summary: After a month of dating, you finally think you're ready to have sex with Steve, that is, until you see how big he is. Good thing Steve's known for his patience.
word count: 2k
content: 18+ MDNI, fem!reader, smut, sex, p-in-v, cursing, dirty talk, pet names (sweetheart, honey, baby, pretty girl, stevie), blowjobs, hand jobs, overstimulation, belly bulge, mating press, girly reader, manhandling, allusion to size kink, creampie, messy sex, dacryphilia, dumbification, finger sucking, THIS IS FREAKY.
a/n: Because hung Steve Harrington is officially canon (also, watching that scene with my mom was WILD)
Steve’s searing lips on yours is like some sort of aphrodisiac.
You practically melt into him, your pretty pink nightgown flowing around you as you kneel over him.
He looks so out of place in your pastel room, still dressed in his green family video vest and worn dark wash jeans as he sprawls out onto your satin sheets.
You dont get the chance to laugh at the scene before Steve flips you over, a warm hand cupping your face as he brackets you.
He smells like cedar and citrus, the proximity alone making your brain fuzzy. Even after dating for over a month, Steve still manages to make you nervous.
Steve’s hand travels downwards, brushing softly against your neck as he looks at you with gentle eyes.
“What's on your mind, pretty girl?” he mumbles, and you feel your cheeks heat.
“I think I’m ready,” you breathe out, a nervous smile on your face, “y’know, for more” you murmur softly.
“Are you sure, you can take as much time as you need. This is completely on your terms, yeah?” he assures, warm fingers trailing up to your chin as he stares at you like you hung the moon.
“Yeah, I’m sure” you smile, and his lips are on yours before you can finish the sentence, his hands cupping your warm cheeks like he’s afraid to break you.
In a way, you suppose he is.
Because when he finally wrestles off his jeans, thumbs hooking over his plaid boxers, you feel your heart still in your chest at the mere outline of it.
You weren’t a virgin – you’ve had boyfriends before – but none of them compared to Steve, both emotionally and physically.
If Steve see’s your apprehension, he doesn't comment on it, instead pulling you gently by your ankle towards the edge of the bed while he kneels.
When he finally peels off his boxers, you feel as though the wind’s been knocked out of you.
Your eyes widen at the sheer size of it. Thick, long, and heavy, the tip a pretty pink that matches Steve's soft lips perfectly, veins running up and down the heavy shaft.
God.
“Christ, Steve” you murmur, your throat bobbing as you stare it down, reaching out with a soft hand to grip the base with careful pressure.
It’s hot and warm and rock hard, and you need it in your mouth now, yet you’re not even sure if that’s humanly possible.
Steve's hands clench at his sides, eyes pressed shut as he breathes out shakily. He's doing everything in his power not to thrust into your warm, waiting hand.
You sit up on your knees tugging softy on his shaft, admiring the way the tip beads precum.
You give Steve a small look before your head inches forward, soft lips pressing a gentle kiss on the head, which drools more precum onto your lips.
You trail more kisses down his shaft and onto his public bone, the soft brown hair reminding you much of the chest hair you’ve seen numerous times while swimming down at lovers lake.
When you pull back, Steves eyes are glazed over slightly as he runs a delicate hand over your cheek.
You dont say anything as you take the tip in your mouth, enveloping it as Steve hisses at the warmth, small grunts and a quiet “fuck” coming out as your tongue presses against the sensitive tip.
Your lips are already stretched taunt, drool pooling in your mouth as you shift closer, the tip pressing into your throat.
You push back a gag, eyes prickling with tears. You’ve barely taken half of him.
“Hey, hey, ‘s alright, don’t push yourself” he murmurs gently, thumb coming to wipe away the stray drool from your soft lips.
You look gorgeous like this.
You hollow your cheeks slightly, tongue tracing veins along the shaft as your hand comes to wrap around the rest of it, pumping it softly,
You feel out of your depth, but Steve would never know it the way you have him gasping for air and resisting the urge to thrust into your tight throat – not that you think you would mind it very much anyways.
It’s wet, and messy, and wholly addicting, and you’re entirely prepared to keep going until you feel Steve pull you off gently.
You already look wrecked, eyes bleary, spit slicked lips, wanting mouth still slightly parted, and it’s taking everything in Steve to not lose his self control.
“Don’t wanna cum in your mouth the first time” he murmurs, hand cupping your cheek softly as you lean into the warmth.
He presses your shoulders gently into the soft sheets, taking his time admiring you as he works off the thin straps of your nightgown, pulling it off of you and admiring how perfect you look.
His hand trials down, rubbing soft, tight circles on your clit, causing you to close your legs at the intensity of it with a whine.
“You’re alright honey, just gotta get you ready” he murmurs apologetically, even though you both know you aren’t upset, not even a little bit.
Your legs keep twitching as Steve lifts your thighs, pressing them back into you in a mean mating press that gives you very little mobility.
“S not gonna fit, Steve” you keen, head thrown back against the plush pillows as Steve hovers over you, large palms grasping your plush thighs.
Your knees are pressing into your ears as you breathe out shakily. The tip of his cock grazes over your hole gently, the blunt warm tip nearly pressing inside, the anticipation of the stretch alone making you quiver.
“Shh, you’re alright, honey,” he murmurs soothingly, “we’ll make it fit,” he promises as he brings the tip up to your clit, pressing it against the sensitive nerves, making you wail softly.
“I know, that's nice, isn’t it?” he murmurs, a knowingly smile on his face as he looks at you, brushing some stray hair off of your forehead with a fond smile.
You nod jerkily, weak panting coming out as you take him in. He’s gorgeous. Hair falling into his face, a gentle look in his eyes, his V-line taunting you and making your mouth water.
He taps the tip on your clit a few more times, one hand coming to rest on your thighs to prevent you from thrashing at the sheer excess of nerves.
“Steve,” you whine, tears blurring your eyes, “You can- You can put it in” you hiccup softly, chewing on your lip.
He reaches over, pulling the lip from your teeth with the soft pad of his finger “You sure, sweetheart?” he murmurs, and you nod jerkily.
“Yeah,” you breathe out, and your mouth falls open at the feeling of the hot, blunt tip pressing into your tight hole.
You’re twitching gently when the head finally pushes inside, more tears blurring your eyes as you lift your hands to press on his hard stomach, not in pain but at the overstimulation of it all.
“Stevie, ‘s too much,” you shake your head, but Steve just coos at you.
“Shh, it’s okay. You’re doing so good,” he murmurs, but you’re inconsolable.
You already feel impossibly full and dizzy, overwhelmed by the behemoth of a man hovering above you as you pant shakily.
Steve takes the opportunity to press his middle and ring finger onto the pad of your tongue, bringing you back down slowly.
You calm down slightly, lips closing around the thick digits in your mouth. “Just needed something to fill your mouth, huh?” he muses, a teasing lilt to his voice as you nod.
You two stay like that for a few minutes before you offer Steve a jerky nod, silently indicating you’re ready for more.
“Alright, honey, big stretch, yeah?” he murmurs, pressing a few inches deeper with shaky breaths.
He catches a glimpse of where you two meet, your hole stretched around his length obscenely.
“Steve,” you cry, hot pleasure blearing through your core, the fat tip pressing against the sponge spot inside you.
You feel like you're being split open.
“That the spot, honey?” he asks, eyes practically blown out in hearts as he takes you in. Soft bitten lips, flushed cheeks, sweat slicked skin that shines gently against the dim lighting of your pretty bedroom.
Your vision is blinding at the feeling, your thighs quivering gently as Steve soothes you.
“Feels good, huh, baby?” he murmurs, moving one hand to rub soft circles on your clit, effectively causing you to thrash around like a wounded animal.
“S too much, Stevie” you cry out, and before you can stop, you feel euphoria wash over you, your cunt tightening around him.
And Steve? Steve just digs his nails into his palms, willing himself not to cum yet like a fucking loser.
He wasn't even all the way in.
Thankfully, the orgasm is enough to make pushing in easier, the slickness and your dazed expression enough of a welcome as Steve presses the rest of the way in.
“Feels s’good” you babble out weakly, but Steve doesn't hear anything, his eyes zeroed in on the bulge protruding from your lower stomach. Jesus Christ.
He doesn’t even register his hand lifting up and pressing over your soft skin, gently caressing his length from the outside, making you shudder.
“God, you’re so so pretty,” he breathes out, “my pretty girl” he murmurs, and somehow his hand over the bulge makes you even more sensitive.
Your eyes fly open at the feeling, widening even more as you look down at the obscene display – a creamy white ring around his base, and his cock impossibly deep inside of you.
“Gonna speed up now, okay?” he murmurs, still mesmerized as he pulls nearly completely out of you, save for the throbbing tip, before he presses back in. Hard.
The thrusts are messy, but precise at the same time, the tip hitting your g-spot repeatedly as his pelvic bone presses into your clit, making you wail.
For a few moments, your blinded by the sheer overwhelming pleasure, drool pooling at the corner of your open mouth as you look up at him blearily.
You dont think you can form cohesive thoughts, let alone words, as he drills into you, pressing your thighs even higher if that's even possible.
Then again, you dont think it’s possible when you cum again, your skin buzzing as Steve drills impossibly deeper, knocking the wind out of you.
Your breathing is staggered as Steve stops moving, his hand coming to rest on your cheek “You’re alright, sweetheart. Deep breaths, yeah?” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.
“‘m okay” you hum dumbly, eyes clenched as you nod, willing him to keep going.
Steve doesn’t last much longer with the way your hot, tight, cunt squeezes him, his eyes rolling back as he sinks into you one last time.
You whine weakly when you feel him throb inside of you, but it doesn't last long before he's pulling out slowly.
You whine when the head thumps your clit softly, still warm from being pressed inside of you. “Shh, its okay,” he murmurs, still holding your legs up as he takes in the view.
You’re wrecked, thighs slick as his cum drips out of your hole, which flutters gently around nothing like it’s begging for more.
Steve can't help the way his fingers reach out, scooping up the release and pushing it back into your cunt with dazed eyes.
You thrash slightly, legs closing on instinct at the overstimulation, and Steve just shushes your weak cries gently as he tilts your hips up.
“It’s alright, honey, you’re okay” he muses, large hands rubbing gently across your thighs. “Don’t wanna waste any,” he hums softly, and you nod jerkily, still too tried to move.
“You feelin' alright, sweetheart?” he murmurs, peering over at you with love-struck eyes.
“Yeah,” you mumble, “Yeah, that was good.” you smile weakly, your hand inching closer to his as you grip his fingers softly.
Steve can’t wipe the smile off of his face as he moves to lie next to you, pressing you into his chest gently as his arms wrap around you.
“Did so good,” he murmurs, reaching over to your nightstand where you keep a glass of water and holding it up to your lips, urging you to take a sip.
The last thing you remember before falling asleep is the gentle press of a kiss on your forehead, and the aching reminder between your legs, which you already know will be even worse tomorrow.
But then again, you wouldn’t have it any other way.
summary: when you're forced to come back to Hawkins for the holidays after two years of being away at college, you're forced to confront the past you left behind. Unfortunately for you, the past in this case is none other than Steve Harrington, and he isn't letting you go as easily this time around.
word count: 7.6k
content: fem!reader, cursing, smoking, mentions of alcohol, kissing, groping, semi-smut, yelling, fighting, crying, graphic depictions of injury (reader), blood, canon-level violence, avoidant reader, self-sabotaging reader, she's just a girl, love confessions, angst, fluff, idiots in love, insinuation that reader celebrates christmas, reader has maternal feelings over will byers bc he's my fav, reader is not a part of the byers family (but she's an honorary member atp)
a/n: lowkey took me forever to write, and I'm not that happy with it, but it's okay. takes place after season 3, but before season 4 (reader left Hawkins immediately after season 2 and missed the whole mall burning down thing) the byers never move to California and joyce and hopper are happy bc I said so.
It was supposed to be an easy feat, though you suppose you should know better by now than to assume anything in Hawkins could be easy.
Your fingers twitch by your sides, and your knit sweater suddenly feels too itchy as you stand waiting in the middle of Family Video like you’ve seen a ghost.
In a way, you have, because merely five feet away stands none other than Steve Harrington.
Ex whatever-it-was you two were, Steve Harrington, and he had never looked so good. “Here it is, Its a Wonderful Life” he smiles, but is different now, restrained and too polite. It reminds you of how he would talk to his parents' snobby friends – you hate it.
“Thanks,” you murmur, clearing your throat awkwardly as he rings you up, and you wonder briefly if this is it. If he’s going to hand you the worn VHS, and you’ll walk out the door like none of this ever happened.
Fate wasn’t that kind, it seems.
The first thing you hear, besides the quiet hum of Duran Duran through the old speakers, is the sound of clattering cassettes to your left, where a very clumsy and very frazzled girl offers you and Steve a guilty smile.
You yell at yourself internally to move, to help her up, something.
“I can’t believe Keith said you were runner-up for employee of the month,” Steve huffs, but there's something fond in his tone. You file that information away for later – along with how much you hate it.
The girl stands up, dusting off her old jeans before offering you a small smile and turning back to face Steve.
“Well, let's face it, Stevie, Keith’s never gonna let anyone besides himself be employee of the month, so it hardly matters now, doesn’t it?” she snarks, and you push back a reluctant smile.
You gloss over her nametag briefly, Robin – it sounds vaguely familiar, maybe someone from high school you’ve tried to forget about.
“So, who’s this?” Robin smiles, a knowing glint in her eyes as they flit between you and Steve, and it’s only now that you realize she probably saw your awkward interaction only a few moments earlier.
Before you can say anything, Steve introduces you, giving Robin a dirty look that you must’ve seen a hundred times over by now.
The moment doesn’t last long, however, when a group of kids come rushing in, prompting Robin to go wrangle them before they can wreak havoc – at least more havoc than she has.
Then, suddenly, like no time has passed, it’s just you and Steve again. “I uh, didn’t know if you were coming back this year,” he offers politely, but you can tell there's something else underneath it – sadness, hurt maybe.
“Yeah, my parents asked me to since I couldn’t come back for Thanksgiving,” or spring break, or last summer. You wonder briefly if you’ve opened too much, made things a bit weirder than necessary; you were always good at that.
If Steve is shocked by your admission, then he doesn't show it, just perks up slightly like a puppy who's been thrown a bone.
“Yeah, well, it’s been a busy year,” he offers, a small hint of laughter in his voice that makes you want to crawl out of your skin, because for once there's something going on in Steve's life that you aren't a part of.
“I can tell,” you mutter, voice a tad more bitter than appropriate as you shove the VHS in your purse, “you been working here long?” you murmur.
“Yeah, since the mall burned down,” he offers, “It’s actually how I met Robin.” You feel your teeth grit together uncomfortably as you nod, fingers fiddling with your old car keys as you plan your escape from this conversation.
Steve, to his credit, doesn’t realize how that sounds until you're one foot out the door, having named some excuse about watching the neighbors' kids.
Something he knows isn’t true because ever since the ordeal with the Mind Flayer nearly two years ago, you haven’t had it in you to babysit anymore – the overwhelming fear of something bad happening again giving you perpetual anxiety, something Steve knows unfortunately well.
It’s only when you’re driving away in your old sedan that Robin smacks him over the head with A Christmas Story, and they both watch as you tear around the corner.
“Dingus” is all she mutters as she retreats to the breakroom.
Yeah, he was, wasn’t he?
If I wanted to know who you were hanging with while I was gone, I would’ve asked you.
Your fingers feel cold, even through the pink woolly gloves that were softened from the years of wear. A snowball is clasped in your left palm as you creep around the side of the Byers' house, doing your best to keep the crunch of the snow silent under your feet.
In fact, you’re sure you’re about to nail Steve in the back with it when you feel a presence behind you, causing you to lurch around and be met with four sets of wide eyes.
“Christ, you scared the crap out of me,” you whisper, looking down at Will, Dustin, Mike, and Lucas, who offer you knowing smiles, snowballs in hand.
You immediately raise your hands, taking a cautious step back. “Wait, wait- I have an idea, don’t shoot,” you muse, and it’s Will – bless his soul – who takes pity on you.
“We’re listening,” he smiles, and you lean down to concoct perhaps your best plan as of late.
Within the next 15 minutes, Steve Harrington is practically buried in snow as Mike and Lucas pelt him down, and you stand a few feet away, hand pressed against your mouth to stifle your laughter.
The look of betrayal shot your way is quickly discarded with a shrug, “It was you or me, Harrington,” you offer unhelpfully.
You’re just thankful when Will and Dustin come running out, Jonathan's camera in hand as they snap pictures of the scene.
You give them 10 minutes before you help Steve escape, the snow burning your fingers as you dig him out, stifling laughter, the kids having gone inside after Nancy bribed them with hot cocoa.
“Traitor,” Steve mutters when he's finally free, but there's no real bite behind it. You’re about to respond when you feel him tug your arm, collapsing you onto the icy ground with him in a fit of screeching laughter.
“Steve- Steve, its cold,” you shout, eyes closed in laughter as you struggle against his warm hold, a stark contrast to the snow coating both of your sweaters and seeping through the thin denim of your jeans.
“Oh, really? I didn’t know,” he deadpans, leaning over you now as you’re pressed flat on your back, a gloved hand glossing over your cheek knowingly as he bites back a smile.
You feel your cheeks burn, but you’re still unsure if it’s because of the snow or the heat crawling up your face.
Steve, thankfully, offers you a small reprieve when he leans in, cold lips glossing over yours as you tug on his hair softly, leaning in as the chill of the air and snow are long forgotten.
You only break apart when you hear the telltale sign of Lucas shouting, “Get a room!” from the kitchen window, causing you both to laugh.
You could get used to this.
There’s an ache in you put there by the ache in me
You’re glaring daggers at the VHS tape sitting on your old wooden dresser. You hadn’t even watched it yet, but you already wanted it gone – or maybe you just wanted an excuse to see Steve again.
You tear your eyes away from it, settling instead on your frosty windows, which reflect the snow falling outside in a flurry.
You feel a pull, deep and aching, to reach for the old pink phone sitting on your nightstand. The one with Steve's number programmed in.
Your parents, despite clamoring for you to finally come home, are at a party tonight.
Not one you’d be interested in, of course. One with too strong eggnog and talks about local politics with the Wheelers, that undoubtedly, would’ve led you to be either frustrated or bored.
But still, it doesn’t ease the sting of having nothing to do on a Friday night. It’s only in moments like these, when you feel completely isolated from a place you once used to call home, that the memories start.
Deep and raw, like something trying to crawl its way out of your chest, there is no reprieve. You don't even realize when you’re suddenly standing in front of your old bulletin board, eyes trained on the photos from a few years ago.
Even though the house is still, everything feels too loud. Blood rushing through your ears, the pounding of your heart that never seems to settle anymore, and the haunting voice of Steve Harrington like a metronome.
You and Steve cuddled up on the couch one warm summer night. You, Steve, and Dustin adorning matching ugly sweaters for his mom's holiday party. You and Nancy at one of the old photobooths at the county fair a few years back. You and Will, covered in flour after Joyce caught you two up late baking one night. Movie ticket stubs from the time Steve took you to see Star Wars: A New Hope.
You and Steve lying in the snow outside the Byers' house, covered in ice crystals and lips locked together.
You don’t even register your hand on the phone before it’s too late, the number pulling like muscle memory as you wait for the line to ring. You’re about to hang up, save yourself the humiliation when, on the third excruciating ring, a familiar voice picks up.
“Hello?”
You feel your heart still, mouth moving, but nothing coming out besides shaky exhales as you search for the right words.
“Hey,” you murmur, and it’s like you can feel the air being sucked out of the room. Your fingers tangle with the phone cable as you wait for a response.
“Hey” Steve exhales, confusion masking his tone, but you can tell there's something else there. Maybe he realizes he’s said that already when he stumbles over himself again a few seconds later when you don’t respond.
“What- uh why are you calling?” he cringes at that, because what a ridiculous question to be asking when he’s trying not to scare you away.
You feel your fingers freeze, because the truth is, you don't know.
“Not that you need a reason, obviously, I was just-” he’s rambling now, and something in your heart warms a little. “Steve,” you cut him off.
“I just wanted to say hi. Is that- are you busy?” you’re overthinking it now.
God, who calls up their old fling when they’re back in town, this very well may be your worst idea yet – and you’ve succumbed to a lot of bad ideas in years past.
“Busy?” Steve breathes out, and a part of you wishes you could see his face right now, feel out the situation before you dig yourself any deeper and bury yourself alive.
Steve, on the other end of the line, is shooting daggers at Robin, who now sits on the couch in his living room holding a fresh bowl of popcorn.
“No, not at all,” he smiles, and ignores the eye roll Robin shoots him and the stray piece of popcorn that hits his back.
“I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out. I know it’s getting late but-” “Our spot, 20 minutes?” he blurts out, not giving you a second to back out, because he knows you will if you think about it too long.
“Yeah,” you breathe out, a small smile gracing your face, “yeah, that's great.” “Great.” Steve’s smiling like an idiot when he hangs up, looking over at Robin, who is smirking at him knowingly.
“Don’t wanna hear it, we do this every week. We can miss one night,” he huffs, herding her off of the couch like a sheepdog as he scrambles around for his car keys on the coffee table.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Steve. If it were Vicky, I’d ditch your ass too,” she huffs before snatching up the bowl of popcorn “I’m taking this, though. Consider it payment for wasting my time,” she smiles sarcastically, and Steve can’t help the way his chest tightens.
This is really happening.
I'm staying at my parents' house, and the road not taken looks real good now
Our spot.
God, you haven’t heard that in what feels like forever. You don’t waste time getting dressed, slipping out of your worn sweatpants and into some old Levis and a familiar wool sweater. You debate on grabbing gloves too before peering out the window and deciding on a scarf instead. It was already getting dark.
The drive to Hawkins High feels like moving through time. You pass the old diner you used to love, fingers clutching the wheel much tighter than necessary when you pass by the arcade you used to drop Will off at whenever Jonathan was busy.
You wonder if you should drop by and say hi, maybe bring some cookies to Joyce.
You park your car haphazardly, the wind chill cutting through your confidence like a chainsaw as you lock your car and make your way over to the dark patch of grass that is the Hawkins High football field.
It feels smaller now, somehow.
You don't have time to dwell on it before you see a familiar figure standing a few feet from the bleachers. “Sorry, I didn’t really know what else was open this late.” Steve winces, jogging over in your direction
You just shake your head, stifling a small smile “This is perfect. Nostalgic” you muse, taking a seat underneath the bleachers, and everything feels too familiar now. Like nothing's changed.
Like you’re still spending every waking moment with Steve Harrington, splitting vanilla milkshakes at the diner, and rushing past flocks of people to catch the movie you two set out to see.
It’s when you’re wringing your fingers together nervously, eyes locked on the scars that run up your exposed wrists and forearms, that you remember everything has changed.
You watched your 12-year-old neighbor get possessed by some interdimensional being, fought monsters you think could only exist in a sick person's nightmares with a baseball bat, and watched people you care for die right in front of you.
You remember the smell of death and the paralyzing fear of feeling utterly helpless while everything around you crumbles into smoke and ash. No, everything has changed.
You can feel the heat of Steve's stare as you freeze, pulling out your bag to dig around for the pack of Virginia Slims you keep in there on occasion. He doesn’t bat an eye as you light your own before offering him one, to which he politely declines.
The smoke burns your lungs as you lean your head back slightly. “I missed you, y’know,” you offer weakly, and you’re not sure what gave you the confidence to say that, but you’re not so sure you should’ve when you see Steve's pained expression
He doesn’t speak as he gently pulls the cigarette from between your fingers and takes a drag. He knows why you left, god, anyone who knew what happened could understand why you left.
But, like all things, understanding doesn't make it any easier to accept.
I parked my car right between the Methodist and the school that used to be ours
You weren’t scared to die. At least that's what you told yourself as you gripped a metal bat between your shaking palms.
The old school bus smelled like rot and metal as it creaked under your footsteps, Dustin, Lucas, and Max squished tight in the corner as you waited for Steve to lure out Dart.
This was a shit plan.
But even knowing that, you don’t hesitate when you notice the second demodog creeping up behind Steve, the bus doors flying open as you scream.
“Steve, MOVE” you shout, feet burning underneath you as you swing the bat, clattering it against the creature's face.
Well, one of the creatures, because the next thing you know, you’re surrounded on all sides, and trying to convince yourself that maybe death won't be so bad.
You feel the familiar warmth of Steve's back against yours as you both flit around the area, calculating how the hell you’re going to get out of this, if at all.
And before you can blink, it’s a bloodbath.
There’s screaming, and growling, and you don't even know what's what before you start swinging like a mad woman.
You don't give your hands the chance to start shaking in fear before you’re beating one of them off of Steve's shoulder. The sick sound of teeth through flesh making you queasy in a way you’re wholly unused to.
Maybe that's why you don’t hear Max’s shrill scream as one of the demodogs sneaks up on you, its teeth ripping through the soft flesh on your left shoulder, dragging its way down to your wrist.
The bat, previously clutched between your hands, falls flat onto the wet grass as you scream. Tears burn your eyes as you try your hardest to kick it off of you, your left hand indisposed and your other reaching out for something, anything.
It must be a miracle, you conclude, that they all freeze before running off in some other direction. The lab.
You dont have time to think about the implications of it before Steve’s hunched over you, his own body coated in blood as he looks you over.
“Oh my god” he chokes out. The sleeve of your sweater is torn, soaked in blood, and caked in dirt as you lie there. You don’t even realize you’re shaking until you feel the excruciating pain of fabric being pressed against your wound.
“I know, honey, I’m so sorry” he whispers, using his own torn sleeve to press against your arm, soaking up the blood like a beach towel.
“Steve, where are the kids?” you choke out, vision blurred. He doesn’t say anything, wholly focused on figuring out what the fuck to do, before you're shouting.
“Steve, the kids. Where are the kids?” You’re heaving now, eyes frantically looking around before he calms you. “They’re alright. They’re still in the bus, they’re okay.” he assures softly, willing back his own tears because how the fuck can you be worrying about anyone else but yourself right now?
How could he worry about anyone else but you?
The holidays linger like bad perfume, you can run but only so far
“I’m sorry.” you whisper, eyes still trained on the scar on your wrist, which you already know without looking, leads all the way up to your shoulder like a cruel reminder
“For leaving the way I did” with no warning, you don’t say, but then again, you dont have to.
He just shakes his head, blowing out smoke. “Don’t be. Maybe you had the right idea,” he murmurs, voice tinged with an aching mix of sadness and bitterness. Not at you, but at the entire situation because without that night, without all of what's happened, maybe he’d still have you.
You shake your head, shifting over to sit next to him now instead of in front of him, your head coming to rest itself on his warm shoulder.
“I just,” you whisper “I couldn’t bring myself to stay” you admit, wetness blurring your eyes and clinging to your lashes.
“I dont know why,” you do, everyone does, and it’s not something anyone could blame you for.
You’d gotten into the University of Chicago, far away from Hawkins, far away from everything that had happened. You could get out of here, start new. You had the option no one else did, and you took it.
“I don’t blame you” he assures softly, because no matter how long it’s been since you’ve seen Steve Harrington, he could read your mind with a single glance. I’m sorry.
“I do.” you whisper, fingers rubbing at your eyes harshly before finishing off the cigarette. “I should’ve told you sooner,” not just two days before I left.
“I’m so sorry, Steve,” you choke out, heaving as the familiar warmth of his arms wrap around you, pulling you into his chest.
Steve doesn't flinch. Not because it doesn't hurt – it hurts worse than any wound he’s sustained in any fight – but because he knows.
He knows you’re sorry, that you never meant to hurt him or leave him behind.
“It’s okay, I forgive you,” he shushes gently, pressing your head against his chest as you both settle quietly.
It’s the first hug you’ve had since you left all that time ago, but this time, it feels different.
I escaped it too, remember how you watched me leave
In moments like these, it’s almost as if you can pretend you never left.
Steve’s bedroom is still the same as you remember, the same plaid wallpaper and car posters hung up, the same soft and worn blue bedsheets that you’ve spent so many nights tangled in.
The only difference, however, are the photos that line his walls now. There are some old ones of you that’ve held a permanent spot in his room since they’ve been pinned, and there are some new ones, too.
“Oh god, is that a sailor outfit?” you shriek in laughter, arms wrapped around yourself as you stand in nothing but his oversized t-shirt and a pair of panties.
Steve, who’s brushing his teeth in the bathroom next door, chokes on his spit before shaking his head.
“Long story,” he mutters before you burst out laughing. “No, the long story was you telling me that you fought evil Russians and burned down the mall. The one I never even got to go to, by the way,” you grumble playfully.
“You said you worked at an ice cream shop,” you smirk, peering your head into the bathroom.
“Yeah, well, it was called Scoops Ahoy-” you’re a fit of laughter before you can contain it, your hand slapped over your mouth to muffle the sound.
You think you may very well feel tears burning in your eyes as you hold the picture between your thumb and forefinger.
You wonder briefly if he’d notice if it went missing, maybe you could slip it in your suitcase when you leave.
“Oh my god, this is gold” you laugh before you see the familiar quirk of Steve's brows – a telltale sign he’s plotting something. You’re spinning on your heels and hightailing it back into his room before you feel his arms wrap around you.
“Oh really? is it?” he laughs, plucking the picture from your fingers and setting it on his dresser before he pushes you onto the bed playfully. He’s caging you between his arms, the familiar scent of his aftershave filling your head as you gaze up at him with bright eyes.
You nod teasingly, eyes zoned in on him as you take in his carefree expression. He looks pretty like this. Steve, ever the observer, takes quick notice as a smirk makes its way across his face.
“Well, even in a sailor outfit, I looked great,” he doesn’t truly believe that, but it doesn’t really matter because right now, all you both can think about is how close you are.
You’re not sure who leans in first, maybe it was you. Scratch that, it was definitely you. But it doesn’t matter because it feels like home, the way Steve’s warm lips meet yours.
The way his hand trails lower to brush across your side gently makes you shiver, and the way the deep groan in the back of his throat has you clenching your thighs.
Yeah, you definitely missed this.
He’s trailing his lips down your neck now, biting gently as he pulls soft whines from your throat. Your arms are bracing his biceps, which are hard and secure and comforting in a way that’s indescribable.
His warm hands shift away from your sides and instead slide underneath your – his – shirt, swiping gently underneath your breasts. They’re warm and gentle as they splay themselves across your body, a contrast to the burning feeling of his lips on your neck.
You turn your head slightly, eyes catching the familiar photo of you and Steve from a few years ago, a Christmas tree strapped onto the top of his maroon beamer, sitting perfectly on his nightstand.
Like it belongs there, like that’s its home.
We could call it even, you could call me babe for the weekend
You definitely didn't think this through.
You’d just wanted to do something nice, and now you were standing in a Christmas tree farm with Steve – who has an old saw in hand – while you searched for the perfect tree.
“And why couldn't we have picked one that was already cut down?” he asks incredulously, looking at you with a quirked brow.
You huff, pulling on your wool gloves as you walk around, Steve following you like a lost puppy. “Because those ones aren’t as special. You have to pick one from the heart,” you muse.
It was five days before Christmas, so the options were slim, but you were nothing if not determined.
“I thought you already had a tree?” “I do.” you offer unhelpfully, ignoring the way Steve trails after you when you’re lost in thought.
Steve stops in his tracks, watching as you circle a pretty six foot Douglas fir. “It’s for Joyce. I went over to drop off a casserole my mom made, and they didn’t have one.” You frown, looking over the tree for a tag.
Steve stills for a second, his eyes trained on you. If it were anyone else, maybe he’d have pushed, but he knew how much the Byers meant to you – they were like a second family. He supposes he can't really blame you, he remember show distraught you were when Will first went missing.
It wasn’t something you talked about. Ever.
“I want Will to have a nice Christmas,” you whisper, looking at him with a small smile “I think this is the one,” you hum, gesturing for Steve to get to work. And if you were anyone else, he’d undoubtedly tell you to shove it and do it yourself, but then again, you weren't anyone else, you were you.
After sawing until his fingers burned, the tree was finally cut and tied up, ready to be transported.
It took you both 15 minutes to anchor the tree onto his car, Steve wincing only twice when the branches scraped against the paint on his precious BMW.
When you settle in the car, Steve's sure he would do anything in the world to get you to smile like this all the time. You were in a fuzzy pink sweater and some worn denim, hands ringing excitedly as you reapply some cranberry lip smacker in his rear view mirror with bright eyes.
You’re so pretty like this that Steve doesn't even mind the scratches on his car or the way mud from the field is caked onto his tires and paint.
It’s nearly dark by the time you reach the Byers, having passed your own house a few minutes ago, and he swears he’s never seen you look so happy when you take in Will’s face and Joyce's soft “Thank you”.
“Come in, have some cocoa” she offers kindly, leading you both inside the warm house as you watch Will and Mike decorate the tree together, Jonathan snapping some pictures as Joyce and Hopper sit together in the kitchen.
For the first time, Steve understands why this feels like home.
Time flies, messy as the mud on your truck tires
When you see Joyce for the first time since you’ve been back, you’re overjoyed because, for once in her life, she looks well and truly happy.
She gasps when she sees you, crushing you into a hug as she leads you inside, Steve hot on your tail.
You can tell from the plethora of bikes outside that all of the kids are here, and your heart lurches for a second at the thought of seeing them again.
They’re older now, what if they’re mad that you left – what if they don’t understand? Or worse, what if they do and think you’re selfish for it.
You’re about to drop the homemade cinnamon rolls you brought when you see Will and Dustin peek around the corner, smiles beaming once they notice you, and suddenly, the worry is forgotten.
“Be careful” she warns the boys as they run up to you, Lucas, Mike, Max, and El right behind them as Steve takes the tupperware from your hands with a soft, encouraging smile.
“Hey guys, long time no see huh?” you laugh, and it’s a cacophony of voices talking over each other.
“Its been forever-” “how’s school-” “I can’t believe you left us with steve-” “did you hear about the mall-”
You just laugh as you sit down on the couch, taking in each of them one by one.
They don't look so little anymore, and it pains you to remember that they aren’t the same little kids you’d risked your life protecting a few years ago.
A part of your heart aches at that; it’s been so long. But the other part soars at how grown they’ve become now.
You listen to all of their stories as you lean against Steve on the couch, and it’s like you're stricken with a sick sense of deja vu.
It’s only a few hours later, after the kids begged for a sleepover – the boys in Will's room and Max and El back at Hopper’s newly rebuilt cabin, that you’re alone with Joyce.
Dustin had dragged Steve into the bedroom about thirty minutes ago, which meant it was finally time to answer the question Joyce had been holding in since she first saw you.
“So, what's going on with you and Steve?” she smiles, a knowing look in her eye. You’d already caught up about everything else in your lives – including a conversation about the Mind Flayer’s return that nearly sent you into a heart attack.
“Nothing, we’ve just been hanging out since I’ve been back,” you defend, a small smile worming its way across your face.
“uh-huh, right” she smirks, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Sweetheart, you know you can always talk to me,” she offers, and you feel a piece of your heart crack because you know that. Joyce has always been motherly, a part of you wonders if it’s been programmed into her blood.
“I just,” you breathe out, “I didn’t realize how much I missed him, how much I missed home” you smile nervously, chewing on your bottom lip.
“Well, to your credit, it didn’t feel much like home for a while there. Even I considered leaving for a bit,” she offers, and you nod. “Steve told me about that. I'm sorry I didn’t call,” you murmur, voice laced with guilt, but she just waves you off.
“You dont need to apologize, honey, I was happy for you. We all were, even Steve.”
“Really?” you ask, a hint of insecurity in your voice, and she nods, a smile on her face.
“I’m scared,” you admit softly, taking a sip of the hot liquid, “I’m scared that the more time I spend here, the more time I won't want to go back,” you admit.
You’d always known you’d go to college, it was what your parents wanted for you, and you enjoyed learning, but after everything that happened, it became less about wanting to go and more about finding the easiest escape.
Maybe if you’d thought about it longer, you would’ve picked somewhere closer.
“I know it’s hard, but you just have to trust yourself,” she smiles, her warm hand clasping over yours.
“And if you and Steve do want to continue this,” she says slowly, ignoring the way your cheeks heat in protest, “If anyone can make it work, it’d be you two.”
“He hasn’t” asked me to stay, asked me to try again “told me what he wants,” you whisper, but Joyce can see right through you.
“He doesn’t want to influence your decision, he just wants you to be happy.” she supplies softly, and all you can do is nod as you watch the liquid swirl in your cup.
You dont even notice the tears blurring in your eyes until she wraps her arm around your shoulder “I think this is something you two should talk about. Y’know, before you leave again,” she smiles softly, and you nod, pressing your face into her shoulder.
You don’t move until Steve enters the living room again, a soft smile on his face as he whispers that the boys have finally gone to sleep.
Joyce smiles as she walks you both out, giving you a tighter hug than normal before she closes the door, like she knows you need it.
The drive back to your house is filled with comfortable silence and Steve’s warm hand on your thigh.
I won't ask you wait if you don't ask me to stay
You’re halfway through your second load of laundry when Steve, who's lounging on your bed, head resting on your giant stuffed bunny, holds up a photo that makes your breath catch.
Its a photo of you from a few months ago with some friends from school. It was Halloween, and you were dressed as Lisa from Weird Science, a red solo cup in hand, in the middle of some party.
You didn't realize you brought that, it must have fallen into your suitcase back at the dorm.
“And why have I never seen this?” he laughs, eye flitting over the photo, and for once, you don’t know how to answer the question.
“I didn't mean to bring that,” you laugh quietly, but there's something else behind it. You never talk about your college friends with Steve, mostly because that's exactly what they are, college friends.
Friends you hang out with when you dont want to go to the dining hall alone, or when you want to split a taxi to a party. They weren’t like Nancy, or Barb, or even Jonathan.
That didn’t mean you didn't like them, of course, but it felt weird to talk about them to someone who already knows you better than anyone.
It feels even weirder to know that you have to go back to them after having spent the last few weeks around people who actually did know you – around Steve.
It’s not that the people at school didn't want to be close with you, if anything, it was your own fault. You didn't talk about home, especially when you first got there, trying your hardest to push away the horrors of your past and start anew.
A part of you thought Hawkins would be tainted forever, that you’d never be able to stay a night here without the plaguing nightmares, without the memories.
So you put all of it in a box and locked it, tucking it far away from where anyone new could open it. Because, as far as you were concerned back then, none of it mattered anymore. You weren't coming back.
Now though, only after you’ve come to the life-altering realization that the life you used to have wasn’t as gone as you’d thought, do you regret that.
Because that means you really do have to prepare to say goodbye to the little slice of heaven you’ve curated these past few weeks.
That you have to say goodbye to Steve.
So I'll go back to LA and the so-called friends who'll write books about me if I ever make it, and wonder about the only soul who can tell which smiles I'm fakin
Steve calls you the next morning. You dont answer.
And the heart I know I'm breaking is my own
The sharp knock on the front door fills you with the type of dread that chills your body to its core, festering underneath the skin like something immovable.
You don’t know why you’re surprised, it’s a predictably unpredictable move on Steve's part, and your heart almost warms at the familiarity of it all. almost
You’re about to pretend no one’s home. The lights are all off in the house, save for the TV, your car’s parked in the garage, and the frost from the raging snowstorm outside would be enough to cover any noise.
Oh god, the snowstorm.
You’re scurrying off the couch before you can help it, swinging the front door open to reveal a very cold, nearly frostbitten Steve Harrington.
“Oh my god, Steve” you whisper, mouth agape as you pull him inside, eyes flitting over him like a worried mother. You wonder if this is how Joyce feels.
“What are you doing here? There’s a blizzard, the weather station said to stay off of the roads until tomorrow-” “you leave tomorrow,” he points out, and you freeze.
“You leave tomorrow, and you’ve been avoiding my calls, and I needed to see you” Steve rushes out as he paces across your living room, hands raking through his hair.
You want to say something, defend yourself, but he smells like aftershave and warm cinnamon, and it’s making your head dizzy.
“Steve, you shouldn’t have come. Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” you whisper, hands rubbing themselves over your arms nervously as you stare down at your fuzzy socks.
“More dangerous than fighting evil Russians and demonic monsters?” he deadpans, and you roll your eyes, refusing to laugh.
“You know what I mean, Steve-” “No, don’t do this. Please, I dont think I can take it again,” he pleads, and it hits you like a knife twisting in your chest.
“I don’t know what to say,” what to do, you whisper, and it feels odd to admit something so vulnerable, something that a few weeks ago you never would’ve admitted to anyone.
You were supposed to know what to do, to take charge of things, to be prepared.
He takes a step closer towards you, “Just tell me that we can talk about this, figure things out,” he murmurs, rubbing the soft skin of your arm with the cold pads of his fingers. “Steve, you’re freezing,” you whisper as you drag him towards the small kitchen, pulling out some tea bags and turning on the kettle.
You two stand in silence, the sound of the boiling water cutting through the silence before you figure it’s probably your turn to speak up. “I’m sorry I missed your calls.”
It’s a stretch, you both know it. You were avoiding him, and you both knew why.
“I just dont know how to do this,” you murmur, “I dont know how to say goodbye again.”
“Then dont,” he pleads, and its breathless and anxious and entirely honest in a way that wrecks you to your core.
“Please don't say that, you know I have to back.” and you also know that if he asked you to stay, you would.
“That's not what I mean,” he says carefully, “I know how much school and getting away from here means to you, I would never take that from you” he murmurs, voice raw and pleading in a way you’re not so sure you can bear.
“You aren't taking anything, Steve, I’m scared. I’m scared that I made a mistake by going.” Your chest feels tight now in a way you haven't felt in a long time – since you left – and it feels real.
He shakes his head adamantly, “You didn’t make a mistake by leaving, you made a mistake by not talking things out between us” he whispers, and it guts you so viscerally because he's right, and it’s also the same mistake you were about to make again.
“I just dont know what to do now,” you whisper weakly, the phrase coming out like repetition as you ignore the hum of the kettle and stare back at him, eyes dialed in on the way the stray bits of snow melt against his thick jacket.
“You dont have to figure it out alone, that's what you keep missing. I’m here, I want to help,” he's pleading now, and you wonder briefly how you’ve attracted someone with such undying devotion.
You dont deserve it. Steve would disagree.
“Steve, I think I love you,” you admit weakly, the familiar burn of nausea bubbling in your throat because this very well may be the first time you’ve actually been this honest in your entire life, and it terrifies you.
Steve stills too, but for a different reason. Because knowing it, well and truly knowing that you love him, has filled him with something entirely new – hope.
“I love you, too, you keep missing that.” His voice is thick with emotion, but you can tell he’s trying to be playful, and you’re once again thankful for Steve Harrington's ability to break the ice.
His arms lock even tighter around you now, almost as if he's afraid you’ll suddenly disappear and take a piece of his heart with you.
“And if you think I’m letting you disappear again after you told me you loved me, then you have another thing coming,” he teases, but there's some vulnerability there, and it’s real.
“Steve,” you say, placatingly.
“Y’know, Chicago isn’t that far, not like California or Utah,” Steve murmurs, his voice carrying a lilt that you know all too well.
He's plotting, you can tell by the way he outstretches his left hand to pour the steaming water into the two mugs you’d grabbed, dipping the teabags in with precision while still never letting you go.
“Its still like a 3-hour drive, Steve,” you whisper unsurely, heart pounding because you don’t want him to jump into something just because you want it, no matter how selfish you want to be in the moment. You can’t do that to him again.
“You’re worth it,” is all he murmurs offhandedly, but when you don’t respond, he furrows his brows and turns to face you.
“You’re worth it. You know that, right?” he whispers, like it physically pains him that you think you aren't worth a measly drive.
Because let's face it, Steve Harrington would drive to Alaska if it meant getting to see you.
“It feels like every time I come into your life, I derail it somehow,” you whisper honestly, voice so thick it feels coated in molasses. “I don’t want you to agree to something you might regret.”
You feel the warmth of his fingers press gently underneath your chin, tilting your face up towards his “How could you ever think I could regret you?” he murmurs, and the honesty in his tone hits you at full speed.
“Steve, what I did- it was shitty, really shitty.” and I still haven't forgiven myself.
“You did what you had to do to protect yourself,” he clarifies, “and I’m not mad about that- I was never mad about that. I need you to know that,” he says seriously, but it just makes you want to cry even more because how could someone be so understanding.
“Did I miss you? Of course I did,” he breathes out, “but god, I always miss you. I missed you three days ago when I last saw you. I missed you two days ago when I heard from Dustin that you went for lunch with Nancy. I miss you when you’re sleeping right next to me in bed” he jests softly, but you can see the truth behind it.
“And if you’d have told me then that you’d wanted to go to UChicago, I would’ve made it work – I would’ve called and planned visits. I still would, I still want to.”
“I know why you needed to leave, and I know ultimately that it was the right thing to do. But I also know, in my heart, right now, that you were meant to come back here and have this conversation so we can fix what happened,” he finishes, big brown eyes never once leaving yours, like he’s trying to anchor you down with just a look.
You feel your bottom lip tremble, willing the words that just won't seem to come out.
“Do you really believe that?” you whisper shakily, eyes flitting over his face, searching for any sense of fabrication – any sign that you shouldn’t get too comfortable.
“More than anything.” he murmurs, and it carries a sense of finality to it that you’ve heard very few times.
“Talk to me,” he whispers, after a few moments of silence.
“I want to make it work, I want us to try.” you whisper finally, and the way Steve’s face lights up makes your chest ache in an entirely new way. You love it.
You love it so much that you don't hesitate to lean in, pressing your warm lips to his like its a lifeline. Grabbing his hair gently, like you’re afraid he's going to disappear, you bring him impossibly closer, pressing your body into his before you break apart, breathless.
“Well then, I’m glad we’re on the same page,” he smiles softly, leading you towards your bedroom where your suitcases sit, half-packed, the tea on the counter long forgotten.
Steve, patient as ever, takes a seat on your warm bed, watching softly as you pack up your room once again and prepare for the long drive in the morning, but this time it’s not forever.
summary : when you try to change yourself into the girl you think Steve would like, you're reminded of why you fell in love with him in the first place.
word count: 2k
content: fem!reader, slightly insecure reader, odd reader, lowkey jonathan byers coded reader because I love him, petnames, kissing, sexual undertones but no actual smut, hurt/comfort, fluff
a/n: been rewatching Stranger Things and fell back in love with Steve Harrington (I have not seen season 5 yet, so pls no spoilers) takes place right before season 3
You swear you don’t know how you did it.
One second you were stumbling over some jazzercise move, neon lights and the loud hum of Madonna's “Material Girl” blaring through the studio speakers, and the next you were flat on your ass.
It’s only now, with a throbbing ankle and your boyfriend hovering over you, pressing an ice pack into your leg, that you regret listening to some girls you heard raving about the new studio that opened up in the mall while in line for Hot Dog on a Stick.
“So, why did you decide to join Jazzercise, again?” Steve muses, looking over you softly in the storeroom of Scoops Ahoy.
His shift ended 30 minutes ago, just in time to see you hobble your way into the shop with a meek smile.
“Not that I’m complaining, big fan of the outfit,” he adds slyly, and you can’t help the way your cheeks tinge with heat.
You’d gotten all ready, slipping on some baby blue tights, and your old pair of cream-colored leg warmers – the ones you used to wear for ballet before you’d forced your mom to let you quit. You’d even bought a new leotard from the athletics store a few shops down the way.
Now, though, you just felt stupid.
“I just heard some girls talking about it” pretty ones, you don’t add, chewing on your lip instead as you gaze around the bland room. It had only been a few months since you and Steve started dating, a few months after he tried talking you up in the Scoops Ahoy line, and you nearly slapping him in the face because you thought he was playing a joke on you.
You weren’t ugly, or even unlikeable, by any means, but you were shy and lived the majority of your life with few friends and even fewer boyfriends. In fact, your Saturday nights throughout the years consisted mostly of watching over your neighbor's son while he played video games with his own friends.
So god forbid you decide that maybe you should try something new – get out of your comfort zone. I mean, sure, Steve wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity these days, but he had friends. Even if they were years younger.
It wasn’t even that you minded being alone, but it was the way you never really had much to do other than reading, listening to music, working, and occasionally sneaking your boyfriend through your bedroom window that made you wonder if maybe Steve was getting a bit tired of the lone wolf routine you were so accustomed to.
“Y’know if you wanted to get my attention, you could’ve just said so. Didn’t have to go hurting yourself,” he jests lightly, shoulder brushing yours to try and nudge the frown off of your face and soften the crease between your brows.
You huff a small laugh, rolling your eyes as you lean your head back against the cold wall. “Yeah, yeah, don't get ahead of yourself, Harrington.” you tease, lifting your ankle off of the table and effectively knocking the ice pack off.
It feels better, but the embarrassment still stings in a way something physical can’t. You should’ve just gone to the bookstore like you’d planned, picked up that new book you’d been eyeing the last time you were there. Would’ve saved yourself the humiliation and onslaught of self depreciation wiring its way through your chest.
“Hey, what's wrong?” he murmurs softly, eyes glossing over your face as his hand itches to brush across your cheek. Even after only a few months of dating, he could read you better than most people in your life.
“Nothing, I just” wish I liked more normal things so I didn’t have to resort to stumbling around like a baby deer on rollerskates, “wish I had better foot coordination” you muse, brushing off his worry with some cheap laughter as you pick at your nailbeds.
Steve, to his credit, can tell you're lying but doesn't push. Not yet.
He’d changed out of his uniform in the employee bathroom before you came in, and was now donning some worn jeans and an old t-shirt that made you feel utterly foolish that you didn’t bring a spare change of clothes.
He watches you eye him with a soft smile, reaching around to grab his Members Only jacket off of the table before wrapping it around your shoulders gently. “Lets get you home, sweet girl” he hums, offering up his hand to help you up – ever the gentleman.
You nod, hair falling in front of your face in an attempt to cover the way your eyes soften at the nickname. You take his hand, only wincing slightly as you stand on your swollen ankle, and let him lead you out of the now nearly vacated mall.
You’re just thankful the escalators are still running, because if you were forced to hobble down the stairs like this, you think you’d actually die. It’s only when you see the familiar maroon hue of Steve's beamer parked out in the lot that you finally feel a sense of relief.
The warm summer air brushes across your face gently as Steve helps you into the passenger seat, taking extra care to press a soft kiss against your forehead. When the door closes, you take a deep inhale and press your back into the familiar leather interior, eyes closed.
Steve wastes no time hopping into the driver's seat and turning down the Journey song blaring from the radio before pulling out of the lot. Well, this was easy, maybe you really were in the clear-
“Wanna tell what’s really wrong?” he hums, fingers drumming softly on the steering wheel as his eyes never leave the road.
And there it is.
You hate to admit how clever it was, trapping you in an enclosed space where there's no avoiding confrontation. You felt like an emotionally stunted cat backed into an alleyway.
“It’s just been a long day,” you offer quietly, wrapping Steve’s jacket around yourself a bit tighter as you stare at the blurring trees from the passenger window.
“So then let’s talk about it,” he adds, tearing his eyes away from the road to look at you, really look at you.
God, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone so beautiful, even when frowning.
You chew on your lip, wishing you had stuffed some of your peach lip smacker in your purse before you’d left the house earlier. “You have to focus on the road, Steve” you muse, deflecting slightly as you look at him.
What you don’t expect is for Steve to slam on the brakes of his precious car as he swerves onto the shoulder of the road, putting the gear in park as he turns to face you expectantly.
You huff out a weak laugh, “Well don’t you just have all the solutions” you mumble, a reluctant smile gracing your lips as you wring your fingers together.
To Steve's credit, he doesn’t smirk or laugh, just leans in a bit further to rub gentle circles on your wrist.
“Well, that’d only be true if I figured out how to make you feel better. So, help me out here?” he murmurs, voice soft as not to spook you too much.
It feels like coaxing a cat out of a hiding spot, and much to your chagrin, it’s working.
“I just feel embarrassed,” you huff, eyeing your ankle with such venom Steve’s surprised it doesn’t wither away. “I hate jazzercise” you grumble, and Steve can’t help the small smile that breaks out onto his face.
“Then why did you go?” he laughs, a hint of incredulity in his tone, and you feel your body freeze up.
“Because it’s normal, it’s what everyone does,” you point out quietly, and suddenly all of the laughter is sucked out of the car and your seatbelt feels too tight.
“So what?” he hums softly, scooting a little closer – well, as much as the center console will allow.
“Steve,” you murmur quietly, internally begging him to stop, to pretend like this all never happened.
But then again, Steve never was one to back down.
“No. Who cares if it’s what everyone else does, that doesn’t mean you have to do it” he murmurs, eyebrows furrowed in your direction.
It’s like something in you snaps, “I notice how people look at us when we’re together, Steve. ‘Oh look, there's Steve and the weird loner chick’” you mutter, hands rubbing over your face aggressively. “I just wanted to feel like I fit in, for once. Like it’s not crazy for people to think you could actually be into me,” you add, quietly.
And for the first time since you two got in the car, Steve's face drops. For a second, you think he’s mad at you before he turns towards the backseat and pulls a paper gift bag onto his lap.
How long has that been back there?
“Steve, what-” you’re cut off by the resounding sound of a cassette tape settling on your lap. You feel your heart still in your chest as you read the title, The Queen Is Dead by The Smiths. “How- It’s only been out for a few days?”
“John at RadioShack owed me a favor,” he murmurs distractedly, hand still digging around in the bag before he pulls out something else. And this time, it takes everything in you not to cry.
It’s a copy of The Handmaid's Tale, the exact book you were eyeing at the store the last time you and Steve went. “Steve…”
“If you couldn’t tell, I like you the way you are. I like that you listen to The Smiths and Bowie, and read dystopian feminist novels, and don’t hesitate to almost slap me when I’m being a dick.” Steve's rambling now, hands gesturing wildly as you will back tears.
“Steve-” “and I like the way you don’t base your self-worth around how many friends you have, or the amount of parties you’ve been to, because none of that is important-”
“Steve-” “you taught me that none of that matters.” He finishes, eyes searching yours rapidly as you clutch the cassette and paperback between shaking fingers.
“Steve. I love you,” you whisper, voice shaky and so quiet that you’re sure if you two weren't sitting in a dead silent car, then Steve would’ve missed it.
Its the first time either of you have said it – you both felt it, of course you did, but the timing never felt right.
Not like now, when the throbbing of your ankles dulled to nothing and the only thing you can really feel is the warmth of Steve’s eyes over you like a warm blanket in winter, because for the first time — possibly ever — you feel seen.
In fact, you don’t even exhale fully before you feel the familiar warm press of Steve's lips to yours.
It’s the blur of lips molding together and the warm hand brushing your cheek that make you forget why you were even upset to begin with.
It’s only when you’re both weak and breathless that Steve pulls away, hand still grasping your cheek as he looks at you with soft eyes.
“Well, if it wasn’t obvious – and Dustin’s been telling me it’s been glaringly obvious since our first date – I love you, too” he murmurs gently.
You don’t know what else to do, so you press your forehead against his with shuddering breaths, a weak laugh escaping your lips.
“Even when I force you to listen to The Clash’s discography from start to finish,” you tease softly.
Steve only laughs, nodding slightly as he looks at you, “Yes, even then.” he muses, pressing a delicate kiss to your temple. “Now, let’s get you home, clumsy girl.”
You stifle a smile, intertwining your fingers with Steve’s as he pulls back onto the main road.
You don’t know how much time has passed since you left the mall, but for the first time in a long time, you feel lighter.
summary: when keeping your relationship situationship a secret is more draining than you anticipated, you're left to wonder if there's another reason Clark doesn't want people to know about you two.
word count: 4.1k
content: fem!reader, hurt/comfort, insecurity, jealousy, arguing, drinking, cursing, crying, semi-toxic relationships, miscommunication, bad dates, kissing, smut (mdni), praise, oral f-recieving, p-in-v, semi-size kink (clark is taller than reader, but he's literally 6'5 so I think that's expected), clark picks reader up (but he can literally lift a tractor, soooo), angst, fluff, banter
a/n: look at me pumping out content!! If you couldn't tell, this is a songfic inspired by Sabrina Carpenter's 'Sugar Talking' but with a happy ending because y'all deserve it <3 I hope you all like it
You were five seconds away from grabbing the half-full glass of wine sitting on your coffee table and throwing it in Clark's face. It was 8:43 pm, and you were tired of this.
Not the fact that Clark was currently pacing around your apartment, glasses askew and waving frantic apologies, that was actually kinda hot – in the ‘I don't respect myself enough’ kind of way.
No, you were tired of hearing the same empty apology falling from his lips every other night, which, even now, you’re not so sure you should believe.
It was another grueling day of combing through stacks of files at The Daily Planet, and you’d been giving him the well-deserved silent treatment after he all but ignored you the entire workday. As if he hadn’t had you pinned up against your apartment wall just twelve hours earlier, lips clashing and hands wandering to a place wholly inappropriate for mere coworkers. But then again, you and Clark weren't just coworkers.
“Clark,” you shout, cutting off his ramblings, “just shut up.” You glare, arms crossed over your chest, which was currently covered by a fuzzy pink sweater. The weather was dropping steadily in Metropolis, but your broken heater was the least of your worries when you thought your heart was about to freeze over from neglect.
A pained expression crosses Clark's face as he takes a cautious step towards you, “Honey, I’m really sorry. I didn’t know you wanted me to do more. I thought you liked the whole secret romance thing we have going on.” he frowns, and you can't help but scoff at the mere absurdity of it. What woman liked being kept a secret?
“The secret ‘romance thing’ you imposed, you mean?” you scoff, and you don't miss the way he winces at your abrasive tone. When you and Clark started whatever this was a few months ago, you’d both been quick to label it as casual, not wanting to rush things, keeping your options open – though Clark took it a step further, enforcing the ‘no one at work can know’ rule shortly after.
He told you it was because of HR, that the last thing he wanted was for either of you to lose your jobs. At first it seemed plausible, you both loved your jobs and wouldn't do anything to jeopardize them, but after a month of sneaking around in dusty storage closets and mentally replaying incidents too close for comfort, you’d finally thought you were in the clear.
I mean, everyone saw the way interns fawned over Jimmy, and how Cat would hang off Perry every so often to get an extension for her column. So yeah, HR? Not the issue.
“Honey,” he takes a cautious step towards you, towering over you without even trying and unintentionally casting a shadow over you that feels colder than usual. “I really am sorry, let me make it up to you” he frowns, his hand coming up to caress your face gently. A gesture that used to be so comforting now feels heavy, and you hate yourself for considering it.
“It's not about making it up to me, Clark, not like that,” it’s about the fact that you seem ashamed of me, the words go unsaid, but it’s floating in the air like haze on a winter morning. Still, you don’t pull away when you feel his arms wrap themselves around you gently; in fact, you relish in the comforting gesture even when knowing you probably shouldn't.
“I know, hon, and I’m going to do better. Just let me try” he promises, and you blame the frigid air emanating from your cracked window and his unnatural amount of body heat for what leaves your mouth next.
“Okay,” you huff softly, head pressing against his chest as he lifts you up one-handedly and carries you into your room, already knowing his way around from the countless nights he’s spent there. And if you can’t resist the way he lays you down on your bed and sinks to his knees, large fingers undoing your pink drawstring pajama pants with swift anticipation, then who could judge you?
Especially when the way his lips feel across your thighs, and how he eats you out like a man starved – your back arching off the bed and small whines falling from your lips like seldom prayers – feels like going to the ninth circle of hell and heaven all at once, because deep in your bones, you know it won't last.
Put your loving where your mouth is, your sugar talking isn’t working tonight
When you walk into work on Monday, you’re sure things will be different. They have to, right? You’d just bought a pair of new shoes, shiny black heels with a toe cut out to show off your newest French tip pedicure – Clark was gonna lose it. And that was the name of the game, right?
Clark hadn’t so much as texted you since that night two days ago, but you figured he was just busy – saving the world will do that to a person. That's why you don't take it to heart until you walk into the bullpen and see some new hire drooling all over him, leaning over his desk and into his face in a manner that's a little too close for comfort.
You don’t know what you were expecting: a coffee at your desk with a note, maybe a small pastry from the shop down the street that he knows you like. You’d even settle for a wave and a hug, something to prove to you that he doesn’t care if your co-workers know, that he isn’t ashamed to be with you.
The worst part, though, is that when his eyes finally flit over to you, all he does is offer you a dull wave before his attention reverts right back to the new girl. Right. You feel a gnawing in your chest radiating towards your lungs as you chew on your glossed bottom lip.
You hope your grey and white striped blouse is enough to hide how much you want to maul yourself until you're nothing but the single shred of dignity you just lost.
Clark comes by with a coffee in hand five hours later, pairing it with a smile so timid and shy that you hold yourself back from throwing the icy beverage in his face. He waits for you to look up at him, but the clicking on your keyboard goes uninterrupted as you don't so much as spare him a glance.
“I brought you this, there's an extra shot in it, just how you like it.” he murmurs, as if that was some sort of secret romantic gesture. As if he didn’t bring everyone coffee at work whenever he had the time – he was nice like that, generous. Well, generous with everything except his time and attention, you suppose.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been trying oat milk in my lattes now.” you mutter offhandedly, eyes never deviating from your computer screen as you take in his deflated face from your peripheral. “Uh, not a problem, I can go get you another-” he’s shuffling now, his hand coming to rest anxiously at the back of his head.
“Don't bother. I’m done for the day, so I can pick one up myself,” you utter drily, eyes rolling in contempt as you log out of your computer and begin shoving files into your brown bag. “Well then I could walk you home. I still haven't taken my thirty, and I've barely seen you the past two days. I miss you.” he whispers the last part a bit quieter, and it only serves as a reminder of why you’re so upset.
“And whose fault is that, Clark?” you scoff, voice a little louder than appropriate as you walk past him, not expecting an answer but instead hoping he sits with the question and can work it out for himself.
His cheeks heat up in embarrassment as he watches you disappear through the revolving doors of The Planet, wholly oblivious to the attention that now rests on him.
Saying that you miss me, boy do you want a prize?
You’re 90% sure your toe is bleeding when you hobble back to your apartment, both irritated and unsatisfied. Cat's been begging you to go on a date with her friend's cousin for three weeks now, and you’d finally caved. Safe to say you were going to kill her once you saw her tomorrow.
You should’ve known it was going to be a bust when he asked you out on a Thursday night. Nothing sexy happens on a Thursday night. His name was Andrew, and other than him dropping multiple tips on Luthorcorp’s environmental and OSHA violations – which you secretly filed away for a later article – he was a complete idiot.
He didn’t pick you up, instead insisting it would be easier to just meet up at the restaurant yourselves, and when you entered, he didn’t even open the door for you. By the time you’d both ordered drinks – you opting for a glass of white wine while he opted for a beer on tap – you should’ve known it was over. You were at an Italian restaurant and he ordered a beer for christs sake.
You were just thankful the food was good, because when the underpaid waitress came by with one check, he immediately requested she split it. You couldn’t believe you wasted your new pink silk dress on this ‘date’.
So, two glasses of wine and a date from hell later, here you are, toeing off your pink pumps at your front door before scurrying around for the first aid kit you know you have around here somewhere.
Clark had bought it for you after you two had a particularly eventful night, which ended with a few bumped heads and very sore muscles the very next morning – not that you were complaining. You can still hear his lecture about general safety and the importance of first aid when you woke up the next morning.
You’re rummaging through your drawers when you hear a familiar voice that makes your eyes close in frustration. “Where were you tonight?” Clarks frowns, hurt evident in his tone. How the hell did he get in here?
“Thursdays are usually our day, we rent a movie,” he huffs, holding up a physical DVD of some old country western film he’d mentioned wanting to see, and you can't help the shrill laugh that escapes you.
“Didn’t know we were still doing that after you canceled the last three times” you hiss, your hands settling on your hips as you shoot daggers at him. He lets out a pained expression, and for once, he has the decency to look sheepish. “I know, I've been awful at keeping up with plans, but I was nervous people at the office would get suspicious,” he justifies weakly.
“Lois always asks me what I did the night before at work, and I never know how to lie” he huffs, and you don't have it in you to do anything else but scoff, “Well now you don’t have to. You can say you were watching a movie, and I can say I was on a date. There. No crossed signals” you hiss as you continue rummaging through your drawers, attention no longer on the bemeouth of man standing in the corner.
“Date?” he murmurs, hurt and shock laced in his voice, which only makes you want to throttle him more. “Yeah, Clark, a date. A real date, in public, that I can talk to people at work about,” you hiss, unaware of the way he steps towards you with urgency, movie long forgotten.
“Why didn’t you tell me, I thought-” “you thought what, Clark? That you were the only one allowed to talk to new people? Don’t forget you’re the one who told me we should keep this a secret, keep it casual.” “Yeah, because of our jobs-”
“You’re such a lair,” you shout, hands thrown up in frustration “God, Clark, you think I didn't see you crawling all over the new hire a few days ago? What would HR say about that, huh?” you scoff, voice biting as the air turns stale between you.
“I’m sorry about that, but I swear I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn’t realize how bad it looked ‘til Jimmy made a comment about it.” he promises, stepping in front of you and effectively clouding your vision and judgement with his soft eyes and the warm scent of his cologne.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, sweetheart, I just thought it could help throw them off of us.” he murmurs weakly, hand ghosting over your face.
Tears blur your eyes, but you’re unsure if it’s because of your aching feet or the way your heart clenches in pure exhaustion at the situation. “That's the problem, Clark. You spend so much time thinking about how to hide us that there's barely even an us anymore,” if there ever even was one.
You think a while ago maybe there was, back when you were both naive and unsure of what being together meant. If you’d have known then that being ‘casual’ meant keeping it a secret from everyone, you’re not so sure you would have taken the deal when it landed.
“I’m sorry, I’ll be better- I’ll work on it” he promises, but you shake your head, “I don't think that's enough, Clark” you mutter in resignation, stepping away slowly before wrapping your arms around yourself.
Clark, thankfully, takes the hint, and you wait for the gentle close of the front door to hit your ears before you rake your hands over your face in frustration. Why did this have to be so hard?
Say you're a big changed man, I doubt it
The next few days fly by. You’re busy with your investigative piece on Luthorcorp, and Clark is busy staring at you from across the bullpen, so all in all, you two haven't had much time to talk.
You’re walking down the dimly lit hallway of your apartment complex when you stop at your front door, eyes meeting the large bouquet of pink stargazer lilies that sit in front of it. You know who they’re from, how could you not?
Your favorite flowers sit wrapped in some old Daily Planet newspaper that should definitely be in the recycling by now, and it’s really no shock that when you pick them up, the part of the column that reads “by Clark Kent” is wrapped around the stems.
You almost want to laugh at the irony until you feel a familiar presence behind you. Clark, with crooked glasses and a crumpled-up shirt is now staring at you nervously. It’s a stalemate to see who’s going to speak first, but deep down, you know it wasn’t going to be you.
“I saw those earlier when I was leaving work, made me think of you” he murmurs softly, his eyes nervous as he takes in your appearance. You looked tired, shoulders slumped, blouse sitting crookedly from a long day's work, and a perpetual frown on your face that he hopes isn’t because of him. It is.
“They’re pretty, thank you.” Is all you offer as you turn to face your front door, key working through the lock as you step inside, Clark hot on your heels. “I’m sorry. I know flowers don’t make up for it, but I just wanted you to know I was thinking about you.”
“That why you made sure to put a page of your article as the wrapping?” you hum lazily, observing the way his cheeks and the tips of his ears turn pink. “I thought it would be funny, I’m sorry” he admits, closing the door gently behind him awkwardly.
“You were right, about everything, I’ve been pretty awful.” he murmurs, back pressed up against your door. “I just don't understand it, Clark, because I know it’s not about HR,” you whisper, exhaustion coating your voice like molasses as you place the flowers into a vase delicately, making sure to fluff the petals before setting them on your kitchen island.
“I just panicked, I guess. I have this great, amazing, immensely talented girl, and she wants to be with me. I mean, I’ve made the front page once, and we both know it’s because I’m the only person who can interview Superman. Meanwhile, you and Lois are going head to head for eleven front pages, it's just-” he’s rambling now, and for the first time you feel like you’re finally getting somewhere.
“Clark, your writing is great. It has what most writing lacks: heart. It offers fresh perspectives and ideals, and none of that is a bad thing. A bad thing is ignoring me in public because you don’t feel good enough.” You frown, leaning against your countertop
“I'm just afraid that if everyone at the office knows that we’re together, they’re gonna wonder what you're doing with me” he says finally, his adams apple bobbing anxiously as he stares daggers into your wooden floor – a part of you hoping it doesn’t catch on fire.
“Clark, that's not- that’s not going to happen,” you murmur softly, pushing off of the counter and meeting him halfway as you look up at him with a mixture of fondness and caution.
“But you can’t keep treating me like I’m not there. I need something, anything, just an indication that you actually see me,” you frown “otherwise, it just feels like you’re ashamed of me.” You exhale softly, only realizing that this is the first time you’ve actually admitted that out loud after the words leave you.
And to Clark's defense, you’ve never seen him straighten up as quickly as he does now, his eyebrows quirked in horror as he takes in your words. “Gosh, honey, that couldn’t be further from the truth,” he frowns, and you stifle a laugh at the look on his face. “Yeah, well, I know that now” you murmur, but his frown doesn't dissipate.
In fact, you don't even get the chance to blink before he’s lifting you up by your thighs, your legs wrapping themselves around him on instinct, as your lips meld together. He carries you towards your bedroom, setting you down on the soft silk sheets like you’re something delicate.
His body is hovering over yours as you unbutton each other's shirts, his large hands swiping down your exposed sides softly before coming to rest over your lacey pink bra. He only admires it for a second before his lips trail kisses down your neck and chest, and for a moment, any and all memories of petty arguments are lost.
The only thing you can focus on is the way he presses up against you, large hands cupping your cheeks as his hard-on presses against your thigh, breathy moans escaping both of you. "you're perfect, sweetheart"
You’re a mess of spit slicked lips and heavy breathing by the time he gets his pants undone, fiery pleasure burning across your lower stomach when he finally sinks into you with gentle praise.
"gosh, honey" your face presses against his chest as your nails claw his back roughly. His hands, now on either side of you, steady him as he thrusts roughly, the tip of his cock brushing the spot inside of you that makes you see stars.
You’re both a mix of moans and heavy breathing by the time you finish, and the last thing you remember by the time you fall asleep is the warmth of his body encasing you.
You filled my whole apartment with flowers that died
You wake up hours later to the sound of your alarm and the golden sunlight that sheds through your silk curtains. You’re about to ask Clark to turn it off before you realize he isn’t in bed. His clothes are gone off of your floor, and his shoes are nowhere to be seen.
You the throw the flower away immediately.
Save your money, and stop making me cry
By the time you enter the office, having scrubbed off the remnants of the night before, you wish you’d called in sick. You don't smile as you enter the building, hell, you don’t even say hi to Nino on your way inside before b-lining for Clarks desk.
It’s by some miracle in the form of a bubbly Cat Grant that you’re swept away in a fit of giggles over to her desk, where Lois also waits with a pen in her mouth. “You’re so dead for keeping this from me” Cat gasps as she sets you in her chair, looking at you expectantly.
Your eyes flit between her and Lois, utter confusion plastered on your face, “what are you talking about?” you mutter. “Don't play dumb, everyone knows. I mean, look at your desk.” Cat laughs, gesturing over to your desk that sits in the corner of the bullpen.
Usually empty – you preferring minimal decor due to the sheer amount of files you usually have spread out across the surface – now covered with a large pink floral arrangement, an iced coffee and cinnamon roll from your favorite cafe down the street, and a small photo decorated with a cherry oak wooden frame.
You feel your legs carrying you over there before you register what's happening, Cat and Lois hot on your trail as they hover. “It’s true, anyone with half a brain saw it this morning. Which essentially means the entire office, minus Steve.” Lois hums, arms crossed over her chest as she looks at you knowingly. If you didn't know any better, you’d assume there was a hint of happiness shining in her eyes for a second.
The bouquet looks like the one you tossed out this morning in your fit of anger, which you now realize may have been a bit hasty. It's double the size, and the cinnamon roll is still warm in the to-go container, but it’s the photo that makes your heart clench.
It’s a photo of you and him that was taken on your first official date. You two had gone to the autumn carnival back in Smallville a few months prior, when he insisted they had the best apple cider donuts, and forced you to go on the Ferris Wheel despite your protests of how unsafe they were.
The photo was of you two giggling and smiling in one of the baskets on your way down – you wonder briefly who took it.
“So,” Cat huffs impatiently, but you can tell it’s just to cover her growing excitement, “Why didn’t you tell us you and Clark were seeing each other?” she gushes, and you feel your words die in your throat.
“That was uh, my fault,” Clark cuts in quietly, “I asked to keep things private.” he murmurs, and for just a moment you think Cat may murder him with her mind alone. “Ask my best friend to lie to me again, and you’re done.” she muses with half-quirked brows before grabbing Lois’ wrist and sashaying away.
“You did this?” you ask, dumbfounded “That's why you left this morning?” you add. You're twisting your fingers nervously, breath bated ever so slightly as you look up at him with half-guarded eyes.
“Yeah, I wanted to surprise you so I tried not to wake you. I remember how you mentioned the bakery runs out of the cinnamon rolls early, and-” his words are abruptly cut off when you press your lips into his, your hand coming to wrap itself around his broad bicep because even in heels, he towers over you.
Clark's lips melt into yours as he lifts you up a few feet off the ground, his warm hand grasping your jaw softly before you break apart. “I thought you just disappeared. After last night, I-” “I left you a note” he frowns, lowering you gently, his face warped in confusion.
“I left it on your vanity so you would see it, it must have fallen,” he murmurs, and for a second you feel like the biggest idiot alive. “Oh,” you murmur dumbly, cheeks heating as you look down in embarrassment, your fingers fiddling with your blouse. You'd have to dig the flowers out of the trash later.
“Well, thank you” you murmur quietly, a smile breaking out across both of your faces as you stifle laughter. “Would you wanna come over tonight, maybe rent a movie?” you ask softly, your glossed lip pulled between your teeth nervously.
“It’s not Thursday” he points out teasingly, his fingers drawing soft circles on your temple. “Yeah well, figured we could mix it up,” you murmur, a sly smile breaking out across your face. Clark feigns some indecisiveness for a moment before he presses his forehead to yours.
“Sounds perfect,” he mumbles softly, and you couldn’t agree more because right now in this moment, you’ve never felt so seen, heard, and utterly loved.
It's your seventh last chance, honey, get your sorry ass to mine
I have a question how did u break into my brain and write couldn’t make it any harder???? The reader is so me. I don’t think I ever read a book where the reader and I have basically the same thought process😭😭😭😭 i love it sm i want to frame it forever
Omg I'm so glad that you liked it!! I was really proud of that one when I wrote it because it felt very relatable (thank you, sabrina carpenter 😣) 🫶
Not a request but I found ur acc from ur Superman offic esiren fic and I LOVE ur blog and aesthetic it matches mine PERFECTLY! Cherry red, baddie aesthetic, love for Sabrina carpenter! Just wanted to give some appreciation
Ahh, I can already tell you're such a baddie 🫶 so glad you liked the fic, angel, thank you for the supporttt 😣💕
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