to school with you all these years. Excited to see where you land. Wishing you the best of luck."

You look up at him expectedly. He shoots you a look.

"Keep going."

Below your handwriting is someone's unfamiliar penmanship. It takes you a few seconds to decipher it, but when you do, your stomach flips.

Coolest girl in Hawkins. Super smart. Wants to be a nurse. If she ever comes back to this loser town, it's a sign I have to ask her out.

"Who wrote that?"

Steve puffs out a breathy laugh. "Who do you think?"

"You thought that about me?"

"Of course." he says it like it's the easiest answer in the world. "I still do."

You can't help it when a loud laugh bubbles up out of you. Steve grins, wide and toothy, and you think it's the cutest thing you've ever seen in the world.

"I think you're delusional, Harrington. Maybe you are concussed."

"You said I wasn't, and you've been a damn good nurse so far."

You laugh again, shaking your head at the boy before you. You feel unbelievably giddy, like you just found out your middle school crush likes you back.

And maybe, really, that's exactly what it is — even if you're hesitant to admit it to yourself.

With a swallow, Steve gently shuts the hard covered yearbook before pushing it to the side, as if closing it will put some kind of finality to the ridiculousness of everything that was Hawkins High.

You remember Steve having a rough go of it his senior year. You don't know the details, but you heard rumors. No college acceptances, Nancy Wheeler drunkenly breaking up with him at a Halloween party that fall. It had been a long freefall for King Steve — one that had twisted up your insides at the time, even if the extent of your interactions were longing glances in the hallways.

"Stay," Steve suddenly says, and this time, his ask is breathier, quieter than it was 20 minutes ago.

You look at him. Allow your eyes to wash over the golden boy sitting in front of you, who's no longer such a golden boy at all, but bruised and beaten down and cut up by supernatural forces that you still don't quite understand. He's been swallowed up and spit out by Hawkins and young adulthood and Scoops Ahoy and Nancy Wheeler and Tommy Hagan and Mr. and Mrs. Harrington and even his latest venture at Family Video, where he works with Robin but regularly gets yelled at by teens trying to rent R-rated movies.

(He swears it's not that bad, but his eyes all but twitched at the mention of his boss, who apparently has a dictator-like approach to running the store.)

"I already told you I'll stay." you reply softly, hand pressing into the soft mattress. Your fingers make an indentation in the foam, and Steve's mouth parts. Carefully, he reaches out, his larger palm covering yours. Your breath hitches in your throat and you feel like the biggest loser alive, your gaze remaining low on your now-joined fingers.

"No... I mean, stay here. In my bed. If you're comfortable." Steve amends. He almost sounds nervous, and it finally makes you look up. When you do, his eyes are wide, and you realize you're right.

You nod. "Do you want the TV on?"

He thinks for a moment. The past few nights, you've been sleeping to the sounds of the local news and late night re-runs of sitcoms. You don't ask why and Steve's grateful for it.

"No, 's fine," he decides, trying to shift into a more comfortable position against the pillows.

"Don't strain yourself," you scold. "I'll help you move if you need it."

Steve snorts lowly as you round the bed, clicking the lamp off. His bedroom, now bathed in the inky blue of 1 1 pm, feels less intimidating this way.

You climb in on the other side, pulling his comforter over your body.

"Are you comfortable?" he asks as you move onto your side.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"Shush."

You smile. Steve doesn't miss it.

He wishes he could face you, but he can't with the wounds on his side. Instead, he lays on his back, his arm splayed out between you two, his hand palm face up. It's quiet for the first few minutes as you both listen to each other's breathing.

Steve's not sure if you're sleeping when he says it.

"Can I ask you something?"

You open your eyes. "Hm?"

"Sorry. Did I wake you up?"

"No," you answer honestly. "I was drifting a little, but I'm awake. What'd you wanna ask?"

He pauses. Promises himself he won't lose his nerve.

"When I'm a little better... Maybe before you head back to school, or maybe in the summer when you come back, like after the semester's over... can I take you on that date?"

Steve stretches his neck to look at you. Even with his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he can't quite make out your facial expression, with the way you're biting your lip and smiling at him. He can't figure out if you're looking at him with pity or if you're excited, but either way, he can't recall the last time he was this nervous to ask someone out.

And then, he feels your hand slide into his, and it's like all of his worries never even existed at all.

"I would really, really love that, Steve." you murmur, intertwining your fingers with his.

You both grin at each other in the dark like fools.

[lovebugism]

PRESS PLAY ─── jack abbot

summary: jack returns home from work, earlier than you expect him to, and catches you getting off to another's man voice. (2k)

pairing: jack abbot / fem!reader

contents: established relationship, shy!reader, basically just an excuse to write smth about that shawn hatosy quinn audio lol, not proofread, cw for smut 18+ (MDNI), caught in the act, oral (fem receiving), while listening to audio porn

( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )

In retrospect, Jack knew something was off the second he stepped through the door.

It was the strange quiet that tipped him off — your absence, more so. There was no soft padding of your footsteps down the hall, no half-distracted greeting from the couch where you’re usually curled up and watching some reality TV show (that Jack swears he hates but always gets a little too invested in), no absentminded “hi, honey” tossed over your shoulder as you tend to daily household chores.

Jack, for the first time in a long time, is greeted by nothing but silence. The clinking of his keys hitting the coffee table sounds much louder in the foreign quiet — so does the sound of his creaking footsteps down the hall. He worries that you’re sick, or worse, and then forces himself to shake away that thought as he heads for the bedroom.

“Baby?” he calls into the quiet, as his fingers twist on the cold brass knob. The silence he gets in return is hardly reassuring.

He pushes the squeaking door open, then freezes in the threshold when he finds you there — perfectly well and languishing in the unmade sheets. Your bulky headphones are snug over our ears; your head is tossed back against the pillow; your eyes are fluttered shut. Your phone rests just beside you, the screen glowing faintly in the lamplit room.

And, in the stillness, Jack can hear a subtle and unmistakable humming sound coming from beneath the blankets, where your knees are bent and spread.

Jack almost retreats. His instinct tells him to — to give you your privacy, to close the door, to pretend he hadn’t walked in on such an intimate moment. But something deeper roots him in place; the strange warm feeling swirls in his chest, maybe. 

There’s something strangely intimate, he finds, in watching you when you think no one is looking — when you have nothing and no one to perform for. You look peaceful, completely undone, totally in your own world. 

Jack freezes in the doorway when you shift on the bed, sinking further into the mattress as you adjust the vibrator between your thighs. It seems to hit the spot, as you exhale a whimpered sigh a second later. 

So Jack just decides to watch you — he migrates to the desk chair, in hopes of relieving the strain of his prosthetic, but the old floorboards betray him with a soft creak.

You don’t react immediately, but your expression flickers a bit, as a subtle awareness prickles up your spine. You worry, briefly, that someone may be watching you — you always are, in a way, especially when your headphones are on — but you struggle now to shake the feeling.

Your eyes flutter open, if only to prove to yourself that there’s no one there, and they widen in shock when they land on Jack in the corner of the room.

“What the fuck—?” you exclaim, clicking the vibrator off with one hand and slinging off your headphones with the other.

Jack startles, too. His hands lift in surrender as a laugh sputters from his lips. “Sorry! Sorry, I— I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Your face burns red-hot. You can feel the heat climbing up your neck and to your ears as your eyes flit to his eyes and away again. “H-How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long,” he shrugs and crosses his strong arms over his chest. His freckled biceps strain against the sleeves of his black tee, which he wears tucked into his camo fatigues. A crooked smile tugs slow at his mouth as he tilts his head. “Two minutes. Give or take.”

“I thought you weren’t coming home until later— Why didn’t you say something?”

“I tried to,” he quips, brows raised to his hairline. “But then I realized you were having a pretty good time in here, so… I didn’t want to interrupt.”

You bury your burning face into your hands. “That’s so embarrassing…” you groan, muffled into your palms.

Jack’s laughter doesn’t make you feel any better. 

“Why is it embarrassing?” he chuckles as he closes the distance between you. 

You can tell that he’s limping from the quiet scuff in his step. The mattress sinks under his weight as he sits on the edge of it, relieving the ache in his amputated limb that he’s been carrying all day. 

He looks over his shoulder at you, lips curling into a sly smirk when he can still hear your headphones playing from just beside you. It’s a muffled, indistinct humming that he can’t quite make out, but it’s very obviously someone else’s voice.

He nods towards it, silver curls turning golden in the amber light. “What are you listening to over there, huh?”

“Nothing,” you answer, a little too quickly, as you take the headphones back into your hands.

“Oh, yeah?” he hums. “Let me see.”

You jerk them away when he reaches out for them. “Don’t…” you murmur, all shy, like a scolded child.

“I’m not upset, baby,” he assures with a gritty laugh. “I just wanna know what you’re into. That’s all.” 

He eases the headphone from your grip; this time, with little protest from you. He holds your weary gaze with his glimmering one as he slips them over his own ears. He’s met with a bassy, masculine voice: “—God, you’re so sexy… Look at how you’re dripping on my fingers, baby…”

You watch, mortified, as confusion etches across his weathered face — eyes squinting and brows lowering. “Who is this?” he asks.

“No one,” you mutter, gaze averted, as you pick at pills of cotton on the blanket with anxious hands. “He’s just… some guy on the internet. I don’t even know what he looks like, he just makes… You know… Audio stuff.”

“Audio stuff, huh?” Jack echoes with raised brows, before huffing a quiet laugh. “God, I’m old…”

He slides the headphones from his silver curls and passes them back to you with something different etched across his features now, something thoughtful. Curious. Interested, even.

“…You’re not mad?” you wonder in a timid voice.

“Why would I be mad?” he scoffs, then bounces a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I think it’s hot. I like knowing what you’re into.”

He leans in to kiss you, and your stomach does a back flip. His scruff brushes your delicate skin when his lips meet yours. You melt against him with a heavy sigh through your nose, as some of the embarrassment from before slips from your skin.

“C’mon,” he slurs between his kisses. “Keep listenin’ for me…”

You pull back, features screwed. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he nods once, without taking his unwavering stare off yours.

Your fingers tremble with hesitancy as you go to put the headphones back over your ears. Jack’s hand catches your wrist in a soft, calloused grip — redirecting you with a gentle touch. 

“No,” he says in a gravelly voice, eyes low and lidded. “Let it play.”

He reaches over and taps your phone screen with his pointer finger — once to disconnect the wireless headphones and second to unpause the audio. The voice resumes, sounding a little foreign now as it plays throughout the otherwise silent bedroom.

“—You always get so sweet for me when I kiss your neck,” the masculine voice slurs.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat. 

He props his fist beside your blanketed thighs and twists his upper body to lean in closer. His warm breath fans over your jaw right before he plants a wet kiss to your neck. Your jaw tightens as you fight back a shiver.

“See? I can feel your heart racing for me…” the stranger mumbles between mimed kisses. “Let me see if I can find that sweet spot, huh? Right… here…”

Jack’s teeth graze over your pulse point — not enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath hitch. You raise your hands to his shoulders, balling the fabric of his shirt into your fists. His mouth curls into a slow smile against you, and you sigh when his scruff brushes your delicate skin.

“You love this, huh?” Jack mumbles into your skin.

“This is…” you trail off in mild anguish. “Both incredibly hot and wildly embarrassing.” 

“Why is it embarrassing?” the older man laughs, as his lips slide over the thrumming tendon of your neck.

“I don’t know…” you mumble, trailing your hands up and over his broad shoulders until your fingers find the silver curls at the nape of his neck. “I feel like… Like you just caught me watching porn or something, and now we’re watching it together— It just feels weird.”

Jack hums against you, as if it were a proposition that needed considering.

“Sounds pretty fun to me,” he hums and pulls off of you with a quiet click. His mouth is softly swollen from his kisses, and his eyes are lidded and glittering with mischief when they lock with yours. “Wanna try that later?”

You swallow hard, features crumpling in distant shame as you squeak out, “Yeah…”

Jack’s grin widens right before he presses it to your mouth — in a lengthier and more languid kiss that pushes you slowly back into the mattress again. You sigh hard through your nose when his tongue licks into you, like velvet in your mouth. Your fingers tug harder at his silver curls, and you smile to yourself when he groans quietly against you.

He follows the direction of the foreign male voice spilling from your phone, and it leads him to your spread legs — where a wet patch has already started to form in the thin cotton of your underwear. You melt into the mattress when his strong arms wrap around your thighs to hug you close against him.

“Look at how wet you are for me, baby… Your pussy’s just begging for my mouth, huh? God, you’re such a little slut for me, aren’t you?”

Jack freezes, mid-kiss on your inner thigh. He flashes you an amused look up your clothed body, clad in one of his oversized t-shirts that’s slipping off your shoulder now.

“Do you like being talked to like that?” he asks.

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water for an embarrassing moment. “I… I don’t know… Maybe?”

“Hm… Good to know,” Jack nods and gets back to work.

“I’ll warm you up with my tongue first, okay? Nice and slow…”

Jack takes the instruction in stride. 

He slips his pointer finger in the hem of your panties, slipping the fabric to the side, until your drooling pussy is on display for him — already needy and craving the orgasm it missed beforehand. 

Jack ducks down to lick a fat stripe up the length of your cunt in time with the sound effects of the audio. His tongue slots just perfectly within your silken folds.

Your mouth parts in a silent moan as your head tips back against the pillow. You feel Jack smiling against you when your hips buck instinctively to chase his mouth. 

“You like that?” he mumbles, in time with the foreign voice playing just beside you.

You exhale a breathless laugh that turns into a moan when Jack returns to your pussy, kissing you there like he would your mouth. He groans against you when your fingers twist harder in his curls; the vibrations only add to your sensitivity. Your whine swells within the walls of the quiet bedroom, entwining with the wet sounds from the audio and the realer ones coming from between your thighs.

“Now… How about I suck on the pretty little clit, huh? Get it nice and swollen for me…”

Your face flares at the overtly crude language.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat.

He spreads your velvety folds with his thumb and forefinger, bearing the most sensitive part of you for him. His lips wrap around your clit a second later, and your thighs clench instinctively around his head. His scruff prickles at your delicate skin when you jerk against him. A cry spills from your parted mouth before you can stop it.

“Wait, wait, wait—” you hear yourself say.

Jack pulls off of you with a quiet smack. His eyes are lidded; his mouth is swollen; his chin is coated in a layer of your slick. “Too much?” he asks.

You lift your head to stare down your body at the man between your thighs, nodding until the words catch up to you. “I’ll— I’ll cum too fast if you keep doing that.”

His brows lift as something teasing swims in his heavy eyes. “Isn’t that the point?”

Jack returns to your weeping pussy, licking and sucking you there, with noises far more lewd than the ones spilling from the speaker beside your head. There is no further protest from you, as he drags an orgasm from your trembling body — a much more powerful one than you would’ve gotten with just your vibrator, had he not walked in on you. His fingers threaten to dig bruises into the plush of your thighs as your hips twitch wildly against his face.

“Good girl— Good fucking girl,” the stranger’s deep voice croons throughout the quiet bedroom, coaching you through the orgasm Jack gives you with nothing but his tongue.

He caresses you gently on the comedown, with his calloused hands and his wet mouth, molding you back together again as he kisses his way back up your trembling body. 

The voice on the phone continues while the two of you work with graceless limbs to undress — your fingers scramble with the buttons of his camo pants while he tugs his shirt up and over his body by the neckline.

A heavy sigh grumbles in the back of Jack’s throat when you free his half-hard cock from the confines of his boxers, pulling the hem down beneath his heavy balls. His muscular chest, flushed with need, heaves as you take him into your hand.

“I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?” the masculine voice continues to slur. “You don’t have to beg for it, baby, I’m gonna give it to you. I’m gonna give you all of it—” 

Jack reaches for the phone again while you massage his cock the rest of the way hard; he feels like heavy velvet in your fist. He taps the screen to pause it.

“Alright, enough of that,” he huffs as he shifts on his knees. “I need to focus.”

You blink up at him, a little dazed from your lingering orgasm, as a smile curls slowly at your lips. “Aren’t you supposed to be good at multitasking, Dr. Abbot?”

“Multitasking’s for paperwork, baby,” the older man quips with a smug smirk and a pair of squinted eyes. He takes his stiff cock in his fist and eyes you carefully as you lean back onto your elbows, thighs nice and spread for him. “And this—”

He nudges the drooling tip of his cock against your already sensitive clit and grins wider when your head tips back with a moan.

“This deserves my full attention, don’t ya think?”

[harringtonsdiary]

How to Become Someone's Muse (For all the Wrong Reasons)

Steve Harrington would like you to check out his website!

steve harrington x reader fanfiction | rockstar! steve | 90s AU | no upside down | how to lose a guy in 10 days AU | rom-com | fluff | mutual lying | eventual smut | happy ending

summary

[jobean12-blog]

At Last

Pairing: Din Djarin x reader with lots of cute Grogu too!

Word Count: 5.6K

Summary: After your home planet is destroyed by The Empire and you're taken prisoner, someone and something unexpected comes to your rescue.

Author's Note: Once again, I'm terrible at summaries but this is my first time writing for Mando and honestly, I've been enjoying it so much. Took me almost a week to get it done but thankfully I did. I've read up on quite a few things that say his first name is Djarin and some say Din. I went with Djarin but of course whatever works for you is best. Being a huge SW fan I also tried to be true to the lore and all that but forgive me for any mistakes. Thank you all so much for reading and sharing! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Thank you Daisy @firefly-graphics for the divider!

Warnings: there's some light angst over past experiences but nothing is mentioned in detail, mostly it's light and fun and adventurous and flirty and Mando is just yummy and there's a no helmet reveal lol and lots of Grogu silliness.

The dampness of the cave begins to seep into your clothing, and you can’t staunch the consistent shivering of your body any longer. With your hands bound and your mouth covered in the harsh cloth you really can’t do much at all.

At the sound of someone-or something- approaching, you let the first tear slip free. After being dragged from your home, bound and gagged, and thrown into wherever this was you were sure nothing good could come next.

The shadows along the wall grow taller, the being that approaches something you’re sure you’ve never seen before. You plaster yourself to the cold stone, disappearing into the darkness as much as you can and try to slow your rapid breathing.

When the creature finally reaches the bars of your cell you can barely make it out, but you remain silent, willing it to go away. It steps closer and cocks it’s head to the side, revealing wide eyes and long, slim ears. It’s much smaller than you thought it would be.

It blinks several times, tilting it’s head as it studies you. You still don’t dare make a move but then it makes a sound, almost like a soft coo and you can’t help the way your interest piques and your fear lessens. That is, until it lifts its three fingered hand and squints as if focusing. You brace yourself for pain but let out an exhaled huff of surprise when you hear the lock break.

You keep your eyes squeezed shut, too afraid to open them but when a soft sound of interest hits your ear, far closer than before you suck in a breath and open them.

The creature is standing right in front of you, so small it barely reaches your bent knees. It keeps studying you before it takes another step closer. You instinctively squeeze yourself against the wall, but it continues to advance until it reaches your bound wrists.

Reaching out again, it’s hand hovers over the metal binding and then with a clank they break apart and fall to the ground. You’re breathing quickens as you slowly reach for the cloth secured across your mouth but then you hear the heavy footfall of boots and the little creature scampers closer to you as if to hide.

“Grogu?” a deep voice calls. “Where the hell did he get off to?”

Whoever approaches speaks with an exasperated and grumpy tone and once they’re standing in front of your cell you realize you might actually really be in trouble this time. The dim light from the torches in the hallway glint and gleam off the armor that covers him from head to toe, and his broad shoulders fill most of the cell doorway.

A Mandalorian.

His head cocks to the side slightly, the sight mirroring the way the small creature still hiding next to you first observed you.

“Grogu,” he sighs. “What are you doing in here?”

You still haven’t removed the cloth over your face, but you hold up your unbound hands to show they’re empty before taking it off.

“He opened my cell,” you say, voice raspy from your screams from earlier.

The Mandalorian steps closer, allowing light to filter past his body, and takes you in. Since you can’t see his face you can’t read his expression, but he stares for a bit too long and Grogu moves toward him.

“Come on, we have to go,” the Mandalorian says and holds out his hand.

“No!” you shout a bit too loud. “Please…”

The Mandalorian tilts his head again and just as you’re about to fill the silence with another plea you hear the distinct sounds of a group of droids running down the hallway.

“Now Grogu!” he yells.

Grogu looks at the Mandalorian and then at you and doesn’t budge. You keep your hands in clear view and start to stand on shaky legs. They almost give out and you fall against the wall, wincing as your achy and tired joints rebel and you slide back down to the floor.

The Mandalorian turns on his heel and pulls out his blaster, positioning himself flat against the bars of the cell to peek out into the hallway.

“We’re running out of time,” he grumbles. “We’re leaving.”

Grogu finally vocalizes his emotions in a series of coos and squeaks, all of which sound adamant.

“No.” The gravelly voice leaves little room for argument in the single word, but Grogu doesn’t relent, his clear argument growing louder with every sound.

The Mandalorian’s shoulders slump and he lets out a defeated sigh. “Fine,” he groans.

Grogu turns to you with the flash of a triumphant smile in his eyes.

“Get up,” the Mandalorian says gruffly, his attention now on you.

You push yourself up with shaky muscles, but the events of the last twenty-four hours have finally caught up to you. Before you can tell him you’re struggling he reaches out a gloved hand. Your hesitant at first but as the sounds of the droids get louder you close your fingers around his and allow him to steady you on your feet.

“Stay behind me and keep up,” he says quietly. “My ship isn’t far.”

You nod and as he turns around you grip the back of his jet pack, holding on as he stealthily moves across the cell back toward the door. He holds up his hand, and you wait, loosening your grip on him as he surges forward and starts blasting the droids.

Every shot finds its target with deadly precision, and you trail behind him with Grogu. Amid the chaos you lean down as ask, “do you want a lift?”

Grogu nods and even with your tired limbs you easily lift him into the your arms. The Mandalorian makes easy work of the droids and within seconds you see his ship looming ahead.

“Wow,” you breathe out when the Razor Crest comes into full view.

He ushers you up the gangway, still shooting until the door is almost closed. You follow him to the cockpit, your heart racing as you dash toward the unknown.

“Sit,” he commands and you’d be more annoyed with his gruff tone if he hadn’t just saved your life.

Well…technically it was the cute little alien that freed you from the cell. Either way, you were in no position to argue so you sat with a thump and buckled your seat belt. Grogu hopped into a seat clearly made for him and did the same.

You watched as the Mandalorian punched in some coordinates and pulled several levers. Once the ship was safely out of the planet’s atmosphere you let out a loud sigh of relief, dropping your head back against the cushioned seat.

Grogu releases himself and waddles over to you.

“Hey!” the Mandalorian says. “What did I tell you about walking around the ship while we’re flying?”

Grogu makes a distinct noise of nonchalant dismissal and continues toward you, hopping up into your lap. He studies you just as he was when you were in the cell.

“Hi Grogu,” you say quietly.

What you think is a smile graces his expression and you smile back then tell him your name.

“He’s really cute,” you say. “Did you rescue him too?”

“Something like that,” the Mandalorian answers after a pause.

“What’s you name?” you ask him.

“You’ve got a lot of questions…”

“Well you’re not very talkative so…”

After another long pause he replies. “Djarin. Din Djarin.”

“Nice to meet you Djarin. And really. Thank you. I owe you my life.”

He nods, the action barely perceptible but when it’s clear he’s not into talking more you purse your lips together and look back at Grogu who cocks his head and coos.

Your stomach grumbles and it startles him, but he quickly recovers and drops to the floor to a small bag. He pulls out what looks like a blue cookie and brings it to you.

“Thanks,” you say with a smile.

He grabs two for himself and happily munches away.

“Lucky he didn’t offer you one of his frogs,” Djarin says and you’re sure you hear a hint of a smile in his voice.

You make a face but school your features quickly so as not to upset Grogu. After another cookie and some water you settle into the seat, realizing how tired you are. You’re just thinking you should ask where Djarin is taking you, but your brain starts to get hazy and your eyelids grow heavy.

You wake to the feel of warmth and softness, slowly blinking your eyes until they focus. The image before you has you gasping for a breath of air as you instantly back away. Your heart rams against your ribcage until you finally realize you’re only staring at Grogu’s curious face.

“I told him to let you sleep but he won’t leave your side.”

At Djarin’s deep voice you look up to find him hovering nearby, his stance casual as he leans against the wall.

“He just startled me is all,” you explain. “How did I get in here?”

“You feel asleep,” Djarin answers in a matter-of-fact tone.

“So I guess I just walked here while sleeping…”

He sighs and shakes his head. “I carried you in here after you feel asleep in the cockpit.”

You’re about to tell him thank you but he continues on. “Not the most comfortable place to get some rest.”

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“We’re making a stop at Nevarro. Then I can take you back to wherever you’re from.”

You sit up and hug your knees into your chest. “There’s nothing to go back to.”

With a sniffle you turn your face away and he doesn’t prod you for more information.

“Let’s just get to Nevarro first,” he finally says.

“I was a droid engineer,” you offer after silence fills the space, “on my home planet.”

“I don’t care for droids.”

“Probably because you haven’t met the right one.”

“I’ve met too many.”

“None that I’ve built.”

He scoffs lightly and pushes off the wall.

“Come on. Let’s get you something to eat.”

He offers you the bowl of hot soup. “Aren’t you going to eat?” you ask.

Grogu’s loud and happy slurps make both you and Djarin look his way before Djarin answers. “I’ll eat later.”

Before you can ask him why he disappears down the nearby ladder.

After a full belly of soup you start to explore the ship, running your fingertips along the metal ridges and grooves as you slowly walk down one of the hallways. When you reach a thatched grate you cover your mouth to stifle your surprised gasp.

“It’s a good thing you’re not an enemy.”

This time you jump from surprise and spin around. “Where did you come from?”

“This is my ship,” Djarin answers as if that answers your question.

“I can’t believe you have a mobile carbonite freezing system...are you…”

“We’re almost there,” he interrupts. “I suggest you find a seat,” he adds, before stalking off.

The planet of Nevarro is not what you expect. The dry and dark volcanic rocks that line its surface are uneven under your feet, and each step kicks up a plume of dust. When you look out over the horizon you see much of the same, no sign of the city in sight.

“We’re almost there,” Djarin says as he reaches out to catch you when you stumble on a loose rock.

His hand steadies you at your waist, lingering before he pulls it away and keeps walking.

After what feels like another ten miles you see a small cabin up ahead. It’s nestled against a backdrop of the same rocky mountains you’ve passed since landing the ship, scattered rocks framing the small abode and one lone tree out front.

“It’s not much…,” Djarin starts as you near the home, but before he can say more you pick up your pace and with renewed energy follow Grogu and his hover pram to the door.

“Are you kidding?” you say with excitement. “This is so much better than where I was living before.”

Djarin cocks his head as he watches you flit around the space, touching everything- much to his annoyance-with a wide smile on your face.

“Just make yourself at home,” he says with a wry tone.

You stop in you tracks and drop your hand from the weapon you were just about to grab. “Sorry,” you mumble. “It’s just…”

“Just what?” he asks, softer than before.

“I like your house.”

You turn away, fidgeting the trinkets on the counter.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to get us dinner.”

He’s out the door before you can respond and you sigh, dropping your shoulders as you look around. Grogu hops over and reaches for your hand. He leads you back outside to the front of the house and pulls a shiny silver ball from this robe.

With slow steps he distances himself from you then turns and lifts the ball in the air. It floats in front of him and you marvel at the sight.

“How do you do it?” you whisper.

He then makes a forward motion with his hand and the ball floats toward you until you can grasp it. “I can’t float it back like you do.”

He cocks his head with a soft coo.

“Is it ok if I just gently throw it back?”

He nods and as carefully as possible you throw the ball back. It stops just a few inches before Grogu’s hand, hovering in midair before he pushes it back to you with some invisible force.

You continue you playing this way, laughing when he starts sending it careening toward you at different angles and heights, clearly making you reach for it. You’ve just caught his last wonky ‘throw’ when you hear the scuffle of boots along the dry ground.

“Watch he doesn’t hit you in the head with that,” Djarin says and the lightness in his voice catches you off guard. You lose concentration as you focus on Djarin and the ball comes flying back toward you. Before you’ve even had time to react, Djarin throws himself in front of you and catches it.

“Shit,” you mutter, looking over at Grogu who has what looks like an innocent expression on his face.

Djarin groans and chucks the ball back toward Grogu, who stops it easily, then ushers you into the house.

“At least you have all that armor on,” you say as you walk next to him. “I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt if you got hit with it.”

“Depends on how hard he sends it,” Djarin says, tone serious.

“How does he do that?” you ask as you help him unload the supplies and fresh meat.

“He’s force sensitive,” Djarin states.

“A Jedi…” you say in breathless wonder as you watch Grogu try to stealthily steal a bit of meat from behind Djarin and slurp it into his mouth messily.

“He’s still in training and I’m not a very good teacher,” Djarin says, clearly aware of Grogu’s attempts.

“He certainly has good control of that ball.”

“That’s nothing. I’ve seen him do…,” and he goes silent for a moment before continuing, “some incredible things.”

Djarin starts to prepare the Qartuum meat for cooking but you still his hand and take the blade. “Let me. It’s the least I can do.”

“You know what you’re doing?” he asks, the hint of lightness in his voice stalling you again.

You nod. “I’ve had to fend for myself for a long time.”

He gives you a sound of understanding and stands, clearing a spot to sit and eat.

“Will you take your helmet off to eat?” you ask, not daring to look up as you skin the goatlike creature.

When at first he doesn’t answer you slowly lift your gaze to his. Grogu looks between the two of you and makes a noise you can’t interpret.

“No one asked you,” Djarin says as he turns to Grogu.

You cover your mouth with the back of your hand to quiet your chuckle, and Grogu makes another string of noises.

“That has nothing to do with it,” Djarin says in response.

You listen to the one-sided argument and try your best to keep your laughter at a minimum, but when Grogu extends his hand toward Djarin and you see his beskar helmet start to lift you let out a gasp.

“What did I tell you about that?” Djarin admonishes. “Don’t.”

Grogu makes a squeal of clear dispute and tugs on it again. Djarin holds it down and grumbles something incoherent.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

Djarin’s helmet drops back down, and he grunts with a frustrated sigh.

“I can eat outside if you prefer,” you say, the words fast and filled with anxiety. “Or you can eat outside and I’ll stay in. Or I can go somewhere else entirely…”

He stops your rant with a gentle raise of his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

As he walks out the doorway to dispose of the Qartuum carcass you stare, silently mulling over your thoughts of what he might look like under the helmet and all that armor.

“Is he handsome?” you ask Grogu in a whisper, giggling when he tilts his head and lowers his ears with several blinks of his big round eyes. “I have no idea if that’s a yes or no but hopefully I’ll find out soon.”

Djarin serves both you and Grogu then mumbles something about needing to check the condenser unit behind the house.

He’s still out there when you finish eating. “Need some help?” you ask as you watch him fiddling with a part.

With a slow turn of his head you can imagine him looking back at you with narrowed eyes.

“I promise I know what I’m doing…with this stuff at least.”

He steps away from the unit and motions for you to take a look. “Oh…I’ve seen this before. We just need a new motor.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” you repeat.

He mumbles something and shakes his head before stalking into the cabin. When he returns he has several parts in his hand. “Wasn’t sure which one,” he says as he holds them out.

You place your palm under his gloved hand, cradling it as you search through the motors with the other hand. “This will do.”

As you step back to admire your handwork you trip on another loose rock, your ankle twisting as you lose your footing and start to careen toward the ground.

You let out a preemptive scream that quickly dies in your throat when strong arms wrap around your waist, your body now cradled against the firm armor of Djarin.

“Do you usually trip and fall this much?” he asks with a light chuckle.

You glare at his helmet.

“Technically I haven’t fallen once!”

“Thanks to me,” he adds.

You’re still in his arms, neither of you moving away as you banter.

“Then I guess you better stay close.”

The words are out before you realize what you’ve said, and you feel his grip tighten before he carefully sets you back on your feet.

He clears this throat. “Thanks for fixing that.”

“Thanks for keeping me on my feet.”

He nods and turns his attention to Grogu who’s now standing a few feet away and munching on one of his frog snacks.

“Hm…definitely not trying one of those,” you say as you brush by Djarin. His light laughter follows you and with the feel of his arms still lingering you almost float back to the cabin…not tripping once.

As you’re watching nightfall on Nevarro, the darkening sky dotted with the sparkle of stars, you hear the distinct sounds of a message coming through a comm link. Djarin is inside the cabin, cleaning his blaster and you hear the low murmur of his voice but you’re unable to make out the words.

Not a minute later he steps outside. “I have to leave.”

You stand quickly. “Now?...Alone?”

“Just me.”

“But…”

“You can stay here with Grogu and when I return we can figure out where you want to go.”

“I want to go with you.”

You put your hands on your hips and straighten your shoulders. Grogu waddles up next to you and tries to mirror your stance, his tiny arms crossed over his chest and his expression indignant.

“No,” Djarin says. “Stay here. I’ll be back before tomorrow night.”

He starts to walk toward the smaller starfighter you took to the cabin after docking the Razor Crest. You follow with Grogu not far behind.

“Why can’t we come with you?” you ask, jogging to keep up with his long strides.

“It’s dangerous.”

“So.”

“So I don’t want to have to worry about either of you.”

You look down at Grogu who meets your gaze then back at Djarin. “Give me a blaster. And he can use the force!”

“We don’t fit in the starfighter.”

“We made it work to get here!”

“That was a short ride.”

He’s now standing with his hands on his own hips, knee cocked to the side while he argues.

“Then we’ll take the Razor Crest.”

With a sigh he just turns back toward the ship and tries to open the cockpit. “What the…” he starts then slowly turns to look at Grogu.

“Stop it,” he growls.

Grogu tilts his head, blinking innocently even as his outstretched hand strains with the tension of holding the cockpit closed.

“Grogu.”

You can’t help the laughter that slips past your lips, and Djarin turns his head toward you.

“I’d say you were giving me a dirty look right now, but I wouldn’t know…” you tease.

The silent standoff between Grogu and Djarin lasts for another minute before Djarin’s shoulders finally slump and he grits out, “fine.”

You let out a whoop of excitement and head back to the cabin to grab a small bag of the few belongings you had, making sure to pack extra snacks for Grogu.

“Does he always get his way?” you ask with a smile.

Djarin just grunts and readies the ship. “Stay out of trouble and most importantly out of my way. It’s enough I have to worry about him…”

Before he takes off he pauses. “Did you happen to grab extra snacks?”

With a bright smile you pat your bag. “Plenty.”

He holds your gaze for a beat and you’re hoping there’s a hint of a smile hiding beneath his helmet.

“Stay on the ship,” he says firmly. “I’ll contact you if I need to.”

He looks between you and Grogu, shaking his head as Grogu shoves his third cookie into his mouth.

“And don’t let him eat anymore of those!” Djarin says before turns and cautiously distances himself from the ship.

After you and Grogu play ‘catch,’ you explore your surroundings, being as careful as possible even though there isn’t much around where the ship is hidden. You try and fail to keep Grogu from eating more snacks and as the time continues to pass you’re both getting fidgety.

“Think he’s ok?” you ask Grogu, worry lacing your tone.

He coos softly and drops his ears.

“I know. It’s been a while….maybe we should….”

Before you can finish the thought Grogu reaches into a small compartment on the ship and pulls free a piece of armor just his size. He holds it up to you and you help him put it on.

“Guess we’re on the same page then,” you say, after securing the chest piece and searching the ship for something you can bring for yourself.

Once you’re both equipped and as protected as you can be you sneak off the ship and in the direction of Mos Eisley’s space port.

Grogu clings to your back, hidden under the hood of his cloak, your own cloak wrapped around you, the hood over your head and low enough that you can only see the bottom half of your face.

Thankfully, the spaceport is bustling with activity, and your presence mostly goes unnoticed. That is, until you unceremoniously trip over a repair droid that whizzes past your feet.

You stumble forward and nearly land on top of it, quickly recovering and grabbing your robes to pull them close to your body again. The repair droid whistles weakly from below you, still trapped and you wince.

“Sorry little guy,” you mutter. “I’m prone to falls.”

He makes another pitiful sound, and you see that a piece of his is damaged.

“Don’t worry, I can fix that,” you tell the droid, carefully picking him up as you stand and try to look nonchalant. You tuck the droid against your side and keep walking, sucking in a hiss when you feel the pain in your knee from where you fell.

“I never thought about how we would find him,” you whisper to Grogu, who coos softly in your ear. “Maybe if we…”

Grogu makes a loud whistle, grabbing your attention and pointing down one of the dusty alleyways hidden between two stone buildings. You take slow and cautious steps toward it, flattening yourself to the wall before peeking down the narrow opening.

“I don’t see anything,” you whisper.

Grogu squeaks and gives you a forward nudge. You continue on as quietly as possible only stopping when you reach a metal door at the far end. You slip to the side and hide behind some freight boxes, listening.

“How do we get in?” you muse more to yourself than Grogu.

Before either of you (or your new droid friend) can come up with any ideas you hear scuffling on the other side of the wall. A few blaster shots go off and then the door explodes outward in a crash that rings your ears, dust clogging your eyes and throat as you stumble backward.

You can just make out Djarin’s armor glinting in the hot sun. He’s prone on his back, unmoving.

“Shit,” you grit out, looking between the crumbling doorway and Djarin. “Shit, shit, shit.”

In the time you’ve had to let out a string of curses you hear his groan as he moves his head and starts to sit up.

“Oh thank goodness,” you say, far too loudly.

His head whips your way and you’re sure you pick up on his low growl of disapproval before he gets to his feet.

“I thought I told you…” he starts as he limps toward you.

The distinct sound of stormtrooper footfalls fills the air and you grab Djarin’s shoulder.

“No time for reprimands now. Come on, we have to go.”

He groans and lets you help him with some of his weight as you disappear down a turn in the alleyway. The droid still tucked into your side makes a loud beep of fear and Djarin stills.

“Why do you have that?”

“Ummm…also no time for stories. Let’s go.”

The stormtroopers start shouting, blasters raised as the small group of them get nearer.

“We’re going to have to fight them off,” Djarin says, standing upright and pushing you and Grogu behind him.

The stormtroopers round the corner and Djarin takes the first shot, hitting the nearest one square in the chest. Grogu hops off your shoulder and onto the back of Djarin’s jetpack, blasting another with a force push that knocks him into the wall and down to the ground.

There’s only three left and Djarin takes care of another with an easy shot, you reach for your small blaster and aim. The shot goes off and hits the second to last stormtrooper in the stomach.

Djarin takes out the last one then turns to you. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

“I told you. I’ve been on my own for a long time…”

Again, he doesn’t push for more but instead pushes you forward back toward the ship. The closer you get to safety the more you start to notice the way his right arm hangs more loosely at his side than the left.

You ask, “Are you hurt?” and he quickly squares his shoulders, but you catch the sound of a hiss.

“I’m fine,” he states and Grogu makes a sound of suspicion.

“No one asked you,” Djarin says and starts to walk faster.

“He’s grumpier than usual,” you mutter.

Grogu’s sound of agreement covers up whatever Djarin grumbles.

You slide into your seat in the Razor Crest as Grogu hops into his, noticing again that Djarin is averse to using his right arm.

“You’re hurt.”

It’s a statement this time and you try to put some force behind it.

“We need to get out of here,” is the only answer you get as he plugs in coordinates and starts to get the ship in the air. “We’re going into hyperdrive as soon as we’re out of the atmosphere. Buckle up.”

You brace yourself, quickly checking that Grogu is safely secured, smiling despite the circumstances when you see him shoving a cookie in his mouth.

Once the ship is safely through hyperspace, Djarin leaves the cockpit. You follow right behind.

“Let me see your shoulder,” you say when he gets to the med bay and slumps onto a bench.

“It’s fine,” he says, more harshly than intended and you hear his soft sigh that follows after.

He doesn’t protest when you reach for the pauldron that covers his right shoulder, careful as you remove it to reveal the blood stained cloth beneath.

“Shit,” you say and quickly stand to grab some medical supplies.

“I’m fi…”

“If you say, ‘you’re fine,’ one more time…” you threaten.

“What?” he counters in a huff. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll…I’ll pry that helmet right off your stupid head.”

“Stupid!?”

“Yeah.”

He’s quiet as you peel away the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a deep gash where a blaster shot grazed his shoulder. He only winces slightly when you start to clean it, a light hiss escaping through his clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, knowing it must sting badly.

“Thank you,” he says, just as quietly and you look up, finding his head tilted in your direction.

You nod and hold his gaze, letting your eyes wander over the scuff marks on his helmet.

“No other injuries,” he states as if knowing you were assessing him.

You purse your lips and focus on his wound once again. He shifts just so he can take off his gloves, uncovering strong hands and thick calloused fingers. You stare a bit too long, trying to shake off the thoughts of what else he’s hiding under all the armor.

He reaches up a hand and wraps his fingers around your wrist, the feeling of his warm skin against yours sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine. He brings your hand to his helmet before taking the other and doing the same on the opposite side.

Your eyes widen and you stay paralyzed in that position, your splayed hands gripping the sides of his helmet.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks, his voice husky.

Your tongue darts out to wet your parted lips and with shaky but deliberate hands you gently start to lift his helmet. The first thing you get a glimpse of is his neck, the muscles flexing with his hard swallow.

As your breath hitches you continue to pull his helmet upwards, revealing next the chiseled edge of his jaw, lined with a dark shadow of hair. After that it’s his lips, and you can’t stop your gasp. They’re perfect. Pouty and soft.

You finally see the hint of a smile pull at the corner of his mouth and when you get the helmet free of his head and your eyes lock with his you’re sure all your breath whooshes out of you.

“That bad huh?” he says with a chuckle.

His hair is slightly mussed, and you tentatively reach up to run your fingers through the soft curls before dropping your hand to his temple and further to trace the line of his jaw until your fingertips press softly to his lips.

Your head slowly moves back and forth since the word of disagreement has escaped your now muddled brain.

Your fingers spread over his cheek, and you drag his face closer, feeling the soft escape of his breath against your lips. His gaze drops to your mouth and without another second of hesitation you close the distance and press your lips to his.

His hand immediately glides up the curve of your spine and around the nape of your neck, tugging you closer until your bodies are pressed together. He reaches up with his injured arm, intending to brush his thumb across your cheek but the pain catches him off guard and he hisses against your lips.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, keeping you just a breath away.

“Maybe we should get that bandaged first.”

His nose lightly bumps yours before he pulls your bottom lip between his teeth, gently sucking before soothing it with a soft kiss.

“Mm,” he hums. “Not yet.”

The next kiss steals your breath and you’re sure even if he were bleeding out you wouldn’t stop him from kissing you. You’re so lost in the feel of him against your skin that it’s only the loud crash from across the room that startles you enough to have you break apart.

Your heads turn and you see Grogu sitting on top of one of the rolling trays, the medical supplies that were just on it now littering the floor, with a cookie in hand, proceeding to make crumbs everywhere.

“He really likes those cookies huh?” you joke.

A firm press of warm fingertips turns your head back until your eyes lock with his.

“You have no idea,” he whispers before pressing his smile to yours.

[imaginesofwonder]

Your Husband Is Who? - Jack Abbot

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

WC: 1.4k

Summary: A routine IT call in the ED turns into an unexpected reveal when Santos realizes the quiet IT specialist she’s been talking to is married to the doctor she works with.

A/N: Requests are welcome! This work is entirely mine and has been proofread with Grammarly.

Masterlist

Your pager went off mid-sip.

The page had come in as “urgent” which, in hospital terms, usually meant one of the doctors couldn’t figure out how to access their records without their badge automatically logging them in. 

It was one of those calls that could be quickly fixed if they bothered to remember their hospital-given access codes.

You grabbed your coffee, badge swinging against your chest as you made your way down to the ED.

The second the elevator doors slid open, the chaos hit you. Phones were ringing, stretchers rolling in, voices overlapping. All of it made you grateful to be hidden away in a room for most of the day.

You made your way to the nurses' hub; it was bound to be the location of the confused doctor. 

“Someone called for IT?”

“That would be me.”

You followed the voice to find Dr. Trinity Santos sitting there, staring at a frozen screen as if it had personally betrayed her.

“I’ve been trying to fill out charts forever,” she huffed. “Damn thing kicked me out.”

You stepped in beside her, setting your coffee down carefully before leaning over the keyboard.

“Let me guess,” you said, already reaching for the mouse. “ You tried a couple of passwords, got locked out, and now it's not letting you in.”

Santos pointed at you as you’d just insulted her personally. “First of all, I tried multiple passwords. It’s the damn computer that won't take them.”

“Incorrect passwords are still incorrect to the computer,” you mention lightly, finger moving across the keys as you pull up the backend system. 

She groaned, dropping back in her chair. “I swear, technology has it out for me.”

You smiled to yourself, suppressing a laugh. “Technology is a neutral party, but user error isn’t, however–”

“Don’t,” she warned, though there was no real heat behind it.

You hummed, still working. “Alright, I’m going to unlock your account. It might take a couple of minutes.”

She leaned back in her chair, eyes catching on your ring while you typed. 

“That’s a really nice ring.”

You glanced down, almost like you’d forgotten it was there, your thumb brushing over the band without thinking.

“Oh yeah, thanks,” you said, a small smile slipping through. “My husband actually picked it out on his own.”

“Did he?” Santo leaned forward slightly, interest replacing her earlier frustration. “Damn girl, he must make a pretty penny. That’s a good choice.”

You laughed at her comment, a grin spreading. “He’s a doctor.”

Santos blinked. “Of course he is.”

“How do you even make that work?” she continued. “I barely have time to see my fling that works here, let alone manage to date or marry anyone.”

“You get used to it.” You shrugged, “Schedule lines up sometimes. Other times you just make time even if it's not very long.”

“That sounds way too functional,” Santos muttered. “Are you sure he’s actually a doctor?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Does he work here?” she asked, curiosity creeping in now.

You tilted your head, like you were considering whether to answer, before just focusing back on the screen. “Try logging in again in a minute.”

Santos huffed, watching you work. “You computer people are too calm. If my job locked me out of patients, I’d lose it.”

“You are losing it,” you pointed out.

“Fair.”

There was a pause while you worked, the hum of the ED filling the space.

“So,” she said again, clearly not done talking, “married life.”

You glanced at her briefly. “What about it?

“How long have you been with Mr. Fancy pants?”

“A while,” you said vaguely.

“That’s not an answer,” she said immediately, narrowing her eyes at you.

You smiled slightly. “It’s a safe answer.”

“You’re funny. I like you.”

“Dangerous combination,” you muttered.

​​She ignored that. “Okay, seriously though, what’s it like being married to a doctor?”

You leaned back in the chair, still working as you spoke, as the words came easily now.

“It’s kind of funny, actually,” you started. “We met here at the hospital. I was fixing a printer no one wanted to deal with, and he was hovering like I was about to make it worse.

Santos snorted. “That tracks.”

You smiled slightly, shaking your head. “I thought he didn’t trust me at first. Kept asking if I knew what I was doing.”

“Please tell me you humbled him.”

“Oh, immediately,” you said. “I finally turned around and snapped at him, told him if he was that concerned, he could fix it himself.”

Santos let out a sharp laugh. “No—”

“Yeah,” you nodded, smiling a little at the memory. “And he just” you paused, mimicking it slightly, “kind of froze for a second.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” you said. “Then he goes all quiet and goes, ‘I just figured you might need help lifting it…’”

Santos blinked. “…lifting what?”

“The bottom panel,” you said, gesturing slightly. “The paper tray was jammed. He thought I wouldn’t be able to lift it.”

There was a beat.

Then Santos’ face lit up.

“Oh my god,” she laughed. “He was trying to help you.”

“Yeah,” you said, taking a sip of your coffee. “Just… very badly.”

“And you snapped at him?”

“I didn’t know,” you defended, smiling. “He was hovering.”

“That is so much worse for him,” she said, shaking her head. “He tried to be nice and got told off.”

You hummed. “To be fair, I fixed it without his help.”

Santos let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Wow.”

She leaned forward again, interested now. “Does he still work here?”

You hesitated just long enough to be annoying on purpose. “Sometimes.”

Before she could even question it, a voice cut in from behind you both.

“Dr. Santos, trauma room four needs your signature before we can send the patient home.”

You didn’t look up right away, your gaze still on the computer loading screen, fingers idly tapping against the desk.

Santos did. “Yeah–got it, I–”

She stopped mid-sentence because Dr. Jack Abbot was standing right next to you, tablet in hand.

He was calm, as usual, not caring that he just walked into the middle of someone's conversation.

You finally glanced up, meeting his eyes for half a second.

It was hard to notice, but the small shift at the corner of his mouth gave him away. Quick enough that anyone not paying attention would’ve missed it, he added the slightest wink to match.

Your fingers stilled for just a second against the desk before you picked your coffee back up, as if nothing had happened.

Santos definitely didn't miss that.

Her brows pulled together instantly, eyes flickering between the two of you.

You, who suddenly looked just a little too composed.

Him, who was already looking back at her like nothing had happened, one hand resting against the counter just beside yours. Close enough that if either of you moved an inch, you guys would touch. 

Her eyes slid back to you. Then to your ring.

Then to him.

And something clicked.

Her posture straightened just a little too much.

You took a slow sip of your coffee, unbothered.

Jack didn’t help her either.

Santos looked between the two of you one more time.

Her eyes widened.

“No way.”

You set your coffee down, pushing your chair back just slightly like you were getting ready to leave.

“Try logging in now,” you said casually.

She didn’t move.

Her mouth opened slightly. “…that’s your husband.”

You tilted your head, a small smile pulling at your lips.

“You asked if he worked here,” you reminded her lightly. “You managed to answer your own question.”

For a second, Santos just stared at you. Then at Jack. Then back at you.

Her jaw dropped.

She just stared at the two of you, eyes wide, as her brain had stalled completely.

You stood, grabbing your coffee like nothing had just happened.

“You’ll be fine, Dr. Santos,” he said evenly. A beat. “Try not to make it a department event.”

That made it worse.

Santos made a strangled sound, still staring between you and him like her brain refused to cooperate.

You stepped back from the desk. “Try logging in now,” you said, already turning away.

Jack’s eyes followed you for a moment as you walked off, expression holding the faintest hint of amusement that lingered a second too long before he looked back at Santos.

[heaven4lostgirls]

hiiiii i loveeeeee how you write angst and comfort!!! i was wondering potentially if i could request something similar to one of our previous works

maybe reader and steve are dating and she helps with the upside down. maybe they get into an argument which makes reader go with dustin and eddie, steve gets stubborn and doesnt say i love you to reader before parting

reader runs after eddie and saves dustin from the demobats but gets badly hurt and is barely awake. dustin helps her to steve and crew and steve is trying to keep her awake and saying i love you. plssss have her survive and it end in fluff😭😭😭

loml

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: request above!

word count: 3.2k

content warnings: violence, graphic injuries, near death experience, steve is an ass, but he's your ass, mean steve, insecure reader, jealous reader, no nancy hate tolerated. not proofread, angst! heavy angst, hurt/comfort. the comfort is that she lives xx. platonic eddie x reader.

authors note: this was sm longer than i intended but nonetheless hope you like it! thank you for requesting xx

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

The upside down is nothing like you’d expected. It’s simultaneously worse and better than you’d expected.

It smells damp, the air is thick like smog, and you can’t bring yourself to look down to where you’re walking, the sound of your converse dragging through the sludge is enough to have you feeling nauseous.

Everyone else seems to be handling it much better than you—probably because they’ve done this before. It’s hard not to feel somewhat resentful that Steve had only brought all of this up to you by pure chance.

You knew he’d been hiding something. He was secretive, holding that goddamn walkie-talkie with him like it was the second coming of Christ and most obviously, never let you meet his friends.

Besides Robin, you liked Robin. Though it had been practically unbearable to sit politely and smile as they both regaled you of stories of Dustin, or any of the rest of The Party. It all festered underneath your skin, why did he never bring you around them?

Until the night you’d just happened to be over at his house when Dustin had attempted to recruit Steve to help find Eddie Munson. Eddie, drug dealer Eddie, who was now accused of murder.

“Steve he didn’t do it, it’s the upside down—” Dustin babbles incoherently, you can barely keep up. None of the words coming out of his mouth make sense to you.

The upside down?

“Steve?” you whisper to your boyfriend, who’s staring at the highschooler before you in dawning horror and grim acceptance.

“I’ll drive. Get in the car—I have to—” Steve waves over to you in a vague gesture and Dustin’s eyes grow wide as his jaw slackens.

“You haven’t told her?” He sounds horrified by the idea of it. Told you what.

“Car Henderson. Now.” Steve states firmly, throwing the curly haired teen his keys as he turns to you with a solemn expression.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You’d like to think you’d taken the news of a sadistic other-worldly demonic creature hellbent on killing pretty well, considering the fact that you were currently in his…world? Plain? Planet?

You had been rightfully angry with Steve for not telling you but given that there were bigger stakes than your feelings involved, you’d decided to lay your argument to rest.

Only for you to subsequently discover that Nancy Wheeler knew. Nancy Wheeler that Steve had fallen in love with. The same Nancy you watched Steve grow glassy eyed when talking about.

The same Nancy you tried to measure yourself up against and fell short on all aspects no matter how hard you seemed to try. You watched him with her, as much as it pained you.

He looked so happy, like the fate of the world wasn’t resting on his shoulders. Granted, Nancy was in a relationship, that was a point of contention amongst the two. You assumed some sort of shared history.

Nancy was sweet to you, checking in on you, asking if you needed anything. You couldn’t fault her for your own feelings. Hell, if you were in Steve shoes, you’d probably also have fallen in love with her.

You heard them talking in the van on the drive back from the hardware store, huddled in the back with Eddie and Dustin. It doesn’t feel like a conversation you should be listening in on, but you can’t help it.

“It’s—it’s silly but I—I’ve actually um—I always had this dream that I’d always have this really big family. I’m talkin like full brood of Harringtons, like 5, 6 kids” Steve confesses, laughing alongside her.

Your heart thumps louder in your chest. He’s never told you that. Why wouldn’t he tell you that? It’s not like you’ve been dating long enough for that to have been a conversation but—just why wouldn’t he have said something to you?

Why would you have to listen to this from the backseat of a stolen van as he confesses his hopes and dreams to a girl who he claims he “used” to love?

“Six?” Nancy asks incredulously. You crack a smile; you can’t help it. She’s funny, you think to yourself. Funnier than you’ve ever been.

“Yeah, six little nuggets. Three girls—” you drown out Steve’s voice as you watch their silhouettes.

They would make pretty babies, you think. Beautiful babies, full of Nancy’s intelligence and Steve’s smile. They’d play basketball or do ballet. Steve would be their coach—and Nancy would be working at some big corporate office and they’d be—they’d be so happy.

Bile rises in your throat. You can’t even compete with her. She’s perfect, pretty, smart, witty—what do you have? You have the boy, plus one for that—but what good does that do when he looks at a her like she’s hung the moon and the stars.

You wonder if he’s ever looked at you like that.

You think you might be better off not knowing.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You’re embarrassed to admit that overhearing their conversation makes you distance yourself from the both of them.

You find yourself flocking to Eddie’s side,  joking and laughing with each other.

“You’re a good guy Munson.” You murmur softly as you both watch as Dustin and Mike duel with fake swords and shields, yelping each time they catch each other.

“You’d be the first to think so.” Eddie replies to your left, humour masking the insecurity in his tone.

“I highly doubt that.” You contest, smiling up at the older boy. “Dustin certainly thinks so.”

“Yeah well the munchkin’s biased,” He scoffs with a smirk, leaning back against the stump of wood behind the both of you.

You snort, “He thinks you’re the greatest. He talks about you all the time.” You insist.

Eddie’s expression melts softly, something adoring taking place of what was once anxiety and manufactured aloofness. “He’s a good kid. Don’t know why he likes me so much, but I’m lucky to have him.” He admits.

“You treat him like he’s a person. He’s always going on about how you ask him about his opinion, how you actually listen.”

Eddie blows out a breath, nodding slowly as he digests your words. He turns to you slightly, “You’re a sweet girl,” he tells you seriously and you look up at him in slight shock.

“Don’t lose that, would be a damn shame if we didn’t have you around.” He smiles, slinging an arm over your shoulder as he calls out for Dustin to fix his posture.

You snort with a smile, leaning into him.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Steve watches the two of you from higher on the hill with a scowl on his face.

“Scared Munson’s gonna steal your girl?” Robin teases, huffing as she tugs a rope from the backdoor of the van.

Steve scoffs, irritation bleeding into his tone. “No,” he replies shortly “Munson wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Robin hums suspiciously high, “Seems to me like he’s doing pretty well for himself.” She mentions, gesturing back over to the two of you.

Steve’s glare grows as he catches sight of Eddie’s arm slung over your shoulder. His irritation rising as he spins to glower at Robin, “Who’s side are you on?” he growls.

Robin holds her hand up in surrender, “Just saying. You two haven’t spoken since you arrived—you’ve spent more time with me and Nancy than you have with her.” She says conversationally.

Steve frowns. Has he actually? Sure, he’s been pretty focused on getting things ready to go into the upside down, so he didn’t really have the time to be checking in on you.

It was purely coincidence that he, Robin and Nancy ended up working together considering they were carrying the bulk of the ammunition and knew how to work them.

“She’s fine.” Steve mutters uncertainly. “We’ll talk after.” He insists.

Robin frowns, saying nothing but glances between the two of you in concern.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The tension between you and Steve as you enter the upside down is undeniable. The growing distance seemingly seems to stretch between the two of you the longer that you walk.

You’re side by side, walking in silence as Nancy, Jonathan and Robin walk slightly ahead of everyone whilst Eddie and Dustin remain slightly behind.

“Okay,” Nancy starts firmly, stopping in front of the group in a small expanse of land. The small group forms a circle in front of her, all watching her in rapt attention.

“You all know the plan yes? No deviations, we can’t take any risk that this doesn’t work.” 

You’re all nodding, you listen as she goes over the plan for Max to bait Vecna, the Creel House and the demobats. It’s perfectly planned out, Nancy Wheeler style.

When you all break off, you grab hold of Steve’s arm, who turns to look at you in confusion, “I uh—I’m going to go with Dustin and Eddie alright?” you say softly, avoiding eye contact with him.

Steve frowns, watching your face closely before scoffing, making you look towards him in perplexion, “Yeah, sure. Fine.” He says sarcastically, shrugging your arm off of him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve’s voice is hard and angry, “It means that if you wanna go run off with Munson while the rest of us are trying to save the world—be my guest.”

You blink, staring at Steve with your mouth agape, “You think—Eddie?”

Steve snorts, rolling his eyes, “Yes, Eddie. I see the way the two of you have been…canoodling,” he offers weakly.

You scoff, “Real mature Steve.”

Nancy and Robin stop in front of the two of you when the notice you’ve both stopped following them. They’re far away enough to not being able to hear but close enough to notice the start of an argument between you both.

“What? You have a problem?”

Your expression morphs into hurt, “Six little nuggets?” you ask him accusingly as he stares at you, unflinching.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

It’s the weakest argument you’ve heard from him yet, “Why?” you push. “Because it involved Nancy, that it? I didn’t fit into your white picket fence suburban dream?”

Steve flinches, his expression turning uncertain and dread fills your very being.

He doesn’t see you there.

“Can we—can we not do this now?” he asks, pleadingly.

You shake your head, “No, Steve. I want to know.”

“Know what?” He argues, throwing his arms up in the air.

“If you love me Steve!” you burst out, your voice echoing lightly through the vast expanse of the Upside Down.

“Guys—” Eddie calls hesitantly, but you both pay him no mind.

You shove your finger into Steve’s chest hard enough to make him flinch, “I want to know if you see a future with me! Do you? Do you see me in that big old family picture? Because—” your voice breaks, tugging at Steve’s heart strings.

“Because I love you, and if you don’t—if you don’t see that future with me, then maybe we’re not meant to be together,” you whimper, lifting your hand to your mouth to try and muffle your cries.

Steve slumps in shock, looking as if you’ve just torn his heart out from his chest.

“You’re breaking up with me?” he whispers desperately, scanning your face like he’s searching for something, anything.

You shake your head, your teary gaze meeting his shocked one. “I’m asking you if you’d choose me Steve, if given the chance.” You whisper.

“Baby, of course I—"

“You can’t even say you love me Steve.” You scoff with a laugh, self-deprecation coating your tone.

He stands in shock, like he’s not sure what to do.

“Steve!” Nancy calls from the back, frustration in her voice from being held up.

Steve watches you pleadingly as you school your expression, taking a step back when he turns to look back at her.

Always her, you think bitterly.

“I—” Steve pleads, panic in his tone.

“Just go Steve.” You reply tonelessly, turning to walk towards Eddie and Dustin who have been watching the both of you in concern.

“Baby—” You hear him call after you, desperation in his voice as you walk away. You shake your head, sniffling before looking towards the two boys in front of you.

“Are you okay?—” Dustin asks hesitantly.

You force a smile, “Fine.”

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

If you thought you knew pain before, the sting of walking away from Steve was worse. Every bone if your body wants to turn around and run back into his arms, but you refuse to subject yourself to any more humiliation.

You walk with Eddie and Dustin in silence, setting up the amp and Eddie’s guitar with little fanfare.

When the time comes, Eddie plays like a man possessed. You think he was made for this, a true metal rockstar. He looks almost godlike in view.

The bats swarm the trailer with almost no time to spare. Eddie, Dustin and you rush into the trailer as it rocks with the force and sound of flapping wings.

You almost think you’ve done it before they start flooding in. One after another they come through the vents, met with your handcrafted weaponry.

Dustin grabs the rope leading back into the real world, but when you catch Eddie’s gaze watching him, you already know what’s going to happen. What’s more rockstar than saving the world.

He looks at you and then back to the bedsheets, offering you a way out. You see the determined look on his face, and with a shared nod, he cuts the rope.

“What are you doing?!” Dustin screams to the both of you, watching as you both grab your weapons and Eddie’s shield.

“Buying more time.” The two of you chorus, launching yourselves out of the trailer in tandem as Eddie rides the bike with you running behind him.

The bats follow you like a moth to a flame, swarming around the two of you within minutes. You feel it before you see it, the sound of your flesh tearing and ripping open as the bats latch onto your skin.

You feel the warmth of your blood pool around you as you swing and crush the bats that fly towards you. You find Eddie doing the same in your peripheral vision. You watch as the bats sink their teeth into him, drawing a guttural scream from his chest.

Your wounds start to get the better of you as you stagger on your feet, slumping over onto the ground as you crash to your knees. You can hear Eddie calling your name and you turn to see him slumped a few meters behind you.

You crawl over to him, mindless of the bats still latched to the two of you. Your eyes meet and you share a bloody smile.

It’s then that you notice the silence, the bats that fall around the two of you. “They did it,” you croak, blood bubbling through your throat.

Eddie groans, “We did good,” he affirms, turning his head to look at you.

You hear footsteps rushing your way, and a small part of you hopes that its Steve. The curly hair however in unmistakable.

“Henderson,” Eddie coos, coughing slightly as blood stains his lips.

“Eddie—Y/N, no no no.” he chants, falling to his knees.

“Hey,” you whisper dazedly. “We’re okay,” you reassure him.

“You’re bleeding—” he chokes out.

“Can either of you stand?” he asks Eddie abruptly, turning to look at him. Eddie frowns, looking down on his leg before looking at you, “Dustin, buddy you can’t take both of us—"

“I don’t care,” he bursts out. “I need to know if you can stand, if I can get you back to the trailer, we can alert the rest of them that Y/N is down and—” he babbles.

“I—” Eddie blows out a breath, looking hesitant. You both knew when you’d left that trailer than you’d had no intention of coming back, it was a suicide mission.

“Please,” Dustin begs. Eddie hesitates before nodding abruptly, “Okay,” he concedes. “Okay—we’re coming back.” He tells you seriously.

You smile, nodding softly. Your clothes are starting to stick to your skin with the amount of blood pooling from your wounds.

It’s too dark for them to see, they can’t possibly know how bad your injuries are. Eddie looks by far worse than you, his wounds uncovered by his clothes.

“Okay,” you say.

They leave, Eddie hobbling beside Dustin as they walk towards the trailer. You’re not sure how long you spend staring at the sky before rushing footsteps are coming back to you.

You think you might already be dead when you see Steve rushing to your side instead of Dustin. “St’ve?” you slur, your eyelids drooping from exhaustion.

“Oh baby,” he moans desperately as he drops down next to you, his hands hovering uncertainly as if he’s too scared to touch you.

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to scare you.

“You’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay,” he chants to himself as he lifts you into his arms despite your loud groaning in complaint of being jostled.

“You gotta keep your eyes open for me honey, c’mon look at me—look at me baby.” He pleads with you, rushing towards the trailer as yo9ur blood starts to soak his own clothes.

“I’m getting’ y’u d’rty.” You complain breathlessly as your head lolls to the side. Steve whimpers, reply wetly, “That’s okay baby—I—I don’t mind, I’ll put it in the wash when we get home okay?” he says consolingly, sounding panicked.

“’kay,” you agree mindlessly, your eyes drooping.

“Think ‘m gonna sleep now—”

Steve shakes you awake, making you cough as the feeling of the liquid filling your throat.

“Sorry—sorry honey, you can’t—fuck, baby you can’t sleep. Haven’t even got to tell you how much I love you yet sweetheart, you don’t even know,” He says, simultaneously awestruck and horrified.

“You don’t even know how much I love you baby, God, I—I was so dumb earlier, I shoulda run after you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—never gonna make that mistake again. But you’ve gotta stay awake for me okay? Because I’ve got a lot of making up to do huh?” He chokes up, muffling his sobs.

“Cause you can’t die—I, we have so many things left to do—can’t leave me alone—I can’t do this alone, you—you have to stay,” he sobs.

He almost chokes on the relief he feels when he sees the trailer, stumbling as he runs as fast as his feet can carry him towards the silver home.

Your breathing is shallow in his arms, and he would think you were already dead if not for the slow rise of your chest.

“Please,” he chokes out the paramedic he sees when he gets back to the real world. He holds you out, begging for them to take you. “You—you have to help her. She—she’s lost so much blood—oh god, please help her.” He begs desperately, succumbing to his own tears.

They take you immediately, transferring you to a stretcher as they rush you to an ambulance whilst Steve follows behind them, refusing to let you out of his sight for another second.

Whilst they load you, Steve pleads with them, “Please let me go with her—I’m the only one she knows, she’ll be so scared I need to be there—”

“You can ride with her, but we need to go now.” The paramedic rushes him in, letting him take the seat next to you as the strap you to a heart rate monitor and place a breathing mask over you.

He clenches his hands around your own as you blink slowly at him, “Hey,” he whispers into the silence of the ambulance, the paramedic watching the two of you in concern.

“I love you,” he blurts out again, frantically hoping you hear him. Your small smile calms a small portion of his fear, and he feels you shakily trace a pattern on his palm.

L-U-V-U.

[swirledyouintoallmypoems]

SO HIGH SCHOOL MASTERLIST steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: you’re jonathan byers’s best friend. you live in hawkins, indiana, and you know everyone in the small town. you work two jobs to help your mom with bills while also managing to be the top of your classes. everything is normal until the day will byers goes missing, and the world as you know it is flipped upside down. and because of that, you form an unlikely friendship with the ‘king’ of your high school, steve harrington.

tags/warnings: steve harrington x fem!reader, use of y/n, mostly canon-compliant reader insert (maybe a few minor changes here or there), swearing, fluff, angst, eventual smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to ??? to lovers, seasons 1-5, mentions of child abandonment/neglect, mentions of dead parents, minor eddie munson x fem!reader, reader lowkey has attachment/abandonment issues, minor miscommunication, i hate murray bauman, writing might be shit idk.

masterlist !

wattpad link , ao3 link

–

PART ONE – tell me ‘bout the first time you saw me chapter one chapter two chapter three

PART TWO – you know how to ball, i know aristotle chapter four chapter five chapter six chapter seven chapter eight

PART THREE – are you gonna marry, kiss, or kill me? chapter nine chapter ten chapter eleven chapter twelve chapter thirteen

PART FOUR – i want to find you in a crowd just to hide from you

PART FIVE – no one’s ever had me, not like you

EPILOGUE – you knew what you wanted and, boy, you got her

–

a/n: this series was originally posted on wattpad on christmas 2025, and i’m writing the last few chapters right now so i thought this was the best time to start posting it on here + ao3! idk i hope you guys like it. and don't worry, this series is basically completely written so i will still be focusing on writing other fics while posting this! more spidey steve is coming i promise you all.

taglist (lmk if u wanna be added/removed): @karolinesvrsion @djopuppy @ophirei @redvelvetcupcke @notmily @jamietarttdodo @beaut1ful-stranger @kanabefairy @glittermermaid222 @glittrrx @boldlyfadingdinosaur @riddlersoupwrites @jamieexistss @marvelgirlie-4 @strangegirl26sff @dyanasaur @mortqlprojections @napofaprincess @dr0wsy-m00ns @rocklandhoax @foreverdjofan @lacywithdrawal @oohgeminii @imani4reading @angxlg0dz @sunflowergir62 @d4yanalav3nder00 @discodjo @nowprettybbyimrunning  @sugartalk-ing @hutaotao @carpetmumcher @peterthehorseisinhere @laufeysvalentine @harringtondarling @marcspectorondeeznuts @strawberryloveyy @onenightafewmoonsago @pzxielz @dwindella @lortheswiftie @exooojongdaeee @moonjellyfishie @jinxispunk @sloppyjoesandwich @percyjacksonsnosebleed @shautanashipman @exploding-bonbon

[fru1t4fr0gs]

It's Just Paper

Pairing: Andrew "Pope" Cody x Reader

Summary: You’ve been Lena’s nanny for years. Now, with both of her parents gone, you and Pope Cody have been doing your combined best to take care of her. And yet, as much as you both love her, it’s not enough. Social services has already been sniffing around, and it won’t be long before she’s going to be taken into foster care.

But when Smurf tells you that married couples have a better chance of adoption… well, she’s right. And whatever scheme she may be planning doesn’t matter as long as Lena is safe.

Besides, it’s just paper. Right?

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of drug use, Gun use, Alcohol use, Violence, Smut!!, It's Animal Kingdom so buckle up its kind of got everything, Angst (lots and lots of angst), Married-to-lovers trope, Pope yearns A LOT, Spoilers!! (The timeline follows season 3ish), Craig has his own house and never moved into Baz’s, Mental illness (it's Pope), Smurf is manipulative of course, Brief mention of a traumatic childbirth, Please let me know if I forgot anything!!

Author's Note: We did it! The giant Pope Cody fic is here! Special thanks to our queen and bestie @flowersforbucky for proofreading as always! I honestly loved writing this one so much that I'm gonna miss it now that it's posted but hoo boy am I excited for you guys to read it! Please please let me know what you think!

-

“Are you sure about this?”

“Not really, no.”

Craig Cody runs both hands through his hair. Rests his elbows back on his knees. Stares at the pool, rather than at you.

You stare at the pool, too. You think, if you keep looking hard enough, you might see the stars twinkling on the surface of the water, despite the soothing blue lights shining beneath.

“Then why are you doing it?”

“For Lena.”

-

“What the hell are you talking about, Smurf?” Pope Cody’s voice is a low growl, but there’s shock behind the suspicion in his eyes.

You can’t hear anything through the thick glass wall, but you can see Smurf enunciate the words when she says “hand the phone to her”.

Her eyes are locked on you, something almost chillingly sure in her gaze. You’d wondered, when she’d demanded that Pope bring you with him to visit her, what she could possibly have been planning. Whatever it is, it’s Smurf, so you know it can’t be good. And with the way Pope has gone pale, something like shock cracking through his usually stoic demeanor, your fear seems to have been confirmed.

Pope doesn’t look at you when he passes the phone over. The plastic is cool on your ear.

“Married couples have a better chance at adoption.”

You look at her. She doesn’t even blink. You know what she means, and you do your fucking best to keep your eyes from trailing over to the man beside you.

Still, you find yourself echoing Pope’s words.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about keeping Lena out of the system. Both of her parents are gone. Pope may be taking care of her, but with his record? Social services is going to be coming by any day now, baby.”

You swallow, and grit your teeth as you search for a comeback. For any kind of answer or solution that isn’t…

“One day at the courthouse, one little party to make it look real, and Lena is safe.” Smurf’s words sound tinny through the phone. The rest doesn’t need to be said. Can’t be said, because every phone call is recorded. No foster care. No fighting the courts. Adoption.

Adoption because you’re married.

“Okay.” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own, but it sounds…firm. The decision isn’t hard, though it probably should be.

Just a piece of paper. That’s all. It’s just a piece of paper, and you can protect Lena from the foster system.

Pope does look at you now, but you don’t break your gaze from Smurf’s. Still, you can almost feel the surprise on his face. The intensity of his stare on the side of your head.

Smurf nods, smiling in that pleased, shark-like way she has when she gets her way.

And, quietly, this time to yourself, you repeat the word.

“Okay.”

-

“You’re gonna give up your whole life for the kid you nanny for?”

“Your niece.”

“Your whole life.”

“It’s not my whole life. It’s just…paper.”

Craig stares at you. You stare at the pool.

“You’re gonna be raising her. With Pope.”

“I don’t know if you remember, but I kind of have been raising her.” It’s not like Baz has been there for fucking anything but dropping off a paycheck with an extra couple hundred bucks and an apology for being gone a few more days than promised.

Pope was there. For ice cream at the beach. To help you out on nights you were exhausted and couldn’t get a hold of Baz. To sit with you on the couch. Always so quiet, but…there. A comforting presence amidst the chaos of caring for and worrying about a little girl that isn’t even yours.

Pope was there, and he’ll be there now. You have no doubt about that.

-

The ride back is dead silent.

So silent, in fact, that you nearly jump out of your skin with surprise when Pope speaks.

“You don’t have to do this.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, or his hands off of the wheel.

“I know.” You kind of do have to. Smurf has a pretty uncanny ability to get her way, and it was more than obvious that this is what she wants you to do.

But even despite that, it’s for Lena. Lena who you all-but raised. Who you love. You would adopt her in a heartbeat, and you know Pope would too.

His hands grip the wheel a little tighter. You see a muscle jump in his jaw. “If you don’t want to-“

“I want to.” You interrupt, finally turning to him. “It’s Lena. If you think for one second that I’m going to let her get lost in the fucking foster system, you’re insane.”

“Smurf-“

“I don’t care about that. She’s right. This will work. Because right now, you paying me to help you take care of her isn’t exactly working. And if adoption is the way you wanna go, then that’s what we have to do.”

Pope doesn’t speak. He just nods, and stares at the road.

-

“This is different. This is… this is forever. This is like, building up a college fund-“

“Can’t be too hard, with your lifestyle-“

“Stop joking. I’m not kidding.”

You look at him, now. “I’m not kidding. She gets a cut. Every job, Lena gets a cut.”

“You really want to do this. Legally raise a kid that isn’t yours with fucking Pope.”

“I want her to be safe.” You finally snap, pulling your legs out of the pool so fast that you think it might splash him a little. “Why the fuck don’t you get that? Why doesn’t anyone else seem to care about this fucking kid?”

“Why do you care about her so much that you’re going to throw away your life?!”

“What life? I’m already wrapped up in this shit, and Smurf said-“

“You can’t trust Smurf.”

“She likes me. I’m not a threat to her. She has no reason to lie.”

“She always has a reason to lie.”

“Not about this. She wants Lena to be safe just as much as we do.”

Craig runs his hands through his hair again. Mumbles something about you being insane.

“I’ve watched this kid grow up. I love her.”

“More than yourself?”

“I mean…yeah.” Isn’t that what love is? You don’t think you know any other kind. “It’ll be the same as it always was. I’ll just have a rock on my finger, right?”

“This is legit marriage. And adoption. This is like, piles and piles of paperwork and shit. Plus, it’s gonna be a whole lot of lying.”

“Oh yeah, I’m really not used to lying. Where would I even start?”

Craig snorts into his beer, and you take the laughter as a win.

-

It’s a small ceremony. Just you and the Codys, save for Smuf for…obvious reasons.

There are no wide grins. No giddy family members. No flower girls or teary vows. The minister is monotone when he marries you, and Pope’s intense eyes don’t leave your face for a second.

It isn’t that you don’t like Pope. In fact, you get along with him better than anyone else in the family, save for maybe Craig, and that friendship still shocks the hell out of you sometimes. You aren’t sure when you started actually becoming friends with Craig Cody, but somewhere between him constantly hitting on you when you first started watching Lena and you rejecting his offer of drugs almost every damn night, you started actually getting along. There’s something about him that’s real, and maybe a little (or a lot) lost, and for some reason it seems to make you more patient with him than most.

But Pope. You’ve always gotten along with Pope really fucking well.

Since you started watching Lena, before he went to prison and before her parents died, you and Pope just seemed to…well, harmonize. You wash the sponges in the way he seems to like. You can sit with him in silence, and even get him to talk about things if it feels like the right time. Hell, you’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder when sitting together on Baz’s couch, and woken to him in the exact same position, like he was afraid that any movement might disturb you.

So maybe this won’t be so bad. It’s for Lena. To keep her out of the system. To keep her with the people who love her.

You expect your hand to shake a little when you exchange rings, but it’s surprisingly steady. Pope is still looking at you.

When it’s time to kiss the bride - Christ, the bride. You’re really fucking doing this - his hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing absently over your skin as he gives you a questioning look that is so sweet you almost laugh out loud because you’ve seen this man come home with bruised knuckles and bloodstains on his shirt. You nod, and he nods back as he ducks down and presses his lips to yours.

It’s a simple, gentle kiss - he doesn’t slam you against the wall and devour you or anything - and yet you feel a zing shoot down your spine and to your toes at the mere touch of his lips against yours. The sensation is so shocking, so good, that when he pulls away you almost reach up to pull him back to you just to see if you can feel it again.

You don’t, of course. You just meet his eyes, and try to smile.

And then you’re married. Just like that. One kiss. A couple signatures. And you’re just…married.

-

Andrew Cody has a terrible secret.

He is deeply, desperately, overwhelmingly in love with his wife.

Wife. Wife. Wife. You’re his fucking wife now. If it were any other circumstance, he might call this a dream come true. If he could just call you that for real, without the knowledge that you’re only married to protect Lena, he would be the happiest man in the fucking world.

And yet, as you all arrive back at the house and he watches that ring glimmer on your finger, remembers how your lips felt against his own even for just that one too-brief moment, he wonders if it would be fucked up to…pretend. Like he did in prison, when he kept a photo of you on the wall of his bunk and told his cellmates that the beautiful woman in the picture was his wife.

That was fucked up of him. He knows that. He knew that. But how would anyone have been able to check? He had gone to prison to protect his brother. He was serving a sentence that could potentially last much longer than three years. He was alone, and he was in love, and when someone asked him to explain the picture it just…happened. The fantasy he’d kept tucked safely away in the back of his mind had spilled past his lips, and talking about you had helped get him through the horror and monotony of those three years. In prison, you were his wife. The warm and sweet smile he would come home to, one day.

You’d visited him, too. You hadn’t taken Lena, but you’d come. Just a few times, always against Smurf’s wishes, but you’d checked on him. And he had wished with every part of his fucking being that you had come because he wasn’t just your friend, he wasn’t just Lena’s uncle, but because you cared about him. Because you missed him as much as he missed you. And he missed you and your lovely eyes and your gorgeous smile every. Fucking. Day.

This is for Lena. You’re both here for Lena.

And yes, he is almost positive that Smurf has an ulterior motive. That she knows exactly how Pope feels about you and that she’s going to use this to control him or even you, somehow. She’ll see this arrangement as her ‘giving’ you to him, as horrible as it may be. He’ll owe her for it.

But Lena will be safe. You’ll be safe. He can make sure of that.

And you won’t ever know how often he thinks about tilting your head back and sliding his lips over yours. About the noises he daydreams of hearing you make as his hands move over your body. Those hands have caused so much damage and pain for so long, but when they touch you they won’t be weapons. They’ll be as gentle as he can possibly make them as they slide over every perfect inch of soft skin he can reach.

And if he could just fall asleep watching a movie on the couch with you wrapped safely in his arms, with the smell of your perfume in his nose and the feeling of your steady breathing against his chest, he would truly be the happiest man in the world. You came close, once. When he sat with you for a while after Lena went to bed and he watched you fight yawn after yawn as you watched some random TV show together. Your head had finally thunked against his shoulder, and he had been too afraid to breathe lest he wake you and you stop touching him for even a second.

He had allowed himself to turn his nose into the top of your head. Had allowed himself one deep inhale.

He’d chased that memory for weeks, had felt so fucked up as he groaned your name into his pillow and imagined burying his nose into your hair and catching that scent of perfume and shampoo as you writhed beneath him. In those moments, alone in the dark of his empty house, his imagination would replace his own hand with you. His own labored breaths with the sound of your voice, breathing his name and begging for more as he made you feel so fucking good you would never be able to think of anyone else.

And then he would see you again the next day. He’d buy you and Lena ice cream and melt a little at the sight of your smile. He’d feel ashamed of the thoughts he had just the night before as his eyes lingered on the way your mouth wrapped around that little plastic spoon and he would nearly have to excuse himself and leave mid-conversation before he broke and slammed you into a picnic table to lick the mint chocolate chip from your lips himself.

And now you’re his fucking wife. You’re going to be living with him. Raising Lena with him. How the fuck is he supposed to keep himself together? How is he supposed to keep himself in check to be good for you?

And yet, despite how insane and wrong it might be, he’ll take this. He will wear the title of your husband, fake as it may be, like a badge of fucking honor that he will never deserve. He’ll think about kissing you, and touching you, and hold himself back from doing either of those things every single day of his life.

But he will be your husband. You’ll be his wife.

And maybe, secretly, horribly, he’ll pretend.

-

The after party, unlike the ceremony, is not small.

It’s loud. Chaotic. Takes over the entire backyard of the Cody house and makes you feel like you want to cave in on yourself. You don’t mind parties. You know Pope doesn’t like them. Even now, he’s sitting in the corner and nursing a beer, eyes still locked on you as you take a shot with Craig and do your absolute best to follow the plan. This party isn’t about having fun, at least not for you and Pope. It’s about optics. It’s about making it clear that you are now a complete, unarguable member of the Cody family.

For what might be the hundredth time tonight, your eyes drift to Pope’s. His remain locked on yours. You take a deep breath, and take another shot.

You aren’t drunk when he approaches you, but you are buzzed enough to be giggling at one of Deran’s jokes.

And then his voice is by your ear, low and soft. When his arm slides around your waist, tugs you back against him, you almost wonder if this is supposed to be part of the plan.

“You okay?” He asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear and voice so low you know you’re the only one who can hear him.

“And finally,” Craig shouts, raising another shot into the air and immediately drawing the attention of the group of people around you, “here comes the blushing groom!”

The room is suddenly filled with loud, drunken cheers. You tilt your head back, relaxing against Pope and leaning up to brush your lips over his jaw. You don’t imagine the way his arm tightens around you at the movement, but you plaster a wide grin on your face as you murmur back to him, “do you think we did enough? Can we leave?” Leave isn’t a very fitting word - the two of you are staying here tonight, but you’ll take anything that gets you away from the strangers and the chaos.

Pope smiles, and it doesn’t look entirely fake.

In a second, he’s reaching down and hooking his free arm behind your knees, lifting you against him and beginning to make his way into the back room without a word. Your own laugh is genuine, and you’re followed by cheers and whoops and some very suggestive noises as you disappear down the hallway.

-

“Are you…okay?” He keeps asking you that. You still don’t know how to answer.

Your head tilts toward his, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m in a sham marriage to ensure that a little girl I love doesn’t get forgotten by the system. I’ve had less weird days.”

“I mean…with me? Do you want me to sleep on the floor?”

“Would you? If I asked?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds uncomfortable.”

“I’ve slept in worse places.” Right. Prison. Shit.

“I didn’t know you even slept.”

He ignores your joke, your awkward attempt at deflection, and asks again. “Do you want me to move?”

“I…no.” You don’t. It surprises you how much you don’t.

You roll onto your side, tuck an arm beneath your head, and meet his stare. You’re both fully clothed, lying atop the covers of a large bed in a guest room, and you’re pretty sure that everyone at the party thinks you’re going at each other like bunny rabbits.

It’s quiet in here. It’s comfortable. Being around Pope Cody is always so comfortable. You genuinely don’t get why people are always so unnerved by him. He’s quiet, sure. Dangerous, maybe. But he has a presence that, at least to you, is calming and warm in a way you’ve never felt with anyone else before.

“Do you think this was a bad idea?”

He frowns. Furrows his brow. He rolls on his side to face you, too, and you see his hand twitch, just barely, like he might reach up and touch you.

“No. It was for Lena.” He pauses, brow crinkling again. “Do you regret it?”

“No.” For some reason, with the way the moonlight is hitting his face and alighting on the worried expression in his eyes, you can’t help but reach up, your new ring catching in the low light of the bedroom as you brush your fingers over his cheek. The gesture feels too intimate for your current arrangement. More than a little confusing. And yet, Pope blows out a shuddered breath, and leans into your touch.

After a moment, he returns the gesture, his own calloused fingers brushing the hair from your face, even as his eyes remain locked on yours.

You’re not sure how it happens, not sure who moves first, but in what feels like the span of a second and a thousand years all at the same time, his forehead is resting against your own, large hand still cradling your cheek and warm breath whispering over your lips on every barely-there exhale.

“Pope…” you murmur, and he leans helplessly closer.

“Andrew.” He murmurs back, noses bumping, brown eyes fluttering closed. “My name is Andrew.”

“Andrew.” You repeat, and you’ve hardly ever used his real name. Only hours ago, you said it in your ‘vows’, and even then it felt foreign on your tongue.

And then he kisses you.

It’s slow, careful like he’s worried he might break you with any too-sudden movements, and still it makes your heart hammer in your chest and drop to your stomach. He kisses you so slowly, so deeply, that you lose all track of time and thought. His hands are on your face, cradling you against him like you’re a delicate piece of glass that he may shatter at any moment if he holds it too tightly, and yet he kisses you like he’s dying. Like every movement of your lips against his is something he’s never even allowed himself to want, but now that he has it he’s going to cherish every fucking moment.

You stop thinking. You stop regretting. Stop worrying. You just let yourself…feel.

Your fingers curl in his hair as the kiss deepens, as he rolls atop you until you’re pressed between his body and the sheets and it feels so good you think you might pass out.

“Andrew.” You whisper again, the name nearly swallowed by his lips, and he groans so deeply at the sound that you can feel it in your fucking toes.

Your fingers fly up to the buttons of his shirt, desperation for more coursing through your veins like liquid fire. His own skate reverently up your thigh, pulling your simple white dress up with them, and he breaks away from you just long enough to duck his face down into the hollow of your throat.

“Tell me to stop.” He half whispers, and the sound of his voice alone pulls a whimper from your throat that has him groaning again as he rocks his hips against yours, hand slamming up to the headboard behind your head like he’s trying to keep himself still above you. “If we…I don’t think I can hold back.”

“Don’t.” You breathe, and this is stupid. This is a bad idea. “Don’t stop. Don’t hold back.”

He pauses, like he’s trying to collect himself.

If he is, he fails at it.

His mouth crushes against yours, and you give up on undoing his shirt and simply yank it apart, hearing buttons scatter as he reaches up to help you pull it off of him. He grabs the back of your thigh, all-but manhandling you beneath him in one swift movement as he pushes the hem of your dress up over your thighs and presses your body between the mattress and his own.

You reach up, trying to help him unclasp the back of the dress, and he makes a low noise in the back of his throat as he catches your wrists in one hand and slams them back against the pillows above you.

“I’ll do it.”

You meet his eyes, and they’re fucking burning. Dark and starved in a way that should probably make your survival instincts explode with some kind of trepidation. They don’t. Instead, your breath catches in your throat, and you nod.

His hand releases your wrists, sliding around your back until he’s pulling you up with him and you’re straddling his lap, nearly shaking with something between anticipation and restraint as he unbuttons your dress and slides it over your shoulders with a shaky exhale.

And then he’s kissing you again. Kissing your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, only pulling back far enough to slide the garment up and over your head before his mouth is on yours once more, and your hands are tugging him out of his pants, and his own hand tangles in your hair as he lowers you onto your back.

He’s usually so…awkward, so quiet and still that his movements in this moment shock you to your fucking core. He moves atop you like he was born to, traces over your jaw with his tongue like he’s desperate for the taste of you. He just spent three years in prison, and you’re not sure what kind of human connection he’s had since then, but he still takes the time to slide his hand down your stomach and work you apart until every breath you draw is a sharp and desperate gasp into his mouth. Still crawls down your body and drags his blunt teeth up the inside of your thigh without ever once breaking eye contact like it’s a form of fucking worship.

The distant sound of the party still raging down the hall vanishes, taking every ounce of anxiety with it as he makes you fall apart once. Twice. Drags himself back up you and pulls your hand away from where it’s covering your mouth in a weak attempt to keep you from screaming his name.

“Don’t. Let me hear you.” He growls against your ear, and when he pushes inside of you for the first time you make a noise that has him snapping his hips forward so roughly that your nails might dig into his back hard enough to draw blood.

His groan vibrates through your entire body, but he still reaches up to brush the hair from your face, angling your head back to kiss you again even as he murmurs, “sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve got you.”

You forget everything that isn’t him as Andrew Cody pulls you apart piece by piece with his lips and tongue and words. Words spoken so softly against your skin that you would barely be able to hear them if he hadn’t made himself the center of your fucking universe tonight. If you could even dream of focusing on anything other than his mouth against your skin, his soft praise as you move with him, his growled expletives as your nails drag down over his back, his whisper of your name in your ear as he takes you like you are every vice ever created and he is ready to drown himself in the addiction.

And when it’s over, after you’ve nearly sobbed his name until you forgot your own and he bit down on your collarbone and pressed your joined hands into the pillow beside your head with a groan that ingrained itself into your very bones, you can’t remember how to pull yourself back to earth.

“That…” you try, and fail, “I’m…woah.”

Pope huffs a soft laugh against your neck, and pulls you into his arms until he’s on his back and your head is resting against his chest.

“Your legs are shaking.” He observes, sounding a little too proud of himself in that quiet way he has, as his fingers skate through your messy hair.

“Shut up.” You try, and he laughs again. The sound of it is so reserved, so soft and warm, that it makes you hum as you nuzzle your nose into his chest.

You’re asleep within minutes. Exhausted, sweaty, and more content than you can remember being in a very long time.

-

You wake before him.

You have no idea what time it is, but you know it must be early. Early enough, at least, for you to be the first one up. Everyone still hanging around after the party will likely sleep until the afternoon, but Pope usually wakes at dawn. And yet, now, his chest is rising and falling in a slow and steady rhythm beneath your ear.

You’ve never seen him sleep before.

You’re about to pull back to look at him, to drink in whatever expression may be on his face, when something else catches your attention.

There, on his bare stomach, your hands are joined together. Your wedding ring blinks up at you, and his own simple band rests just above it.

Married. You’re married. For Lena.

What happens if the two of you start something, and it doesn’t work out? All that kid has lost, all of the drama and horror she’s endured in her young life, and she would just be…abandoned again.

Shit.

You shift your head, just barely, and feel Pope stir. Light sleeper, then. Makes sense.

His fingers curl a little more tightly around yours, like he doesn’t even notice that he’s doing it, and you feel a soft breath against the top of your head as he realizes that you’re awake, too.

For a moment, he’s silent. It isn’t uncomfortable, just his usual version of quiet.

“Do you want to…borrow clothes?” He finally asks, lips brushing against the top of your head, and you almost laugh. Because this is how Andrew Cody works. He isn’t exactly one to wax poetic, even after a night like last night. He just takes care of you, like he always tries to take care of everyone, in his silent and sweet way.

His hand skates up over your bare back, the touch warm and reverent, and you allow yourself to lie with him for a moment. To enjoy this.

“I don’t think I can pull off one of those buttoned up shirts.” You joke, resting your chin against his chest and blinking sleepily up at him. Something in his brown eyes goes very, very soft as he looks down at you, and a part of you melts at the sight.

“I have t-shirts.”

You do laugh, now. “I know. Just kidding.”

“Do you…like the shirts?”

“I do, yeah.” You slide your fingers over his stomach, wrap your arms around him like he’s an oversized teddy-bear, and he responds with a hum as he pulls you closer to him.

And, despite your decision, despite the fact that you need to cut this off before it really starts, every muscle in your body relaxes as his lips find yours. As he kisses you so slowly, so languidly, so sweetly that you lose all track of time and space.

He feels so good, and this feels so right that it would scare you even if it weren’t for Lena. If it weren’t for all of the other fucking factors pulling you apart.

“I think…” his lips are on your neck, and his fingers are sliding up the inside of your bare thigh, and you can’t think. “We…shit, we shouldn’t do this.,” you reach down to stop his hand, and he acquiesces immediately, pulling back to look down at you with those lovely brown eyes.

“Are you okay?”

You nod. Swallow. “I don’t… if we start something, and it doesn’t work, Lena will get hurt. She’ll feel abandoned again.”

He pauses, and reaches up to smooth your hair back again, like he’s just trying to…touch you. Somehow. Any way he can. “You think it won’t work?”

“I…no.” You admit, almost instinctively turning your face into his palm. “But we can’t know for sure. I don’t want to risk it. Not right now.”

He frowns, thumb brushing your cheek, and nods. “Okay.”

And God help you, you lean up to kiss him again.

He makes a soft noise, somewhere between desperation and torture, and the feeling of his body pressing helplessly against yours makes any thoughts of responsibility fly out the damn window.

And when you pull back, and feel his fingers tighten in your hair and his breath ghost over your lips, it is very very hard to convince yourself that this is the right decision.

-

Pope Cody isn’t sure if he’s living in heaven or hell.

Heaven. Surely. Most of the time, he’s absolutely convinced it’s heaven. Because you’re with him all the time. He gets to hear your laugh. See your smile. Feel your presence every single day. He gets to sit with you on the couch with Lena, and watch the two of you as you help her color or do a puzzle or something equally…peaceful. It’s peaceful, this life. Sure, there are still the jobs. There’s still the guilt. But he gets to come home to you and Lena and he gets to smell your perfume on his pillow and watch your relaxed expression as you sleep beside him.

And sometimes, it’s hell. Because he wants more so selfishly that it feels like a fucking sickness. Maybe it was better before. Before he knew what you tasted like. What you felt like, moving beneath him and with him and moaning his name into his ear like the most beautiful music he’s ever heard. He knows what it feels like to wake up with you, naked in his arms, soft skin against his own and contentment like nothing he’s ever known swelling in his chest.

And he can’t have that again. Because you’re right. He loves you so, so much, but you’re right. If anything were to happen, Lena would be hurt by it. He’ll never stop loving you - he knows that more than he knows how to breathe - but something could happen. His life is chaos. Dangerous. He never knows what horror might come his way next.

But he can have you now, like this, and sometimes he can pretend. He can keep up appearances with you. Get to slide his fingers between yours and feel the ring on your finger when you meet with Lena’s teachers. Murmur something in your ear at one of the parties at Smurf’s house and feel you smile in response.

And he wants to kiss you. When you’re laughing at dinner, he wants to stand up from the table and stalk over to you and press his mouth to yours. He wants to make his way into the bathroom when you’re showering, and stand beneath the water with you until the sounds of your pleasure echo off of the tile. He wants to nuzzle his nose into your hair and inhale the scent of your shampoo when you sit on the couch with him. He wants to pull you into his arms in the mornings and whisper how much he loves you as you wake up. He wants you more, and it’s selfish and shitty because what he has now is already more than he could ever fucking deserve.

So he suffers, and is simultaneously the happiest he has ever fucking been. And he endures, and he loves you.

-

Your first fight happens on a Tuesday.

“She doesn’t need a therapist.” Pope says, in that low and intense way he always has, as he stands over the sink and meticulously scrubs the dishes.

Your eyes snap up, and you have to stop the incredulous laugh that nearly bursts from you at his statement. “Yes, she fucking does.”

“She’s fine.” He looks at you. Drops his eyes to the ring on your finger. Looks back up at your face. “She’s got us.”

He looks at the ring a lot. Like when the two of you take Lena for ice cream on the beach, and he wordlessly hands you a cup of your favorite flavor. Or when he makes Lena’s lunch for school in the morning, meticulously laying out the cheese on top of the ham on top of the lettuce like he’s performing some kind of surgery while you get so wrapped up in conversation with him that you don’t even notice that he’s made you one too until he’s handing you a little brown paper bag.

You curl your fingers a little, and do your best to keep your eyes from trailing down to your hand. To keep from looking at the gold band on his own.

“She needs more than just us.”

“What does that mean?” He’s still scrubbing the same plate.

“Her parents are gone, Pope. She lost them both in a year. And now she’s being raised by her nanny and a fucking bank robber and-“

Pope freezes, and turns to you, and the look in his eyes shuts you right the hell up.

“A what?”

You should probably take it back. Or at the very least, backtrack a little, but you’ve been married a month and social workers are already showing up to talk to you both and the adoption process is going fucking nowhere and you’re honestly sick and fucking tired of pretending to be more in the dark than you are.

“Come on, of course I know what you do. I’m not stupid. Or blind. Or fucking deaf.” And Craig has always been very stupidly candid with you about being stressed about a job or being pushed around by Baz and Pope and even Jay. “But that’s not the point. The point is that Lena-“

“How much do you know.” He doesn’t say it like a question, he says it like a command, and that pisses you off a little more than you want to admit.

“Enough, but not everything. I don’t want to know everything.”

He moves to the other side of the counter, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them as he repeats the question. “How much do you know?”

You don’t back down. “Not. Everything.” You grit out, pushing back from your chair to plant your hands on the counter and stare him down. “I don’t need to. I know you rob places. I watch the news. I don’t need to know anything else.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to be the reason anyone gets hurt.” You snap, frustrated. “I don’t need to know anything that could endanger any one of you if the wrong people ask. Keep me in the fucking dark. But if you’re gonna be so damn secretive maybe stop mentioning jobs and banks and carrying fucking guns around the fucking nanny.”

“You’re not the nanny anymore.” His eyes drop to the ring again, before they dart back up to your face.

“And what am I then? Because the adoption process isn’t exactly going our way.” You lean closer, and you can feel your own eyes burning into his. “Safe and okay are two very different things, Pope. She’s neither of those right now. And shockingly, the ex-con marrying the former nanny isn’t tossing us to the top of the Good Future Parent list.”

To your surprise, Pope’s eyes drop to your mouth. And yet, his voice is still a furious rasp when he speaks again.

“Andrew.”

You blink. His gaze does not falter.

“My name is Andrew.”

For a moment, you can’t remember why you’re mad. All you can think about is the way he murmured that on your wedding night, the way his fingers tangled in your hair and he pressed his body against yours until you were moaning that name. Until you forgot every name that wasn’t Andrew.

“She needs therapy.” You try again, but the intensity of his gaze on your mouth feels like a kiss all on its own and you can’t remember how to breathe right.

“She doesn’t.”

“She will be taken away from us.” Your palm slaps against the counter. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away from you.

He just frowns, and his eyebrows do that little twitchy thing, before his gaze flickers back up to your eyes.

“It didn’t work for me.”

“But it might for her.” You try, meeting his eyes. Fuck, he’s beautiful. “Andrew, we can love her, but we can’t help her. Not like that. It’s not enough.”

He stays quiet. He moves back to the sink, and starts scrubbing the dish again.

You move over from behind the counter, and catch his arm.

“Stop that.” Your voice is firm, and he doesn’t look up again. “Please.”

His eyes finally rise to yours, and he goes very still.

“Fight with me.” Your voice is too soft for this argument, but you don’t care. “I need you to fight with me. You have opinions. I do too. Stop scrubbing the paint off of that thing, and argue.”

His eyes drop to your mouth again, before they move back up to your own.

“I don’t want to get angry.”

“You’re already angry.” You don’t break his gaze.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” You’ve never been more confident of anything in your life.

He sets the plate down, moves forward, and cages you in against the counter so quickly that you gasp. The air shifts, and his eyes are so dark that you wonder if you should be afraid. Better yet, if there’s something wrong with you because you don’t feel afraid.

“I don’t want to lose Lena.” When did the air in here get so thin? Why can’t you draw breath right? His nose ducks down, moving slowly up over your throat until he’s face to face with you again, gaze burning into yours. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.” You swallow. “You won’t. She just needs-“

His hand is at the small of your back, forehead against yours and an intensity in his eyes that is so heavy it makes your knees wobble.

“She needs help.”

“She’ll think something is wrong with her.” He presses even closer, like he’s not aware that he’s doing it, and you can’t tell if he’s frustrated or seeking comfort. If this is how he gets frustrated with you, you aren’t sure if this or any argument is going to get very far.

“Did you think something was wrong with you?”

His lips are almost brushing your own. His hand slides up beneath your shirt, feeling the skin of your back. He doesn’t answer for a long, tense moment. Your skin burns beneath his touch and it feels way, way too good.

“There’s a lot wrong with me.”

You want him so badly it hurts. “This isn’t what I meant by fighting.”

“I can’t fight with you.” His lips brush yours for the briefest of seconds as his nose skates over your cheek. As his fingers curl against your back. “I want to. I’m trying. I can’t…”

You can’t remember how to breathe right for the life of you. Your hand moves up as if of its own accord, and your fingers slide through his hair. This is the closest you’ve been to each other since your wedding night. Sure, you sleep in the same bed, but he’s usually in bed after you and awake before you. He doesn’t linger. You wonder now if he’s been doing that on purpose. If this is what he’s been trying to avoid. If he was really so close to snapping that all it took was high emotions and you coming into his space for five fucking seconds.

The thought makes you shiver, and hand moves up over your back again, like he senses the silent question and his touch is the answer. His lips find the hollow of your throat. Just one soft, simple kiss, but it makes you feel like you’re on fucking fire.

“I…” you start, seconds away from pulling him back and slamming your mouth to his, when a soft voice makes you jump out of your skin.

“Can I watch TV?”

Pope releases you, stepping back, and you wonder how flushed your face must be as you look down to see Lena standing in the doorway, holding a stuffed bunny.

You blink, and try to focus on anything but the absence of Pope’s hands on your skin.

“Nightmares again?” You ask, and she nods.

And just like that, it’s over, and you spend the next hour sitting with Lena and watching cartoons as Pope returns to the dishes, gaze like a physical touch against your back.

And, not for the first time, you wonder how the fuck you’re going to manage this marriage.

-

Lena is gone.

And you kept it together. You kept it all together. You didn’t cry or scream or even try to fight with Pope after the social workers took her away. When she went into the system and you just had to sit there, helpless, and watch her get into that car.

And you showed up, when Pope went down to the office and made a scene. You all-but dragged him out of there, followed closely by security guards, and let him wrap his arms around you in the parking lot as you both shook with grief and worry and pain. You buried your face in his shoulder, and promised you would get her back. You both would. You’ll figure it out, because you love her, and you’re going to fight tooth and nail to make sure she knows how much you do.

And then Smurf, fucking fresh-out-of-prison Smurf, actually got her back. And it all went to shit.

“Why…” you pause, eyes scanning the room. The movers. The pink. She doesn’t even like pink. Why is there so much pink? “Why is it…here?”

“It’s just for now.” Smurf answers, flippant. “You just got her taken away. Andrew is an ex-convict. The courts will be a lot more lenient if she stays with me for a while.”

You feel cold. You fight the urge to fidget with your ring.

“But we’re…” married. You and Pope got married. That was supposed to help. She told you that.

She doesn’t even look up from where she’s folding yet another small pile of pink clothes. “You know, it would probably be best for you two to stay here, too. To keep her comfortable.”

Oh.

Oh fuck, you’re an idiot.

And then Lena is dropped off, and she’s miserable, and she wants to go home. Not home with you and Pope. Not home to the house. Home to her foster family, and her new sister.

And it all hits you like a fucking brick to the face.

This. This whole life is not safe for her. She has the opportunity to thrive, and grow, and live in a world where she will never be a pawn in someone else’s schemes. As much as you love her, as much as Pope loves her, this world is never going to be safe or healthy for her.

She’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna break your fucking heart, but she’s gonna be okay.

So you find Pope, and you fight your tears back, and you both take her back to her foster house. You take her home.

The car ride back to Smurf’s is silent.

It takes six minutes for you to break.

“Pull over.”

He does.

You lurch out of the truck, wondering if you’re going to be sick, and nearly stumble off of the side of a cliff before he catches you.

And he holds you too tightly. Tries to murmur something too sweet against your hair as the tears try to fight their way free. His arms feel too good around you. His touch is too comforting. You want to melt into him, and you can’t.

“This was all so fucking stupid.” You breathe, ragged and pained, and he holds you closer.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” You whirl on him, try to shove him back, and he lifts you and spins you back towards the car and away from the cliff before he lets you go. “This whole fucking thing was just…we were just…” breathe. You can’t breathe right. “She tricked us. Don’t you get it? She fucking made me a Cody so she can control you through Lena and she can control me somehow and this is all so fucked up, Pope-“

“Andrew.”

You pause, momentarily distracted despite your horror and anger. “Why do you do that?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Why do you correct me when we’re fighting? Or…” Memories of your wedding night rip through you, threatening to overwhelm you even more. You push them back so quickly it nearly gives you whiplash.

He doesn’t answer again, and you glare so hard you think your eyes might actually be burning.

“It makes me feel better, when you say it. I don’t like it when you’re upset with me.”

“Why the fuck aren’t you upset?”

“I am.” His head ducks, and tilts to the side a little as he looks at you with that familiar intensity. And then, quieter, he repeats, “I am.”

You pause at the pain in his voice. Feel your heart constrict so hard it hurts.

“It didn’t work.” You finally say, agony and grief ripping through you like your soul has been tossed into a fucking wood chipper. “It didn’t work, and I’m… I’m not going to be a fucking pawn in whatever game Smurf is playing.”

“I won’t let you.” Pope says, fingers flexing like he might move towards you. “I won’t let her hurt you.”

“She already has. All of this shit is…it’s too…” you sniffle, to your humiliation, and run a hand through your hair. “It’s over. It didn’t work. This is done. It needs to be done.” Because you’re all that’s left, and she is going to use you to hurt him now, and you can’t let that happen.

It needs to be done.

-

You show up, of all places, at Craig Cody’s place with a duffel under your arm and tears in your eyes.

“Oh shit.” He has a bottle of tequila in his hand. He’s shirtless, and there are people inside.

“I’m…interrupting.” You mumble, suddenly feeling oddly small. Oddly pathetic. But that’s why you’re here, because he has never made you feel that way. Never spoken down to you, never shown you anything but respect despite his ridiculous lifestyle and poor decision making skills. Even when you were just the nanny, and he hit on you so much it was borderline ridiculous, there was something about him that was…good. Lost, of course, but good.

You turn to go.

“Nuh uh. Hey, c’mere.” He spins you, and suddenly crushes you to him so tightly that your noise of surprise is muffled by his chest.

“You smell like sweat.” You mumble, miserable, and he laughs so hard that you shake in his dumb gigantic arms.

“Just got back from the water.” His hand comes up to the back of your head, an odd brotherly touch that makes you actually start to fucking cry. He holds you tighter, smushing you even more against him, and drops his chin against the top of your hair.

“Want me to beat Pope’s ass?”

You shake your head.

“Want some coke?”

You puff an irritated breath, and he laughs again.

“Okay, okay.” He pats your back, and pulls back a little. “How ‘bout a shot?”

You take the bottle from his hand, and take a swig.

“There ya go.” You sputter a little, and he pats your back. “C’mon. You stayin’ here for a bit?”

You nod, and take another swig from the bottle.

“You’re lucky I’ve got a guest room.” Craig ruffles your hair, and you frown as he takes the bottle back from you. “My couch is uncomfortable as fuck.”

“Well, better than - wait, what are you - hey!”

He crouches, grabs you, and tosses you over his shoulder, duffel bag and all, and as he walks back into his house with a shouted announcement of his ‘new roommate’, you decide that maybe the Codys aren’t all bad.

-

“Ow. Ow. Ow.” You mumble, curled into a chair in the corner of Craig’s kitchen with your head in your hands.

“Pope’s freakin’ out, by the way.”

“Thank you. You’re really helping.” You cross your arms on the counter, and bury your face in them, muffling your next words. “How’re you not hungover?”

“I’m hungover as shit.” You hear the fridge open, and hear the frown in Craig’s voice as he examines whatever is inside. “We should get something delivered.”

“We should burn this place to the ground. Might be the only way to get it clean.”

“You sound like your husband.”

“Don’t call him that.”

You don’t lift your head, but you feel Craig lean against the other side of the counter. He chuckles, and ruffles your hair until you groan and try to squirm away. “Damn, I knew you didn’t party, but a few shots of tequila took you out.”

“Shut up.” It was more than a few. Actually, you vaguely remember him holding your hair back in the front yard at some point.

He ruffles your hair again, presumably just to mess with you, and you swat him away.

“Gotta go to Smurf’s in a few.” He finally says, popping open a beer as you peek an eye open to glare at him. “Want me to tell Pope that you’re here?”

You frown, and shake your head.

He frowns back. “He’s freaking out.”

“Why? Lena’s gone. Doesn’t matter.”

“You know you’re being a dick, right?”

“Rude.”

“And you know he’s like, obsessed with you.”

Your heart twists, and you narrow your eyes. “He’s not.”

He puffs a laugh, and takes a swig of his beer. “Sure, sure.” He pats your cheek until you look up at him, eyes squinted and head pounding.

“Damn, you still look hot hungover.” He says, grinning, and you glare harder. “Shoulda got to you first. You wouldn’t have gone for me, though. You’re fuckin’ perfect for Pope.”

“M’not-“

“Go back to bed. Sleep all day. Not like you’ve got anything to do if you’re gonna be in hiding.” Craig cuts you off, already moving to the door to pull his boots on.

“You’re a tool.” You grouch, settling your aching head back into your arms.

“You came to me.” He retorts, and you groan again as you hear the door shut behind him.

-

You don’t talk to Pope Cody for two months.

You don’t take the ring off.

Deran gives you a job at the bar, and you’re good at it. You work too hard, too much, just to shut your brain off for as long as humanly possible before you have to go home and think about Lena. About Pope.

Weirdly enough, living with Craig isn’t too bad. Sure, you have to deal with the parties, have to clean up beer bottles in the mornings and kick him awake sometimes as his phone blows up with calls from his brothers.

But even when he’s fucked up, even when he’s acting like an asshole, he’s always there for you. Sometimes he sits and watches TV with you, rather than going out. Sometimes you manage to drag him to the grocery store, or even get him to clean the house as he grumbles about how ridiculous and uptight you are.

One day, he comes home, and doesn’t joke. Doesn’t comment about you being a neat-freak (you’re not, but you’re not about to let him leave dishes in the sink for a fucking month), and sits on the coffee table across from where you lay on the couch.

You raise your eyebrows, having just flopped down onto the cushions, still in your work uniform and aching with exhaustion.

“You gotta go over there.” His voice is serious, and his eyes are doing that crazy intense thing. Kind of like Pope, but different. You’ve always blamed the drugs, but now you wonder if it’s a familial trait.

“To Smurf’s?” You frown. “Why?”

“He’s fuckin’ losing it, that’s why.” Craig doesn’t snap at you, but the tone of his voice is sharp enough to catch your attention. “All he ever does is sit in front of the TV or stand in the yard and break shit. It’s fucking creepy.”

“You always call him creepy.” And yet, your resolve is already cracking. Shit.

“I don’t get this. You married him. You get along great. Like, better than I’ve ever seen him get along with anyone. He’s obsessed with you. You fucked on your wedding night, but you tell me you haven’t done anything since and with all that damn staring I believe you- hey!”

You swat at him, eyes wide with horror. “How the fuck did you know that?”

“Jesus, chill. You hit me a lot, you know that?”

“Craig!”

“Dude, my room was right next door to that guest room. I was trying to hook up too, but the sound of my brother getting off is kind of a boner killer.”

“That and the pounds of coke.” You grouch, still trying and failing to hide your mortification.

“That’s never been a problem. I’m built different.”

“You’re the fucking worst. Seriously, I’m gonna-“

“Smurf’s got him fighting.”

And there it goes. The last bit of hesitation. Your eyes snap upwards, concern curling in your stomach.

“What?”

“Yeah. Boxing matches and shit.” Craig looks genuinely earnest. “He’s fucked up, dude. Something’s not right. He’s got this look in his eyes like…like he doesn’t give a shit what happens to him.”

That’s all it takes.

You’re out the door in five minutes.

-

When you find him, he’s sitting in the yard, staring at the moon.

You don’t think he even notices your approach as you make your way around the pool, but when you get closer, he turns to look up at you so slowly that you wonder if he’s been aware of your presence since you pulled into the driveway.

His eyes are dark. His face is bruised and cut and you can’t hold back a sharp breath at the sight. Fuck. He looks like he got put through a fucking meat grinder.

“Holy shit.” You whisper, crouching down beside him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t tear his eyes away from you. Doesn’t even blink.

“Are you real?” His voice a whisper of gravel, and he’s looking at you like you’re an angel that fell from heaven and landed in the grass before him. Like he’s living up to his nickname and fucking worshipping you.

You nearly burst into tears. You feel something crack in your chest. Something deeper and more vital than your heart.

You reach out, and brush your fingers over a healing cut below his eye. And then, like a woman possessed, you move until you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips, and press your forehead against his.

“I’m real.” You whisper back, fingers sliding into his hair. “I’m real, Andrew.”

His breath rattles in his lungs. His hand shakes as it comes up to move over your back, pulling you closer to him when you don’t vanish with a gentle, aching desperation.

His head drops down to your shoulder, and he turns to bury his face in your neck. Your fingers continue to skate through his soft curls, and the sob that rips its way from his throat makes that final piece of your soul shatter like broken glass.

You hold each other like that for some time, silent tears streaming down your cheeks as Pope holds you like you could disappear any moment.

“Don’t leave again.” He finally whispers, and you hold him a little tighter.

“I won’t.” You murmur. “Not tonight.”

“Don’t leave ever. Please. Please, I’ll…I’ll do anything. Stay. Stay with me.” He crushes you to him almost too tightly, now, and your heart breaks.

“Andrew...” You whisper, but whatever you may have said is quickly cut off by his mouth as he kisses you. Hard. Desperate. Rough.

And you kiss him back.

The moment you do, he makes a noise that sounds almost pained, one large hand moving up to tangle in your hair as your breath stops in your throat. He shifts beneath you, lowering you until your back hits the grass as he slides his body atop yours and holds you to him like a mere inch of distance might kill him.

This is a bad idea. He’s clearly out of his mind. You’re both hurting too much.

And yet, it feels so fucking good you can’t think straight. Like this, this is everything you’ve been missing for all these weeks. You want to drown yourself in it. You want him to make it all better. You want to make it all better for him.

But you can’t. Even as you catch his lip between your teeth, arch your back beneath him, and hear him almost whimper as he presses you down against the grass, you can’t do this. Not now. Not like this.

You pull back, and he nearly sobs as he pushes you back down. As he uses his grip on your hair to pull your head back so he can trace his tongue over your jaw.

“P-Pope-“ you try, and he shakes his head, nuzzling closer and rocking his hips against yours.

“Don’t. Don’t make me stop. Please.” His voice is low. Desperate. “Let me touch you. I-I’ll make it better. I’ll fix everything. Everything. Just stay with me.”

Everything in you screams to keep going. To never stop chasing this feeling. He senses your hesitation, and kisses you again like he knows that your brain is short-circuiting and he’s just too desperate to care. Like he can convince you if he just keeps trying.

“Stop…” You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut as his hand moves down your side, up beneath your shirt, trailing sparks behind the touch that make you bite back a whimper.

He hears it, and he doesn’t stop.

“You want me. I know you do. I know you. I can…I can fix this. Please. Please, let me fix this.”

Your body betrays you, back arching a little beneath him again, and he makes a soft noise of approval as his fingers begin to work the button of your jeans.

This isn’t right. He’s out of his fucking mind right now. This isn’t right.

“Pope.” You try again, hand reaching down to catch his wrist as his fingers begin to skate beneath your waistband.

“Call me Andrew. Say my name.” He pleads, breath warm and ragged against your ear, and it takes every ounce of strength in your heart to pull at his wrist as his fingers slide lower. Lower.

“Stop.” You try again, and when he pulls back to kiss you, you turn your head away. “Pope. Stop.”

Finally, he freezes. His hand pauses, and you can feel his entire body shake with restraint and hunger above you. “Don’t make me.” One last, desperate plea.

“Stop.” You say again, and he moves back with a subtle, heartbroken little nod.

You re-button your jeans, and push yourself away as he pulls back a little more. He’s breathless. His eyes are still dark as they look over you, still pained and lacking clarity, and you nearly start to cry at the horrified tone of his voice when he asks his next question.

“Did I hurt you?”

No. God, no. You’re about to fall apart with how badly you want him. With how hard it is to keep from flinging yourself into his embrace again. But he’s asking, because he’s so out of it that he doesn’t know. And you’re fucked up for letting it get this far.

“I have to go.” You whisper, pulling yourself upright on shaky feet. “I’m sorry. I…I have to go.”

He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t follow. He just watches you as you walk to the gate, and you feel his gaze linger like the soft prickle of frost until he’s out of sight.

And even then, when you get home, you still feel it. And you cry.

-

You’re shutting down the bar when he comes in.

“We’re closed.” You say, barely bothering to raise your gaze as the stranger pushes himself through the door, and you’re a little surprised to be met with silence. No drunken apologies or insistence that they’ll ‘jus’ be here f’r one.”

You look up.

The man before you is smiling. And it isn’t a good smile.

“Cody.” He says, like a predatory growl, and you freeze as he moves closer. Even with a foot of bar between you, the way his gaze is raking over your body feels like a physical touch. “Right? You’re Pope’s wife.”

You don’t back up. Remind yourself not to show weakness. “…Yeah. I am.”

On paper, yeah. But you’ve been in and around this family long enough to know that the title holds a certain amount of power. Pope Cody’s wife. A member of the Cody family. Maybe the confirmation will make this asshole-

“Good.” He says, and snatches your wrist faster than you can form your next thought. He yanks you half over the bar, grabs the back of your head, and slams you onto it.

You’re out cold the moment your head makes contact with the wooden surface, and you don’t even have a quarter of a second to realize that you are absolutely fucked.

-

Your head is pounding. You taste blood. There’s warmth trickling down from your temple.

You’re on the ground, cold concrete pressed against your swollen cheek. Not good. Not good not good not good.

Somewhat shakily, you try to push yourself up, and a booted foot meets the small of your back to slam you back down hard enough that it pulls a sharp yelp from your throat.

“The fucking Codys…” the man grumbles, and you hear the pop of a beer bottle cap above you. Great. You just did inventory. Though that should probably be the least of your concerns right now. “They fucked me over, ya know? Met Pope in prison, he says when we get out we’ll do jobs, and then nothing. Not a fuckin’ word. He just comes home to his pretty wife and family and leaves me on the streets like a fuckin’ dog.”

You try to sit up again. The boot meets your back again. Your head screams with pain, and you have to fight the urge to curl in on yourself like a wounded animal.

“Gotta leave a message, sweetheart. You know how it is.”

Your focus is still swimming. Think. Think think think.

“Knew you’d be pretty, too. He talked about ya all the time. Gonna feel bad messing up that sweet face, though.”

You start to drag yourself up for a third time, but the man grabs your hair and yanks you quickly to your feet. It hurts. Everything hurts already, and you know that’s not a good sign. That it’s gonna hurt a lot more when the adrenaline wears off.

He slams you back against the bar, and his hand wraps around your throat until you can’t breathe.

He’s still holding your hair, hard enough that your eyes sting with tears of pain, and you can see a thousand horrible plans forming in his eyes as he looks you up and down. Your fingers scramble uselessly at the ones locked around your neck, and you blindly reach out to feel around the bar beside you with your free hand as your vision starts to swim with black spots.

“Thinkin’ I break those fingers first, sugar.” You can smell the whiskey and beer on his breath, a rancid mix that would probably make you choke if you weren’t already suffocating. You grit your teeth. You can feel consciousness slipping away, and you have maybe seconds before you pass out again from lack of oxygen. God knows how you’ll wake up after that. “Then we work down to that pretty little-“

Your fingers close around something metal, and you don’t think before you slam it hard into his neck.

He stumbles backward, hand flying up to where a fork now protrudes from his jugular, and you have never seen a man die before.

You don’t move. You watch every second. The way he falls to the ground. The way he convulses. The way his eyes begin to fog over and he stops trying to tug the fork out of his neck, body going limp before you.

You sink to the floor.

You can’t look away. For too long, you just stare at him. Watch the shaky rise and fall of his chest come to a shuddered halt as blood begins to pool beneath his body. So much blood. Too much blood. There’s no way a human body can have that much blood, is there?

Shock is cold and numbing. You can’t feel your fingertips. You can’t think. You don’t think you’re breathing, either.

He definitely isn’t breathing. He’s dead. You killed him.

Oh, fuck.

-

You should call the police. You should call Deran, the owner of the damn bar. Maybe Craig.

You don’t. You don’t even think to.

You call your husband.

He answers on the first ring. He’s on a job. They all are. You know better than to call any of them when they’re on a job.

The river of blood is spreading, and you kick away before it can reach your sneakers, until your back is pressed against the bottom part of the bar.

“Hey.” He sounds a little breathless. You hear a furious shout, and he mumbles a curse. “I’ll call you back in-“

“A-Andrew I…” Words. Words. You have to remember how to say words. “I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean to-“

“What happened?” Pope’s voice is low. Gentle. Your ears are ringing.

“I-I don’t…I’m at the bar. I…he…” you shouldn’t say anything over the phone, right? You know that much. You can’t confess to killing someone over the phone. Oh God, you killed someone.

“Are you safe?”

No. Yes. You nod, before you realize that he can’t actually see you. “I think so.” You can’t stop staring at the body. You might be sick.

“I’ll be there.” Silence. A muffled argument. The slamming of a car door. And then, softer. “Don’t move, okay?”

You nod again.

It might take five minutes. It might take an hour. You haven’t moved. You’re not sure if you’ve even blinked. The phone is still pressed to you ear. You don’t remember when he hung up.

But Andrew Cody is suddenly crouching before you, hands painfully gentle as he reaches up to guide your hand and the phone gripped in it down into your lap. His jaw is tight, dark eyes more intense than you’ve ever seen them as he tilts your head to inspect what must be a nasty wound on your forehead. One side of your face hurts. You probably have a black eye, and your cheek feels warm with what is very likely blood.

“The body.” You whisper, eyes still locked on man on the ground, and this time he turns your face towards his own.

“Don’t look at that. Look at me.” Gentle. Soft. His voice can be so, so soft. He’s wearing what looks like a security guard uniform, with a heavy jacket and boots and backwards ballcap. It’s probably not appropriate right now to think that he looks unfairly good like this, and you wonder what they were robbing before you called him. You almost ask, still in too much shock to remember that you told him you don’t want to know.

But when you look at his face, and feel the way his thumb is brushing featherlight over your cheek, you almost reel back at the rage in his expression. It isn’t directed at you, but it’s burning so deeply that you can’t make yourself look away. His hands are gentle on you, yes, but everything else about him is screaming danger.

Oh. That’s why people are so fucking scared of him, huh? You’ve never seen it before. Never really understood it until now. Still, you couldn’t be less afraid of him if you tried.

You feel really cold, and really numb in a way that scares you, and you don’t think you ever want him to stop touching you.

When you inhale, he nods, like he’s acknowledging that you’re doing a good job, and brushes his fingers through your bloody hair as you wince.

“Where else did he hurt you?” He asks, and you feel those fingers curl a little against the back of your head. His eyes fall down to your neck, which aches and burns in a way that tells you that you probably have angry red marks from the man’s fingers around your throat.

Slammed to the floor. Boot on your back. Fork in his neck. So much blood. Fuck fuck fuck fuck-

“Hey, hey. Look at me.” And you do, and you swallow.

Your shaky fingers come up to your throat. Neck. Fork in neck. Dead body and you’re the one that killed him.

“Can you stand?”

You nod again, and he lifts you to your feet, pulling you to him. He smells like gunpowder and bleach, and you press your nose into his shoulder and try to inhale the scent that you know better. The one that is soft and a little spicy and very much him.

He presses gently on the back of your head. “Here?”

You shake your head.

Lower, to your back. This time, you jump a little in his arms.

He nods, gentle and careful, and turns you to lift your shirt and inspect the wound.

You can’t see him, but you hear his breath get a little harsher. A little more shallow.

“Is it bad?” You ask, quiet and hoarse, and you feel him pull your shirt back down before he turns you and pulls you into his chest again. He’s breathing too shallowly. He’s holding you too tightly. He’s trying to keep himself calm, and it isn’t working.

“There’s a boot print. On your back.” He murmurs, and you wince at the memory of that boot kicking you back down.

You reach up, and slide your hands over his back, tucking your face into the crook of his neck, soothing him even as you seek comfort from him.

For a while, he holds you. Careful. Tight. Like if he loosens his grip even the smallest bit, something might rip you away.

Finally, he takes a deep breath, and presses his lips to the side of your head. Still gentle. Still soft.

“I’m gonna call Craig, okay? He’s gonna take you home, and then I’m gonna…take care of this.” The words are murmured into your hair, and you wince. Tense.

“No.” You feel so…weak. You fucking hate it, but you can’t think straight and the idea of Pope leaving you or even letting you go in this moment makes you feel fucking sick. “Don’t. Don’t go. Not right now.”

He goes impossibly more still, before he pulls back to trace his fingers over your bruised cheek, eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your toes curl despite the situation.

“Okay.” His head tilts a little, in the direction of the back room. “Go in the back. Sit down.”

And you do.

You hear a few noises in the front room, the low sound of Pope’s voice on the phone, something being pulled from a storage closet, and then he’s crouching before you on the couch, fingers reaching up to brush over your neck once again before he pauses, like it just occurred to him that you might not want to be touched.

“Is this…okay?”

You nod. It hurts to speak, so you don’t bother to try. You don’t need to, with him. You never have.

He tilts your head to the side, fingers tightening imperceptibly on your chin as he sees the bruises once again, and for a moment you both just sit there in silence, staring at each other.

And maybe…maybe it’s because you’re alive. Maybe it’s because you just fucking killed a man. Maybe it’s because you haven’t seen him in over a month. Maybe it’s because you miss Lena and you miss him but…

But you pull him up with a hand fisted in the front of his t-shirt, and you kiss him like you’re fucking drowning.

He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips, but he kisses you back. He kisses you back like he’s fucking drowning, too. Like he missed you just as much as you missed him.

His hands slide up to your cheeks, so gentle it almost hurts more than your wounds, and you drag him down with you onto the couch. He comes like he’s magnetized to you, lays you back beneath him like you’re made of glass and every millimeter of his skin against yours is heaven on fucking earth.

He braces himself atop you, pulling back to meet your eyes, and you grab his face in your hands and drag his mouth back to yours and it is incredible. He feels incredible and you missed him so much you finally feel like you’re breathing again.

He parts your lips with his own, groans as tongue sweeps into your mouth like the taste of you is a drug, and you arch against him as he presses you down into the couch, the feeling of his own need quickly making itself evident against your thigh. This. This this this. The feeling of his control cracking, of his desperation to touch you making him walk the line between gentle and rough until every touch sends sparks through your body, this is what you need. What you missed. This is making it all better.

You whimper, and he kisses you harder, and you are on fucking fire as his teeth catch your bottom lip, hand sliding up to your cheek as you begin fumbling with his belt and he rocks his hips against yours and-

And then his calloused fingers press a little too hard against your bruised cheek, and you jump as pain shoots down your spine, and he pulls back like you just burned him.

“No. No no no-“ you start, out of your mind with lust and the desperate need to forget. Just for a minute. When he’s kissing you, when he’s against you, you feel so much better when all you’ve felt is emptiness and pain for months.

Let me forget. Let me forget please don’t make me think about what just happened and Lena and how much I missed you please please please just-

“Stop.” He rasps, breath ragged as his hand slides beneath your head, cradling it as his nose brushes over your cheek. He’s shaking with restraint, and you’re sure that if you can just get his damn belt off he’ll cave but his free hand comes down to catch your wrists and you almost fucking cry. “You’re hurt.” And then, softer, closer to your ear and dripping with guilt and regret, “you’re hurt.”

“I don’t care.” And you don’t. And it’s a little scary how much you don’t care. You just want him. You haven’t even seen him in weeks, since that night in the backyard, and you feel like everything might be better if he just keeps touching you.

You reach up to scrape your fingers through his hair, and his forehead drops against yours, his hold tightening on your hip.

“I can’t.” His voice is a low rasp, nose bumping against your own as his eyes fall closed like the mere feeling of you touching him may be all that he needs.

“Please, Andrew.”

He grips you tighter, and leans back down.

And then the door to the bar slams open, loudly enough that the sound echoes into the back room, and he pulls away like he’s just fallen back to earth.

You almost protest, but then Deran and Craig are pushing their way into the back, and Craig is crouching before you.

“Oh, fuck. You look like shit.”

You laugh, and then, to your horror, you start to cry.

“Fuck. Fuck, okay. I’ve gotcha.”  He pulls your face into his shoulder, like he might hide your ridiculous weeping, and turns his head to look at Pope. “You didn’t do any of this, right?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The level of danger in the other man’s voice nearly sends a chill down your spine.

“Chill, just checking.” Your head is pushed back again, surprisingly gently, and Deran hisses as he takes in the sight of you.

“Christ.” And then he’s beside you, touching the wound on your head. “She might need to go to Tijuana or some shit.”

“That’s for bullet wounds.” Pope snaps, eyes still on yours and body angled towards you like he might shove the two other men away at any moment. “She needs a few stitches. I’ve got her.”

“You’ve gotta take care of the…“

Body. The body. The body you made because you stabbed that guy in the neck and he-

“Take her home. I’ll be there soon.”

Craig nods, beginning to pull you to your feet. “Okay, c’mon. We can watch that dumb reality show you like. Just-“ he starts, and Pope stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Take her home.” He says, and the implication would make you frown if you weren’t still in shock. “Not to your place.”

Craig looks at you. You look at him. You look at Pope.

You turn back to Craig, and nod.

He steps back, and Pope moves forward to press his lips against your forehead, pulling back to tilt your chin up and look you in the eyes.

“I’ll be there soon. Is that okay?”

Always, always asking if you’re okay. Always checking on you. Always putting you first.

“Yeah.”

And when he leaves, and Craig takes you home, you feel his loss like a phantom limb.

-

Pope is gone for hours.

Craig fusses over your head for all three of those fucking hours.

“Fucking-ow!” You hiss, as he pulls the needle through your skin again, instinctively trying to shove him back for maybe the fiftieth time.

“Sorry. Shit, I usually have this done to me. Hang on.”

You sputter as he spills a shot of tequila over the wound again, and shove him some more.

“Knock it off. I’m disinfecting.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“Will you relax?”

“You’re definitely not doing it right.”

“Well it’s not every fuckin’ day I have to stitch up my best friend’s open forehead wound while she sits on my brother’s couch with a fucking boot print on her back.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t seen weirder shit.”

He stops, and crouches in front of you, one hand still holding the needle while the other rests on your shoulder.

“That’s it. C’mon, look at me for a sec.”

You do, and you’re still trying to glare, but with your puffy, red-rimmed 

 eyes and bruised face, you know it doesn’t hold much weight.

“You saved your own life tonight. You know that?”

“I killed someone.” Your voice sounds too small.

“He was gonna kill you. Probably worse.” Craig doesn’t get…intense, often. The way he’s looking at you now only proves just how dire the situation was tonight, and you have to grit your teeth to keep from shaking. He squeezes your shoulder, and offers you a small smile.

“You make a hell of a Cody, ya know that?”

Ugh. You might start crying again.

You hug him instead, stitches be damned, and he barely has time to maneuver the needle so it doesn’t rip your forehead apart before he’s hugging you right back.

“And,” he adds, one large hand rubbing soothingly over your bruised back, “if Pope doesn’t kill everyone that guy’s ever known, I will. No one’s gonna hurt you again. Promise.”

You laugh, as fucked up as it is, and you feel a whole lot better.

-

You’re leaning against Craig’s shoulder on the couch, aching all over and trying to lose yourself in the conversation, when Pope Cody comes through the door and sits down in front of you faster than you can even register that he’s home.

There’s blood on his face. Dirt on his hands.

“Are you okay?” His voice is quiet, fingers skating through your hair in that wonderfully familiar way as he inspects your wound.

“No.” There’s no need to lie. He’ll see right through it, anyway.

“Okay.” He traces a gentle, calloused touch over your cheek. Down to your neck, where the barely there pressure on the bruises on your throat make you flinch, less from pain than from memory.

Craig leaves with one more gentle ruffle of your hair, and then you’re alone. You let Pope touch you, let him move his eyes and fingertips over every single wound on your face and body. Watch the rage build in his eyes again as he takes in the state of you.

“I should have done your stitches. Craig never ties them right.” He pulls back, earnest like his next words might matter to you. “This is gonna scar.”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

What a truly fucked up thing for you to say right now. You just killed a guy. Pope just hid the body for you. He’s your fake husband and you’ve barely spoken in months.

He pauses, and pulls back to look at you. And then he looks at your head, like he’s inspecting the wound again.

“Stop. I’m not concussed. I mean, I don’t think I am.” You frown, and reach up to catch his hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said-“

“I love you.” He interrupts, and curls his fingers around yours. “I love you so much I can’t think. I can’t sleep without you. I can’t breathe right. You…” his eyes are intense, locked onto yours, but he’s fighting for the words. “You’re everything to me. You have been since I met you.”

That catches your attention. You blink at him, opening your mouth to try to find something to say, but he keeps going.

“I would die for you. I would kill for you. Sometimes I want you to ask me to kill for you, just so I can show you how much…” your eyes widen, and he frowns. “I won’t, though. But I…I would.”

“I think the way you measure love is a little fucked up.”

His lips quirk, like he’s fighting a smile. “I’m fucked up.”

“Yeah, you are.” You concede, and offer him a smile of your own. “But I love you.”

His smile falls, but his thumb is still doing that sweet thing where it brushes over your cheek. “I’ve killed people before.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to kill that guy tonight. I was hoping he wasn’t dead yet, so that I could kill him.”

“You’re not gonna scare me off, Pope.”

“Andrew.”

“Andrew.” You smile, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours. “You’re not gonna scare me off, Andrew.”

This time, when he kisses you, he doesn’t stop.

-

EPILOGUE - SOME TIME LATER

“I’ve literally never seen a baby look so pissed off all the time.” Craig’s hand drops to Pope’s shoulder, giving him a friendly little shake. “Congrats, dude. Definitely yours.”

“I think that’s just his poop face.” You cock your head down at the baby in question. “And his hungry face. And his…happy face.”

Pope makes a quiet noise, and moves forward to lift the dour-faced child into his arms. There’s something about watching him, scarred face and gigantic muscles and all, hold such a small bundle with so much fondness that it still makes you grin every time.

“You’ve gotta bounce him a little.” He says, in his rough and quiet voice, before doing exactly that, and then…

A quiet, cooing giggle. A tiny hand reaching up to grab at his father’s nose. And finally, brightest of all, Pope Cody grinning from ear to fucking ear.

“See, he smiles.” Pope reaches up to catch the baby’s hand, tiny fingers wrapping around his pointer, and you think your heart might explode.

“You look fucking scary like that, dude.”

“Oh, shut up.” You catch Pope’s chin, and pull him down for a quick kiss. He’s still smiling, and you smile back, and Craig groans. “He hasn’t slept in like, three days. He’s out of his mind. It makes him more smiley than usual.”

“I’ve slept.” He mumbles, turning back to the baby.

“You have not. You keep waking me up with your fingers on my pulse. Or standing over his crib.”

“The birth was traumatic.”

“The birth was three months ago.”

He grunts, and the baby coos, and he smiles again.

All jokes aside, he’s been doing that a lot lately.

And, a month or two back, when Lena’s now-parents let the two of you come over to the house to show her her new cousin, she had seen that smile, looked up, and smiled right back.

“What?” Pope had asked, looking down at the little girl the two of you had come together to raise so long ago. The little girl who also smiles more openly, now. Who giggles and comes to life more easily and is so excited to show the two of you her drawings from school and the new swing in the backyard.

“You guys don’t look sad anymore.” She said, simply, and you had burst into fucking tears, hormonal and happy and sleep-deprived as you were, and Pope had laughed out loud as he’d pulled you into his arms, sandwiching your baby between the two of you.

Now, you stand beside him by the pool, heart swelling in your chest again as you watch him smile, and he leans over to press his lips to the side of your head.

“We should renew our vows.” He hums, and you laugh.

“You really wanna throw another party?”

He smiles again, and kisses your cheek. “No. I want to marry you again. The right way.”

He’s said the same thing a few times, now. When you got pregnant, when you were pregnant, complaining about your swollen ankles and aching back, when you were lying in the hospital bed and half awake after the birth, when you were both half awake again holding your crying two week old on the couch…

And now, you finally answer.

“Ask me.”

He smiles again. The baby slaps fitfully at his cheek.

“Will you marry me?”

You grin right back at him, and lean up to press your lips to his.

“Yes, Andrew Cody. I’ll marry you…again.”