Imagine you’re Simon Riley’s American girlfriend and you’re visiting your family in the states for thanksgiving.
Simon is so out of place in your loud family. Sitting in your grandmas small house and in the small chairs, he barely fits.
He’s silently watching everyone. Wishing he knew how to fit in because his family wasn’t ever like this. Your family was so warm and inviting. Like a picture out of a magazine.
Even the lighting in your grandmas home was warm and bright, feeling so inviting. There was so much chatter going on here wasn’t sure what to focus on.
Almost as if he was underwater, everything was blending together.
“You okay?” Your hand rubbing Simon’s back grabs his attention and pulls him back to reality.
“S’loud.” He grunts. He stands up as your grandma tells everyone the food is ready.
Piling all the food onto his plate so he can try everything. He sits down next to you, the first bite he takes fills him warmth.
He never understood when people said their food was made with love, but he understood now. This, was made with love.
Simon made sure to eat thanksgiving with your family every year after that.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strangers to lovers, fast burn lol, age difference (not that it matters lmao), flirting, teasing, slight soft dom Leon, dirty talk, kissing, pet names, praise, slight degradation, pussy play, fingering, oral (f receiving), just the tip, protected to unprotected sex, breeding kink, multiple creampies
I’m dropping a little 5k+ meet-cute-hookup fic for Christmas 🤭 I hope you all enjoy! I wish you the Merriest of Christmases and the Happiest of New Years 💜 💜 😘
apologies for any mistakes and if it’s repetitive lol not proofread ✌️
Stepping into the lodge, your eyes take in all the woodsy Christmas decor. It’s kinda cute, you think—brows wrinkling when you catch sight of the fake light up noses on the mounted deer heads lining the wall. Well… maybe not that cute. Checking in with the bubbly woman manning the reception desk, you step away and head over to the elevator and stairwell.
A man bumps into you, thick bicep clipping your arm and making you stumble with your luggage.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” He winces, reaching out to grasp your elbow. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“It’s okay.” You turn to offer him a polite smile and are a little dumbfounded by how attractive this stranger looks.
He’s older than you, crows feet and wrinkles adorning his face with a five o’clock shadow across his jaw. A small, white scar kisses the apple of his right cheek, nearly shielded by the hair hanging down over his face. You catch a glimpse of a few silver hairs interspersed with the sandy strands.
He grins sheepishly, fine cheekbones drawing your eye. “I’d feel better if you let me buy you a drink in apology.”
You laugh. “Okay then, let me drop my bags off at my room, and I’ll meet you at the bar in twenty minutes?”
His brows raise in surprise but his grin widens, crows feet deepening. “Alright, sounds good. See you there.”
Giving you a nod, he walks off further into the lodge, leaving you near the elevators. You smile to yourself and take the first open lift, rolling your luggage in quickly before the doors shut. A giddy feeling of excitement bubbles in your chest like carbonation. It’s not like you to accept an invitation on such a whim, but it’s your vacation and you want to do something different. Something fun.
The elevator dings and you step out onto the second floor, wheeling your bag down the spacious hall to your room. Entering, you give it a quick glance, taking in the open space and soft bed in the center. The window across from the doorway lets in plenty of natural light, the setting sun painting the snow trailing outside the pane a buttery gold.
It doesn’t take you long to get settled in—all that needed to be done was place your toiletries in the bathroom and hang up your clothes in the little side closet. A cursory look at yourself in the mirror by the door shows a young woman dressed more for comfort than seduction. You smooth down some flyaway hairs and pop on some chapstick. Puckering your lips, you give yourself a silly kiss and laugh.
This holiday you’ve promised yourself to just enjoy yourself. No responsibilities, no worries, and no expectations. It’ll be tough to break your anxious mindset of overthinking every single thing—but having a drink with a handsome stranger is a great start. Double checking to make sure you have your phone, wallet, and room key, you lock your door behind you and head back downstairs to the bar.
The man from before catches your eye with a little hand gesture as soon as you step from the lobby into the restaurant. You wave back and make your way over to the booth he’s seated in, facing the entrance in an obvious way. It makes you feel warm, knowing he was waiting for you.
“Hi,” he greets you, standing up from his seat. “I thought I’d wait on you before ordering anything.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to, but thank you.”
As soon as you sit, a man bustles over to the table, quickly taking your orders and hustling over to the bar.
“He seems a bit frazzled,” you wonder out loud.
“Busy time of year I’m sure. I’m Leon, by the way,” the man holds out a hand.
Smiling, you introduce yourself and accept his handshake. The waiter places the drinks on the table and slips away to check on other guests.
“What brings you out here?” Leon picks up his lager and takes a generous sip.
You watch the tendons flex in his hand, noticing the calloused skin stretched across his knuckles.
“Vacation.” You mimic his movements and take a careful drink of your own hot cider. “What about you?”
“Same.” He gives you an easy grin. “Decided to skip out on the work and drama of the holidays.”
You laugh softly. “I totally get what you mean. It’s a bit of a relief to know I’m on my own time.”
“Exactly.”
You both fall into easy conversation, trading anecdotes on your lives that keeps the other amused. After explaining about your day job, you find out Leon works in the government sector—as a contractor of sorts. It’s simple and nice, and before either of you realize it, the bar is closing for the night.
The waiter stops by one last time with the check, and Leon waves away your efforts to pay for your drinks.
“Can’t let such a lovely lady foot the bill. Consider it a gift,” he teases.
That makes you laugh out loud, the warmth of his attention and the cider melding into a deliciously sweet glow. You feel a pang of sadness to think your time together is drawing to a close. Watching Leon sign his name on the receipt, you see him place his card back into his wallet and turn his attention back to you. He runs his hands through his hair, seemingly nervous for the first time since you’ve started talking.
“I know this sounds like a bad pick up line, but would you wanna meet up again? I’m here for the week, and it’d be nice to have company. You’re, uh, easy to talk to.” His lips quirk, giving him a nervous tilt to his mouth.
“Um, sure,” your voice cracks and you clear your throat—embarrassment creeping into your tone. “I’m having a good time with you, too.”
He smiles, a boyish grin that hints at what he looked like when he was younger. “Would you like to meet here for dinner tomorrow?”
“Sounds good,” you agree readily.
“It’s a date then,” he says, and it makes you feel toasty inside.
The walk to the elevator is chummy, with Leon telling you dad jokes that have no business being as funny as they are; you part ways once the lift stops on your floor, Leon giving you a little wave as you step off while he continues on to the third floor. Once you’re back inside your room, you quickly shower and change into your comfy Christmas pajama’s (Snoopy’s wearing little Santa hats). Shutting off the lights, you crawl into bed and fall asleep while staring at the snow falling outside the window.
The next couple of days pass by in a blur; you explore the little town a few miles away from the lodge, visiting the quaint shops and buying a couple of souvenirs for yourself. The evenings are spent with Leon, at the same booth where you introduced yourselves, talking and laughing and just enjoying each other’s company. It’s the best vacation you can remember taking in forever.
The morning of Christmas Eve dawns as bright as usual. You find yourself dressing warm for the short journey through the snow back into town—wanting to pick up a last minute gift for Leon. You saw it in the window on your walk back the other afternoon, and you just decided to bite the bullet and get it for him. If he doesn’t like it, you’ll keep it with your other souvenirs.
Stopping out front of the store, a pleased smile crosses your face. The etched bourbon glass still sits in the place you last saw it. It doesn’t take you long to make the purchase, but the storekeep ropes you into a conversation about Christmas movies and before you know it, the day has tipped over into a golden afternoon. Bidding the sweet elderly man goodbye, you start the frosty walk back up to the lodge.
The snow picks up on the last half of your trek, but luckily, you get to your room with plenty of time for you to change out of your damp clothes into something more comfortable. Grabbing Leon’s gift, you make your way down to the restaurant, nerves jittery. You catch his eye when entering the room, sending him a quick smile as you pick you way through the crowded space to reach the booth.
“Hi.” Leon moves to stand up, like he always does when you join him, but you quickly sit before he can do much more than twist his torso.
“Hi,” you reply, a little breathless. “Kinda packed out tonight, huh?”
“Think they’re doing a Christmas Eve party or something.” He glances around. “Heard a couple of people talking about it as they passed by.”
“Oh, okay.” You fidget in place before placing the gift bag in front of him on the table. “So, I hope it’s not weird of me, but I got you something.”
His eyes soften in a way that makes your heart trip over itself.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs. “But thanks. That’s really sweet of you.”
He pulls out the crinkled tissue paper and reaches into the bag. Pulling out the glass, he grins crookedly over at you before looking back down at his gift.
“I feel like you know me too well for such a short time,” he laughs, lifting the glass up to catch the light.
You practically beam at him, smile wide across your face. “You like it then?”
“Yes. I do.” He reaches across and takes one of your hands in his own, squeezing it gently.
A perky waitress deems that moment worthy of interrupting and steps up to the table to ask your orders. Since it’s Christmas Eve, you both decide on the special that she rattled off at the beginning. Once she leaves, Leon places his gift to the side and draws you into pleasant conversation.
The evening zips by and it seems like in just a blink, the restaurant is slowly clearing out leaving only small pockets of people a little more jovial than when they arrived. Leon helps you up from the booth, keeping his arm around you as he leads you both out into the lobby. He stops next to the Christmas tree on display. You take in the huge fir tree—lit with multicolored lights, silver tensil strung across its boughs with a brightly lit star topping it all off.
“Hey, uh, would you want to join me in my room?” You glance over at Leon and see him looking up at the tree. When you don’t reply he shifts his gaze to you. “Seems a shame to end the night already. And, I’ve got a killer mini bar—fully stocked.” He drags out the last words in a playful tone that has you giggling.
“Sure, that sounds nice.”
A boyish grin pulls the corners of his lips up and he chuckles happily. “Okay. Well, right this way, then.”
Moving his arm to link through yours, Leon guides you away from the tree and over to the elevators. A shy quiet surrounds the two of you, but it’s filled more with anticipation than any awkwardness. Arriving at the third floor, Leon walks you down to his room at the far end of the hallway. Swinging open the door, he allows you to enter first and then follows after.
“Your room has a fireplace?” You gasp out, surprised and delighted.
“Yeah, I splurged a little and upgraded my suite.” He runs his hand through his hair—a nervous tic that you’ve picked up on in the few days you’ve known him.
“I’m so jealous,” you rib, making your way to the couch near the fireplace.
“That was my plan all along,” he jokes back, placing your gift down on the dresser. “Want me to get a fire going?”
You bite your lip. “If you don’t mind? I don’t want to put you out or anything though.”
“I don’t mind. I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”
You hum in want of a reply as he kneels next to the hearth and builds a fire. Once the kindling catches and a nice rosy flame flares up, he settles onto the couch next to you.
“This is nice,” you sigh, basking in the heat from the fire and the warm body next to you.
“You’re nice,” he murmurs near your ear, making you turn toward him.
His blue eyes seem darker than before and they drop down to your lips. He cups your jaw and brushes his thumb across your bottom lip. Butterflies take flight and your stomach swoops in nervous excitement.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
Leon dips his head and brushes his mouth softly across yours. The rasp of his stubble makes your body tingle pleasantly. You chase after his lips and kiss him harder, mouth parting wetly with a sigh. His tongue glides across your bottom lip before slipping inside your mouth to swipe across your own. He continues to cup your face, but his free hand drops down to grip your waist. Your kisses get sloppier.. deeper.. wetter. Pressing the dough of your thighs together, you try to alleviate the ache in your clit.
Moaning, you twist to face him more easily and he pulls back with a chuckle.
“Hang on, sweetheart. I have an idea.”
He pulls you back to lay against his chest—between the spread vee of his legs—allowing you both to gaze into the crackling fire. Leon presses kisses against your neck, and it sends chills down your arms. His tongue licks the shell of your ear and trails down to your lobe, pulling the delicate skin into his mouth with soft suction. You whine and wiggle back against him, feeling his cock throb against your ass.
“Patience,” he croons. “Gonna get that pussy nice and wet before burying my face between your thighs.”
“Oh, god,” you gasp, sinking back against him until there’s no space left.
His hands move from lazily tracing patterns against your belly through your shirt to slipping down past the band of your comfy sweats and your panties. Leon’s hand cups your pussy, fingers lightly petting against your cunt lips.
“Oh, such a soft, warm, little pussy,” he rumbles. “Mmm, and she’s already wet for me.”
His fingers dip into your cunt and pull away to smear slick across your pussy lips. You squirm and he hums again, a reassuring note that has you settling down. His fingers trace the same nonsensical patterns against your slit from earlier, dragging the digits across the soft skin of your cunt. He pets your curls, gently tugging on your pubic hair until you squirm again. Chuckling, his fingers soothe against your mound, and then taps a staccato beat on your swollen clit.
“Let’s get these clothes off so I can see that lovely cunt.”
Your hole flutters around nothing as he kisses a spot right behind your ear. Lifting your hips up, he leans forward—chest staying pressed against your back—and helps you slip your clothes off until you’re bare from the waist down.
“Fuck me,” he whispers, dragging you back tighter against him, his arm a warm band underneath your breasts. He pets across your mound, teasing your curls. “Mmm, sweetheart, I could just…”
“Eat.” He lightly slaps your cunt and you whine.
“You.” Another slap to your wet slit.
“Up.” He lands one last slap to your pudgy bud, and your hips jump up into his hand.
“Leon,” you moan, hands fluttering at your side until you allow them to dig into his muscled forearm holding you in place.
“I know,” he simpers, fingers slowly circling your clit before slapping it with the pads of his first two fingers. “Who knew such a sweet girl had such a hungry little pussy.”
A high keening whine slips from your mouth, head falling back to rest against Leon’s shoulder. He chuckles, the sound reverberating through your back. His fingers spread your cunt lips, webs of slick shining in the firelight.
“She’s crying for me,” he muses, and it sends little bolts of arousal to pulse in your clit.
His fingers ghost across your leaking hole and you mewl. Chuckling at how needy you sound, he pinches your pussy lips before brushing a thumb across your pudgy bud. Your thighs shake with the effort to keep them open, body needing to move—wanting him to touch you more.
Leon’s palm presses down on the hood of your clit, dipping his middle and ring fingers into your hole. You buck up into his palm, panting at the pressure on your clit.
“You need it, don’t you?” He murmurs, fingers stroking your walls before curling and rubbing against the spongy spot at the front of your cunt.
“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant, eyelashes fluttering at the feeling of finally having something in you.
Scissoring his fingers inside your snug cunt, he slowly slides them in and out of your clenching hole. He pulls his fingers out to smear slick across your sensitive bundle of nerves before pressing them back inside. You lose yourself to the pressure of his fingers stretching your cunt until he finally pulls his hand completely away.
Bleary eyes take in the movement of his hand as it moves past your face—you then hear him suck his fingers. “Fuck, you taste good. Think it’s time I kiss that soft, pretty pussy.”
Shuffling you both around, he kneels on the rug in front of the couch with your legs splayed open in front of him.
“C’mon don’t be shy,” he teases, kissing your knee and helping you scoot down until your ass is on the edge of the cushion. “There we go, fuck, you look so good.”
His warm palms keep your thighs pressed open as he ducks his head down, licking a broad stripe up your pussy. Kissing across your cunt lips, he hums a pleased note. The dough of your thighs tremble underneath his hands as you moan over and over with every sloppy kiss and lick to your pussy. Tongue parting your slit, he teasingly presses the tip into your dripping hole. He changes course and runs the slick muscle up your slit before circling your pudgy bud.
“I was right,” he mutters, kissing your clit. “So fucking soft, got the most perfect little pussy.”
Another wave of arousal washes over you, slick leaking from your hole as he suckles your clit back into his hot mouth. Letting go of your swollen bud with a wet pop, he kisses your pussy all over, dragging his lips up and down your slit, running his nose across your puffy clit with every bob of his head. His scruff rubs against your soft cunt lips, in direct contrast to his hot tongue, making your body twitch.
As the seconds drag on into minutes, your body climbs closer and closer to orgasm. Leon’s strong, calloused hands squeeze the fat of your thighs and you mewl needily, your hands reaching down to tangle in his mussed hair. His tongue flutters inside your hole and you moan high in your throat, hips writhing against his hungry mouth. Pulling his lips away with a loud schlick, he sits back on his haunches, making your hands draw away, while his thumbs rub the skin of your thighs.
“W-Why did you stop?” Your breath gusts from your mouth, feeling on edge and unsatisfied. Your hole clenches around nothing, body tight with tension, hands now gripping the cushion on either side of your hips.
“Let’s move this to the bed. I’m ready to stuff your cute cunt, sweetheart.”
“Oh.”
He helps you to your feet, hands groping your ass and making you giggle a little deliriously. As you make your way over to the bed, Leon helps you slip off your top and bra leaving you totally nude. He nudges you up onto the soft sheets as he strips down to nothing and joins you. You take in his toned body, stomach a little soft but no less attractive. Scars crisscross his chest and ribs, your fingers twitching to trace them. His cock is so pretty, you think—flushed a rosy pink, his tip dripping and pearlescent in the light of the fire.
Leon boxes you under his body, cock leaving a sticky trail of precum along your inner thigh. Kissing you heatedly, he rocks his hips down to grind his dick against your wet pussy. You card your fingers through his hair, nails scratching his scalp and hearing a low rumble from his throat. His tongue slips past your lips to glide alongside yours, teasing you to kiss him harder.
Arching your back, you rub your body against his, nerves alight and tingling. He slowly grinds his hips against yours, smearing slick and precum between your thighs and all over his cock. You gasp and whine between his kisses, hands scrabbling against his neck and shoulders, trying to pull him even closer. His tip glides between your pussy lips and you both let out guttaral sounding moans.
“Hang on a sec,” he murmurs against your lips, slipping from the bed to rifle in his bag on the floor.
Rejoining you, you notice the shiny foil clasped in his hand.
“Wasn’t sure if you’d be into barebacking.” His words makes you smile up at him.
“Thanks.” You wrap your hand around the nape of his neck and pull him down for a kiss.
“Although,” he breathes out between kisses. “I definitely wouldn’t mind it. Would love to feel your hungry little pussy on my bare cock.”
You mewl into his mouth, back arching to press your tits against his chest. He shudders and thrusts his tongue into your mouth, moaning as he deepens the kiss. His beard is rough on your softer skin, but it only makes you wetter. One of his hands comes between your bodies to tug and pinch your nipples. More slick leaks from your pussy, dripping down onto the comforter.
Leon plays with your nipples until they ache in the best way, leaving your breasts feeling heavy and full.Finally pulling away from your mouth, he sits back enough to tear open the condom packet and slide it down his thick length. Leon grips the base of his dick and smacks it down on your pussy, right across your clit. Moaning, you roll your hips upward, wanting more.
“Ready?”
At your nod, he clicks his tongue. “Use your words, sweetheart. I need to hear it.”
“Please, Leon, I want your cock.”
“Good girl,” he croons, using his thumb to press the head of his cock down to your entrance.
He glides the tip of his cock in and out of your cunt, your hole clenching down on him with every teasing thrust.
“Should I drag it out? Hmm?” He ruts his cock back and forth, never slipping more than the tip into your pussy.
Groaning, he grips the base and guides his cock to smack your slit. Your neck lifts, angling so you can stare down your body at where he rubs his condom covered dick across the swell of your clit. Whining, you paw at his chest, nails scratching at his pecs.
“Leon, please, I want it, fill me up,” you beg, head falling down onto the bed. “Need you to fuck me.”
“Such a sweet girl,” he coos, notching his cock at your entrance. “Too bad you won’t let me raw your little hole, baby. It’d feel so good.”
Whimpering, you rock your hips up, aching to have him thrust into your fluttering cunt.
“Leon,” his name slips from a plaintive whine to a searing gasp as he sinks into your slick hole.
“Oh fuck, that’s it,” he groans, settling his hips against yours, cock buried to the hilt inside your silky pussy. “Gripping me so tight. You need this, don’t you, baby?”
“Uh huh,” you mumbled dazedly, pussy spread open by the thick length—stretching you deliciously. Your clit throbs and you realize that you’re moments away from climaxing. “Oh god, Leon, I think I’m g’nna cum.”
“Fuck yes,” he pants, fucking into you deeper and harder. “Cream all over my cock, let me feel this tight little cunt squeeze my dick.”
You’re sure you look like a fish out of water—mouth open and gasping for air—but you feel too good to care. Pussy clamping down on his cock, your back arches and you claw at his biceps, nails digging into the skin and leaving marks.
“Shit,” Leon lets out a choked laugh. “Strangling my cock—fucking hell.”
He stills, cock twitching and hard as he stays snug inside your pulsating cunt, letting you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm before slowly pulling himself out. Leon pinches the tip of the condom and tugs it off, hissing as it wetly clings to his dick.
Your legs and arms flop onto the bedding, body a dichotomous mix of exhausted and wanting. He grins down at your hazy expression.
“Let me go grab another condom,” he says as he begins to climb out of bed.
“No,” you stumble over the word. “No, uh, I mean I’m fine without it. You can just pull out.”
His eyes widen, but the hungry look he levels at you only deepens as you speak.
“Yeah? I can fuck that sweet pussy raw?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, tugging him down on top of you. “I wanna feel you.”
He groans, rutting his cock against your sopping wet slit. “But I gotta pull out?”
You nod your head. “Uh huh.”
“But… don’t you wanna know what it’s like to have your hole bred? All that thick, sticky cum just filling you up. Bet you’d loved it, be a cum hungry slut after you got a taste.”
White hot heat spears itself through your core. You roll your hips harder against him, rubbing your clit against the underside of his drippy cock. “D-don’t say that.”
He coos, “I’m only teasing. I don’t mind to pull out.” He leans closer, voice dropping low. “But you can’t tell me it doesn’t make you wet to think about me creaming your soft little pussy.”
Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, you reach down to press his tip against your hole. “Fuck me, Leon.”
Slowly, he inches his cock inside your sopping wet cunt, groaning and mumbling under his breath until he’s fully seated inside you.
“It’s so—fuck, it’s so good,” he mutters, grinding his hips in half circles. “So much hotter and wetter than I thought. Feels so fucking good on my cock.”
Leon pushes up onto his palms, arms straining as he holds his weight above you and jerkily humps your pussy. His cock sinks into you again and again, rubbing against the spongy spot at the front of your cunt as his pelvis teasingly brushes across your swollen and slippery clit.
Whimpering, your hands grip at Leon’s shoulders to keep you grounded in the moment. With every pump of his hips, you feel yourself drawing closer and closer to another orgasm.
“I’m gonna cum again,” you mewl, wrapping your legs around his waist, needing him even deeper.
He licks into your mouth with a sharp moan before pulling away with a small bite to your bottom lip. “You’re so fucking tight.”
“Feels so good,” you pant.
“God, I’m about to lose it,” he groans, hips shifting into quick shallow thrusts that grinds against your g-spot perfectly. “Let go of me, sweetheart, so I can pull out.”
A thrill races down your spine and you tighten your legs where they’re still wrapped around his hips, ankles crossing against his ass.
“But I’m so close,” you mewl, arousal ramping up higher and higher.
“Baby, if you don’t move your legs you’re gonna make me cum inside your tight little hole,” he pants, pupils blown wide. A grin spreads across his face. “Unless… you want a fat load to drip out of this hot, wet pussy.”
Your cunt clenches around him and he laughs, making you whine needily.
“Oh fuck, you do. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to cum nice and deep.” He leans down to kiss your neck. “Gotta make sure I breed your sweet cunt the way she wants. She’s just begging for a creampie.”
Your nails scratch lines into his shoulders and he hisses in pleasure, hips pumping his cock faster into your squelching heat.
“What a dirty girl, not letting me pull out,” he simpers against your ear. “Trying to baby trap me, sweetheart? Make me knock you up.”
“Oh fuck, Leon, that’s,” you moan, not even able to finish your sentence. The thought of him knocking you up snaps that tight band of arousal in your belly and you cum hard.
Neither of you expect it, but it doesn’t stop Leon from fucking you rough and fast. He chases after his own climax, using your cunt to find his own release.
“God, that’s it, fuck, cumming cause you want me to stuff your soft, fat pussy? Fucking so hot,” he growls. “Yes, fucking milk me, milk my cock. Gonna breed you so deep, you’ll be dripping my cum for days.”
He mutters, incoherent to your buzzing ears, and sinks in as far as his cock can go—shooting rope after rope of his thick jizz into your spasming pussy. Moaning, he pulls you into a sloppy kiss. His tongue licks into your mouth as he spurts more cum into your sensitive pussy.
“Fuck, I can’t stop,” he whines, slowly rutting his dick into your messy cunt. “I’m gonna keep going til it stops, okay? Fuck, just lay back and take it.”
You nod, light headed and turned on. Leon keeps rocking his cock slowly into your cum filled pussy. The sound is obscene, but it only makes it hotter. He groans and hums against your lips, making out with you as he fucks his spend deeper into your used cunt. You’re not sure how much time passes, too cockdrunk and sated to care, before he’s spilling a second load into your pussy.
“Mmm, good girl, taking it so well,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Fuck, never came so much at one time. Got the perfect fucking pussy. God, just wanna keep stuffing you full of my cum. Would you like that? Wanna stay here and just let me use your soft cunt?”
Shuddering, you moan, “Yesss, god, that sounds so good.”
“I know,” he hums, kissing you again. “Just keep that hole dripping with cum the entire time you’re here.”
Nuzzling into your neck, he continues to drop little kisses all over your throat. Eventually, his cock softens, and he slips out of your wet heat with a sigh. He collapses down into the bed next to you melodramatically, and you giggle, rolling over to snuggle into his side.
“Wanna take a shower together?” He mumbles into the sheets.
“Sure,” you yawn, jaw cracking. “But maybe a quick catnap first?”
“Okay.” He pushes up from the mattress and climbs out of bed. “Let me grab a washcloth really quick.”
Disappearing into the emsuite bathroom, you hear the water running for a moment before he pads back into the room. Grabbing your thigh, he parts your legs and pauses for a second.
“That’s so fucking sexy.” He sucks his bottom into his mouth, eyes taking in the creamy mess between your thighs.
Feeling a little embarrassed, you try to close your legs at his heated gaze. The movement pulls Leon from his staring and he gently runs the warm, damp cloth across your puffy cunt and wet thighs.
“Sorry, got distracted,” he winks, a playful smile overtaking his face. “This okay?”
“Yeah, thanks.” You meet his smile with one of your own.
He walks back to the bathroom to toss the cloth into a hamper. Once he makes it back to the bed and you, he pulls you to his chest, dropping kisses across your cheeks and jaw.
“This is the best Christmas I could’ve asked for,” he mumbles against your temple, sleep slurring his voice.
“I was thinking the same thing,” you whisper, kissing his chin.
Leon hums and hugs you to him a little tighter. His slow even breaths lull you to sleep, a happy contentment filling your chest. The silly little refrain from a holiday poem is the last thought in your mind before falling asleep—Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
au: hi loves happy day 4 of kinkmas. this one absolutely ran away from me in the best possible way. thank you for all the love on this series so far! you’re the sweetest little holiday gift ever and i hope this one makes you kick your feet a little.
happy reading & happy kinkmas
now playing: christmas (baby please come home) by michael bublé
the daily planet’s holiday party looks like someone threw christmas into a blender and hit purée. tinsel lie everywhere and blinking lights that look like they’re sending distress signals. someone in advertising is wearing a full elf suit with bells on it and shockingly perry white is already on his third glass of the “editorial-strength punch,” which means perry white is effectively down for the count.
you exhale and tuck yourself into a corner of the bullpen, balancing a paper plate of gingerbread cookies and mentally preparing for battle. you like christmas, you truly do but crowds make your shoulders inch up toward your ears. you just wanted cookies, a quiet wall, and maybe to watch clark kent exist from a safe distance like the walking emotional comfort blanket he is. also: he promised he’d meet you here tonight.
but you don’t see him yet, mentally cursing yourself for being so into him. it’s fine! totally fine! you think as your brain immediately shoots back to the tray of cookies in your hands. before you can even take a bite of your sugar cookie, letting the vanilla and cinnamon hit your tongue someone steps directly into your line of vision. "wow!" the guy says, smiling like he’s been waiting his whole life to be annoying. "you must be new! i would’ve remembered someone like you."
he beams as he looks you once over, you want to frown but you fake it til you make it. 'great, a pick-up line wrapped in cologne that arrived three seconds before he did.' you think as you come up with a reply on the spot. "uh." you say politely, "i work in features." you even smile a little friendly, approachable eve because you’re not rude. he steps closer. way too close. "features."
he repeats, like the word owes him money. "guess i should read that more often." and you take a tiny step back but he takes a even bigger step forward. 'annoying, the nerve of this guy.' your brain screams. not dangerous, but annoying enough to spark a brilliant, terrible idea in your head. use him as clark-bait.
you school your face into a perfect 'oh no i’m trapped' expression, widening your eyes just enough to look helpless. you tilt your chin up at the guy, like you’re cornered. but in your head, you’re chanting: 'okay clark, please. now would be a great time to look over here. come on. come save me, pretty boy!'
you glance around subtly, pretending to scan for an exit. what you don’t see: someone across the room freezing mid-conversation. what you don’t feel: the shift in air. but clark sees you. and clark sees him leaning over you and that’s when clark kent ever the farmboy, sweetheart, softest human alive completely stops pretending he’s unaffected and goes very, very still.
lois elbows him in the ribs. "kent? your glasses are fogging...breathe." he inhales through his nose. it doesn’t help, not when you smell like vanilla again that warm, sweet scent he memorized without meaning to. "should i go over there?" he asks, voice too tight. lois raises a brow. "do you want to?" he doesn’t answer, he doesn’t need to. because the guy leans one hand against the wall beside your head, and clark is already moving.
a quiet, determined glide through the crowd, all six feet of him locked onto you like you’re the only thing keeping the earth on its axis. "so," the man says, leaning closer, "you busy after this? we could—" he's cut off swiftly by clark's charming, "hey." his warm voice cuts in, deep and honey-sweet. you exhale in dramatic relief, partly real, partly the performance of the century.
as clark steps beside you, sleeves rolled, tie crooked, flannel peeking under his coat. "i’ve been looking for you." he says, like the rest of the room doesn’t exist. you blink up at him, playing innocent. "oh, you have?" clark nods. well... yeah. i saved you a mug of the good hot chocolate before jimmy added… whatever he added." he blinked baffled, the guy clears his throat. "we were talking."
clark doesn’t look threatening. he never does, he kind of just smiles kindly. with absolutely nothing behind it except a silent promise of: walk away. "oh, sorry were you?" clark asks softly. the guy stutters something that might have been yes, or sorry, or goodbye, and nearly trips over a decorative candy cane on his way out.
you wait three beats, just long enough for the guy to fully retreat — then let your shoulders slump in exaggerated exhaustion. "thank you." you whisper. "i thought he’d never leave." clark frowns, not angryily or concerned but focused. protective in that way that melts your bones a little. "was he bothering you?" clark asks, guiding you away from the crowd with a gentle hand on your back. "you looked… uncomfortable."
you bite your lip, eyes big, playing up the helpless act. "yeah..." you say softly. "i didn’t know how to get out of it." clark’s eyes darken behind his glasses. "well, you can always call me." he murmurs. "you don’t have to handle that alone." and your chest flips, it feels warm. "i know." you say, voice small and with a smile, "that’s why i kept looking around. i just… hoped you’d see."
clark stops walking. "you were looking for me?" he nearly chokes, you simply nod, your heart thundering under your chest at the admitance. "i always do." and if clark wasn't already jealous, protective and tense. boy, he sure is now. his voice drops low, "sweetheart, if ever someone makes you uncomfortable. i'm not going to let that slide. never." your breath catches at this new side of him.
'sweetheart.' he didn't even notice he had said that. "i just... didn't think he was flirting." your lie rolls off smoothly, because the bit isn't over yet for you. "i thought he was just being nice." you shrugged but clark just stares at you like the sky suddenly turned green.
"you... you didn't notice?" his exhale is harsh, he looks away and looks back. "notice what?" your soft playing coy and unattentive. "that he was flirting with you." he flatly says "hard." your eyebrows shoot up. "oh, really??"clark looks personally offended by your confusion. "yes." he huffs out shaking his head.
“but… why?” the expression he makes is somewhere between heartbroken and absolutely in love with you. "sweetheart..." he murmurs his voice softening. "have you seen yourself?" you swallow as you try to calm your reply, "i… didn’t know you noticed." he smiles, it's small, shy, devastating. "i notice everything you do." your knees nearly give out.
clark’s confession is quiet, unassuming, earth-shaking and just hangs between you like a pulled thread. you’re afraid to breathe in case it snaps. "you… notice everything?" you echo, voice tinier than intended to come out. clark swallows, adam’s apple bobbing. "i mean..." he rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed to his bones. "i try not to stare. but you, um… make that difficult." he says shyly as your brain immediately begins to overheat and reboot like a computer system.
"me!?" your voice squeaks out, clark huffs out a soft laugh. he glances down at you through his dark lases with that impossible combination of gentleness and desperation he doesn't even know he leaks. "yes, you." voice gentle and soft like those early city mornings. the words wrap around you like the big red scarf still draped over his arm.
the one he wore here but hasn’t had the heart to put back on since he gave it to you the second you stepped into the cold hallway. you tug the edge of the scarf around your shoulders. "clark, i… i didn’t mean to worry you." he stops walking again, his breath fogging in the air. snow drifting in lazy spirals outside the glass windows.
"you didn’t." he says instantly. "you couldn’t." you raise an eyebrow at his confession. "i couldn’t?" clark looks shy suddenly. "i mean—i always want to be there, for you! even if you aren't uncomfortable. even if you’re just… bored. or lost. or pretending someone is bothering you so i’ll come over.”
your stomach drops. how— how did he know? "wh—what makes you think i was pretending?" you ask, trying not to crack. clark tilts his head, gives you that reporter stare he usually reserves for corrupt billionaires and suspiciously cheap apartment landlords. "you’re a terrible actress." he says softly and you open your mouth. then close it. open it again.
"i—excuse me??" you sputter. "i just gave the performance of a lifetime! oscar worthy!" clark’s lip twitches, a smile that threatens to actually break through the fluster. "sweetheart… you looked like a cartoon character holding up a sign that said ‘please save me clark!" your hands fly to your face, mortified and somehow warm all over. "i hate you." you huff feigning annoyance.
he laughs under his breath. "no, you don’t." you glare up at him through mascara coated lashes. "i might!" you huff out. "no..." he repeats, smiling now, eyes soft as winter light. "no, you don’t." the worst part is he’s right. you don’t... not even a little. you both step into the elevator, the doors gliding shut, trapping the warmth between you. clark presses the button for the lobby and then leans just slightly against the wall, sleeves rolled up enough to show his forearms, tie crooked, hair perfect in that 'just shoved his hands through it' way.
you try not to stare but you fail miserably. of course clark notices the exact moment your eyes drop to his mouth and immediately clears his throat, flustered down to the marrow. "so..." he says, voice an octave lower than normal, "why’d you do it?" you blink, confused "do what?" he gives you the look, the one that undresses you in kindness, not heat. "pretend you needed me." your heartbeat stutters. "i didn’t pretend that..." you say quietly. "i did need you." that stops him cold.
"oh?" clark breathes. "i, i thought—" you softly sigh, "no." you shake your head. "i mean, yeah, the guy wasn’t that bad but i wanted you. not because i needed rescuing, but because…" you bite your lip, letting the truth hover just out of reach. "…because i like being around you." clark’s breath catches and his hand resting by his side, curls slightly. like he’s fighting every instinct in him not to reach for you. "i like being around you too." he says softly, before adding onto his actual confession. "a lot."
the elevator dings breaking the tension a bit. you walk out into the lobby, warm city lights reflecting off the marble floor. snow dusts the windows, settling against the glass like a soft knock. clark adjusts the scarf around your shoulders again. gentle, careful, like you’re made of something fragile and precious. "hold still." he murmurs, his tongue sweeps over his lips. you look up at him, "you always fuss over me." you chuckle and he lies, "i do not fuss."
you raise your brows signalling a warning look. he sighs, "okay, i fuss a little." you shake your head "a little?" he smiles sheepishly. okay then, a lot." when you step outside, the cold hits immediately and the kind that settles on your skin like a clingy ghost. clark steps closer, one hand hovering at the small of your back.
"are you warm enough?" he asks, his hand still there. "i am wearing half your scarf." you admit with a giggle. clarks words hit you like a train. "you can have all of it if you want." you shake your head laughing loudly.
"you’ll freeze." he shrugs a bit "i run warm." oh, you do not need that information especially not right now. not with the image that immediately flashes in your mind. you shove it away and continue walking, snow crunching under your boots. clark keeps pace with you easily and then, slowly, tentatively, the back of his hand brushes yours.
you hold your breath. clark hesitates and then hesitates again and then like it costs him everything, he threads his fingers through yours. your heart does a full somersault. "is this okay?" he asks softly. you squeeze his hand. "yeah. yeah, it is." clark exhales like someone let him breathe for the first time all night.
you walk the next block in silence, hand-in-hand, snowflakes catching in your hair. clark keeps looking over at you like he’s memorizing every second. finally, he says, "can i ask you something?" you nod, smiling softly. "why me?" your breath fogs in front of you. "what do you mean?" clark looks down at your joined hands, then back at you — shy, earnest, unsure. "if someone flirts with you… why do you look for me? why do you want me to come over?"
you laugh gently. "clark. who else would i want?" his eyebrows lift, like he wasn’t expecting that answer at all. you continue, stepping closer as the snow falls heavier. "i like you. i feel safe with you. i trust you, and." you swallow, cheeks warm. "—i like how you look when you get… protective."
you don’t look at him when you say it but you feel the change. clark stops. completely. your joined hands stay connected, but he pulls you gently to a halt, turning toward you. snow flakes catch in his lashes. his breath fogs between you. his eyes soft blue, crackling with something he’s been holding back for months. his eyes search your face like he’s trying to read every secret you’ve ever had. "sweetheart." clark murmurs, voice low and warm enough to melt ice, "you can’t just say something like that."
your breath quickens. "why not?" he steps closer barely but enough that you feel the heat rolling off him. "because." he says, almost a whisper. "i don’t know how to pretend around you anymore."
your heart stops, completely. "clark…" you whisper. he shakes his head gently, looking at you like you hung the stars. "i get jealous and i try not to but when someone leans close to you, when someone who isn’t me tries to get your attention…" he swallows hard. "…it makes me want to step in. every time."
"clark…" you mumble but his voice cuts you short, "and not because i think you need rescuing." he adds, softer. "but because i want you to look at me the way you looked at me tonight." you blink, stunned. "how did i look at you?" you quip as clark smiles, small and heartbreakingly tender. "like i was the only one you wanted."
you open your mouth trying to deny it, to admit it, to say everything at once but before you can, clark lifts your joined hands and presses his lips to your knuckles. it's gentle and reverent. he's claiming without claiming. then suddenly the world goes quiet, it's just the soft snow and fogs of breath and him, clark.
Debrief: your boyfriend pulls you under the mistletoe
Case Notes: for someone @givemefinganame, enjoy love!
Snow tapped gently against the apartment windows, dusting the fire escape in white. The heater hummed low, the faint scent of pine drifting from the tiny tree you and Jason had picked up two nights ago, mostly because he’d grumbled that ‘the Charlie Brown one looked sad and deserved a home.’
The place felt cozy in that way it only did in winter. Warm lights, mismatched stockings on the wall, and Jason padding around in sleep pants and an old red hoodie that absolutely used to belong to Bruce.
You were standing on the couch trying to hang the last string of fairy lights when Jason walked in from the kitchen, mug of cocoa in one hand, the other pushing damp hair out of his face from the snow he’d just come in from after being out on the fire escape smoking.
He froze mid-step.
“…Sweetheart,” he said slowly, eyebrows lifting with that mixture of amusement and concern he’d perfected, “If you fall, I am not hauling your ass to the ER tonight. There’s a five-hour wait.”
You scoffed, “I’m fine. I’ve got excellent balance.”
Jason snorted, “You tripped over a sock yesterday.”
He walked over anyway, hands sliding automatically to your waist like muscle memory. You felt him steady you, Large, warm palms spreading against your shirt.
“You know,” you said, leaning down slightly, “you’re very bossy for someone whose socks constantly try to kill me.”
“That’s because you steal them sometimes, the socks don’t like it. They’re retaliating.” He muttered, but you saw the smile tug at his mouth.
You hopped down off the couch right into his chest. He barely budged, arms closing around you like they’ve done a hundred times before.
And that’s when you saw it.
The small sprig of mistletoe dangling from the ceiling… suspiciously close to where he’d guided you.
Your eyes narrowed, “Jason Peter Todd.”
“What?” he asked innocently, “It’s festive.”
“You definitely didn’t put that there earlier.”
“No,” he agreed, lowering his head slightly, his breath warm against your lips, “I put it there the second you got distracted trying to wrestle with the lights.”
You swatted his chest lightly, though your grin gave you away, “You planned this.”
“I don’t plan everything,” he murmured, fingers brushing your jaw, “Just the parts where I get to kiss you.”
His lips met yours soft at first, soft, gentle, warm, and lingering. Jason always kissed like he had all the time in the world, slow and intent, like he was memorizing something sacred in your lips. One hand cupped the back of your head, the other pulling you closer until your toes barely brushed the ground.
The world outside was quiet. Snow fell. The heater hummed. And Jason kissed you like you were the only warm thing in the entire city.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, he whispered, “Best holiday tradition I’ve ever made.”
You laughed softly. “Putting mistletoe over every doorway?”
“Mm-hmm,” he said, brushing his thumb across your cheek, “Means you can’t walk anywhere in this apartment without me kissing you.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“More like a guarantee.”
You looped your arms around his neck, “Then you’d better keep your schedule open, Todd.”
He smiled against your lips, “For you? Always.”
And under the mistletoe hanging crookedly above you, Jason kissed you again.
⭐️DCU Masterlist⭐️ 🦇Return to the Batcave🦇
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Pairing: David!Clark Kent x Pregnant!Wife!Reader - 8k
Summary: When Superman makes a surprise holiday visit to the pediatric unit, you fall even deeper in love watching him bring hope and joy to sick children and their families… and you’re trying not to glow too hard knowing the hero everyone’s swooning over is your husband and the father of your baby.
Tags: Fluff, Domestic Bliss, Jealousy, Pre-Viola Kent, Holiday Fic, Nurse!Reader, Pregnant!Reader, Romantic!Clark, Married Idiots In Love, Soft!Clark, GirlDadToBe!Clark, Pregnancy Hormones, Clark Is Damn Good With Kids, Sick Kid Feels :(
c. kent masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries
.
December in Metropolis MetroGen ER blew in like a blizzard.
By late morning, the board was packed, the waiting room was standing room only, and the registration desk had a line that wrapped past the poinsettias by the door. Flu, black ice, men in Santa suits deciding to have cardiac events all on the same day, too much eggnog and not enough common sense—if it could go wrong,it had found its way here.
"I promise the ice looked smoother from far away."
"My kids… they’re at home. I was just running out to get stocking stuffers and my car spun out—
"Thought it was just heartburn, but this chest pain’s something else. Damn it! Was supposed to play Santa today at the mall. I really needed the money!"
You moved through the chaos on autopilot— vitals assessed, IVs started, labs drawn, explanations and comfort given. Your sneakers squeaked on scuffed linoleum, compression socks digging into your calves. Your scrub top stretched snug over the curve of your belly now—no more pretending it was just a big lunch.
You’d fought hard for every skill, every instinct, and you were proud. Proud of knowing where every piece of equipment lived and which doctor you could count on in a pinch. Proud of the way people calmed down when you spoke to them, of the way anxious spouses unclenched their fists when you laid out a plan.
All the while, you were doing it carrying another little life inside you—your precious Viola. Your Star.
Between patients, you finally stole a glance at your phone. Two missed texts from Clark sat on the lockscreen, his contact name bracketed with a tiny sun emojis.
Clark: Missing you, sweetheart. How are my favorite girls doing?
You opened the camera app and flipped it to front-facing. The image that stared back at you was… accurate. Dark circles under your eyes, messy ponytail, and a smear of something dark along your collar—not blood, thank God, probably a drop of chocolate from a quick pick-me-up earlier. You wrinkled your nose, lifted your free hand to rest on your bump, and gave the camera a little thumbs-up.
You: Is this still beautiful to you? One of us is kicking a bladder, and it's not me.
His reply came less than a minute later.
Clark: Yes. My beautiful, stunning girls! Please tell my wife she’s doing an incredible job,
And allowed to rest sometimes.
You smiled despite yourself, leaning briefly against your mobile work cart outside of the medication room.
You: Wife says she’ll consider it. And you’re one to talk. You need rest too.
How’s your day, Mr. Planet?
You pictured him at his desk—tie crooked, shirtsleeves rolled, glasses perched low on his nose as he typed one-handed over a mountain of notes and a half-eaten Christmas cookie. Lois leaning over his shoulder, arguing about the tone of his next article, Jimmy chiming in to rile either of them up.
Clark: Nothing I can’t handle, honey. Working on a piece, and out on assignment later.I'll try to take it easy today, cross my heart.
"Sure you will, baby," you murmured under your breath with a laugh.
Then:
What sounds good for dinner tonight? I can cook.
Or we can finally give in and order from that place you like with the too-salty fries.
You and your stomach, apparently unbothered by the chaos around you, perked up at the idea of fries.
You: Fries! Always fries.
Come home safe, Clark. See you later.
We love you.
Clark: Gotcha.
Always. I love you more. Both of you.
I’ll see you later, sweetheart.
You smiled to yourself as you slipped the phone back into your scrub pocket, the little glow from his messages settling in your heart.
For a moment, you pictured being back at the apartment, warm and cozy under the Christmas tree lights, sipping on hot chocolate, and savoring the faint smell of whatever Clark decided to throw together for dinner plus fries. You pictured his big hand spread over your stomach as he talked to Viola later that night, about how the city looked from up high, how Ma made fudge, how there’s already a stocking waiting for her.
You ducked into the medication room with your work cart, and the weight started to settle heavier on your shoulders as you leaned against the Pyxis. Your back ached. Your ankles were starting to swell inside your shoes. Your bladder always felt full.
Mostly, you just missed seeing Clark—not just the streak of red and blue or a flashing news alert, but the man who warmed your cold feet on the couch, talked over Christmas movies with you, and burned the first batch of Christmas cookies every year as a ritual.
These days it was mostly quick kisses at the door as you both parted for work, interrupted hugs in the kitchen as his phone buzzed. Hurried, apologetic smiles and "I’ll make it up to you, baby" threaded between sirens and headlines and late editions.
You never resented this lifestyle. You knew who you married. You were the one who’d wrapped your arms around him on that Smallville porch half a lifetime ago and told him the world was better with him in it, that you believed in him, over and over. But that didn't change how badly you missed him.
"Hey, Vi," you exhaled slowly and rested both hands on the swell of your stomach. "Lots of sick people here today, huh…"
She answered with a little thump against your palm.
"I know, I know," you soothed, thumb stroking absent circles over the fabric. "I’d rather I be at home eating fries and letting your daddy fuss over us. He’d have us in front of the tree listening to old Pa and Ma stories. But soon," you promised, eyes stinging a little. "We’ll see daddy tonight."
.
By the time the clock edged toward your lunch hour, you’d worked your way through your patient load to a brief, fragile lull. Your stomach growled loud enough that Jamal glanced over from the nurses’ station.
"All right, mama," he said, hand landing on your shoulder as he passed. He nodded at your belly, then the clock. "I’m covering you. Take your lunch before that kid files a noise complaint."
"Bless you," you sighed, dragging your lunch bag out from under the desk and dropping your work phone into his outstretched hand.
You had a plan: ride the elevator up to the second-floor lounge with the big windows and lumpy couches. Sit in the patch of sunlight like a lizard on a rock, let the half-Kryptonian renting out your uterus soak up whatever yellow rays made it through the December clouds. Eat, breathe, stare at the gray Metropolis sky and distant rooftops strung in Christmas lights, pretend the world was small for an hour.
You’d just turned away from the station when the overhead intercom chimed.
"Attention staff," the operator’s calm voice announced. "Between thirteen hundred and thirteen fifteen, elevators B and C will be reserved for a scheduled VIP guest traveling to the pediatric unit. During that time, please use alternate elevators when possible and avoid crowding the pediatric hallway. Staff already assigned to Pediatrics, or on approved break, may proceed as usual. Thank you, and happy holidays."
The station went quiet for a moment.
"VIP guest?" Maya, one of the aides, echoed, looking up from her screen with brows drawn. "In Peds?"
"Probably some politician wanting a photo-op," Jamal shrugged, sliding a chart back into the rack. "Or one of those billionaire donors. Maybe Bruce Wayne decided to slum it with us?"
"Oh, please let it not be a politician," Maya prayed. "I don’t have the strength to pretend I’m not dying inside when they talk about ‘supporting healthcare workers’ with a conveniently timed pizza party."
Your nurse manager, Denise, walked up then, a stack of papers in her hand and her hair slightly frazzled. A teenager on a gurney trailed behind her, clearly having been redirected mid-transit to another set of elevators.
"All right, team," she addressed whoever she could capture, holding each person’s gaze above her glasses. "You heard the announcement. Between one and one-fifteen, use elevators A or D if you’re not Peds. If you’re not assigned up there, stay out of the hallway unless you’re transporting. If you’re going up on break to see a patient or family, fine, but you behave. No selfies, no crowding, no fainting in front of cameras. Clear?"
There were nods, a few smothered smiles. Maya leaned forward over the counter. "Who is it, Dee?" she pressed, eyes bright. "You can’t just drop ‘VIP’ and walk away."
Denise bit down on a smile like she was physically holding it in. "Just be professional if they pass by here," she settled on with tight lips. "And maybe brush your hair if you’re going anywhere near that floor. That’s all I’m saying."
"Hm, it doesn’t seem like that’s all you’re saying," Jamal muttered as she walked off.
You shook your head, amused despite the bone-deep fatigue, and checked the time. Officially lunch. Your stomach nudged you. So did your baby girl—one firm little kick against your ribs that felt suspiciously like impatience. You headed toward the bank of elevators that included A and D, the ones still fair game.
Behind you, the gossip picked up immediately, their voices echoing.
"Bet it’s a singer," Maya snapped her fingers. "Or that local actress from that holiday movie they keep playing in the waiting room."
"Nah," Jamal countered. "It’s gotta be somebody on the Board. Admin only goes this had for people who write checks."
X-Ray technician Lena chimed in as she passed with her portable unit. "Actually, you know who would make those kids’ year by dropping by?" she asked, waving finger around for any guesser. "Superman."
You kept your expression neutral as your finger hovered over the elevator button, even as your heartbeat did a little skip.
"Can you imagine?" she went on. "He shows up, does that cute smile, carries one of them around… the unit would explode. They’d be talking about it for months."
I would explode, you thought. Right along with them.
You’d seen Clark in the suit more than anyone in this building ever would. You’d watched him hover six inches off the ground because you kissed him a little longer. You'd smoothed your hands over muscle and bruise and stubborn tension nightly. You’d also watched him fall asleep on the couch with his cape bunched under his head like a sad pillow and drool on your favorite Christmas blanket.
The idea of him walking these halls in that same cape, boots, and symbol, with nurses and kids and cameras around—
No. Clark would’ve told you. He was incapable of keeping a joyful surprise longer than a day unless the fate of the world depended on it! He’d texted you about tonight’s dinner plans like he was glued to his desk at the Planet until the evening. The man barely remembered to drink water when he was on a deadline; there was no way he was juggling a hospital visit on top of that and whatever fires the city threw at him.
There was just no way.
The elevator dinged. You stepped aside as the doors slid open and a flurry of scrubs and visitors spilled out, nearly colliding with you.
"Dee, Dee!" the nurse at the front called, rushing past you. You recognized Kayla—brief time in ER post-graduation, now full-time Pediatrics. Her badge swung wildly as she practically beelined for your manager, eyes bright.
You hesitated by the elevator bank, thumb hovering over the "up" button, and turned just enough to watch. Kayla pulled up short beside Denise near another nurses’ station.
"What are you do—" Denise started.
"He’s here!" Kayla cut in, barely containing herself. "I just saw security escort him off the service elevator. It’s really him. Superman is actually in Peds."
Your breath caught in a sharp inhale. Your head snapped toward her voice before you could stop yourself, neck muscles tightening, eyes going wide for half a second. The world seemed to narrow.
Superman?! Clark?!
You forced your gaze back to the elevator panel, jabbing the "door open" button like you were just impatient, willing your face to stay neutral while your pulse jumped. Denise looked around like the walls might be wired. When you risked another quick glance, she was already pinching the bridge of her nose over her glasses.
"Ah, geez, Kayla," she bemoaned. "Keep it down, would you? We’re trying not to start a stampede."
"You don’t think the other nurses aren’t already texting everyone else?" Kayla bounced on the balls of her feet, then inched back toward the elevators. "Fine, fine, I’m going. I just—oh my God, Dee, he smiled at the front desk. I think Beth from security forgot how to breathe. She’s normally about as exciting as a rock."
Denise huffed out a laugh, exasperated but fond. "Go," she shooed her with the edge of her clipboard. "Get back to your unit, do your job, and appreciate Superman for the both of us.I am tragically chained here."
Kayla snapped a two-finger salute and spun back toward the elevators—toward you.
"Hey!" she greeted, saying your name as she slid into the car beside you, slightly out of breath. Her gaze dropped to your stomach and lit up. "Whoa, look at you! Congrats on the baby!"
"Hey, Kayla," you grinned, one hand going automatically to your belly. "Thanks."
"Where you headed?" she asked as you lifted your lunch bag in answer.
"Second-floor lounge," you said. "Trying to catch some sunlight before it disappears."
Kayla nodded, then leaned past you and pressed the button for Pediatrics, practically vibrating in place. "Good timing," she sang. "You should come up with me. See Superman. Watching the kids’ faces?" She pressed a hand to her chest. "Priceless. Best Christmas present this place has had in years."
The doors started to close. You looked at the button glowing for the lounge, then at the one glowing for Peds.
You thought of the kids upstairs, stuck in beds too stiff, too cold. Of parents marking time in plastic chairs instead of wrapping presents at home. Of your daughter growing within you. Of Clark’s last text about "working on a piece and out on assignment later, cross my heart I’ll take it easy."
"I’ll see you later, sweetheart."
That sneaky, sneaky man!
Sunlight could wait. Your husband, in your hospital, spending time making patients smile?
You reached out, tapped the lit ‘2’ again until the light blinked off, and left Pediatrics glowing. Kayla didn’t even notice the switch, too busy adjusting her ponytail in the metal doors.
"Okay," you murmured, more to the bump than to her as the elevator began to rise. "Change of plans, Little Miss."
You hitched your lunch bag higher on your shoulder. Viola kicked once, firm and sure, like she was already ready for the ride.
.
The elevator doors slid open onto Pediatrics and the sound hit you first.
Not the usual low beeps and cartoon noise you were used to hearing from this floor, but something brighter—high voices, quick laughter, the shuffle of too many feet in the hallway.
The floor was dressed for December: paper snowflakes taped crooked on the walls, construction paper stockings with names scrawled in marker, a small fake tree glowing at the nurses’ station, garland looped around the handrails. Kids in gowns and fuzzy socks clustered near doorframes and windows, faces pressed to glass where isolation rules kept them back. Parents hovered close, one hand on small shoulders, the other clutching phones.
The air buzzed with anticipation and no dread. Then you heard it as you walked further into the unit beside Kayla.
"Superman! Superman!"
The shout came from halfway down the hall, then again from another room, echoing off the tile and wallpaper. You felt the sound in your chest.
Your free hand drifted to your stomach as if your baby girl might hear it too. You tucked yourself near the nurses’ station next to Kayla, unslung your lunch bag, and claimed a little sliver of counter space like it might make this feel closer to an actual break.
And then he turned the corner.
Clark. Moving slower than you were used to seeing. Cape swooshing in an easy sway behind him, boots thudding steadily on the linoleum. The suit was bright against hospital beige and pale-blue chairs, but somehow it made the space feel less drab.
The kids saw the cape first and then the symbol, and that was all it took. A little boy leaning on a walker gasped so hard you thought he’d topple. A teenager with an IV pole straightened, fingers tightening on the handle, eyes suddenly too bright.
"Hey there," Superman greeted, cheeks dimpling with a grin as he looked up and down the hall, taking the little faces in. "I heard there were some very brave patients up here."
His voice was the same one everyone knew from shaky phone videos and news clips—warm, sure, big enough to carry down the corridor. But you heard the way he softened it a little for this space, how he let the edges round off for the kids.
Your eyes didn’t stay on the cape or the symbol or the perfect, practiced posture.
It stayed on his shoulders, stiffened for one heartbeat when he took in the gowns, monitors, and tiny bodies attached to too many wires—and how he forced them to relax a second later so the kids wouldn’t see that flash of pain or sadness. It stayed on the kindness in his eyes before the smile returned, that familiar focus when he put all of himself into one person at a time. It stayed on the tilt to his mouth that meant he was feeling more than he could show.
Under the symbol, your Clark was there. The man who’d texted you about fries and promised he’d "try to take it easy today", now adding "being a living symbol of hope for sick kids" on top of deadlines and emergencies anyways.
Of course he did, you thought, a little dazed and helpless.
You could picture the way this had come together: him caught post-rescue, approached by some admin asking if there was any chance he could spare time for a holiday visit. Him agreeing, already aware of his already crammed schedule. Him planning the timing between rescues, deadlines, and you so he could give these kids real time instead of a drive-by. Him not saying a word to you.
Your heart split down clean lines between awe and pride and that specific kind of exasperation he’d earned by being both the love of your life and his chronic inabilty to put himself first.
He stopped at the first open door.
A small girl sat propped up in bed, bald under a knit hat with cat ears. Her IV pump hummed steadily at her side. She clutched a stuffed bear so tightly the fur was worn flat.
"Hi," he said, voice dialing down soft. "Is it okay if I come in?"
She froze, then bobbed her head. Her mom’s hand flew to her mouth, speechless. He stepped in, waved to the mother, and crouched down so he and the girl were eye to eye. You couldn’t hear the first line over the hallway noise, but you saw it land. The girl’s shoulders loosened, fingers easing on the bear. She tugged shyly at his cape, and whatever he said back made her grin, sudden and stunned. He smiled like she was the only person in the hospital.
He moved on, one room at a time. He waved through glass at kids on precautions. He made sure he never blocked a nurse from a monitor or an aide from a bedside. He shook hands with every parent who reached for him, thanking them for letting him visit their children.
When a young boy in a wheelchair struggled to roll himself closer, Superman reached down without fanfare, one gentle tug helping the chair glide forward. The boy’s face lit up as if he’d just flown.
You stayed near the nurses’ station and watched, rooted in place. You should have been upstairs with your feet up and your lunch open; instead you dug out your Tupperware, and peeled the lid back of last night’s leftovers one-handed without looking away from him, knowing down in your bones this was exactly where you were supposed to be.
He was halfway down the hall when he turned toward another room and, as he shifted, his line of sight skimmed past the doorway and over toward the station. He glanced toward the cluster of staff, his gaze slid just far enough past the monitors and computer screens to find you where you stood off to the side, half-hidden behind a rolling chart rack.
Your eyes met in that narrow slice of space between an IV pole and the edge of the counter.
To anyone else, it was nothing. Superman giving the nurses’ station a quick, professional once-over. To you, it landed like a hand pressed gently at the center of your chest.
His expression barely changed. It couldn’t, not here. But you saw it: the small flicker of warmth that softened his profile when he clocked you; the fraction of a second his gaze dipped toward the bit of your belly visible over the counter before coming back up; the slower, deeper breath he took, like he’d been searching the floor for you and finally let himself breathe once he’d confirmed you were there somehow.
You’re here, that look said, from the corner of his eye. My beautiful wife. My daughter. My girls.
A child tugged on his cape, and he had to angle back toward the room, attention redirecting to the crayon skyline being proudly presented to him. His dimple cut in as he laughed, rich and easy for them, but you still felt that earlier look like a warm palm between your shoulder blades.
.
From your corner of the nurses’ station, you had a surprisingly good view of the hallway. Doors open at angles, reflections in the glass of framed posters, Clark’s cape flashing in and out of sight as he moved room to room.
He made himself small in every doorway—big frame folding in, cape tucked carefully out of the way so it didn’t snag on IV poles or knock into anxious parents. Even over the murmur of the unit, his voice carried in pieces back to you:
"Being brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared…"
"It means you do the hard thing anyway, even when you are…"
"Helps when you’ve got good people on your team."
You took another bite of your food, eyes following the red-and-blue blur as it paused, shifted, knelt.
"Tell you what," you heard from halfway down the hall. "You squeeze my hand as hard as you can while they poke you, and if you’re still stronger than me afterward, I’ll have to go back to superhero school for extra training. Deal?"
There was a small cheer from inside that room, the phlebotomist’s quick laugh, the father’s muffled sniff. You swallowed around a sudden ache and chased it with a sip of water.
Elsewhere, you watched toddlers pat the edge of his cape, siblings clamber up beside him for photos while a nurse snapped pictures on shaking phones. Every time a kid asked if he could really fly, or if he ever got scared, he answered the same way he answered you at your kitchen table—honest, careful, never talking down.
"Yes, I get scared sometimes." "No, I don’t do it alone." "Yes, the world is worth it."
Across from the station, one of the doors stayed open just enough for you to see inside when you shifted your weight. A teenage girl lay on her side, earbuds in, fingers scratching restless patterns into the blanket. A glittery homecoming photo stood propped against a cup of water on the tray. Chemo orders were taped to her door; you unfortunately knew of that protocol
"So they’re making you miss the dance?" Clark’s voice drifted out, low and curious, while you picked at another forkful.
You watched the girl shrug without looking at him, eyes fixed on the shadows on the wall. "They said I couldn’t go," she grumbled bitterly. "Too many people. Too many germs. I spent, like, three hours on my hair last year and I still looked like a dork."
"I’m sure you didn’t," Clark replied.
She finally spared Clark a glance. "You kind of have to say that, right? You’re Superman. You can’t tell a bald girl she looks weird."
You watched him lean forward in his visitor chair. "For the record," he started, "you don’t look weird. You look like someone who’s fighting really hard. That’s… its own kind of beautiful."
She flushed, clearly unused to accepting compliments without deflection.
"I get it, though," he added after a beat. "You feel like something got stolen from you. That’s not fair. It’s okay to be mad about that."
Her chin wobbled. "Everyone keeps acting like I should just be ‘grateful,’" she stressed the last word, breaking a little. "Grateful I’m here, grateful they caught it, grateful for ‘more dances later.’ I am grateful. I just also wanted this one."
You watched him nod, slow and serious. "They’re not mutually exclusive," he said, offering his hand. "You can be both—grateful and angry."
She eyed his hand suspiciously. "W-what are you doing?"
He gave her that small, sheepish smile you knew from half a dozen clumsy proposals before the real one. "Offering you a rain check," he said. "We can’t do disco lights or loud music in here, but that doesn’t mean we can’t do a little dance."
She stared at his hand for a long moment. Then, quietly, she slid her fingers into his.
He stood slowly, careful of wires, and helped her up. One hand braced around her elbow, the other held her IV pole. You watched them from the corner of your eye as he guided her into a slow sway beside the bed. No spins, no dips. Just a gentle rock, his lips moving with a carol you could barely hear but recognized from your own apartment.
She rested her forehead against the symbol for half a breath, just taking him in, then pulled back, cheeks red. He let her have the moment and let it go.
"First dance of the season," he nodded as he helped her sit on the edge of the bed. "Many more to come."
He checked her lines, said something soft to her mother, then stepped back into the hallway. For a second he just stood there, shoulders lifting with a slow breath like he needed to reset. As he turned, his gaze snagged on you again.
His gaze dipped to where your hand rested over your belly, then came back up. One brow ticked like a quiet question. You answered with the smallest nod and a thumb rubbing slow over the curve of your stomach. I’m okay. We’re okay.
Some of the tension left his shoulders, and he move on. A hospital volunteer caught him near the pantry, pushing a cart fully stacked with bright holiday cards—snowmen, stars, the Metropolis skyline with tiny printed capes flying between buildings.
"The kids made some of these," the volunteer explained nervously, flushing as she handed a handful toward him to admire the hand-made cards. "We, um, printed some extras in case…"
"In case I showed up?" he finished, eyes crinkling already grabbing a sharpie. "You were prepared."
You watched him tuck the kid-made ones under his arm like treasure, then sign the blank cards in the gaps between rooms. He didn’t just scribble his name. He wrote:
Thank you for being so brave.
I’ll keep an eye on the city while you rest.
Tell your nurses they’re heroes too.
On your way to toss your empty container and oil off your fingers at the hallway sink, you caught Clark at a different doorway with a father in an old work jacket, half-way passing the card he just signed.
"…can’t do much this year," the man was saying. "With me out of work and her here… we’ll make it work. Just wish I could give them more than pudding cups and a plastic tree."
Clark listened all the way through, not rushing him, that little reporter crease between his brows.
"I’m sorry," he exhaled solemnly, placing hand on the man’s shoulder. "That’s a lot to carry."
The father shrugged, embarrassed now. "We’ll manage. Just… it’s hard. You just want it to feel special, you know?"
Clark rubbed his jaw, thinking. You could practically see the gears turning.
"There are some people I know in the city," he explained carefully."They run a few different programs—foundations, toy drives. They’re good at helping quietly. Would you be okay talking to the social worker here? I can ask her to reach out to those friends of mine. No promises, but… this is exactly the kind of family they like to look after."
"Y-you’d do that?" the man asked with shock, eyes stinging. "Seriously?"
"You’re doing the hard part," Clark assured, patting his shoulder again. "The least I can do is make a few calls."
You washed your hands and, when you glanced back, Clark was already at the social worker’s door. Head bent close as they spoke in low voices, a folded note changing hands. You knew that look on his face—calculation, fierce determination, unwavering kindness.
Somewhere in the city, one of his very rich "friends" was about to get a call from Superman about a family on the pediatric floor. And you stood there in your slightly tight scrubs, Viola kneeing against your palm, so full of love for him you weren’t sure how your body was holding it all.
.
Clark eventually ended up in the small playroom at the end of the hall. Kids clustered on beanbags, wheelchairs, and parents’ laps. You slid in along the back wall, lunch bag still dangling from your wrist, half-empty water bottle in your hand.
A child life specialist handed him a worn hardcover of The Polar Express and a stack of holiday cards from kids who couldn’t leave their rooms.
He sat on one of the little plastic chairs that looked comically small under him and opened the book.
If Clark Kent hadn’t become a reporter, he could’ve made a living as a storyteller.
He didn’t just read; he performed. His voice dropped low and conspiratorial when the boy in the story heard the train outside his house. It brightened when the conductor called, "All aboard!" A couple of kids squealed and bounced. He gave Santa a warm, booming tone and softened when he read about the bell, about hearing it only if you believed.
He didn’t drag it out, but he didn’t rush either. Just enough pauses. Just enough lift and fall that the kids leaned forward, eyes wide, completely caught.
One little girl reached out and rested her hand on his boot like she needed to make sure he was real. He shifted his stance just enough to brace for her touch without looking away from the page.
Parents stood around the edges. Some filmed. Others just watched their kids’ faces instead, soaking in the wide-eyed wonder like that was the gift.
You let your shoulders hit the wall and finally let some of your weight rest there. You took a few sips of water and imagined your own living room a year or two from now: a tree in the corner; Viola in mismatched pajamas, head tucked against Clark’s chest; his voice reading the same story for the tenth time because she’d asked and he’d never be able to say no. The ridiculous voices. The extra lines. The way he’d draw out suspense just to make her giggle. His hand rubbing slow circles over her back until she fell asleep mid-sentence.
Your chest ached, too full, too warm, a little overwhelmed.
When Clark closed The Polar Express, there was a beat of silence. Nobody wanted to move and break whatever spell he’d woven. Then one baby cooed, and the room burst into noise. Kids clapped; a toddler kicked both feet against a beanbag and shrieked; parents laughed, wiping at their eyes and blaming the lights and dust.
You slipped out with the little tide of staff and families easing back into the hallway. Clark stayed in the doorway, already fielding another question from a kid who’d held back. You fell in a few paces behind a knot of Peds nurses, a respiratory therapist, two residents, and an intern as they drifted back toward the nurses’ station in a loose clump.
Your heart still felt too full, and the weight of Viola pressing low made your back twinge with every step. You focused on the soft slap of your shoes, the swing of your lunch bag, the crinkle of your water bottle in your hand.
"Okay, I’m sorry, but he’s way hotter in person," someone up ahead blurted.
The group dissolved into laughter. Your step hitched, and your gaze snapped up to the voice, eyes wide for a second before you forced yourself to look down again.
"He’s so much taller in person," one of the residents sighed, folding his hands theatrically over his chest. "I didn’t think that was possible. They never show how big his shoulders are on TV."
"The muscles on that man, mmhmm!" an older nurse hummed as if in pain. "And the way that suit fits? My goodness."
The respiratory therapist laced her fingers behind her head as she walked. "If he smiled at me like that, I’d forget my own name," she cackled. "I’d hand him my badge and say, ‘You tell me who I am, big guy.’"
You recognized Kayla’s voice in the mix. "He’s so nice," she said, half annoyed, half worshipful. "Like, impossibly nice. There has to be a catch. How are we supposed to date regular men after this? Superman ruined men for me forever."
"Did you see the way he held that baby in 14?" another nurse added. "So gentle, like he was afraid to breathe too hard. I almost ovulated on the spot."
The corridor echoed with laughter.
And you were: silent. Hormonal. Sleep-deprived. Married to him.
They didn’t know the city’s savior was the same man who filed taxes with you, hogged the blankets, and made grilled cheese at midnight because you woke up craving it. They didn’t know he was the reason your scrub top had gone up a size, that the baby kicking your bladder probably already had his dimples and stubborn streak coded into her DNA.
You did know. And still, your ribs felt like they were housing a small, territorial dragon.
They’re just talking, you reminded yourself. You’re being hormonal. You deal with actual trauma; get a grip.
"It’s everything," the second resident said dreamily. "Hair, smile, voice. If he told me to drink more water and sleep eight hours, I’d actually do it. Especially if I got to play with that little curl on his forehead."
"Oh, if he told me anything, I’d do it," the older nurse chimed back in. "He could tell me to stop eating carbs. Curl optional."
"Quitting carbs is blasphemy," the respiratory therapist said. "But yeah, I get it."
Then the intern—fresh out of med school and very confident—sighed dreamily. "There is no way someone with that height, that build isn’t… super in other departments, if you know what I mean. Wonder if he's single."
More laughter. Someone clapped.
You tightened your grip on your water bottle until the plastic creaked. Heat crawled up the back of your neck. Your brain, traitorous and unhelpful, provided: No, he is not single, and yes, he is super in other departments, and he put this baby in me, thank you for your concern.
The intern pushed on, oblivious. "If he asked me to run away with him, I’d go in a heartbeat. No questions asked. My bags are packed."
"Girl," one of the residents nudged her elbow, "we all know you’d go without packing underwear, too."
"You’re so right!" she shrieked with laughter along with the rest of the group.
Something in you snapped at the same moment your water bottle did.
Your fingers clenched; the loosened cap gave with a soft pop, and a cold splash hit the front of your scrub top, arcing down over your bump. You sucked in a sharp breath as icy water soaked the fabric in an unmistakable patch.
"You've got to be kidding me!" you hissed.
"Oh my God," Kayla yelped, finally glancing back. The intern turned too, eyes wide. "Are you okay?"
You held the crumpled bottle away from you, water still dripping onto your shoes, and bit hard on the inside of your cheek.
"I’m fine," you got out, a little too quick. "Just… underestimated my grip strength."
"Must be all those prenatal vitamins," the older nurse joked, but her gaze was soft as it swept from your face to the spreading damp on your scrubs. "Go change, honey, before somebody thinks your water broke."
That got another round of laughter. You managed a weak huff along with them, trying to smother the ridiculous little monster inside your chest.
They were allowed to look. They were allowed to talk. You trusted Clark more than you trusted gravity. You knew exactly whose ring sat on your finger and whose daughter was kicking irritably against that cold patch.
You also knew that if you stayed with this group one more second, you were going to cry, snap, or blurt something graphic about your husband’s stamina.
"Yeah," you agreed weakly, adjusting your lunch bag higher on your shoulder. "I’m gonna go dry off. Maybe actually take a breather from the chaos while I’m at it."
"You want me to grab you a spare top from our locker room?" Kayla offered.
"Nah, it'll dry soon," you said, already angling away. "Going to steal a few minutes of real sunlight by the back stairs may help, too."
"Good plan," she nodded. "I’ll come find you if he starts juggling beds."
You peeled off at the next intersection, their chatter about "that smile" and "that cape" fading behind you. One last glance over your shoulder caught a slice of red through the playroom doorway—Clark leaning in to listen to another parent, head bent toward a toddler with a high-five, cape puddled behind him like a waterfall.
Your heart clenched so hard it almost hurt.
"Okay, Little Miss," you murmured, palm sliding over the wet patch on your stomach as you headed for the staff stairwell. "Mama’s gonna go be sane somewhere else for a minute. Maybe warm up in the sun. Your daddy would approve."
You pushed the stairwell door open and let it close behind you, shutting out the noise, the lights, and the ongoing "Superman ruined men for me" symposium on the pediatric floor.
.
The stairwell next to unit was one of the only truly quiet places in the hospital. Narrow windows let in a strip of afternoon sun, catching dust motes and turning them slow and lazy in the air. The distant beeps and overhead pages were muffled here, more hum than noise.
You lowered yourself onto the middle step, moving carefully. One hand went to the small of your back, the other to your belly. Your scrub top was starting to dry where your water mishap had soaked in; the fabric still clung cool and clingy over your bump.
"Alright, Vi," you murmured, thumb rubbing slow circles through the damp cotton. "Let’s soak this in."
She rolled under your touch, a small, answering shift. You tipped your face toward the window and closed your eyes. The winter-pale sun still felt good on your skin.
A few quiet breaths later, the stairwell door opened.
You didn’t have to look. You knew that cadence—steady, careful, always half-thinking about not breaking the floor.
You glanced back anyway. Clark stepped in, letting the door click shut behind him. His head tilted, listening—quick sweep of upstairs, downstairs, making sure you were alone.
Satisfied, he exhaled. His shoulders dropped; his jaw unknotted. Superman bled away in a breath, leaving the man you went home to.
The cape settled around him as he crossed the landing, the edge brushing the step below yours. In the narrow stairwell, the red almost wrapped around you both.
"Hey, trouble," you greeted cheekily, lifting a hand.
His whole face softened the second he was close enough to really see you. He cupped your cheeks, thumbs gentle along your cheekbones, hands warm against the faint chill of your skin. His eyes swept over you head to toe—color, posture, tension, breathing.
"Hey, sweetheart," he breathed, leaning down to kiss you, quick and soft. "How are you feeling? Did you get to eat?"
There it was: the farmboy worry beneath the cape.
You rolled your eyes, but your fingers wrapped around his wrist, holding him there, soaking in the contact. "Yes, Clark. I ate," you said. "Had a nice meal and a very distracting show."
The corner of his mouth kicked up. "A show, huh?"
"Mhm." You tilted your head, pretending to think. "Some guy in a ridiculous blue suit. Real scene-stealer."
He huffed out a low laugh and sank down onto the step below, kneeling so you were eye level. His hands slid from your face to your knees, broad palms steady through your scrub pants. From here, the symbol on his chest was right in front of you, catching the light.
He went still, eyes unfocusing for a second as he listened—first to you, then deeper. Viola shifted as if she’d felt her father arrive. His gaze softened, and the crease between his brows smoothed away.
"There she is," he murmured, mostly to himself.
Viola pushed again under both your palms, stronger this time.
"Clark, how long have you known about this?" you asked quietly. "The visit. Be honest."
His mouth crooked. "Couple weeks," he admitted. "Remember that sinkhole? I saved one of the hospital admin incidentally. Asked if I could come by before Christmas if the timing worked."
"And you didn’t tell me because…?" You lifted a brow, but there wasn’t any bite in it. "You, my honest, kind, as subtle-as-a-freight-train husband who cannot keep a good surprise to save your life?"
He looked equal parts pleased and sheepish. "Because I wanted you to see it, maybe?" he supplied. "Not just hear me babble about it at two in the morning. The plan was: swing by Peds, then come down to the ER, pretend I just happened to be in the neighborhood and ‘oh wow, you're here too, fancy seeing you here!’"
You snorted. "Nice plan, baby."
"Yeah, well it didn't end up as expected." His eyes warmed. "I didn’t think about them announcing me as a VIP guest." He squeezed your knees lightly. "I assume this was a conveniently timed lunch break?"
"Don’t look at me," you exclaimed, hands up in surrender. "Talk to your daughter. She insisted on front-row seats."
He glanced at your belly again, smile soft and amused. "Good instincts already. A true Kent."
You swatted his shoulder playfully. "I’m actually… really impressed," you let out a low whistle. "You lasted weeks without spilling. I didn’t think that was possible."
He brightened. "Jimmy owes me twenty bucks. I had to tell at least one person about this."
You barked out a laugh.
"I wanted it to be a surprise, sweetheart," he said, turning serious. "You’ve had such a rough month. I thought maybe this would give you something good in the middle of all of it."
"It did," you admitted, voice wobbling. "It also made me want to cry in the middle of my lunch, so, you know. Mission accomplished?"
His brows pinched, worried. "Are you saying this in a good or a bad way?"
"In a… pregnancy way," you stressed, sniffling. "In a ‘my husband is using his only free hour to make sick kids smile’ way." You let out a thin, shaky groan. "I’m just overwhelmed, Clark. I spent my whole break watching you be a miracle for those families and then listening to everyone upstairs trip over themselves and drool over you."
His ears went pink before his cheeks did. You watched the blush climb.
"I, uh," he started, then cleared his throat. "I might’ve heard some of that."
You narrowed your eyes. "Might’ve."
He gave you that innocent, doomed look that never worked on you. "Superhearing’s a curse sometimes, honey."
"Oh God, you heard it," you groaned. "Every single comment."
His shoulders shook once with embarrassed laughter. When he looked up again, his eyes were bright. "They’re very… enthusiastic," he tried.
"That’s one way to put it," you deadpanned.
His smile gentled. One hand slid from your knee down to your left hand, thumb brushing over your ring before he lifted your hand and pressed his lips to the band, lingering.
"It’s flattering," he murmured against your skin, "but none of that matters. You know I only have eyes for you, right? My wife. Mother of my child. Love of my life."
The words still landed like they were brand new.
You looked at your joined hands, rocked forward a little. "They only know I’m Clark Kent’s wife," you muttered. "Not Superman’s wife too. Which is probably a good thing, but still."
His thumb moved in slow circles over your knuckles. "I get it," he squeezed your hand. "I do. But that’s all it is, sweetheart—noise. They see a half hour in a cape." He glanced from your eyes to your belly and back. "I go home to you and her. That’s the real part. That’s the part that matters."
You studied him: the suit, the cape spilling around his knees, the one curl that never listened to him. His expression shifted, worry cutting through his gentleness.
"Honestly, I’ve been really worried about you," he admitted. "Working this hard, on your feet all day, while you’re pregnant. The holidays on top of it. I keep hearing alarms down here and my brain just…" He shook his head, frustrated. "I needed to see you. Not from three miles up. Right here. Hear you. Hear her. Make sure you know you’re not doing this alone. I’m sorry it’s been so hectic on my end."
As if on cue, your baby pushed again under both your hands. You and Clark both went quiet for a moment, just feeling her move, matching smiles tugging at your mouths.
"Talking to those kids today…" His voice dropped. "I couldn’t stop thinking about her. About our girl. I want her to grow up in a world with more afternoons like that and fewer days of you running yourself into the ground downstairs. Less sirens. More stories and crafts and burnt Christmas cookies."
Your eyes stung. You blinked hard; a tear still escaped.
"Oh, Clark," you said, his name catching in your throat. You squeezed his hand, hard enough that he looked up. "Look at me."
His eyes met yours, blue and anxious and so, so earnest.
"You’re doing so much good," you assured him. "For them, for this city, for us. I see it. I see you." Your voice thinned, but you pushed through it. "And I’m okay, really. Tired and hormonal and soggy, but okay. You haven’t failed me, or her. Not even close."
Some of the tension in his shoulders eased at that, just a shade, like you’d loosened something he didn’t know he’d been holding.
He shifted closer on his knees so you didn’t have to lean so far. You tipped toward him anyway, resting your forehead against the symbol on his chest. The fabric was warm under your skin; his heartbeat thudded steady behind it. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently into your hair.
"Watching you with the kids, their families…" You swallowed. "It made me fall for you even more. Which is really unfair, because I don’t know where else I’m supposed to put it."
His chest vibrated against your cheek as he laughed. He pressed his mouth to the crown of your head, holding there, then tipped your face up with the lightest pressure of his knuckles.
When your eyes met his, everything was there—worry, relief, and that same ridiculous, wholehearted love that had followed you from Smallville to Metropolis and right into this stairwell.
No cameras. No patients. No performance. Just his mouth on yours, sure and familiar, his hand warm at the back of your neck. You curled your free hand into the front of his suit and pulled him closer. The winter light caught along his jaw and the damp shine of your bottom lip when you finally broke for air.
"I'm truly sorry, sweetheart," he murmured against your mouth. "Because I’m not planning on making it any easier on you."
You huffed a shaky laugh. "Is that so?"
"Rightfully so," he said, kissing you once more, settling a palm against your belly again. "Get used to it, hon. I’m already stupid in love with you, and I’m going to be even worse once this one's officially in the mix."
You let out a breath that was half laugh, half sob, and kissed him again, deeper this time, because there was nothing else to say.
For a long, suspended moment, there was no ER, no Peds, no Metropolis waiting. Just you, Viola under both your hands, and the man doing everything he could to make the world softer for all three of you.
.
You and Clark came back to Pediatrics unit, re-entering from the stairwell at different times.
He’d given you one last kiss, promised he had "two more rooms" and sent you ahead so you could freshen up in the restroom and grab a fresh water bottle. By the time you came back to the nurses’ station, your break was nearly over. You settled beside Kayla and that too-curious intern—badge bouncing, empty lunch bag in hand.
The hallway hummed, but softer now. Kids laughing from inside rooms. Parents talking in low, hopeful voices. Nurses finishing vitals with a little more spring in their step than they’d had an hour ago.
Clark was at the far end of the hall, finishing his last goodbyes.
A boy of maybe seven sat parked in a wheelchair half in, half out of the room. One leg was in a bright blue cast and a paper cape draped over the chair, it fluttered a little whenever he moved.
"Hey there," Superman said, coming down to his eye level. "Got yourself a pretty impressive ride."
The boy’s fingers tightened on the armrests. "Do you ever…" He swallowed, glancing from Clark’s boots to the symbol on his chest. "Do you ever take people flying?"
His mom, hovering just behind the chair, winced apologetically. "Honey, no don't—sorry about that, Superman."
Clark shook his head quickly, gentle. "Can’t leave the hospital today," he said, "they’d miss you too much if I flew you off to the moon."
The boy’s shoulders drooped.
"But," Clark added, eyes crinkling, "if it’s okay with Mom, I might be able to do a practice run. Just around the hallway. Co-pilot seat’s open."
The boy’s head snapped up. His mom’s mouth flew open, already nodding. "If you’re sure," she whispered.
Clark slid one arm carefully under the boy’s knees, the other around his back, counting softly, "One, two, three," as he lifted him clear of the chair.
The paper cape slid down to rest against Clark’s arm. The boy let out a startled little laugh that turned into a breathless grin.
"Ready, co-pilot?" Clark asked.
"Ready," the boy whispered.
He didn’t really fly—too many equipment, too many watching parents—but he jogged the length of the pediatric hallway with his steps just a little lighter, a subtle lift to each one. To a seven-year-old’s body cradled against his chest, it probably felt like gliding.
Kids poked their heads out of doorways as he passed. Someone started it—one small voice, then another, then another—
"Superman! Superman! Superman!"
By the time he circled back and eased the boy gently into his wheelchair, the boy’s cheeks were flushed, eyes huge.
"Think you’ll be ready for the real thing when that leg’s healed up?" Clark asked quietly.
The boy nodded so hard his beanie slipped sideways. Clark straightened it for him, tucking the edge over his ear.
"You rest," he offered his hand in a fist-bump. "Metropolis needs you at full strength."
.
Only then did Admin finally step in. "On behalf of MetroGen, thank you for coming, Superman," the administrator said, her voice a touch too formal. "You’ve made a lot of people very happy today."
He gave her his famous, wide smile, but you saw the real one under it. "No, thank you for having me," he replied, gesturing slightly toward the cluster of nurses, aides, therapists, and doctors milling around. "Like I said: they do the hard work here. I’m just glad I could stop by."
Families peered from doorways for a final look. Kids clutched paper capes and signed cards, playfully arguing about whose should go on the bulletin board. Nurses promised to print photos. It felt like someone had opened a window in the middle of winter and let fresh air in.
He glanced around then, like he was checking that he’d hit every room, every corner. It looked like a last sweep before a clean exit. Except you knew him. That wasn’t a general scan.
His eyes found you by the nurses’ station. You dropped your gaze to your lunch bag for a second, pretending to fuss with the zipper. Your pulse picked up, quick and hard, at the sudden attention.
He took a small breath, squared his shoulders—that tiny shift into full "symbol of hope" mode—and raised his voice enough to carry.
"Before I go," he began, lifting a finger slightly, "there’s one more thing."
The hallway quieted like someone turned down a dial. The knot of Peds nurses, therapists, and residents near the station snapped a little straighter. You could feel them preen—hands smoothing scrub tops, fingers fixing ponytails, bodies angling themselves toward him. A tech checked her reflection in the blacked-out monitor.
You stayed put, hands wrapped around your lunch bag handles and your new water bottle, trying to look like part of the background.
He didn’t look at them. He came straight down the hall, cape moving around his boots, steps easy and unhurried. The group parted without thinking, bodies stepping out of his way like it was muscle memory. The whispering started:
"Is he—?"
"Wait, is he coming over here?"
"He’s looking at—no, shut up, he is."
He stopped right in front of you, close enough that you could see the faint line at the corner of his eyes, the one that deepened when he smiled for real.
He smiled now. Soft. Too knowing.
"Mrs. Kent," he addressed, clear enough for everyone to hear. "It’s a nice surprise to see you up here today. How are you and the baby doing?"
The unit went dead quiet for a full beat.
Someone sucked in a breath so sharply you were surprised they didn’t need oxygen. A clipboard clattered to the floor behind you, papers fanning out across the tile. You heard the intern gasped, high and stunned: "Wait, he knows her personally?"
Your heart slammed against your ribs. You kept your face as composed as you could manage, with what felt like the entire floor watching.
"We’re doing just fine, Superman," you answered, keeping it professional with all your strength. "Thanks for checking on us. It’s good seeing you today, too."
His gaze dropped to your bump, slow and deliberate. The warmth there wasn’t staged. You’d seen that look at home, in your dim kitchen, in your shared bed, under the glow of your Christmas tree. Seeing it here, in the middle of fluorescent lights and hospital beige, made your chest twist.
"Mr. Kent speaks very fondly of you both every time we meet for interviews," he added, blue eye with mirth.
Oh, you sneaky, sneaky man!
You could feel everyone’s attention sharpen at the mention of Clark’s name. Clark writes those interviews. Clark meets with Superman. Clark talks about you.
His hand lifted slightly, hovering just above the curve of your belly. He didn’t touch you, no scandal, no boundary crossed, but the space between his hand and your scrub top felt charged. Anyone really watching would see it for what it was.
He turned his head slightly, addressing the rest of the station.
"Metropolis is lucky to have nurses like Mrs. Kent and her colleagues," he said. "Thank you for taking such good care of everyone here. Have a good rest of your day."
A ripple of shy pride went through the group. A respiratory therapist blinked fast and coughed like something was caught in his throat. Kayla and the intern both had white-knuckled grips on the counter, eyes wide, obviously replaying every thirsty comment they’d made within earshot.
The administrator looked like she might cry.
Clark faced you again, that small, polite smile flickering to the surface.
"Mrs. Kent," he asked, "may I walk you back to the ER?"
For a moment, you forgot how to speak. Your chest felt tight, your throat worse. You didn’t trust your voice, so you just nodded.
He stepped to your side, hand hovering politely near your elbow without quite taking it, and together you walked passed the onlookers and toward the elevators. You risked a final glance at the station—Kayla and the intern were still staring. Kayla lifted her hand in a dazed little wave; the intern managed a stunned, incredulous look. You answered with a smirk and a little wave of your own.
The jealous, territorial little dragon that had been breathing fire under your ribs in the hallway earlier… stretched, yawned, and curled up smugly to sleep. Your rational brain rolled its eyes at you, but your heart still gave a deeply petty, deeply satisfied little purr.
Security met you at the elevator bank. One of them started to say something about an exit route, but Clark shook his head lightly.
"I’ll ride down with her to the ER, and exit through there," he assured. "I appreciate you, though."
The elevator arrived with a soft chime. The doors slid open, and the two of you stepped inside.
The second they closed, the world shrank. The hum of the hospital dropped to a dull vibration, red and blue flickering faintly in the brushed metal walls as the floor numbers ticked down.
Clark let out a breath you hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His shoulders dropped, the line of his jaw loosening. "You okay?" he asked quietly, fiddling with the collection of cards. "That was… a lot of eyes on you."
You set your lunch bag on the rail and fisted both hands in the front of his suit, tugging him a little closer. "You called me Mrs. Kent in front of an entire unit, implying familiarity," you said, voice rougher than you meant it to be. "You tell me, Clark."
Color climbed his ears. He gave you a sheepish, crooked smile. "Yeah, sorry, hon," he admitted. "I, uh… might’ve gotten carried away. I was trying to be subtle, but then you were right there and—" He shrugged, helpless "Is this a complaint?"
Your chest squeezed. "You know this is not a complaint," you laughed, poking his chest lightly. "But I am never hearing the end of it. Ever."
His eyes darkened, that soft heat you knew too well simmering underneath as he caught your prodding finger gently with his free hand. "Then I’m not sorry I said it."
You didn’t bother answering back. You just hauled him down and kissed him.
Not the careful stairwell kiss. Not soft reassurance. This one was hungry, senseless—every bottled-up feeling from the last hour poured into a single, stolen moment. His hand flew to your waist, thumb brushing against the swell of your belly. His cape brushed your calves; the symbol pressed warm against your chest.
He made a quiet, helpless sound into your mouth, knees bending as he leaned into you like he’d been waiting all day for this. You felt him try to keep it gentle and failed. When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing harder than an elevator ride warranted.
His forehead touched yours, the faintest grin curving his mouth. "For the record," he said softly, "I meant it. I’m not going easy on loving you. Not now, not ever."
"Clark, if you keep talking like that," you muttered, fingers still knotted in his suit, "I’m going to pull the call button and tell them I fainted so you have to carry me out of here."
His chuckle vibrated against your mouth. "Don’t tempt me, sweetheart. I’d love an excuse to play the hero."
Another chime cut through the moment. You both straightened automatically. His hands dropped back to his sides, yours returned to your lunch bag. He flicked his cape into place with a practiced adjustment, the public face settling over his features in an instant.
The doors opened onto the ER.
Everything hit you at once—monitors, voice overhead, the smell of coffee that had been burned half an hour ago. And all of it, for the first time ever, had Superman stepping out onto the unit beside you.
Maya, restocking blankets near the desk, froze mid-fold. The blanket slid out of her hands and puddled at her feet.
"Oh my fu—God!" she choked, then cut herself off, eyes swinging from him to you. "They were not kidding about VIP."
Jamal, halfway through charting, sat back in his chair so fast it rolled into the wall. "Holy—! Nobody told me our VIP was that VIP," he winced. "I would’ve worn my nice scrubs."
Rosa, at the charge desk with a stack of assignments in hand, actually crossed herself once, then shook her head like she’d done it on reflex. "Madre de Dios," she muttered. "Honey, you took ‘lunch break’ and brought back Superman?"
Denise stepped out of her office just in time to see Clark, you, and the cape. Her lips parted; her eyes flicked to your badge, your belly, back to his face. Then she recovered, because she’d been a nurse too long not to.
"S-superman!" she stuttered, stepping forward and offering a shaky hand. "Welcome to the ER! Thank you for visiting our colleagues upstairs."
He took her hand, grip gentle. "No, thank you. You all do incredible work down here, too," he glanced around, taking in the organized chaos, the full board behind the station. "I know this season is hard on everyone. Thank you for taking care of Metropolis on days like this."
You could feel your coworkers stand just a bit taller. His gaze slid back to you one last time, warmth flooding through the blue of his eyes. The words were for the room, but the look was only for you.
"Take care, Mrs. Kent," he gently patted your shoulder with a wink, waving the stack of newly acquired cards at you."Tell your husband I said hello, and I look forward to the next interview with him."
You sneaky, troublesome man!
"I will," you managed, grinning stupidly anyways. "Take care, Superman."
He gave you and the unit a final nod, turned toward the ambulance bay doors with security waiting out front for him. In a few strides, Clark was gone—blue suit and red cape vanishing past double doors, swallowed by cold December light.
The silence lasted all of three seconds.
"You know Superman?" Maya exploded. "Why didn’t you say anything?"
"Since when?" Jamal demanded. "Is that what ‘I know people’ meant that one day? Because that is not what I thought you meant."
Rosa slapped a hand lightly against the counter. "In all my years—why am I just connecting that your husband Clark Kent is the same Planet Clark Kent, who is also exclusive-interviews-with-Superman Clark Kent." She pointed between the empty doorway and you, then blurted: "Do you guys meet for dinner?!"
Questions tumbled over each other.
You held up your hands, cheeks hot, trying not to laugh.
"My husband and I have known him for a bit," you said, falling back on the script you and Clark had rehearsed years ago. "Clark writes those profiles. Superman trusts him. It’s… kind of a long story."
You let "long story" hang there, a soft, polite brick wall.
Before anyone could press further, the charge phone rang. A trauma alert blared overhead. Denise clapped her hands once.
"Okay, celebrity time’s over," she reminded briskly. "We’ve got beds to turn and patients to see. You," she added, pointing at you, "hydrate and then I want you sitting for five minutes before you take your next assignment."
"Yes, boss," you saluted, grateful for the out.
You ducked into the break room. The second the door swung shut, you exhaled hard, braced one hand on the counter, and let yourself grin like an idiot. Your phone buzzed in your pocket.
Clark: Hey, hon. What size fries did you want?
Need anything else before I get home tonight?
You snorted. You checked the board through the narrow break-room window. New names were already popping up. The shift wasn’t slowing for anyone—not even Superman.
You: If you really care, you’ll buy me an extra-large. Let me indulge.
Maybe a foot rub. Heating pads??
His reply was instant.
Clark: Already planned on it: Extra large fries (double order), heating pad, and a foot rub.
Get through the rest of your shift.
I love you both.
You bit your lip, a smile tugging at your mouth helplessly.
You: We love you, too, Clark
You slid your phone away and your hand found your belly for a quick rub. "Hear that, Little Miss Vi?" you murmured. "Fries later. Superman cameo achieved. Time to get back to the fray."
Viola gave one soft thump. You straightened your badge, squared your shoulders, and stepped back into the bright, chaotic ER—heart settling around one quiet, steady truth.
The city might only ever know him as Superman, the man who dropped into Pediatrics for an hour of borrowed hope, but you knew better. Under the cape and behind the bylines, he was the husband who’d just promised—again—that he wasn’t going easy on loving you or the little girl turning slow somersaults under your palm, no matter how many lives were waiting on the other side of those doors.
pairing: RossEmployee!San x SeasonalEmployee!Reader
summary: After a long day of working with your annoyingly perfect coworker San at Ross, a power outage forces you to be alone with him.
word count: 2.4k
warnings: dirty talking, fingering, car sex, public sex
a/n: This one is for all the retail associates this holiday season.
In order to afford gifts for your family this year, you decided to apply for a seasonal job at Ross. As expected, it was basically hell. Loud security tags constantly ringing, customers never putting items back where they found them, and endless checkout lines that wrapped around the store. But as a full time student with a long holiday shopping list, you knew it would be worth it seeing your family's faces light up on Christmas Day.
"Okay team, so today's big goal is going to be pushing our credit card." Your store's manager Jongho says, clapping his hands together and startling you. "Our goal is 100 every day, yesterday we got 1. Do better." He says firmly. "Oh and before I forget, the company is having a contest. Whoever can get the most positive surveys today, gets a $200 Ross gift card."
That $200 would be perfect for gifts! You start planning how you're going to push the survey when your annoyingly sweet coworker San barges into the morning huddle late. "I'm so sorry guys!" He gives a bright smile and slight nod to everybody in the room. He's carrying a box of donuts and a couple of coffees in his arms before setting it down on the table. "Sorry for being late, the line at Dunkin was insane you would not believe it. Go on help yourselves." He gestures to the table and starts handing out coffees to everyone. Well almost everyone.
"Oh would you look at that, I miscounted. Sorry Y/n." He smiles and starts sipping his coffee. "So what did I miss?"
You roll your eyes at Mr. Perfect and push past him to the sales floor, ready to win that gift card.
---
"And that's another for San! How many does that make now, 3? And it's not even noon yet." Jongho says, sounding clearly impressed, over the walkie-talkies. You groan and pick up more items off the floor. Of course he's good at this too. Ever since you started your seasonal employment a month ago, San instantly caught your attention. Sure he looks like a supermodel and a body builder had a baby, but his customer service skills also were unmatched. You watched him charm everyone with ease, even the meanest Karen was no match for his dazzling eye smile.
He's the type of guy who's obnoxiously good at everything. Kinda like Superman but with a scanner. You glance at him carrying about ten times the items you were and happily putting them away while looking straight out of Vogue and sigh.
Plus, he never looks frazzled while doing it. But you weren't going to give in so easily.
You spot an elderly woman with a shopping cart full of pillows, Christmas wreaths, and shoes. "Let me help you with that m'am." You grin and help her push her cart in line. "Wow, what a nice young lady, thank you." The woman says. "You know, if you really feel that way you can leave a good survey for me at this link-"
"Oh no, I'm too busy. Next time, okay?" She says sweetly and you don't press her any more. "Of course, have a good day." You say in your best customer service voice, while your eye twiches. You go to the go back rack and gather some items when you overhear something peculiar. The same old woman that turned you down giggles and blushes while San laughs. "Of course I can fill out that survey for you." She tells San. With steam blowing out of your ears, you watch him hold the woman's phone and help her fill it out.
---
"I can't believe we're both closing tonight. What are the odds?" San says while sweeping and humming to himself.
San was in first place with 10 surveys, while you were in second with 6. You were hopeful that you were going to catch up and win while he's gone, but with your luck, he's still here. It had slowed down a bit, the last customer leaving the store for the time being, giving you guys some much needed recovery time.
You were wiping down the counters when suddenly the power goes out. Outside, the wind had started to pick up and a few snowflakes fell. "Great that's just what we needed." You snap, making San confused. Grabbing a flashlight, San hurriedly walks towards you. "Y/n, are you okay?" He reaches out and gently grabs your hand. "Come on, let's go to the front of the store."
Luckily, there were no customers in the store. Just you, San, and the vested security guards in the front. With the storm forming outside, the store gradually gets colder with no heater. You shiver and San turns to the security guards. "Hey, since it's cold and there are no customers, can Y/n and I wait in our cars until the power comes back on?" He suggests. They agree and lock up behind us. However, your car's heater was broken too. "Thanks." You tell him in between chattering teeth. San notices your gloomy expression and blocks your path.
He leans down, tilting his head to make eye contact with you. "My car is nice and warm, and closer to the store. Wanna join me?" Still annoyed about the contest that he's definitely winning, you give him attitude. "Yeah, sure whatever." You respond dismissively. He pouts and the two of you sit in his front seats. "Did I do something wrong?" He asks you. You angrily groan. "It's just frustrating that I've been working hard all day trying to win the contest, and you pretty much won." You cross your arms over your chest and look out the window. Silence as thick as snow settles between the two of you, until he breaks it.
"What contest?" He says while lifting his eyebrows. You stare at him blankly in disbelief, waiting for him to laugh at his own joke, but he doesn't.
"The survey contest Jongho talked about this morning? Whoever gets the most surveys gets a $200 gift card? I needed it really badly for my family this year, I worked my butt off all day today trying to beat you."
"So there was a prize?" He asks, still looking confused with his eyes narrowed. "I missed the meeting this morning so it makes sense."
"And you didn't even realize I was competing with you!?" You run a hand through your hair. "You got all those surveys without even trying. You even stole one right from under me!" You mumble miserably. A couple of seconds pass when you hear San start to laugh.
"It's not funny!" You scold him.
"It is! I didn't steal one from you, if you're talking about the old lady earlier, I helped her fill one out for you." He chuckles before speaking softly. "Honestly, I just thought you were trying to impress me, not trying to compete with me. Somehow, that's even cuter." He says, blushing and covering his face. "What?" You can feel your ears heating up. Did San think you're cute? The sky had darkened, and the only thing you could clearly see was San. His eyes were glittering with the reflections of Christmas lights, and he kept leaning in closer to you.
You don't know if you were just tired from working so much, but you quickly placed a quick kiss on his cheek. "I'm sorry for snapping at you today." You whisper. He smirks, grabbing your face and kissing you fully on your lips. You kiss him back with just as much passion. It was almost as if he was hungry for you. The feeling of his hand resting on your thigh pulls your attention away from this kiss.
With messy hair and darkened eyes, San looks completely transformed. Before, he was a sweet golden boy, but now, he looks more like a desperate, touch-starved man. "Do you want me?" He leans in and whispers into your ear. His breath leaves a trail of goosebumps on your neck, making you too startled to answer. San looks so breath-taking right now, you feel like you're dreaming. "Hmm.. is my princess shy all of a sudden? She's not shy when she's mad at me, but she's shy when she wants something from me. How cute." He says into your neck, placing a few gentle kisses there.
A moan slips out of your lips accidentally and you can practically hear him grinning. "Today is the best day ever." He muses as he pulls you into his lap while still sitting in the driver's seat. You're sitting with your back facing him, looking out into the dark night through the windshield, your legs spread open by the steering wheel. With one leg over each side of the wheel, San drags his hand slowly towards the inside of your thigh over your jeans.
"Do you know why I try so hard at work these days?" He asks you while his hand inches towards your center. You nod no. "I moved here from overseas so I don't really have any family or friends here to spend the holidays with. So I try to be kind to every customer as if they're my own family."
You feel even more guilty for being mean to him earlier when he confesses this and you frown, tears forming in your eyes, which he quickly sweeps away. "Hey that's not why I'm telling you this. I meant that I've been feeling lonely with the holidays going on, and the attention you've been giving me today cheered me up." He kisses your cheek softly.
You feel yourself melting more into his touch, his sweet thoughtful words making you feel warm inside. "Do you want me to finger you right here, right now Y/n?" You blush and bite your lip, but can't hold back your need from him any longer. "Yes." He slowly undoes the button of your jeans, lowering your legs from the steering wheel for a brief moment as he discards your pants and panties in his back seat before positioning you on the wheel again.
All of a sudden, you feel so exposed, bare core facing out the window. You look around nervously to make sure no one can see the two of you. It's super dark and cold, so no one was out, the snow covering most of the windows, but you couldn't deny the odd feeling it stirred up in your stomach. San notices you look around distracted. "Aw is my princess worried someone is going to see her pretty pussy being played with?" He purrs in your ear. You never imagined someone as sweet and pure as San would have such a filthy mouth, yet it turned you on more to see this side of him.
"My princess has nothing to worry about, we're alone, and my windows are tinted. It's just you and me." He licks your neck a little before biting it, surely leaving a mark behind. "Unless she wants everyone to see my hands on her." Finally, you feel his palm pressing hard against your heat. His hands are big and warm, you can't help rolling into the velvety pressure. "You respond so well to me hmmm..." He raises an eyebrow and memorizes the way you curl into him. Surely he'll be thinking of this moment again when he's alone in his room at night.
With two fingers ready, he curls them into you gently, lavishing in the delicious stretch. He moans in your ear and you whimper back. To hold you up better, he wraps an arm around you and squeezes your chest. "My princess is making such a mess down here, getting it all over my car." He groans as you clench tighter around his fingers, arousal coating his hand. Your cries grow louder when he slips his free hand into your top, tugging your bra down and rolling one of your nipples in between his fingers. At this point you can't help but hump into his hand desperately like you were in heat.
And by the way you started chanting his name like it was a prayer, you practically were.
"Finish all over my hand, please princess. Make it sticky for me." He pants. Unbeknownst to you, his cock is straining in his jeans, dangerously putting him on edge as well. He takes his thumb and rubs your bundle of nerves harder while pinching your nipples. "San! Ha..." You continue to cry out. "Keep going, keep saying my name like that." He says while throwing his head back in pleasure. Finally, you can't take it anymore and release all over his hand. "That's my pretty princess." He barely manages to say, his forehead covered in sweat. He holds you as you come down from your high, eventually lifting his hand up to his mouth, loudly slurping and lapping up your juices.
You watch him in awe as he holds eye contact with you, tongue darting out, spreading your slick all over his mouth. "Even better than I imagined." He whispers to himself. "So you've imagined it?" You question him teasingly.
He blushes and turns away from you, face flushed. He helps you get dressed again, and when you pick up your phone, you see a text from Jongho sent an hour ago.
Jongho: Since the power is out, go ahead and lock up early tonight. Stay safe~
You show San the message and he laughs. "This night just keeps getting better and better." He says smiling.
---
The next day at Ross is somehow even busier than the last. After swimming through a crowd of customers, you barely make it to the break room. You're about to toss your purse in your locker when you see a cute red and green envelope with writing on it waiting for you.
To: Y/n
From: "San"-ta
Thank you for making my holidays a lot brighter this year.
Merry Christmas Y/n! :)
P.S. By accepting this you are now required to go out for hot chocolate with me after work today.
And taped to the bottom of the letter, was the $200 gift card from yesterday's contest.
pairing; steve harrington x fem!reader
word count; 5.8k
synopsis; after coming home to hawkins for christmas, you found yourself reunited with steve harrington, your ex-boyfriend, at his parents’ annual christmas party. its difficult for the both of you but its the difficulty that brings you two back together.
warnings; cussing, drinking, relationship problems
a/n; sorry, i know this is a day after christmas!! i really tried to get it out on time but i was so busy with family and whatnot that it was just impossible. i was gonna scrap it completely but in honor of volume 2 i figured i should just release it anyways
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likes + comments + reblogs are always very appreciated
“some time of year to be with the one you love so won’t you tell me you’ll never more roam?”
You found yourself being jostled to your family’s car with a certain apathy spreading through your heart. The stockings hugged your legs uncomfortably and the way your skirt hung around your thighs was a sensory hell. Suddenly, you found yourself growing overheated underneath the knitting of your sweater. Your mother’s frazzled complaints grew overwhelming as she steered you towards the car and your father had gone nonverbal an hour ago.
It was Christmas Eve and your family was heading to the Harringtons’. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington had been friends with your parents for quite some time now. Every year, they hosted a nice, respectable Christmas party. Every year, you were forced to go. Their Christmas party attendees consisted of the biggest douchebags in Hawkins, you felt. Misogynistic men, housewives, and their children of suburbia who were inevitably bound to take after them all hung amongst the house. It was truly miserable.
The only thing – only person – who made those annual Christmas parties slightly less miserable was Steve Harrington. All throughout middle school and high school he seemed to be the only tolerable person there. The two of you would always sneak off to either his backyard or simply outside, prowling the neighborhood just to get away from the confines of the Harringtons’ house.
In sophomore year, the two of you wandered the neighborhood and he taught you how to smoke properly. In junior year, the two of you started dating. Six months ago, the two of you broke up. You found yourself dreading the parties once again.
“Mom, you and dad can drive without me, I’ll take my car,” you announced halfway to your family’s car, finding yourself desperate to get out of driving with them. “I’ll follow you guys right over and I can take the poinsettias and the wine so you guys don’t have to carry as much.”
Your mom, already discombobulated, just nodded rapidly before spluttering, “Sure. Sure, honey. Okay.” She handed you the bottle of sherry and the big bouquet of poinsettias before strutting off to the car with your father.
You carefully walked over to your own car, fumbling for your keys while trying to balance the offerings for the party in the other arm and trying not to fall on the icy driveway in your heels simultaneously. You finally heaved into your car. You turned on the car and sat there for a moment, waiting for your parents to pull out. Fiddling on the radio, a staticky noise filled the car before you heard Robin’s voice filter through, gradually growing clearer. You heard her familiar Christmas Eve evening monologue that she had practiced for you so many times. Her voice became something of a momentary soothing balm.
“Well, I’ll get out of everyone’s hair for the rest of the evening. We’ll be playing Christmas tunes for the rest of the night! And don’t forget to go to sleep early, ladies and gentlemen, because our dear old Saint Nick is gonna be coming ‘round Hawkins before you know it. Now playing ‘Please come home for Christmas’ by the Eagles. You’re listening to the Squawk and this is Rockin’ Robin signing off! Merry Christmas, happy holidays, good night to all, and to all a good night.”
With that, you backed out of your driveway and mentally prepared for the evening to come.
₊˚｡ ❆
Steve was miserable. He was sitting around pathetically feeling like the same dejected boy he felt like every Christmas party. He was wearing the sweater you had gotten him two Christmases ago. He remembered how the two of you had snuck away to exchange gifts amidst the celebration. It had been nearing midnight and the two of you were sick of drunk, pretentious adults. The two of you had snuck out, giggling, and ran to the park down the street from his neighborhood. You two were sitting in the playground structure, high up by the slides. He remembered how happy you looked giving it to him, how your nose was red with how cold it was. He remembered everything about you that night in particular. He remembered exactly how your giggle sounded, how you crawled into his lap after the gift exchange – the wrapping paper drifting off loosely, how you kissed him softly, how you two laid back to watch the stars, how you two murmured against each others skin, how your hot breath felt against his cold skin. He remembered it all.
He heard a knock at the door and stood immediately to avoid his mother’s withering glare as she hissed “Steven, get up.”
The door opened and he was met with your parents. Your parents but you, the only person he seemed to be able to form a thought on these days, were nowhere to be found. The greeting between his parents and yours was familiar. A part of him was glad that the breakup hadn’t changed that, a part of him felt like it was cruel that both couples could carry on so normally like it was nothing more than an inconvenience.
“Where’s Miss Y/n?” Mrs. Harrington asked, peering around to find her. Steve waited with baited breath for the answer.
Your mother just exhaled, dramatic as ever, and waved her hands dismissively. “Insisted on taking her car. God knows where she is.” Your mother looked behind her, out of the open doorway, before her face lit up. “Oh, look at that, she just pulled in.”
Steve saw your familiar red car pull in and felt his heart painfully squeeze. Before he could stand there stupidly, his father nudged him before reality set in.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, let me take that,” Steve announced, taking the box of cookies and the gifts out of your parents’ arms. They laughed with overlapped praise for what a good host he was. He felt his face burn with a sense of relief, glad he didn’t have to stand there like a wallowing idiot another second.
He returned to the “welcoming committee” as you walked through the door.
Time practically stopped.
There were snowflakes in your hair.
You were dressed like you were the main character straight out of a Christmas rom-com.
There was sherry in one hand, which you were gripping by the neck of the bottle, and poinsettias in the other hand.
You were smiling that fake smile he knew all too well, the one he always saw on Christmas Eve evening. Convincing but entirely artificial, to him at least.
He felt a pounding in his head.
“I’m here with the good stuff,” you announced with a soft laugh as you shut the door with your hip, raising the offerings in your hands. This earned a laugh from his parents. Your parents had already disappeared into the group of other guests.
“Oh, you sweet girl, you shouldn’t have,” Mrs. Harrington said, kissing your cheeks. You reciprocated the motion naturally.
Mr. Harrington gave you a rare smile and a familiar tight nod. “Merry Christmas, Y/n.”
You reciprocated that too, initiating a handshake with Mr. Harrington that only made him more pleased with Mrs. Harrington close by your side, beaming.
Steve thought he was gonna be sick.
“Merry Christmas,” you said. “This place looks beautiful. You always do such an amazing job at making it look festive here.” You smiled before quickly adding, “But in a classy way, not a tacky way.”
Mrs. Harrington laughed. “You always know just what to say.”
Steve felt his head reeling.
Mrs. Harrington snapped her gaze towards her son. “Steve, be a dear and take this stuff off her hands. Be a gentleman.”
Steve nodded obediently before walking over awkwardly.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
The two of you stood there, gazing at each other for a moment before it grew uncomfortable. Both of you looked away at the same time.
“I can take that.”
“No, it’s okay. I got it.”
“No, really, you’re a guest. Let me.”
You finally relented. Steve took this as an opportunity to leave the suddenly stuffy foyer. By the time he had put the items on his kitchen island and returned, you and Mrs. Harrington had barely moved. The two women were still chatting. His father was taking your coat and scarf and you were issuing polite thanks and gratitude.
Steve’s parents had sauntered off, leaving you alone in the foyer with Steve. You could see the gears twisting in Steve’s head, you could see him working up something to say. But at the very same time, you caught a glimpse of your mother beckoning you over to her in an obnoxious fashion. You glanced back sheepishly at the despondent man before you before making your way over to your parents.
Seeing Steve felt like a sick punch to the gut. He still looked as beautiful as ever. A part of you was hoping that he would look terrible, you felt like that’d make yourself feel better. You were sorely mistaken. He looked really good. He looked really miserable. And that did not make you feel better in the slightest.
The fact that he was adorning your gifted sweater didn’t slip your notice. You stared at him as he walked around wearing it, no doubt intentionally, with his collared shirt and tie beneath it tucked neatly. He looked so prim and proper, a side of Steve he rarely wrangled out in front of you. It looked so unnatural.
You stood uncomfortably still, conversing politely with everyone as you held your glass of sherry in a death grip. You were too nauseous to drink and certainly too nauseous to eat but simply holding the drink seemed to keep you grounded.
“Do you still work at the radio station?” an older guest who you recognized from years past asked Steve, her voice wobbling slightly. She still, even in her late years, carried a certain haughtiness that you distinctly remember secretly making fun of with Steve years ago.
Steve nodded curtly, his lips pressed in a tight line. “Yes, ma’am. I do.”
She shook her head before her husband piped up. “You know, I could get you a job, son. At my firm. Hell, you can start Monday!” This earned chuckles from the group.
Steve’s father spoke up. “That’s kind of you. We’ll think about that offer.” He slapped Steve jovially on the back, clearly drunk. “I keep telling him he needs to get a real job. He needs to build a career. You know, it’s not about just what brings the money in. It’s about the legacy.”
It was times like these when you remembered just how much of a raging dickhead Mr. Harrington really was.
“What is it that you’re doing?” another elderly man asked you. The group’s attention turned from Steve’s lack of a proper, respectable job to you, clutching your sherry, looking like death herself.
You blinked for a moment, realizing the focus was on you. You heard Christmas music playing softly. You saw Steve’s eyes on you, his damned honey eyes. The ones you used to find solace in, the ones that soothed you like real honey, the ones that once held all the answers, the ones that were now adding insult to injury.
“Oh, I work at this newspaper,” you supplied with an artificial smile. It seemed like it was the millionth of the evening.
“Really? These damn paper companies are still running?” some older man chortled.
You forced a laugh and shook your head sheepishly. “I suppose so. We’re doing our best.”
There was a hum of amusement.
Steve watched you with a feeling of yearning bubbling in his soul, sizzling and boiling and burning up his insides. It felt like he got shot in the chest, the feeling of misery filling his body like lead. He just swallowed his cocktail of sadness with notes of sherry.
Throughout the night, you felt yourself glancing off at Steve every few minutes. You couldn’t help it. It was instinctual, in your defense. You didn’t know what it was like to be a stranger to Steve. You found yourself naturally good at a multitude of things but being apathetic to Steve’s presence wasn’t one of them. You would have to teach yourself how to forget him, how to pull him out of the magic fabric of your soul.
As you sat stoically on the stiff and expensive floral fabrics that donned the Harringtons’ couch, still clutching your untouched sherry, you took your first sip of the evening. The haziness met your system immediately. You had never been too good with drinks. It was almost seconds before you found yourself getting met with a flood of memories, ones that you successfully shunned out of your headspace on a daily basis.
You remembered it all.
You remembered the envelope that the beginning of the end got mailed to you in. It was your standard white one but with an ornate, purple waxen seal. On the back read “NYU” in beautiful lettering. The letter was like a kiss of death, a bittersweet ode to your past and your future. Steve had seen it before you did. He always brought the mail into your house on his way in. He had burst through the front door, waving your NYU letter over his head excitedly. The two of you read it in unison. You cried. Steve held you. He kissed you all over, murmuring, “Can’t believe you thought for a second you weren’t gonna get it” and “my pretty girl. I’m so proud, baby.”
You took another sip.
You remembered the day you confirmed your seat. Maybe that was when it was truly the beginning of the end. You were never quite sure. It was that night you and Steve lay on his rooftop, stargazing together on a blanket. You were curled against him, tucked beneath his arm. “Are things gonna be different?” he had asked seriously. “Well, of course they will. Not for worse. For better,” you promised back reassuringly. But you could hear the fear in his voice and the hesitance of confirmation in your own voice did nothing to sooth him. You weren’t even soothing yourself.
You took another sip.
You remembered the first big fight following your acceptance to NYU. It started off with you on Steve’s couch, waiting for him to come home from his shift at the Squawk. You had begged your boss to let you go at eight o’clock instead of ten so you and Steve could have a movie night, something the two of you hadn’t had in ages it seemed. The two of you were just so busy recently. You had been excited for this movie night. You missed your sweet boyfriend more than anything. You had sat there bleary-eyed, watching as the first digit on the clock morphed from a seven to an eight before it went from eight to nine. Finally, the clock was reading ten o’clock when you had been woken up from a light slumber to the sound of keys in the door. In walked Steve. “Where were you?” you asked, your voice slightly accusatory. Steve rubbed his eyes. “Oh, my baby, I’m so sorry. I forgot. Robin asked me to stay later so she could go on her date with Vickie. I completely forgot you were out at eight.” You sighed, “Whatever. It’s fine.” It ended up a boisterous slamming on doors and exhaust in Steve’s driveway before you peeled out and drove home.
You took another sip.
You remembered the days leading up to you moving to New York. You thought back on the days worth of meals that you found yourself unable to stomach at the thought of leaving the only home you’d ever known, the only people you’d ever called home, the only person who’d ever been your home. You thought back on the hours you’d spent holding yourself and sobbing in your room, wondering to everything holy and higher why you couldn’t have just been okay with going to Indiana State University, or somewhere local. You thought back on those last days you had spent with Steve. In a way, in hindsight, you felt the divide then. You felt the slow pull that both of you were acting in order to remedy the pain you both knew would fall inevitably. You thought back on Steve helping you pack, on him holding back tears, on the memory of you practically feeling the burning of his throat through his kisses, the kisses of death.
You took another sip.
You remembered the day you left. You remembered how Steve came early that morning, packed everything into your car before laying in your bed with you the whole morning. Your empty room felt haunting, even then. He had felt a hollow aching pain as he held you like a lifeline, lying in the shell of your room. You remembered the exact light pattern that reflected onto the duvet you were leaving behind. You remembered the feel of his arms around you. You remembered the steady thumping of his heart against your body. You remembered the way the two of you were too saddened to talk but it was okay. The silence had been a comfort.
You remembered as the hours dissipated, how before you knew it your mom had entered your room with a soft knock and announced gently, “Sweetie, we have to leave in fifteen minutes. I… I just thought I’d give you a heads up.” She had given Steve a tender look.
You took another sip.
You remembered how the two of you sat up, holding each other still. You remembered how a sob racked suddenly through your body. It was one sob. Then another. Then another. Then another. You found yourself unable to stop. You found Steve gently and far more quietly sobbing with you, not letting his hold on you falter. “Oh, my sweet, sweet girl,” he choked. “I’m gonna miss you. I’m gonna miss you so much. I can’t believe you’re going. I’m so proud of you. I just… I’m… It’s not going to be the same without you.” You buried your face into his sweater-clad chest. “Stevie.”
You took another sip.
You remembered the next moments better than anything. You had sat up more, looking at Steve with watery, sore eyes and a shaky frame. “Are we breaking up?”
Steve looked at you, completely taken aback by your question and still leaving his fingers closely intertwined with yours. “What?”
“Is this it?”
“Is it?”
The two of you had shaken in each other’s arms, crying hard. It really was over. It really was the end. The end of the end.
You set your glass down, your lips stained wine red as you sat there painfully still. You looked up to find Steve staring silently at you from across the room.
Everything became too much for you to handle. Between the painful small talk with everyone and their mothers – quite literally – and the slight buzz of intoxication coursing through your system, you found yourself needing an escape. You stood up with finality and pushed past bustles and gaggles of older guests, muttering half-hearted apologies and ignoring your mother calling for you. You foolishly didn’t even bother grabbing your coat or your scarf on the way out.
You speed walked down the street. You didn’t know where you were going, where you wanted to go, or anything of that nature. All you knew was that you needed to get out of that damn Harrington household.
Maybe walk to the Squawk, you thought in a fleeting moment of weakness. You talked yourself down from that. The Squawk building was over three miles away and there was no way you’d even make it a third of the way in the freezing Indiana snow or in the heels you were wearing. Plus, even if you did miraculously make it there, Robin had probably gone home which meant you sitting alone there stupidly.
You were a few streets from the Harrington house. At this rate, you figured you’d just walk to your house. Sure, you’d have a lot of explaining to do to your parents when they got home and you’d have to go back to the Harringtons’ on Christmas Day to retrieve your car. This would lead to you getting dragged inside, naturally, by Mrs. Harrington. Although that seemed like hell in itself, anything was better than sitting there tonight trying to avoid Steve’s sad puppy dog eyed stare.
You were too absorbed in your own thoughts, in Steve, to hear the slow crawl of a car approaching you from behind. Your arms were crossed tight over your chest, desperately trying to generate some warmth, when the car pulled up beside you and stopped.
You froze immediately, recognizing that sickeningly familiar maroon BMW.
Before you could really react, the window rolled down.
“Y/N,” Steve called from his car. He fumbled around, muttering as he brought his car to a full stop. “Fuck.”
He threw his door open and leapt out as if he was scared you’d take off and outrun him at any given moment. After he realized you weren’t going to run or anything of the sort, he approached you slowly, holding your coat and scarf that you had left at his house before darting.
“Here,” he mumbled, bringing the scarf around your neck, moving it to surround your neck loosely, just how you liked it. He tried to remain a respectful distance, one that was appropriate between exes, but he found himself awkwardly moving closer to fix your scarf. You could see his hands shaking slightly. Steve brought the coat around your shoulders and helped you slide your arms into it.
He stepped back slightly. “Sorry. Sorry, that was… Fuck. Sorry,” he blabbered. He ran a hand through his hair nervously. “I mean, if you’re gonna dart out because my parents’ Christmas party is a shitshow, at least bundle up so you don’t have to come back.”
You had been standing there, frozen, until his slightly deprecating joke seemed to thaw you, dissolving you into a soft laugh. You bit your lip and looked down, shaking your head slightly.
“No, it was nice,” you amended, ever-appeasing as always. Steve’s heart clenched as he found himself confronted with the rude reminder that some things never change. You noticed the look of skepticism on his face and you laughed again. “No, it really was. Your parents do know how to throw a party, even if they’re assholes.” You muttered the last part under your breath but Steve caught it – of course he did – and grinned.
“And that’s being respectful,” he agreed. His grin was so familiar. It made your heart clench miserably. You were gazing up at him, trying to etch every bit of his face into your memory – not like you had forgotten much of it.
“Thank you, by the way,” you added after a beat of silence. How was it silent? There was so much you wanted, needed, to tell him. There was so much he needed to tell you. The weight of it all hung between the two of you like something rotten and dead. “For bringing my coat and scarf. I was freezing my ass off but I was too stubborn to turn back,” you admitted sheepishly.
Steve smiled. It wasn’t a grin or anything of the sort. It was more of a thick reminder of the fact that you two knew too much of each other for too long to simply forget, even if you both pretended that was possible.
“You always were very stubborn,” Steve agreed. The cadence of his voice almost sounded saddened, wet even.
Your lips sunk a little into an almost-teary frown. It was a thing you did whenever you were somber over something. Steve remembered that so clearly. Towards the end of your relationship, he saw it more than ever.
“I still am,” you confirmed with a forced, almost jerky, shrug. You had meant it to assure Steve that he still knew you and everything that came with you but it came off as a harsh reminder that you needed to even do that.
Steve shoved his hands into his pockets, looking down and rocking back and forth. “Do you wanna get in the car? We don’t have to go back or anything, I just don’t want you getting sick or anything.”
You nodded with a small smile at Steve’s offer. His relief hit his face like a wrecking ball and he quickly raced around to open your car door. He always did that, even long before the two of you ever started dating. Whether he was sick, whether he was upset with you, whether you were mad at him, he always did it without fail. Whenever you were with him, you never seemed to be touching handles of any kind.
When he slid into his own seat, you buckled in and glanced over at him. “You’re still very chivalrous.”
He gloated ever so slightly. It was almost imperceptible but you picked up on it. You picked up on everything.
“You’re gloating,” you commented, almost teasingly. Almost. There was still a level of distance between the two of you but it seemed that more and more, the two of you broke down this distance. Slowly. Baby steps.
He shrugged, a pleased look on his face. “I’m not gloating. Gloating is a bit much. A bit too strong of a word.”
“Gloating is a strong word?”
“Yeah,” Steve affirmed adamantly. You recognized the slight smirk toying at the corners of his mouth. He always had that look when the two of you would banter. Some things never change.
“You’re gloating,” you repeated with a knowing smile as you watched him drive.
“Maybe a little,” he relented. His eyes faced the road. “It’s just nice to know that you don’t think I’m a terrible, awful person.”
“I don’t think that,” you told him quietly. “I never have.”
“Are you sure?”
“I promise,” you replied firmly. You paused, wondering if it was too juvenile, if it was something the two of you had buried with your relationship. “I pinky promise.”
Steve didn’t wince in the slightest. He just rested his elbow on the console, copying you, and stuck out his pinky. The two of you intertwined pinkies as he drove, not pulling away even after the promise had long since been made.
The silence lingered in the car. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence – quite the opposite actually. The two of you found yourselves, pinkies intertwined, missing each other’s domestic company. Neither of you spoke this thought aloud but both of you thought it.
You weren’t really paying too much attention to where Steve was driving. It didn’t spark your memory as the route to any place in particular so you just figured he was just driving. That was until he pulled to a stop right outside the neighborhood playground.
The same one where you had spent a few Christmases with him in years past, particularly last year.
“C’mon,” Steve muttered as he jumped out and, like clockwork, helped you out of the car.
He never let go of your hand as he led you along to your familiar perch on the plastic structure.
The two of you sat together, shoulder to shoulder. It was for warmth that you kept repeating in your head. You tried to ignore the rhythmic beating of your heart that reverberated through the entirety of your body.
“I thought you didn’t want me getting sick or anything,” you teased, glancing at Steve with a slight smile on your face.
“Well, I feel like it’d be worth it here, you know,” Steve rebutted with a smile as he gazed at you. “Nostalgic.”
“Nostalgic.”
“I have something for you,” Steve announced suddenly as he reached into the pocket of his own jacket. He pulled out a small wrapped gift and handed it to you.
You stopped, your heart sinking. “No, I can’t accept this. Steve, I didn’t get you anything. I didn’t think we were exchanging gifts. Hell, I didn’t even know I was still invited to your parents’ party until like two nights ago.”
Steve chuckled and shook his head. “First of all, you’re always invited. No matter what. Second of all, you have to accept this. I wasn’t expecting a gift. And this isn’t really a gift. I don’t know if you’ll like it anyways. It’s more of a shot in the dark. Please, Y/N?”
You obeyed with your chin tucked into your sweater, almost shamefully. “Okay, Steve. I feel bad though.”
“Don’t.”
You accepted his gift graciously and tucked your finger into a fold in the wrapping paper. Sliding your finger, you neatly tore the paper. Steve watched you with rapt attention. He had always admired the way you completed mundane tasks. It was enchanting really. You always did everything so elegantly and neatly. Unwrapping gifts was no different.
Beneath the wrapping paper was a small notebook. The cover rose slightly after the pressure of the paper was relieved as if someone had already opened it.
“Oh, Steve, thank you,” you murmured. It was a pretty notebook too, something you had always been a sucker for. It was brownish and smooth with yellowy pages.
Steve shook his head. “No, open it.”
You did.
Within the notebook were pages and pages of writing. It was only then you pieced together that Steve had gifted you a used journal. Your eyebrows narrowed slightly. You flipped to the first page and shifted slightly – coincidentally, closer to Steve – so you could use the moonlight to decipher what the writing said.
Your heart stopped and instantly burned its way to your throat the second you began reading the first entry.
Dear Y/N,
I don’t really know what I’m doing. I mean that in terms of this journal but honestly in general at this point. We broke up yesterday which also coincidentally happens to be the day you moved away – to NYC, to be exact.
I’m proud of you. I really am. You’ve always wanted this and I’m so grateful that I got to see you achieve at least one of your goals, even if I won’t be kept around for the rest of them.
Anyways, I bought this journal last night in a moment of weakness. It was bittersweet for me because I remember always teasing you about your constant journaling. It was cute to me but I never saw myself actually personally doing it. I imagined you laughing at me as I swiped my credit card and saying something like “See, I knew you’d cave.” And then we’d laugh together. I didn’t even really think about buying it. I just did it. I feel like I had – have – a lot I need to write down and get off my chest. With you gone, I have no one to openly talk to you, if that makes sense. My parents are entirely off the table for obvious reasons. Robin is great but I don’t wanna put all that on her. Dustin is still a kid. Even though he’s slightly more mature than a five year old – big strides, I know – I still don’t think he’s ready for all my bullshit. And no one else really understands.
That’s when I had the brilliant idea. Because you’re the only one who understands, I’ll just pretend like I’m writing to you. Maybe one day you’ll read these. I don’t know. I don’t know anything it appears.
It’s been less than 24 hours and life already isn’t the same. I miss your voice, your laugh, your touch, your everything. I miss your room, your dog who hated me for years but then ended up liking me more than you, the faces you’d make behind your parents’ backs, your pink fluffy bedding that I insisted “infringed on my masculinity” – it didn’t by the way, I always loved it. I miss your life being intertwined in mine.
My sweet girl. I hope the big apple is treating you well. A part of me, the selfish part, hopes you’ll come back and decide to stay in Hawkins forever. But I really am happy for you. You deserve everything under the sun and then some. I just miss you a whole fucking lot. I love you. I always will. Always.
Sincerely yours,
Steve
Every page was filled with entries from the day after you two broke up until the pages ended on which happened to be yesterday. Your shaky hand was covering your mouth tightly as you blinked back tears, only resulting in them splatting wetly on the pages. This felt uncomfortably surreal like an out of body experience.
“Stevie,” you croaked as your throat burned and the lump made it impossible to speak.
“Shh,” was all you heard from him before you were pulling into his chest. You were clutching the notebook to your chest in a death grip as Steve held you close to him. You were in a state of shock. It was only seconds later after you had recovered when you wrapped your arms around him tightly, burying your face into his neck. His cologne was sickeningly familiar. The scent used to invade your car, your room, your house, your clothes, your everything. It felt like going back home.
“Why did you do this?” you questioned quietly, still holding him.
“I needed to talk to you,” he replied simply. “Any way possible.”
You dissolved back into a state of gentle tears and a burning lump lodged in your throat. Steve tenderly stroked your back like he had done so many times before in the past.
“I’m sorry, Stevie,” you murmured. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to break up with you. I missed you so much. I shouldn’t have done it. We could’ve made it work. I’ve been so miserable. I’m so sorry.”
It wasn’t until you were fully crying when you swallowed the rest of your slews of sorrow. Steve continued to hold you tenderly and lovingly.
“It’s okay, baby,” he murmured back. “I know. Shh, I know. I’m not upset. I was sad too. It’s okay now. You’re back. We’re back. Shh. I’m here. I’m here.”
It wasn’t perfect. It was a start. Beginnings are never perfect but this was pretty damn close for both of you. In the past, things had been rough and precarious. Now, although it was still uncertain and difficult, the two of you were more mature. You wouldn’t lose each other again. Maybe coming home for Christmas wasn’t all that bad.
Hello lovely!! I just wanted to say I missed you! And your work ofc! And also to say thank you for answering so many reqs! I get notifs when you post and I makes my day!!
I did have a req for Skz! And sibling reader. I just find the dynamic soo fun. Like Lee Knows little sister and he’s introducing her to the rest for the first time and she has a crush on Chan or hyunjin and Lee knows a bit over protective
pairing: Leeknowssister!reader x Hyunjin
warnings: Leeknow being a big brother, overprotectiveness, brothers best friend trope hehehe
disclaimer: not my pic but I wish it was
Okay but why was this so much fun? Lee Know is my Bias but now I want him as my overprotective brother....
You dragged your suitcase through the airport doors, the December air biting your cheeks. It had been almost a year since you’d been home, and it felt unreal to finally be back in Seoul. You scanned the crowd, tugging your scarf tighter, until a familiar voice called your name.
“Yah, you still walk that slow?”
You turned to see your brother, Lee Know—hood pulled up, mask on, hands in his pockets like he was trying to blend in. You rolled your eyes, but the grin came easily.
“Nice disguise,” you said. “You look like Forest Gump"
He smirked behind his mask. “Bitchy. Guess studying abroad didn’t teach you manners.”
“Guess being an idol didn’t teach you how to text your sister back,” you shot back, stepping into his open arms.
He hugged you tight—one of those quick, silent hugs that said more than words. When he pulled back, he grabbed your suitcase handle without asking and started walking toward the parking lot.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got cats waiting and too much kimchi in the fridge.”
The drive back was mostly teasing and updates between traffic lights. You told him about your classes and how your roommate talked in her sleep. He told you about long practice days, new choreographies, and how Felix had started baking like his life depended on it.
When you reached their dorm building, you hesitated. “You’re sure it’s okay I’m coming by? I don’t wanna intrude.”
Minho gave you a side-eye. “Please. They’ve been talking about meeting you since you booked your flight. You’re basically a myth at this point.”
You grinned. “A legend, huh?”
He snorted. “More like a cautionary tale.”
The dorm was warm and loud, even before you took off your shoes. Music leaked from somewhere down the hall, and laughter carried from the living room. The moment Minho opened the door, Felix’s voice rang out.
“She’s here?”
You barely had time to blink before Felix came running, bright-eyed and smiling. “Hi! You’re Minnie’s sister, right? I’ve heard so much about you!”
You laughed, surprised by the enthusiasm. “All lies, I hope.”
Changbin appeared next, handing you a bottle of water. “Welcome home. You look like you need hydration.”
“Do I look that bad?”
“Plane face,” he said seriously. “Everyone gets it.”
“Wow, thanks for the honesty,” you said, earning a chorus of laughter.
Seungmin and I.N waved from the couch, and Han leaned over the backrest, eyeing you curiously. “So you’re the famous little sister,” he said. “You don’t look that scary.”
“Give me five minutes,” you said, and Han cracked up.
Even Chan, emerging from the kitchen with a mug of tea, gave you a kind smile. “We’ve only heard good things. Welcome.”
You relaxed almost immediately. They were exactly how you imagined them from all the clips and behind-the-scenes you’d secretly watched in your dorm room. Still, you were painfully aware of the one person you hadn’t seen yet.
And then he walked in.
Hyunjin entered from the hall, hair half-dry, sleeves pushed up, like a painting that had wandered into real life. He stopped when he saw you, eyes wide for just a second.
You had prepared for this moment—really, you had—but your brain chose that exact second to short-circuit. “Uh—hi,” you said, immediately hating how breathless it sounded.
“Hi,” he echoed, smiling nervously. His voice was softer than you expected. “I’m Hyunjin.”
“I know,” you said before your brain could intervene. “I mean—obviously I know, not like, weirdly—uh—”
He laughed, and the sound loosened something in your chest. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same,” you said, trying to sound like someone who hadn’t just embarrassed herself in front of her crush.
Across the room, Minho’s eyebrow twitched. “Okay, everyone calm down,” he said, clapping his hands. “Let her breathe before you all start an interview.”
“I’m fine,” you said, shooting him a look. “They’re not scary.”
“Give it time,” he muttered.
Dinner was chaotic in the best way. Takeout boxes covered the table, and conversation bounced between Korean and English so fast you lost track. Felix kept refilling your plate, and Seungmin quizzed you about your major until Han told him to stop “being such a Boomer”
You and Minho slipped easily into your old rhythm—bickering one minute, laughing the next. Every time he said something sarcastic, you matched it instantly, which earned you approving nods from the others.
“You two really are siblings,” Chan said, shaking his head.
“Yeah,” Changbin added. “Same attitude, double the volume.”
“I’m the nicer one,” you said.
“No, you’re just louder,” Minho corrected, and you kicked him under the table.
“See? Violence,” he deadpanned.
Felix nearly choked laughing.
Somewhere between dessert and cleaning up, you caught Hyunjin looking at you again. He wasn’t obvious about it, but you felt it—the curious glances, the half-smile when you laughed at something dumb Han said. And okay, maybe you were looking back more than you realized.
When you caught each other’s eyes, he looked away quickly, cheeks pink. You hid your smile behind your drink.
Minho noticed. Of course he did.
He cleared his throat and stood abruptly. “Okay. Let's get you back to your hotel. You must be tired."
You blinked. “Actually I'm fine—”
“Awesome,” he said, already grabbing his keys. “Let’s go before you fall asleep on Felix.”
Felix pouted. “I wouldn’t have minded.”
You hugged them all goodbye, promising to see them again before you left. When you reached Hyunjin, you smiled and said, “Nice meeting you. For real.”
He smiled back, a little shy. “You too. Sleep well.”
The ride back was quiet at first, the city sliding by in streaks of light. You could feel your brother glancing at you occasionally.
“What is it?” you finally asked.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You’ve got that look.”
He kept one hand on the wheel. “What look?”
“The one where you’re pretending not to overthink something.”
He exhaled through his nose. “You and Hyunjin seemed… chatty.”
You smirked. “Jealous?”
“Disgusted,” he corrected.
“Sure,” you said. “Whatever helps you sleep.”
He shot you a side-eye, but there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re not allowed to date any of my members, you know that right?”
“Oh wow...what the actual fuck Minho.”
“I'm just saying. They are not a good match for a girl like you.”
You laughed. “You sound like Dad.”
He grimaced. “Don’t say that.”
You checked into your hotel, hugged him one more time, and promised to text when you woke up. He lingered like he wanted to say something else, but only said, “Goodnight, brat.”
“Night, old man.”
You waved him off, unaware that the moment he got back to the dorm, your name was the first thing that came up.
When Minho returned, the others were sprawled in the living room—some gaming, some scrolling through their phones. Chan looked up as the door clicked shut.
“She get to the hotel okay?”
“Yeah,” Minho said, dropping his keys onto the counter. “Finally asleep, I hope.”
“Your sister’s cool,” Felix said. “She fits right in.”
“Too well,” Minho muttered.
Changbin raised an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a problem.”
Minho leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “No problem at all....”
Han glanced between them. “He’s doing the thing.”
“What thing?” Minho asked flatly.
“The overprotective brother thing,” Han said. “You’ve got the stance and everything.”
“I’m not being overprotective,” Minho argued. “I’m being realistic.”
Seungmin smirked from the couch. “Here we go.”
“I’m serious,” Minho continued. “I don’t see her that often anymore, so yeah, I keep tabs. I know when she’s got exams, when she’s sick, when she posts about running out of coffee. She always supported me—even when I was too busy to be around. So I’m gonna support her. And protect her from… idiots.”
The room went quiet for a beat.
Then Han whispered, “Like Hyunjin.”
Minho’s head turned sharply. “What?”
Hyunjin, who had been sitting quietly at the end of the couch, froze mid-sip of his tea. “Huh??!!!?”
Felix snorted. “Bro, you were looking at her like she was the last cookie on the plate.”
“I was not,” Hyunjin said, ears turning pink.
“You totally were,” I.N added, trying—and failing—to hide a grin.
Hyunjin groaned. “You guys are ridiculous.”
Minho’s eyes narrowed. “Are they, tho?”
“Come on,” Chan cut in gently, “they were just talking. Don’t make it weird.”
Minho’s voice stayed calm, but his jaw tightened. “I’m not making it weird. I’m just saying—no one is good enough for her. Period.”
That earned a few snickers. Changbin muttered, “Classic brother move.”
Minho shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “You think I’m joking?”
Hyunjin met his eyes cautiously. “Of course not."
“Good,” Minho said, tone lighter now but still edged. “Then we understand each other.”
Felix nudged Hyunjin. “You’ve been warned.”
Hyunjin sighed and leaned back. “Yeah, yeah. I got it. Hands off the sister.”
“Exactly,” Minho said, walking toward his room.
Just before he disappeared down the hallway, Chan called after him. “Hey, she really is great, Min. You did a good job being a brother.”
Minho stopped, half-turned, and his expression softened. “She did the hard part,” he said quietly. Then, after a pause, he added, “But thanks.”
When his door clicked shut, the room exhaled.
Han grinned at Hyunjin. “So, guess you’re doomed.”
“Shut up,” Hyunjin said, throwing a cushion at him.
Felix caught it midair, laughing. “You could always win him over with cat treats.”
Hyunjin groaned again. “I’d rather fight an actual cat.”
“Same energy,” Seungmin said, smirking.
The teasing went on, good-natured and relentless, until Chan finally told them all to sleep. The dorm lights dimmed, and the noise faded into quiet.
The next morning, your phone buzzed before you were even awake.
Minho: Don’t forget brunch at 11. The guys want to see you again.
You smiled into your pillow, thumbs flying as you replied:
You: Even Hyunjin? ;)
The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. Finally:
Minho: Don’t start.
You laughed, tossing your phone onto the nightstand.
Maybe you’d tease him more later. Maybe you’d talk to Hyunjin again—maybe even without tripping over your words this time. Either way, being home already felt exactly how it was supposed to: noisy, warm, and just a little bit chaotic.
That night, Lee Know fell asleep on the couch surrounded by his cats, phone buzzing softly beside him with your new message:
“Thanks for picking me up, loser. I missed you.”
He smiled in his sleep. Protective or not, it felt good to have you home again.
And somewhere across town, Hyunjin looked at a half-finished sketch—a bright-eyed girl in a winter scarf—and smiled too.
