❀ can't you see that i’m the one who understands you? been here all along, so why can't you see? ❀
part one, part two, part three.
summary: you've known steven conklin your whole life, always a clown ready to ruin your vacation, even though deep down they were still the same kids. one night when laurel asks you about a possible new boyfriend at dinner, steven doesn't like the answer. looks like there's one name on his list of conquests he's just never been able to cross off.
warnings: fisher!reader, steven x fem!reader, season one vibes, steven is a stupid. english is not my first language, so please be kind.
author note: I CAN'T WITH S3!STEVEN WTFFFF the summer steven conklin turned pretty or what. team steven, next question.
The dining room smells of a delicious mixture of roasted fish and garlic butter. You were the last to arrive at the table after your siblings' shouts, not because they really cared that you were coming to share with them, but the rules were clear: no one starts eating until everyone has taken their place. So your absence caused a commotion among the kids. You ran down the stairs with wet hair, wearing a short green dress and your favorite shoes that go everywhere with you.
"I'm here, I'm here," you say, taking your place next to Bells. "I'm sorry."
"Always late," Jeremiah reproaches you in a tone of voice that annoys you. You give him a rude look, causing him to giggle.
"Come on, how long can it take you to take a shower?" Now it's Conrad who's scolding you.
"You can tell me Mr. '30 Minutes under shower'." You reply, raising an eyebrow and resting both elbows on the table, looking at him expectantly, waiting for his answer. Everyone laughs, Jer slaps his brother's arm and bursts out laughing, and Steven has to laugh, hiding his face in a napkin so as not to make fun of his friend.
"Enough, boys. We haven't even started eating and you're already fighting.” Your mother scolds you and your brothers.
The years go by, and some things never change—except you.
You're eating your salad while the conversation constantly changes topics. Conrad and you team up to mock Jer, quickly forgetting your discontent, then Jeremiah and Belly tease Steven about his bad performance in sports. He's always been a video game nerd sitting on the couch. That's how it goes, nothing is personal, it's just their way of passing the time. Until the moment arrives, the same every summer but on different vacation days, Laurel leans forward with that soft, sly smile. And then she says it.
"So, honey. Do you have a boyfriend or someone we should meet?" She winks at you.
Your fork freezes halfway to your mouth with the cherry tomato about to be chewed and digested. Conrad looks at you directly as if you were about to confess to a crime, unlike Jeremiah, who shows no interest in your answer. Your mother pats you on the shoulder, encouraging you to answer confidently. Of course, you're with family, but Belly knows better than anyone else in that room what you're feeling: your heart beating fast, calculating your words so as not to say something that will really embarrass you. She sympathizes with you with her gaze and a smile that comforts you. And Steven... well, Steven practically sits up straight in his seat, attentive to what you're about to say.
It's okay. You only have one job. The same one you have every year. Don't say anything stupid.
"Maybe."
That word causes a commotion at the table. What does maybe mean? Do you have a boyfriend? Conrad's eyes widen and his appetite disappears at the mystery of who the boy is who dares to date his little sister. Belly looks at you in surprise. You hadn't said anything to her about it, and deep down she feels a little betrayed because you two tell each other everything.
"Maybe?" Your mother repeats what you said.
Your cheeks turn red, you want to disappear. Bury yourself in the sand on the beach or walk towards the sea and never turn back.
"Excuse me?" Jeremiah now seems to realize what you just said. "Who are you talking about? Do we know him?"
Belly gives you a hand and tries to calm the situation down.
"Jer, calm down." She taps his arm discreetly. She doesn't want to make you more nervous; it's not that big of a deal.
And, as expected, Steven wasted no time in opening his mouth, always with the worst possible words.
"You mean the guy who vapes and talks about saving whales all the time?" He teases, knowing exactly who you're talking about. Good heavens, the most boring person he's ever met in his entire life. "You really like him?"
"Steven," his mother warns him, pointing her fork at him. But the boys are already laughing: Jeremiah chokes on his water—and you hope he chokes so they'll stop talking about this—Conrad shakes his head without saying anything else, not wanting to contribute to your humiliation, but it won't end there.
"You don't even know him, Steven." You try to defend yourself, but he always has something to say, no matter how stupid it is.
"I've seen enough," he says in a nasty tone. "His Instagram is a real red flag. And the way he commented on your photo? ‘Cutie patootie’? Are we in kindergarten?”
Holy crap, at this point, if he kept hearing about the dude dating his sister, Conrad was gonna be the one walking straight into the sea with no return. While Laurie regrets her question and everything it was causing, your cheeks couldn't be redder, and you bite your inner cheek to not do the same with your nails.
“At least he doesn’t argue with 11-year-olds on Xbox.” This time Belly defends you.
The table breaks out in laughter again, although this time there are fewer people laughing, but you don't smile again for the rest of the dinner. You are the first to finish, and even though it was one of your favorite meals, you don't ask for seconds. You excuse yourself early, without even waiting for the dessert, murmur a polite thank you to your mother and Laurel, and disappear upstairs before Steven can make another joke at the expense of your possible boyfriend.
Nothing was personal.
That's the rule. When you were ten, you didn't understand, and when the boys bullied you, you ended up crying in your room, locked away until the next day out of embarrassment. Even though you're no longer ten, you close the door harder than usual and breathe more deeply to control yourself. But you remember that the time is approaching and you have to finish getting ready for your date. You have no choice but to look for the makeup you want to use, wondering if it's a good idea to use eyeliner, knowing that your pulse right now is not something to be proud of.
You look in the mirror and don't feel so bad. Your hair has kept its natural waves, although they're not as defined, but it doesn't bother you. You even think it suits you. True to your habits, you ask Alexa to play your playlist, you start by covering your dark circles a little and adding some color to your cheeks while applying mascara to your eyelashes—too close to the mirror—when you hear a soft knock on the door.
"It's open." You raise your voice above the music. It must be Belly because you have to give her back a pair of earrings.
You turn around excitedly, wanting to ask your friend how you look in that dress; is it too short for a date? Do the rings match, or would it be better to switch from gold to silver? Does the makeup make you look like a slut? Oh, no, how embarrassing to show up looking like you want to sleep with him.
That's why you need female advice.
However, it's not Belly who walks through your bedroom door, it's her unbearable older brother.
"Hey.” Steven says in a low voice. He stays near the door, as if you're going to throw something at him, which, to be honest, you consider doing.
You look at him with disgust and turn back to the mirror, finishing your lips. Steven won't admit it, but he likes your room. It has a scent of perfume and strawberry incense that he only gets in this place. The decor perfectly reflects your personality, with soft, pleasant colors that suit you, pictures hanging with photos of your siblings and parents, and childhood stuffed animals that are many years old. The books you read on vacation are kept here, like a personal collection. For him, there is no more comfortable place in the whole house. Perhaps it's not the decor or the furniture; it's simply that your presence improves any place.
While you're trying to decide which color goes best with your outfit, Steven lies down on your perfectly made bed.
"What are you doing?" you ask him, not particularly interested in talking to him.
“You’re mad.” He points his finger at you.
You roll your eyes and let out a sigh. "Seriously, Sherlock? How did you notice? When I left the table after being humiliated in front of everyone?"
“You said ‘maybe.’ I thought that meant he wasn’t serious!” He raised his hands, claiming innocence.
“Or maybe I just didn’t want to talk about it.” You turn to look at yourself in the reflection one last time, fixing your hair and leaving a few strands hanging forward. Steven looks at you from your bed, letting his guard down and showing you his regret; he doesn't want to spend the whole summer away from you.
“I wasn’t trying to be a dick.”
But you don't take him seriously.
“You weren’t trying not to be, either.”
You grab your purse and phone, a cardigan that belonged to your mother years ago and is now yours thanks to your insistence. As a last step, you take your favorite perfume, that scent you only wear on special occasions, and perhaps tonight is the night you've been waiting for.
"Where are you going?" Steven follows you with his gaze.
"On a date."
He doesn't like the answer, frowning and tilting his head slightly, unhappy that you're leaving tonight. Especially if it's with that man. As you walk toward the door, you almost crash into him in your attempt to leave—or rather, escape—and you look up, ready to start another discussion.
"Can you tell me what you're doing?"
"A date?" he asks you with disgust. Not if he's alive to stop it. "With that jerk?”
"You don't know him."
It wasn't the first time Steven had made that kind of joke, but this time it felt different for some reason. You can see it in his eyes, you don't know if he's serious or just trying to make you angry again as usual.
"Fine, but does your mother know you're going out all night with a stranger?" He raises an eyebrow. You're outraged by his tone of voice; that kind of threat is considered high treason. You're about to respond when your phone buzzes with a notification. You quickly read the message: it's your date annoyed because you haven't arrived yet and he's still waiting for you at the agreed place. You don't know how to explain in a text Steven is making your life hell. "Is that him? Nice! You can tell him you're not goin'.”
"You're an idiot, Steven.” You point your finger at him, too angry to hold back. “I don’t say anything when you hook up with a different girl every summer. I’ve watched you treat feelings like summer jobs — temporary, seasonal, no strings attached. And you think you get to police me?”
"It's different."
His answer is so simple that it seems ridiculous to you. You slump your shoulders. Steven can't let you go out like that, all dressed up, with that hair that makes you irresistible, that dress that accentuates your figure, and that exquisite coconut and vanilla scent that will torture him all night long until the damn summer is over, because for some reason—biology—you're much hotter than you were last year. Damn it, you don't understand, he loves you, he just doesn't want some idiot to take advantage of you. It's his way of protecting you, but he's been doing it for years without realizing that the truth is, he just wants you for himself.
"Different," you repeat with contempt. “How? Why do you even care who I go out with, Steven?”
"That idiot doesn't deserve to go out with you!" Raise your voice, it's a good thing there's no one on the other side because you're not being subtle. "None of them deserve you!"
In his head, it makes sense. They don't know which song is your favorite, nor do they make you laugh when you're about to cry during the saddest part of the movie. Steven noticed this when you were kids watching old DVDs. He always passes you a tissue before even asking, and you never have to explain why. That you love chocolates but without any kind of filling, not mint, strawberry, or Oreo. You love to read, every summer they buy you a new book, and you love to spend the afternoon with Laurel on the terrace in silence while she writes. But his favorite thing is that you talk to the sea when you're alone. Once your mother told you that the waves carry away secrets, and since then you whisper them to the sea.
Those guys only see what's on the surface: your hair, your sparkle, your soft voice, or your tight dress. You don't blame them at all; you live by stealing their attention when you walk through the kitchen. But Steven knows every detail.
Damn it. He's screwed because of you.
Silence.
Dense and unbearable.
You don't say anything. You can't, your brain is in chaos right now and you can't make sense of it. The words get stuck in your throat like a painful stone.
And suddenly, Steven seems nervous. As if he didn't want to say that last thing and regrets his decision, or maybe as if he wanted to tell you but never imagined he actually would. Just being near you confuses him, your presence upsets him in a way he thought would never happen again.
His eyes rest on the hem of your dress, your legs drive him crazy. You see his throat move as he swallows. His gaze slowly scans your body, carefully observing every part of you as if this were the first time you had met. He loves your accessories, that necklace you bought two summers ago at a fair from a guy who makes them by hand. He has no idea why he remembers those things and not Mrs. Jenkins' last class, but that's beside the point. He continues up your neck until he reaches your mouth, pausing at the gloss of your lipstick.
Your voice is barely a whisper now. “Steven, let me go.”
But you don’t sound convinced. Not even a little, you want to know how far he'll go. You want to confirm if you're going completely crazy, your heart beats too fast and you feel your legs tremble under his gaze, Steven doesn’t move. Not for a second.
Slowly, a palm rests on your waist over your dress, warm and firm. The other gently caresses your jaw, with his thumb brushing the corner of your lips, as if curious to know if they are as sweet as they seem. He looks into your eyes one last time, waiting for you to push him against the door and yell at him like you usually do, but this time you just stay silent, waiting for him to make the next move because you are not capable of doing so.
Until he kisses you.
A movement that begins gently, without shyness or insecurity, just as he is, but with a totally new care. His lips are firm but patient, tasting the watermelon flavor of your lip gloss. You tense up instinctively, nervous about everything that is happening, your fingers curled in the palm of your hand and your breath coming in short gasps.
But Steven doesn't pressure you.
His thumb caresses your cheek, slowly and reassuringly, and your muscles relax one by one.
Your lips part beneath his, and suddenly you return the kiss, with a desire you didn't know existed between you. Steven moves closer, and you let him invade your space, your slightly trembling hands sliding down his chest and your fingers clinging to the fabric of his ridiculous colorful shirt as if you needed something solid to hold on to. His body is warm and familiar, but now it feels new.
Your mouths move together now, deeper, then faster, like a rhythm you've always known but never shared. Your lip gloss smudges slightly on his lips, but he doesn't care. And you gasp softly into his mouth, and he receives it like a revealing shiver.
Steven pulls away from your wet, half-open lips, just a few inches, and you slowly open your eyes, looking at him with a lust that suits you perfectly.
But this time it is you who leans in, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him toward you, desperate and reckless as he never imagined you could be. Your lips meet again, now with more urgency, your tongues brush against each other, your breath mixes, and you moan softly when his hand slides down the back of your dress, dangerously close to the zipper.
You don't know where this will end. You don't care.
Finally, when they pull apart to breathe, he keeps his forehead pressed against yours. Steven takes your face in both hands, looking at you as if he wants to keep that image forever in his memory.
His voice is rough, and he whispers so close that his breath keeps hitting you.
"Good luck on your date." He whispers as if his words are painful to say. You want to respond, or rather, you have many questions swirling around in your head. Just as you're about to say something, Steven tucks your hair behind your ear, leaving those loose strands you like so much. "You look beautiful."
You can't even respond.
And when he leaves, he can't bring himself to look you in the face one last time. As he walks out the door, he wipes his mouth with the back of his arm, still dazed and breathless from the warm sensation of your soft lips on his skin. He doesn't realize it yet:
He hasn't just ruined his date.
He has no idea what he just started.
And neither do you.
He stands in the hallway for a second — just stands there, intentando entender por qué había hecho eso, his heart pounding like he just got caught stealing something sacred. Maybe he did.
Stepping out of the shower, he runs into his best friend with wet hair, wearing only a towel. Oh dear, he has no idea how he got away with it. And guilt starts to eat him alive the moment he hears Jeremiah's calm voice. He has to try twice as hard to look him in the eye after what he just did.
“You still coming tonight?”
Steven swallows hard. “Nah. I don’t feel great.”
It’s not a lie. Not really. His chest feels too full. His head too loud. His hands still shake a little, Steven has no choice but to hide them behind his back. Oh, how he’s going to miss Cousins when Jeremiah and Conrad kill him.
He walks down the hall, past the familiar creak in the floorboard, and locks himself in his room, seriously considering not leaving that place until the vacations are over. The door clicks shut like the lid on a box he doesn’t know how to open again.
He doesn’t turn on the lights.
Steven just falls onto the bed, face up, until he realizes that the ceiling doesn't have answers. But he stares at it anyway — blank and white and still, the exact opposite of his insides. His lips are still tingling, and he's afraid he'll end up forgetting the sensation. He can taste your lip gloss on the edge of his mouth. He wipes it off again, but it doesn't go away.
He replays it in his mind—the first kiss, and the second. The way you clung to his shirt like you didn't want him to stop was a reaction he didn't expect from you. In fact, he didn't expect any of this, but his impulse was stronger than his intelligence, and that's not something that happens to him often.
But you never said stay.
You didn’t cancel the date.
His stomach twists, very different from a stomachache caused by mixing too many foods, but still a pain he cannot explain in words. He feels selfish, he doesn't want you to be with someone else, but he also has no intention of asking you for anything more.
He forces himself to get out of bed, feeling his body heavy with the guilt weighing on his shoulders. He had broken the first rule of friendship: never get involved with your friend's sister, and he did it in a big way because there are two of them. He looks out the window, hoping to find nothing. Stillness. But there you are, walking down...
Hair loose. Dress hugging your hips. The phone pressed to your ear as you move your hands quickly, you seem to be arguing, you are not happy at all.
Lip gloss freshly reapplied.
His heart stops, then starts again too fast. You’re actually going.
In a horrible silence, Steven watches you disappear into the night like nothing happened between you. Like his hands weren’t just on your skin. Like his mouth wasn’t just buried in your lips. Just like no one had ever wanted more.
He wonders if your date will notice the way your lips are slightly swollen, or that your perfume is already clinging to someone else’s shirt.
He has no choice but to lean his forehead against the cold glass.
And Steven Conklin, for the first time in a long time, feels like he’s losing something he never really had.
They don’t know it yet but they’re gonna be playing board games and drinking hot cocoa all together around the fire at the house in Cousins for every christmas for the rest of their lives ‘cause they are family✨
you visit steven while he's in recovery - drabble #2
🩵💛💗 - saw the thirty seconds that steven and laurel had in episode three and i felt inspired - enjoy!!
crying, kissing, love confession, making out, gets kind of heated, laurel accidentally walks in, fluff affffff - warning, this is a longer one so - yay!!
word count: 1.1k
"He's just in his room." Laurel gestured up the stairs. "He'll appreciate this a lot, you know. I don't have evidence, but I'm pretty sure he's tired of me."
You laughed, shaking your head. "He may be tired of you, but he secretly loves you and your pampering, I'm sure."
"You're sweet." She smiled. "I'll leave you to it."
"Thanks, Laur." You'd been in this house a million times, always for Steven. You and Belly had grown close because of it, sure, but you were never her friend. You were Steven's, something he took pride in. He had a friend that Belly didn't have first. It was a point of tension between the siblings - the fact that they shared practically everything. Your breath caught as you stood outside his door, staring at the doorknob.
"Mom, I swear to god-"
"I am not your mother." You giggled, shutting the door gently behind you. "Hey, Conklin."
"Trouble." He looked... fine. Completely healed, he looked like he always had - cheeks slightly pink, eyes full of mischief. "Thought you were Nurse Ratched."
"Give your mom a break." You walked over, setting down your bag by his nightstand. "You scared her."
He patted the empty spot next to him, and you ignored the way your stomach flipped. You all but ran to the other side, plopping down rather unelegantly, not that Steven noticed. He was too busy complaining. "It wasn't that serious-"
"Alright, no. It was." You lay beside him, tracing shapes in the bedspread. "You were in a coma - sure, a small one - but still. A coma. That's serious."
"Trouble." He grabbed your hand, stopping it from the very important shape-tracing business. Bringing it up to his mouth, he kissed the back gently. "I think you might be more worried than my mom."
"Oh, 100%." You giggled, chills running down your spine from his kiss. "You're my best friend, Steven." A lump formed in your throat, and you fought against the emotions bubbling up. "I couldn't do life without you, you know that."
"I'm just so important to you." He laughed, still holding your hand. "I get it."
"Yeah?" You raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah." He grinned, his thumb rubbing against the back of your hand. "If you got into an accident, I think I'd go crazy." You laughed, sniffing, wiping away the tears that fell. "Like, actually berserk. I'd probably go find the person that hit you and-"
"Alright." You covered his mouth with your free hand. "That's enough out of you."
He peeled your hand away from his mouth, both of your appendages captured. Captured was a strong word; with a small tug, you'd be free. But you didn't want to be free. You liked it when Steven held you. "I meant it."
"I know you did, Conklin." You looked down at his hold. "You've rendered me incapable of doing virtually anything."
"You want me to let go?" His voice was low, dangerous. He'd only used that tone twice before, both times when you swore he'd stared at your lips, that he'd held you closer than a best friend should. "Because I don't want to let you go."
"I don't want you to let go, either." You were going to combust.
"Good." He kissed the back of your hand, trailing kisses up your arm slowly, like he was purposely torturing you. The little voice in the back of your head screamed that this wasn't normal for best friends, but you didn't care. "Trouble, I realized something when I was in my very serious coma."
You rolled your eyes, but there was no bite behind it. How could there be when he was so delicate with you, treating you like you were glass? "Do tell."
"I don't want to be friends."
That was not what you were expecting. You shifted, trying to pull away. "Time to let me go."
"No." He shook his head. "I don't want to be friends-"
"Yes, I know." You felt like you were going to be sick. Tugging against his hold, your eyes welled yet again, fear the only thing keeping you alive. Love was a cruel mistress. One second you were sure you could never feel happier, the next you were contemplating how bad it would be if you died right there. "You've said."
"Just- just trust me, okay?"
"That's really hard when you're saying you don't want to be friends anymore." You whispered. "You say that, but you're kissing my arms, and you-"
"Trouble." He was really close. You hadn't realized just how close he was, but his breath danced with yours. "Let me finish."
"You have thirty seconds."
"I don't want to be your friend anymore because I-" He kissed the back of your hand slowly, intimately. "because I love you."
"I-"
"Still have about 15 seconds on the clock." He murmured against your skin. "Because I love you, more than a friend."
Oh. Forget about combusting - you were going to explode. "Steven-"
"I love you." He pulled you closer, if that was somehow possible. "And I think you love me too-"
You leaped forward, kissing him urgently, as if you didn't, he'd disappear. His eyes widened, releasing his hold on your hands to grab your waist, pulling you over so you were straddling his waist. You let out a gasp, shocked that he was so effortlessly strong. He'd just been in an accident, and he was manhandling you like it was nothing. "Steven, your ribs-"
"Shut up and let me kiss you." He grabbed your face, caressing your cheeks, his teeth clashing with yours.
Your face felt like it was on fire. "You still have to heal-"
"I'll push through the pain for you."
"Oh, how romantic."
He ignored you, chest heaving. "God, I've wanted to do this for so long."
"I bet I've wanted to longer."
He pulled your bottom lip between his teeth for a millisecond, but it was enough to send a shock into your very soul. "Nuh uh."
Your hands found their way to the nape of his neck, pulling on his hair ever so slightly. "Uh huh."
He groaned, his grip trailing up, fingers finding your skin underneath your shirt, squeezing so devilishly you didn't know if you could ever forget. His touch was intoxicating. "Nuh uh."
"Steven, I brought you both some-oh!"
You stilled, too scared to look behind you. You whispered, eyes wide. "Is your mother behind me?"
He nodded. "Yep."
You practically jumped off of him, falling off the bed before standing against the wall. "I should go-"
"No!" Steven yelled, causing both you and Laurel to jump. "I mean- Mom." He smiled, visibly annoyed. "Can you leave please?"
"Already gone." The door slammed behind her, silence falling over both of you.
"I really should be going-"
"No." He laughed, eyes dark. "You can't just hump and dump me."
"Steven!" You yelled. "You make it sound so surface level!"
"I love you, you love me!" He yelled back, grinning. "Now get back over here. I wasn't done."
"Steven!" God, he was going to kill you. "You're horrible."
"And you're beautiful."
You glared at him, climbing back onto the bed, your thighs straddling him for the second time that day. "Shut up and kiss me, Conklin."
