back in love with you

aliyah. 24. she/her

[wildxwidow]

im here (j.s)

summary: bradley makes a comment towards jake that below the surface, he’ll never get over. with you by his side, it’s easier to remember how to stay afloat.

author’s note: i finally got some inspiration to write something of my own with top gun maverick characters! this is very short, something to dip my feet into and try something a little different. i’d love to hear any feedback!

you hear bradley start talking while you are looking down at your drink, trying to enjoy the night with so many familar faces before the reality of the mission hit you all in the morning. 

“hangman, the only place you’ll lead anyone is an early grave.”

your eyes shot up towards jake, biting your tongue for his reaction. you were both impressed and suprised by jake’s unphased response. when in reality you knew he was getting ready to lose it. 

the second jake passes his pool stick to coyote, you’re setting your drink down and following him outside the hard deck without a glance at anyone else around you. keeping your eyes glued to jake’s back and his stomping feet through the gravel towards his truck. 

“hangman!..jake!..jakey, hey its me.” 

you reach for his arm, feeling him slightly flitch from the unexpected contact. he turns around, back against the drivers side door. you make eye contact and see his shiney, green eyes; reaching your hands up towards his cheeks and pressing one of his hands to your chest, touching the skin covering your heart. 

“listen to my voice. follow my breathing. you’re okay, baby. I’m right here, you saved me. don’t let him tear you down like this.” 

[harddeckstories]

CRIMSON

Summary : There wasn’t anything in this world you feared more than the sight of blood. And when Jake gets hurt during a mission, despite everything, he’s the one who steps up to calm you down.

Pairing : Jake "Hangman" Seresin × Fem!Reader

Important info : Your call sign is Lightning ⚡️:)

Disclaimer : English is not my first language so apologies for any grammatical errors that might have escaped my proofreading, also I have zero knowledge of the military or the navy so sorry for any inaccuracies in that area ! Also, reader in this has a phobia of blood, which I do not have at all so the writing of it might be widely inaccurate, deepest apologies for that.

Word count : 6.5k

‼️‼️CONTENT WARNING : blood, injury, description of injuries, wound, blood phobia.

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Blood had always repulsed you.

And more than that it was a true fear that you harbored for the liquid pumped by your heart, sending life flowing through your veins.

It had been that way ever since you were a kid. Just the sight of the tiniest speck of blood made your skin crawl. It wasn’t always easy, considering the thing you were so afraid of lived just beneath a thin layer of skin, so easily breakable that just a scrape could reveal a crimson red that would send you into an irrational and uncontrollable state of panic. But you had always managed. Turning your head away and squinting your eyes closed during medical check ups and blood drawings, always being careful of the parts of your body that could easily get scratched or scraped — especially your hands… just some little things you were extra careful about in order to live a normal life.

Not a lot of people actually understood your phobia, most thought it was stupid and downright ridiculous. And you partially agreed with them, but that was the thing with phobias, they weren’t meant to be reasoned. They were, by nature and definition, irrational. Besides, this was not something you could do anything about, so really you just let all the dumb jokes and question roll off you. You had to admit some questions were quite funny though. If you were feeling down, you’d remember that one time Mickey asked you if that meant that you were afraid of your own period blood and it would still make you laugh as hard as when you’d first heard it.

Some people were scared of clowns, others of spiders or snake, some were even deathly scared of the ocean and could not set a foot in it. Your fear was blood, and in some way you were grateful for your brain to have selected that phobia among the thousands that inhabited and plagued the human mind, at least this one kept you out of harm’s way most of the time, never would you be caught attempting something stupid just to receive validation, or prove yourself. That’s how you decided to see it.

And right now your blood was quickly flowing towards your legs, seemingly preparing to choose the ‘flight’ option over the fight. Except that there wasn’t anywhere for you to run in the cramped confine of your cockpit.

Your ears were ringing and you could feel your blood pumping in your ears, your heart jackhammering through them. The only thing your mind was able to register was the loud, incessant beeping of your jet, while an urgent, mechanical voice was urging you to pull up. You could faintly hear Maverick’s voice through the comms, screaming at you to eject but his instructions were wildly overridden by the adrenaline coursing in your veins. The mission had seemed pretty simple on paper. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing you couldn’t do with your eyes closed. And yet.

You wouldn’t even be able to explain how and when everything started going to shit. Oh well, maybe you could. It all had started when Maverick designated you as Jake’s wingman, that alone should have warned you about how this mission would end, up in flames. Quite literally.

A louder beeping overtook the first one, this second one was higher, almost screeching, so loud in fact you thought you felt you eardrums pop for a second. A quick check to your panel control showed you that you right engine was on fire. Jesus fucking Christ could this get any worse ?!

How could a mission on your own soil could go this wrong ? You guessed the very little time of preparation for it and having to cooperate with a squad from another base you knew nothing about certainly didn’t help. And a close fly by with another pilot and their wingman had sent both Jake and you into an unrecoverable flat spin.

“Y/N !” Maverick’s voice finally came through the panic fog clouding your brain, “there’s nothing you can do, eject, now !”

Cursing, you grabbed the handle situated in between your legs and pulled as hard as you could. You had never had to eject before, and you prayed you’d never have to do it again. For a split second after you pulled the trigger, you must had pulled something like fifteen G’s, your body flew out of your cockpit while your jet continued its supersonic descent towards the ground.

You were thankful your instincts kicked into gear to somehow try and maneuver the parachute, trying to secure you a safe landing on the ground. The loud sound of your jet splitting the air had you turning your head at the last second, just in time to catch sight of your precious, multi million dollar SuperHornet crashing into some nearby trees in a roaring and deafening sound. Your heart fell down at the pitt of your stomach and an uncomfortable and dreadful shiver shook you at the realization that this could’ve been you, had you not listened to what your wise instructor was yelling in your ears.

Landing was rough. Your legs couldn’t quite maintain you upright with the speed at which you hit the ground, the force of it sending you stumbling forward, even rolling in on yourself. Flopping miserably on your back, you were just thankful you didn’t break your legs or impaled yourself on some tree. You got up on shaky legs and hastily put your parachute away in its bag while trying to contact the base.

“Maverick…? Rooster…? Phoenix…?” You tried, without receiving any answer on the other end, you tapped the side of your helmet where the microphone and speakers were, “anyone ?”

No answer.

Shit, the comms must have gone to shit when you ejected or hit the ground. Well, at least you weren’t on foreign soil so there wasn’t any immediate danger you had to worry about. Looking around you caught yourself thinking that there were worse places to land in after an emergency and possibly deadly ejection. The grass was bright green where you had tumbled, trees were standing high and proud, guarding the borders of what looked like a valley that led to some hills. That was definitely a contrast compared to the sandy and arid grounds of San Diego, and it was a surprisingly welcome one, despite the situation.

You were turning on your beacon when the roaring sound of a jet’s engine made you jerk up. Immediately looking up, you spotted Jake’s jet, spinning at uncontrollable spin towards the high trees. Your heart stopped in your chest, surely he had already ejected and had safely landed somewhere near the end of the valley ? There was no possible way a pilot like him — no matter how much you hated admitting how good he was — still thought he had a chance of coming back from a spin like that—

But your lingering fear suddenly hit you full force in the chest when Jake’s engine sputtered on and off, the undeniable sign that Jake was still inside, trying to pull up his F/A-18.

Good god was he fucking dumb sometimes !

You watched, frozen and powerless as his jet continued its supersonic descent towards the trees. It was like time had stopped for a second, a suspended moment where the only thought flashing painfully in your mind was : Jake is going to die. This is it. After all the shit he’s pulled, his fucking ego is gonna take him out because mister thinks he’s just that good that he would be able to recover from an unrecoverable spin.

But before your thoughts could spiral anymore and your heart stop completely at the prospect of losing the one man you claimed you hated body and soul, you saw something fly out of the jet, mere seconds before the metal bird crashed though the trees. You inhaled sharply, a breath that felt like breaking through the water after being under for too long. And before you could think about it any longer, your feet were already carrying you towards where Jake’s parachute was falling.

Helmet in hand, and heavy gear slowing you down, you still sprinted as fast as you could through the trees, mindful of potential holes and roots. Jake hadn’t even been no where near close the altitude he should have been at to eject safely, he’d been alarmingly low and you feared that his parachute wouldn’t slow his fall enough. Damn him and his stupid fucking ego.

Calling out his name as you got near where he should have landed, the lack of response was making your skin prickle with anxiety and dread.

“Jake ?” You called out, voice growing more desperate than you’d ever admit it.

You stopped, intensely listening for any answer back when—

“Over here !”

His voice felt far away and…strangely strained. You desperately tried to ignore how your heart clenched, no matter how much you hated him and could not stand him, Jake was still one of your squad mate, it was normal to worry about him, right ?

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you resumed your dart in the direction of his voice, and after a full minute of sprint in your entire gear, your lungs were screaming, and a side stitch was beginning to puncture your left side. But you didn’t stop, continuing to run towards him.

And finally, when you felt like your legs were actually about to give out, you spotted Jake, sitting up against a tree, facing a clearing. Rushing one last time to get to him, Jake’s face seemed to illuminate when he spotted you.

“Took you long enough,” he said when you kneeled down next to him, “thought you were about to leave me here for a second.”

You glared at him, catching your breath, “keep up the attitude and I just might do that.”

His infamous smirk slowly pulled at his lips as his eyes took you in.

“You hurt ?”

“No, you ?”

Jake shook his head and you eyed the way his helmet was weirdly placed on his lap.

“Are your comms dead as well ?”

“Yep.”

“Did you activate your beacon ?”

He let out a laugh at that, “Jesus Lightning, do you think it’s my first day in the navy or something ?”

His arrogance rubbed you the wrong way, like it always did.

“It might as well be !” You snapped a little, “I mean what the fuck was that, Seresin ? Ejecting at low altitude could have gotten you fucking killed ! But let me guess, you thought that the great Hangman would be able to undo an unrecoverable spin ?!”

Jake watched your hissed rant with raised eyebrows, and despite yourself you noticed how strangely pale he looked.

“Careful,” he cooed, seeming all too satisfied by what he chose to be worry over him and not pure infuriation over a stupid and downright unprofessional behavior, “your soft spot for me is showing, but don’t worry I won’t tell the squad, I know how you like to keep your feelings secret.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, “I still don’t know how you haven’t got suspended for all the shit you pull,” you said, choosing to entirely disregard his take on how you allegedly felt for him.

“I’m too good,” he grinned, and your heart did something weird in your chest when you noticed his smile looked weirdly strained, forced. The pitt in your stomach felt like it was getting deeper, clawing away at your insides, a discomfort that only grew stronger the longer you stared at Jake, “they can’t afford to put their best pilot on the bench.”

Letting out an exasperated sigh, which Jake keened at, annoying you apparently being his second favorite thing behind flying, you began to get up.

“Let’s move in the middle of the clearing, so search and rescue will locate us better and it’ll be easier for them to land and come get us.”

“No.”

Dusting your flight suit once you were standing on your own two feet, you frowned down at Jake.

“The fuck you mean ‘no’ ?” You could feel yourself getting irrationally irritated, a familiar recurrence whenever you spent just more than a few minutes in Jake’s presence, you took a deep breath to try and swallow back the anger bubbling up in your throat, “I’m sick of your shit, Seresin. So stop being an asshole whose sole purpose is to disagree with me for a second and do what I say.”

“Come on, don’t be so mean Lightning.” He tried to joke, but the usual glint in his eyes was missing, he took in a labored breath, “besides moving is not gonna change a thing for search and rescue, don’t worry.”

Stopping for a moment, you got a good look at him. He was acting weird. He hadn’t so much as moved an inch ever since you had found him, he was just sitting there, his stupid helmet sitting on his lap covering a good chunk of his side with one of his hand seemingly under it.

“Why is your helmet on your lap ?”

“Why not ?”

You let out an incredulous laugh at that, “seriously, what is going on ? You’re being super weird it’s kinda starting to freak me out.”

Jake seemed to freeze, if only for a second.

“I’m not acting weird, you’re the one freaking out over nothing and asking weird ass questions. Just sit down and wait for search and rescue.”

But you stayed right where you were, towering over him — which didn’t happen often — and stared down at him, crossing your arms stubbornly.

“I—“ he started, before wincing almost imperceptibly, “I got a bruise, that’s all. Hurt myself when I landed.”

“And what, you’re telling that it’s the bruise making you act like that ?” You let out disbelieving scoff, “I mean are you hearing yourself ? You sound insane ! I don’t know about a bruise but you definitely hit your head when you landed, that’s why you’re saying weird shit.”

Jake didn’t answer, he just stared right ahead, past your standing frame, a far away look in his eyes. Worry began to seep into the hollowing hole in your stomach, maybe he had actually hit his head and he had commotion ? Or worse, what if he had brain damage or internal bleeding or something ? Just the thought made you shiver in horror. If he was truly hurt, it was best not to move him. You eyed him intensely, as if you could somehow get a look inside of his head to make sure he was okay.

You watched as he readjusted himself against the tree with a groan, the movement making his helmet roll right of his lap, revealing his second hand, very obviously pressing down hard on his side.

“Mmh, applying pressure on a bruise,” You mused, squinting your eyes at him in sarcastic fashion, “is this a new technique I haven’t heard about ? Did you attend a new medical seminar I wasn’t invited to ?”

“Will you just stop talking for two minutes, please ?” He asked, voice breathy.

“I mean, shit, honestly I never pictured you as a masochist, you were always more of a sadist type in my mind.“

That finally made him look back at you and you promptly ignored the slight and short lived feeling of relief it gave you. A grin made its way back on his lips, it was strained but it successfully illuminated his face, for a moment giving it the flair it usually held.

“Glad to know this is something you have clearly thought about,” he huffed out, “if you were so curious you should have just come to me my dear Lightning, you know I’d be more than happy to prove your theories.”

Seeing him joke and tease you like that eased your discomfort, and you turned around, pretending to look at your surroundings while you were hiding the small, incontrollable smile pulling at your lips.

“I mean this place seems pretty quiet, I guess we could give a go to outdoor sex if you’re open to it.” His smug voice said behind you.

“Okay shut up now.” You chuckled despite yourself, keeping your back to him to not give him the idea you were happy to see his quick wit was back.

Your eyes took in the forest that spread out in front of you, the cool wind coming from the clearing behind offering you some relief from the sweat clinging to your uniform. It honestly looked beautiful.

Just as you were about to turn back around, your eyes landed on a random piece of wood lying on the ground and—

You froze.

Whole body becoming rigid, the hair on your nape standing up, nervous system kicking in your flight or fight reflex for the second time in an alarmingly short time span.

The piece of wood was long and wide, chips coming off it, and the end of it was covered in a deep and thick crimson liquid.

No, no, no no no—

Your breath hitched in a pathetic choked up sound, one that held every bit of the terror paralyzing your body. Your stomach churned violently.

Behind you, Jake, alarmed by the sound coming from you, anxiously followed your line of sight, and he cursed under his breath when his eyes landed on the piece of wood.

“Lightning, look at me.”

But you couldn’t move. Your gaze was still fixed on the blood dripping from the piece of wood, staining the forest ground and painting it in that fateful color. Jake’s voice barely registered in your ears, it felt like a distant echo, drowned out by your own heart beating loudly and frenetically in your ears.

“Y/N.” His voice called out again, uncharacteristically gentle, and calm despite the situation, “look at me.”

And you don’t know why, but something in you instinctively listened to him this time. Slowly turning back around, your legs were shaky and threatening to give out at any time. When you were facing him again, your heart lurched, because your eyes didn’t immediately settled on his face, instead landing on the hand that was desperately applying pressure on his side. That same hand that was now stained in blood, the thick liquid coming through the gasps between his fingers. And now that you were looking, the fabric of his flight suit underneath his hand was ripped, letting you catch a glimpse of a deep hole into Jake’s flesh, one that was profusely leaking blood.

Funnily enough, your own blood drained from your face so fast it almost made you dizzy, and a horribly frightened sob left your lips. You didn’t remember your legs giving out but suddenly you were on your knees again, next to Jake.

“Don’t look at it, look at me.” Jake said again, his voice somehow breaking through the terror fog holding your brain hostage.

Your breath was coming out ragged as your eyes finally found his, bright green irises that held nothing but an eerily calmness in them.

“It’s okay, don’t look at it, just focus on me, everything will be alright.”

“What the fuck, Jake ?!” You exploded once it seemed your vocal chords were not entirely frozen by fear anymore, “what— “ you choked up on a sob and only then did you realize the ocean of tears dripping down your cheeks, “what happened ?! Oh my god—“ you felt a sudden wave of dizziness hit you as your eyes quickly darted back over to his wound, like despite the bone chilling fear you were still attracted to it like a magnet.

“It’s nothing, I told you I got hurt when I landed.”

“You told me it was a bruise !” The end of your sentence ended in a desperate cry, your hands were shaking on your lap, chest heaving furiously with each frenetic breath you took.

“It’s barely a scratch,” he assured, and the soothing tone in his voice did not have the intended effect, only drowning you further in panic.

How the fuck was he so calm right now ?

You could feel your chest contract, and suddenly it felt impossible to take a full breath, it felt as if your lungs were somehow too small, sheer panic was settling deep inside your bones with no apparent prospect of leaving.

“Lightning, don’t freak out, it’s gonna be okay, everything is fine.”

There were so many thoughts swirling in your head. The protocol for when someone got hurt during a mission, the knowledge that Jake was bleeding out in this fucking clearing while acting like everything was fine, the black dots obstructing your vision…

“Just take a deep breath for me, yeah ?” Jake’s calm voice reached your ears, “turn around if you want, you don’t have to be near me. You can even wait in the clearing for the helicopter.”

The fact that was he straight up proposing you abandon him so you didn’t have to endure the sight of him bleeding out broke your heart and only worsened your sobs.

“Y/N, it’s okay. You’re okay, everything is fine, I promise,” he soothed again, his voice never wavering no matter how much in pain he must’ve been in.

You took a deep breath that did little to calm you down, but it at least cleared your thoughts a little.

This wasn’t right. Jake wasn’t supposed to be the one reassuring you right now, he was fucking bleeding out for God’s sake ! You were a fighter pilot, amongst the best in this entire world. You had been trained for this and you’d be damned if a little blood was blocking you from doing your job and saving your squad mate.

“Move your hand,” you said in a shaky breath, definitely not as assertive as you had intended, your eyes fixed on him.

“What—?”

You didn’t give him the time to comprehend, instead blindly removing his hand from his side and putting both of yours, and pressing down, hard. He winced, letting out a pained groan and you ignored the pinch in your heart.

For the first time ever since you found him, he seemed to be the one panicking.

“No, hey, hey hey what are you doing ?”

“I’m helping you,” you supplied, with tears still raining down your cheeks, “this is the protocol. And besides you weren’t putting enough pressure on it.”

You squeezed your eyes closed as Jake’s blood started to push back against your hands, the warm liquid trying to spill through your hands as you desperately tried to keep it there. The sensation made you shiver in pure horror and disgust.

“Hey, Y/N, I don’t want you to freak out on me, yeah ?” His hand, the one that wasn’t stained in blood, hovered over your shoulder, unsure if he should touch you in your emotional state.

Your eyes remained closed, trying to focus on anything else rather than Jake literally bleeding out beneath the palm of your hands. The wind brushing your face and the sound the trees made swaying lightly because of it, birds chirping in the distance, the grain of Jake’s strained voice…

“Why didn’t say anything ?” You asked, your voice coming out as a shaky whisper.

When his answer didn’t come fast enough, your eyes snapped open, scared that he might have lost consciousness, but Jake was just staring at you, the faintest of smile pulling at his lips.

“Is that a serious question ?” He laughed a little, wincing when his chest shook a bit from the force of it, “no offense, Lightning, truly, but I don’t know if I would have been able to handle you fainting in my state.”

‘My state.’ You didn’t like that, didn’t like that one bit. His face was paler than you’d ever seen it, his natural Texan tan nowhere to be seen. His green eyes were missing their usual brightness and the underside were horribly dark and sunken.

You were about to say something, probably tell him to shut up, when blood suddenly came rushing out of his nose.

“Shit—“ he cursed before rapidly putting a hand over his nose, frantically wiping at the blood that just kept on coming out. “Don’t look, it’s okay.”

Your heart was beating so fast and hard against your rib cage it was borderline painful. This couldn’t be good.

“Y/N, please don’t look.” Jake’s voice sounded almost pleading now as he was desperately rubbing the blood away and keeping his hand in front of his nose, making him sound nasally.

Blood.

There was just so much of it. Never in your life had you seen so much of the dreadful crimson liquid, and you honestly didn’t know if you were more likely to throw up or faint at this point.

And lingering at the back of your mind, came another whisper of your mind, one that was progressively and terrifyingly becoming louder and louder, overtaking all your senses. There was a lot of blood, yes, and Jake was the one losing it.

Jake was bleeding out, alarmingly fast, out in the middle of nowhere while the only thing you could do to help him was just keep your hands on his gaping injury and prayed that search and rescue would hurry the fuck up.

“Look away, sweetheart, please.” He said again, tilting his head back lightly, as much as he could really, in an attempt to stop the blood from leaving his nose.

But not looking was not gonna change a thing anymore. Because somewhere along the lines, the fear had shifted. Blood still very much terrified you, no doubt, but right now you were covered in it, and yet, you weren’t dead, you hadn’t fainted and the world was still spinning.

And still, something was very, very wrong.

Jake’s nose bleed seemed to have calmed down, he finally put his hand away, which was bright red, and stared at you.

“You know, you are doing much better than I thought you would,” he praised, and given the situation it absolutely shouldn’t have made your stomach flip, “look at you, could it be that the great Lightning has finally conquered her fear ?” He grinned.

You didn’t know if you should be happy he was joking again or not. Your hands had begun shaking again where they were pressing against his bloody side, you still couldn’t bear to take a look at it but you knew by the way it was still profusely leaking blood against your hands, and by how big the piece of wood looked a few centimeters away from you that his injury must have been deep, way too deep.

Very unaware of your internal breakdown, Jake just kept on talking.

“I didn’t even know it was possible to overcome a phobia as deep as yours, but hey, I guess there’s no stopping you, huh ?”

“Stop talking,” you said, trying to hold in a fresh wave of sobs, unwanted images of him lying dead in your arms kept flashing through your mind.

What the actual fuck was search and rescue doing ? It wasn’t like you were on the other half of the fucking planet, you weren’t even on the other half of the country !

Jake didn’t pay any mind to your order.

“At least crashing was good for something in the end.”

Him saying that while literally bleeding out was physically tearing your heart apart.

“Shut up.” You said through clenched teeth.

“Hey I just thought about something, if I die out here you’ll become the best pilot in the squad, perhaps I should be worried this was your plan all along—“

“Shut up ! Shut up, shut up !” You snapped, eyes wide and staring straight at him with a mix of despair and fear, “stop fucking talking about dying ! It’s not funny, and for fuck’s sake stop wasting your breath saying useless shit, just shut up !”

Tears were freely raining down your cheeks now, and you didn’t know how it was possible you still had any left to cry.

Jake was stunned for a second by your outburst, he just stared at your for a moment before his expression broke into something undeniably soft and gentle, his features morphing into something you’d use to approach a frightened animal.

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry, that was a joke.”

You didn’t think you had ever heard Jake apologize in all the time you’d known him.

“Well it’s not funny !” Your bottom lip quivered, another pathetic sob threatening to break out.

“I know, I’m an idiot,” he said, “you’re right, that wasn’t funny.” His voice was low, acting like a soothing balm on your own open wound, the one ripping your heart apart at seeing him like that.

His hand that had been awkwardly hovering off and on above your shoulder finally made contact, squeezing you lightly. And his touch completely finished to break your heart. You burst out in a very inelegant sob, you couldn’t even see through the tears clouding your vision. It was the inevitable consequence of enduring all the events of the day, the mission going to shit, the ejection, the crash, the blood, Jake…

“I don’t want you to die,” you cried out, completely exhausted and at the end of your rope, “so stop saying that.”

“I’m not gonna die, sweetheart,” his thumb rubbed gentle back and forth on your clothed shoulder, occasionally squeezing it.

“But you’re b—“ a hiccup interrupted you, “you’re bleeding out !” The word alone burned on your tongue.

You heard the sound of a zipper opening, trying to blink the tears away you saw Jake open the top of his flight suit before his blood stained hand, the one that wasn’t on your shoulder, came down to take one of yours that was still pressing on his open wound.

“No, no, no Jake— you need pressure—“ you tried to say when he took your hand away, guiding it to his chest.

“It’s okay, honey,” he soothed, “just don’t look down, remember ?” he added when your eyes almost darted down to both of your bloodied hands.

Jake, while maintenant eye contact with you, his green eyes holding an almost tender glint, guided your hand up to his chest, right over his heart.

“You feel that ?” He asked, voice slightly hoarse due to the effort and the pain, but never ever losing its gentle edge.

And sure enough, underneath your palm, was the steady beat of Jake’s heart. A calm and rhythmic thump-thump that didn’t waiver and the rational part of your mind wondered how he could stay so calm under such circumstances, and it probably should have worried you a bit, but the irrational part of your brain, the one that had been running on fumes ever since you spotted the first speck of blood, seemed to finally quiet down a bit.

You let out a breath you didn’t even know you had been holding all this time.

“Yeah, that’s it, see ? I’m okay, it’ll be fine.” His hand was placed right on top of yours, his warmth seeping into your skin and radiating in your entire body.

Your fingers flexed a bit against his clothed chest, a sudden urge to feel more of him, make sure that his words were real, that he was truly gonna be fine, shook you. Jake gave you a reassuring smile and between the tears that still blurred your vision, you took the time to look at him. His blond hair was disheveled and darken by dirt, his jade green eyes held an immense tiredness to them but the tender glint in them, directed towards you, never ever left. There was some dried blood just underneath his nose, and a bit of it also on his lips, that still held that little reassuring smile. His whole face was livid, as pale as a ghost and the visual stripped him of his usual Hangman bravado. Objectively, he wasn’t looking good right now, he looked sick. But somehow, to you, he still did, looked good. There was something so vulnerable and tender about him right now, something that was slowly stitching back together the pieces of your heart Jake had himself, involuntarily, broken.

But being yourself, there was no way you’d be able to properly express the overwhelming whirlwind of emotion taking your body hostage, so instead—

“You look like shit,” you said, sniffling.

Jake let out a chuckle, the sound alone warming you from the inside out.

“Yeah, well, you don’t exactly look like you could run a marathon either, sweetheart.”

That made you laugh. You didn’t even want to think about what you must looked like right now, blotchy and red eyes from the tears, cheeks stained with the salty liquid, hair wild from the ejection… But you didn’t see any disgust or reject in his gaze. Only fondness.

Suddenly feeling bashful under his stare, you made a move to look down but before you could, Jake’s hand that was on your shoulder moved quickly, surprisingly so for someone that injured, catching your chin with two of his fingers, preventing you from looking down at the bloodied mess on which you still kept a firm pressure with your free hand. Instead, he made sure your gaze stayed right on him. This quiet gesture that so blatantly showed how much he cared about how you felt, which definitely felt ridiculous next to his predicament, just sent a sudden rush of affection run through you.

Not knowing what to do of this overwhelming urge, but nonetheless needing to express it, to get it out, to show him, your body acted on its own. Your hand still on his heart, you leaned in and gently placed your lips on his forehead, hoping the soft press would somehow convey every bit of what you were feeling. You stayed perhaps a bit too long for a conventional forehead kiss. Almost imperceptibly, you felt his heartbeat quicken under your hand, the realization making a warmth akin to the first summer rays spread out in your body. When you pulled back, there was a flash of something unreadable in Jake’s eyes.

“You’ll be okay,” you said with a tiny smile, lips wet from your tears and voice hoarse from your sobs.

And truly you said it more for yourself than him.

Jake reciprocated your smile and squeezed your hand, “you’re so brave, Y/N.” He said, full of admiration, and just a tiny bit choked up.

Before you could add anything, tell him how ridiculous it was for him to say that while he had to step up and be the rock for the both of you while he was on the verge of dying, the faint and distant sound of propellers could be heard coming from over the clearing. And just seconds later, the search and rescue helicopter came into view.

The biggest sigh of relief left your lips, you felt the tension slowly leave your body. You, not without regrets, retracted the hand that was on his chest to put it back on his wound, the added pressure made him groan.

“Sorry, sorry, I know,” you said, “it’s almost over, Jake, we’re almost out.”

He smiled at you, and you tried to ignore the ridiculousness of you trying to comfort him at the last minute, while he had spent the entire time trying to calm you down.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

The helicopter landed in the clearing, as close to you and Jake as possible, and seconds after six people from search and rescue came rushing towards you. They carefully hosted up Jake on a stretcher and up in the helicopter, all the while your hands never left him.

“Alright, Y/N, you can stop now, he’ll be fine, we’re gonna clean and bandage him up,” Martin, the main medic, told you just as the helicopter was taking off to the air.

But you hesitated. With the stress and emotion, the time you had spent out there in the clearing had felt like an eternity, and it felt scary to let go of him now, even though you knew it was to leave him in better hands. While deep in your thoughts, you didn’t register Jake asking for a cloth, it was only when you felt his hand land on top of yours that you got out of your anxious trance.

“Everything’s fine now, remember ?” He said gently as his eyes bore into yours, “they are gonna take good care of me, you can let go.”

His hands very gently took yours off his side, cleaning them with the cloth all the while keeping eye contact with you.

“But I don’t wanna leave you,” you said in a breath.

It was a strange feeling, to feel so open and raw emotionally, a state that had been forcefully provoked by the unfortunate events of the day.

“You’re not leaving me, you’ll stay by my side, right ?”

He let out a small, fond chuckle when you nodded almost solemnly.

“Nobody’s making you leave, baby.” He said, tossing the cloth away after wiping your hands clean of his blood.

“Jake ?” Martin grabbed both your attention, “we’re gonna put you under,” he explains, showing off an oxygen mask, “we’re gonna start patching you up while on the way to the base’s hospital.”

Jake nodded before looking at you.

“You gonna kiss me goodnight ?” He asked, his characteristic smirk making a return on his face.

Wordlessly, and perhaps a bit too happy by him prompting it, you leaned in, placing your lips in a delicate kiss on his forehead, one hand coming up to cup his face. You heard him let out a little breath as you pulled away and placed another lingering kiss on his cheek.

“Sleep tight.” You smiled as a tear rolled down your face, not out of fear or sadness but simply out of feeling too much in such a short amount of time, and you quickly wiped it away.

Martin put the mask on Jake’s face.

“Alright Lieutenant, take a few deep breaths for me.”

Doing as he was told, Jake was looking at you with furrowed brows.

“Hey, don’t cry,” he lazily protested, voice already slurred from the anesthesia kicking in.

“I’m not crying,” you assured, a genuine smile stretching your face, “it’s fine, go to sleep, Hangman.”

“I prefer when you call me ‘Jake’.” He whined.

Yeah, he’d be gone any minute now.

You chuckled, “sorry, Jake.”

“That’s better,” his eyes fluttered closed and opened again, clearly fighting the anesthesia, “and when I wake up you can find out.”

“Find out what ?”

“You know…” he trailed off, his eyes closing entirely now, “if— if I’m a masochist or not…”

You burst out laughing, and even in his dazed and near coma induced state, Jake smiled at the sound.

“We’ll see about that, cowboy,” you said when your laughter died down a bit.

And just like that, he was out.

Looking at him just a second longer, feeling your heart settle down at knowing he wouldn’t feel any pain and would be taken care of, you moved away from him, letting the team of medics do their job. Martin kneeled beside Jake and began to cut his flight suit open around his wound. Removing the fabric, about to reveal just how bad the injury was, he paused and turned to you.

“You’re not afraid of blood, are you ?”

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Author’s note : I have mixed feelings about this fic, the idea had been in my head for soooo long and I fear I failed the execution of it, but oh well, I hope it was still good for you !

I’m gonna repeat myself but I do not have a phobia of blood at all so if the way I wrote reader’s reaction seems unrealistic I’m really sorry, please do let me know if it’s so unrealistic that it stops being enjoyable to read, I’ll try to change it if that’s the case

Also if you’ve read my others fics Saltwater Monster and 8-pool meltdown you might notice a pattern, that I desperately need to be comforted by Jake, and those fics are my most popular ones so I’d say we’re all in this together !💞

Finally (god sorry I’m talking a lot) a huge thank you to @berrybigpossibilities who agreed to read the first part of the fic when I was feeling really down about it and gave me their opinion, it helped a lot to finish it so thank you again !🫶

Taglist : @football1921 @mng0731

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Don't You Let It Slip Away

✦Clark Masterlist - Read on a03! - Main Masterlist✦ ✦pairing: Clark Kent x female!reader✦ ✦summary: Something is wrong. You feel like there's a big part of you that's missing, but you really can't quite place what. It doesn't help that you keep having flashes of a life that isn't yours. Where you're loved. Where you're Clark's, he's yours. And maybe that's been yours the whole time. AKA you have to forget Clark, but it doesn't really stick.✦ ✦warnings/tags: civilian!reader, memory fic, insecurity, angst, fluff, pining, shenanigans, double love confessions for your buck, shameless smut (body worship, dirty talk, fingering, p in v, doggy), no use of y/n✦ ✦author's note: This one is very special to me. Enjoy!✦

Someone is watching you. You can feel it, prickling on the back of your neck and making your stomach do odd, little flips. Like it’s trying to pull you in the direction of the attention, even though you can’t think of one good reason for someone to be looking at you.

You’re hiding at your desk, head down, typing fast enough to make the clacking sounds almost louder than the music in your ears. Nobody bothers you when you’re focused like this. People don’t really bother you period. Not at work, when you’re purposefully drowning everything else out. 

But you can feel someone. 

And when you pause, just to scan around the office and check that you’re not insane, everyone’s eyes are on their own computers or each other. Jimmy and Lois are having a low conversation near the coffee. Cat is examining her nails while snapping at someone on the phone. Steve is laughing at something on his phone—a little too loudly, in the boisterous, fake way that always makes you pretty sure he’s not actually seeing anything funny, and just wants someone to come talk to him—while Perry watches the TV with a focused frown, and Clark stares at his computer. 

Just stares at it. Doesn’t type. Doesn’t scroll.

He’s probably just reading something, very intently, over and over. 

You look back to your own computer, and call it paranoia. 

That would be why your skin feels raw, when you start to type again. Nobody’s watching you—and you check again, just to make sure—and you’re just paranoid. 

You’ve been oddly paranoid lately, so it’s tracking. You’re checking the locks of your windows and doors three or four times before you go to bed, like you’re in Gotham. You keep running back up the stairs after you try to leave for work, just to make sure you closed the door. When you walk down the street your gaze lingers on longer shadows, and you look up to the sky as if you’re checking for something. 

You’re not. 

You don’t even know what you’d be looking for. 

All you do know is that you feel like someone is watching you, but they’re not. That you’re paranoid, but it’s likely lack of sleep. 

You haven’t really been sleeping, either. Your bed has felt too cold, lately. Too empty. You haven’t been able to bring yourself to even lie in it for more than twenty minutes at a time, resorting to trying to sleep on the couch. 

Which is probably why your back always hurts, now. 

It hasn’t been a good few weeks. Everything has felt off.

But it’ll pass.

Hopefully. 

It’s not, but hopefully, it will. 

Someone taps on your shoulder, and you almost jump out of your skin, hand flying out in a faster reaction than you can process. 

You smack Jimmy in the jaw, and he stumbles back with wide eyes.

“Oh my god, I’m-“ You yank off your headphones, reaching out nervously. “Jimmy, I’m so, so sorry, you scared me, I’m- I don’t know why I did that, I’m so-“

“Jesus, stop apologizing.” Jimmy gives you a small grin, dropping his hand from where a red mark is starting to form. “I’m alright. Made of steel, you know me.”

You blink at him, and suddenly feel a little dizzy.

“You don’t need to get me a band-aid, sweetheart. They don’t say I’m made of steel because it sounds cool.” 

“I, um-“ You shake your head, giving Jimmy another apologetic look. “Do you want some ice?”

“Nah. That sounds cold.”

“It’s ice-“

“Yeah. Cold. I’m a big boy,” he says your name with a shrug. “I’ll live, you know?”

“I guess, but-“

“Can I ask you a question?”

You blink, and Jimmy’s staring at you with an odd intensity. “Yes?”

“Did you guys have a fight?”

“You… guys?” You shake your head, spinning your pencil nervously between your fingers, and Jimmy nods. 

“Yeah. You and Clark.”

“Me and-“ Your eyes dart over to Clark’s desk, and he’s still staring at his computer. He’s scrolling now, though. Typing a few words, then scrolling again. 

You haven’t spoken to him all morning. And he doesn’t look all that bothered. His hair is messy, and from his side profile you can tell his glasses are a little askew, but that’s just Clark.

“No?” You look back to Jimmy. “Why would we have had a fight?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” He shrugs, looking over to Clark himself. “Poor guy just has been looking bummed. I thought someone yelled at him, but he hasn’t even really been talking to anyone. Which is weird, right?”

Jimmy looks at you like you’re supposed to agree, and you give him a tight smile. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Jimmy nods to himself. “I mean, he’s Clark. He talks. We all talk. And I don’t know- Maybe I should set him up on another blind date. He hasn’t said yes to me in like, a year, but now- Poor guy might be feeling the loneliness.”

Something tugs on your heart. It’s sore and hot and makes your skin fucking itch.  

Your pencil flies across the room, as you accidentally fling it from your fingers. Hits Steve in the back of the head, making you wince. 

“Damn, you’re on a roll, killer.” Jimmy grins as Steve glares around to see the culprit. You quickly pick up another pencil. “Is there something going on with you I should be worried about? Are you secretly a vigilante

“No, I’m just…” You take a deep breath, glancing back over to Clark. 

You don’t know why you keep looking at him. It’s like you’re looking for some kind of reaction, and you don’t even know to what.

“It’s just a bad week.” You mutter, and Jimmy nods.

“Right, first one back from vacation. Those always suck.”

“Huh?” You’re not really listening, mostly just staring at Clark. His leg is bouncing. 

That means something. 

You can’t fucking remember what. 

“Your vacation. How was it, by the way?” Jimmy bumps your shoulder with his coffee, and you blink.

“How was… my vacation?”

“Yeah. Cuba, right? Or… Cairo. China? It was somewhere with a C. I think. I don’t know.” Jimmy laughs to himself. “Clark did tell me you were going, so maybe I’m just thinking of him.”

“Oh.” You swallow, and Clark’s leg is still fucking bouncing. 

“You’re doing it again.” You smile at him, poking your foot against his shin, and he blinks up at you. 

“I, uh- I’m not doing anything-“

“You were listening to me. I know you were.”

“But I didn’t even look-“

“I know.” You smile at him. “I just know you. Do you think we should do Rio?”

He turns a little red, eyes darting around the office to make sure no one else is watching, then places his hand on the back of your thigh. Squeezes gently, and gives you a small smile. 

“I’ll go where you want, baby. But if you’re asking-“

“I am-“

“Then I’ve been thinking we could go to-“

“Redwood park.” You mutter, looking back to Jimmy. “I think I just went to see the Redwoods, Jimmy.”

“Oh. Well, California starts with C.” Jimmy glances over to Clark. “You should’ve brought Clark with you. He’s always wanted to see those things. Don’t know why he hasn’t. We get plenty of vacation time.”

You nod. “I- I don’t know why either.” You whisper, and Clark’s head turns. 

For a split second, your eyes meet. And something flashes over his handsome features that you can’t quite place. 

Then he looks away, and his leg stops bouncing. 

Your head sort of hurts. 

But it’s just been an off week. Jimmy leaves you alone, and you can’t do anything but stare blankly at your computer screen, hoping your fingers will remember how to do anything but spin a pencil, and your brain will clear of this strange fog. 

You don’t even remember going on vacation.

And it feels like there's a massive fucking hole, in the center of your chest. It’s got an odd shape. It hums and kicks into a loud gear—like an echo through a cave, a ghostly replication of something that had been there before—whenever you feel it again. 

Someone is watching you.

Your pencil flies out of your fingers again.

But when you look around to see if anyone noticed, they haven’t.

It’s like nothing ever happened at all.

The day moves fast, but the strange feeling doesn’t fade. It only gets more and more pressing, until it feels like there’s something iron wrapping around your lungs. Maybe you should go back to therapy. You’re not sure why you left it in the first place. 

There’s just a faint impression of it not working. Of something on your tongue you couldn’t let go, that was holding you back from saying anything at all. 

But it’s gone now.

You just wish you’d known what it fucking was. 

There are a lot of things that are making you feel that. Like you’d had something in your hands, and it had been taken away. Leaving your skin covered in a soot or stardust you don’t know how to wash off, because you can’t even fucking see it. And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re still paranoid. It’s all you’ve been, lately, and there’s no reason for it to just vanish when you go to work. 

It’s almost certainly the paranoia. 

It will be a whole lot easier, if it’s just the paranoia. 

If people have noticed you’re acting differently, they don’t say anything. You fumble your coffee when Lex Luther comes onto one of the TV screens, and Lois gives you an odd, worryingly gentle look, but helps you clean up. Perry talks to you about your article about international metahuman law, and you type slowly, struggling to remember where you found any of your sources. Superman has another save—a kitten, in a tree, and for some reason that makes you feel fuzzy—and you stare at the screen for a little too long. You only stop staring because Cat hits your arm, amusement sparkling in her eyes.

“He’s cute, right?”

“I- Superman?” You can feel your cheeks heat, and this shouldn’t be making you flush. It’s Superman. Everyone thinks he’s cute. 

“You think I’m cute?”

“Don’t get a big head.”

“I can’t. Ma raised me better than that, sweetheart. And my head is already huge, but it’s mostly just facts about cows.”

“Yeah? What kind of facts?”

“All of them. Did you know people used to use “cow” as a compliment?”

You smile at him, and there’s something earnest on his face that always makes it hard to even play fake mean. “How the fuck would you use cow as a compliment.”

“Like, uh- You’ve got cow eyes, baby.” He squeezes your hip, and you giggle. 

“I have cow eyes?”

“Yeah. But you’re my cow.” He pauses, then frowns. “I don’t like that. It makes seem like, I don’t know, I won you at a county fair.”

You lean down, mock-pouting at him. “So you don’t think I’m a prize?”

“No, I just-“ He sighs. “Can we pretend I never said anything?”

“Nope. I’m your cow, Mr. Kent.”

He groans. “Gosh, no, don’t say that-“

“It’s too late. Live with the consequences of your actions.”

“But I regret this action, I regret it a lot, I should have just told you how to milk a cow- No.” He gives you a firm look, and you’re giggling so much you might fall over. “I know that face, baby, no.”

You shake your head, pushing your words through the laughter. “Were you going to do a demonstration, farm boy? You’ve milked me before.”

“Alright. Come here.” 

A large, warm hand glides up to your waist, and you’re still giggling when he pulls you forward. He doesn’t look cute anymore. He just looks handsome, darkened eyes on you, lips curled in a small grin as he watches you-

Cat says your name, waving a hand in your face.

“Sorry, I- Um-“ You look around, and the room isn’t spinning, but all the color seems to be washed out. Like there should be a reason for them to be vibrant, and you can’t find it at all. “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Okay.” Cat shrugs, looking back to the TV. “Weird thing to tell me, though.”

“Yeah, um- Sorry.”

You almost run away from her, and your stomach feels like it’s rising up your throat. Something is wrong. It’s paranoia, but it still feels wrong, and you don’t know where you’re going but you know it needs to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere nobody can touch you, or see you, or say your name. Somewhere in the dark, where your chest won’t keep trying to pull at something you can’t name, where you can put a hand on your throat and just breathe- 

You’re only watching your feet, as you walk, because you need to walk in a straight line. You’re not dizzy. It just feels like you’re wading through mud, and if you’re not counting every step you’ll fall over.

So when you turn the corner, you don’t see him until it’s too late, and you’re slamming right into his chest. 

“Hey, woah.” Clark's arm wraps around your waist, and your fingers fly to grab the lapels of his suit jacket. 

You stare at each other. There’s that same, strange look from before, and it’s everywhere. In the slight, worried pout of his lips, the furrow of his brow, and somehow in the strong line of his nose. His eyes are burning into you, and that buzzing feeling starts to push up your throat, spreading and spreading until the hollow in your chest stirs, and Clark’s hand flexes on your back- 

“Taste it.”

He frowns at your offering, a finger covered in frosting. “I know what frosting tastes like, sweetheart. You just slipped, I want to look at your knee-“

“What are you, a doctor?”

“No, but I think I’ve learned enough to know if need to take you to the hospital, and I can x-ray for free-“

You cut him off with a strange noise. It’s as if it’s coming from underwater, muffled and strange. You can’t really hear it at all. “It’s just my fucking ankle. Look,” you swing it dramatically, and his frown deepens. He doesn’t let go of you. 

You poke his nose with the frosting, and giggle as his eyes cross to look at it. 

“Geez, you really want me to try this frosting.”

“Well, I made it, and I want your opinion.”

He nods, tongue shooting up to lick it off. And it takes a few seconds of ridiculousness for him to get it, but he does. Because he can do fucking anything. 

And your heartbeat is in your ears, now.

“That’s really good, baby.” He looks at you with a proud grin, and you don’t give a shit about the cupcakes anymore. 

He can see that. 

His throat bobs, and his ears turn red as his voice drops. 

“You’re sure your ankles okay-“

“Yes.” You cut him off quickly, and his lips twitch.

“May I please have a full cupcake, after we finish?”

You nod, a little like a bobblehead, and he grins at you like he won the lottery. 

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He leans down until your noses are bumping. “But just so you know, you’re still my favorite dessert.”

“Are you okay?” Clark says, and it jumpstarts your body. 

You shove him back quickly, eyes wide, and try not to think about how he looks like a wounded puppy. 

He says your name gently, like he’s trying to soothe a feral animal, and you take another uneven step back. 

“I- I’m- I don’t-“

Clark’s voice becomes a little more urgent. “Come here, sw-“ He swallows, syllables sliding together. “We need to get you sitting down-“

“No- No-“ You take a ragged breath. You don’t want him to touch you. Your whole body is leaning to him, like he’s got the gravity of something more than a man, but if Clark touches you, it’s going to hurt deeper than your skin. “I- I’m okay. I’m okay.”

Clark doesn’t look convinced by your repetition. “I know you might feel okay, but- You were staring at me for five minutes, I- Uh- I just think you should rest-“

“I’ll rest. I can rest.” You nod, taking another unsteady step back. The whole earth feels like it’s sliding below your feet. “I might have, like- Food poisoning? Maybe? I’m just- I’m not feeling well, Clark-“

“I know, we can go to the doctor- I mean, not we, but- You and someone-“ The strangeness flashes over his features again. “It can be me. I can drive. I’m good at it, sweetheart, I can drive you-“

“No, I’ll take the subway, I’m- Can you just tell Perry I got sick. Please?”

“I-“

“Thank you, Clark. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

You don’t wait for his response, don’t look back as you almost scramble out of the hallway.

It’s still just the paranoia. You’re just off, and maybe you did get food poisoning. You’d eaten some strange, old pastries that had been at the back of your refrigerator last night. You didn’t even remember putting them there, and they’d tasted fine, but maybe it was a fake fineness.

No. It’s all fine. 

There’s still that carved-out, empty feeling in your chest, but you’re fine. 

You’ll take a day. Maybe get back with a therapist, or install new locks on your door and windows. Everything will be fine.

Everything was not fine. 

You’re having nightmares. And they’re of strange things you’ve never even seen before, like colorful, lava rivers and infinite blackness and odd, jagged edges of strangely shaped cliffs. You’re having nightmares of a gun to your brow and a shining light in your eyes and so much cold. You can’t really feel anything in the nightmares, but you can feel cold, and it makes you wake up shivering and screaming until your voice goes hoarse. 

The one day you took off didn’t do much—you mostly just stared at the ceiling, and tried to will everything into being better, which obviously didn’t fucking work—and the moment you’re back at work, everything starts to move too fast for you to catch your breath. 

You were gone for three weeks, on a vacation you don’t remember. There’s work that needs catching up on, informants and sources you apparently forgot to tell about your vacation that you need to reach out to, and a lot of time that needs to be wasted on the floor of the bathroom. 

It still feels like someone is watching you, in the office. Still feels like something vital is missing from your chest, like an organ that’s been removed. With the nightmares, your sleep doesn’t get better. The paranoia only grows, until you beg Perry to give you a desk that has your back to the wall. 

He obliges, with a frown and muttered weird kids. 

And you’re slightly calmed, by being able to see everyone who comes in and out of the room. Nobody can surprise you, anymore. When you feel like someone is watching you, all you have to do is look up. 

“Just look up.” He says, fingers tracing slowly over the bare skin of your arm. “All you ever need to do is look up, and I’ll be there.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” you say the noise you can’t hear. “What if you’re in Kansas, or- I don’t know, France-“

He cuts you off with a deep, slow kiss that makes you dizzy. “Then call my name.” He mutters against your lips. “And I’ll come for you.”

You rub your eyes, and all the lights are a little too bright. You might need to start wearing sunglasses to work. Inside. Like you have a permanent hangover. 

It certainly feels permanent. All these strange, invasive phantom thoughts.  

Nowhere is safe from them. It’s why you like the bathroom so much. Sparse and quiet and lonely—which is only making the nightmares worse—but without anything to set you off. 

Because fucking everything sets you off. 

“Shit.” You mutter, wrinkling your nose at the fridge, then checking the time on your phone. “Shit.”

“What’s shit?” Lois asks, standing over your shoulder, and you slam the door closed. 

“I- fuck-“ The sound echoes through the room, and it was too big for such a tiny little thing.

It hums at you. Tauntingly. About how you can be as mean and crude as you want, but it’s still solid. It’s not melting apart at the seams. 

You kick it, for good measure, and grunt as it refuses to budge. Stupid fucking fridge.

Lois laughs softly. “I think you beat it.”

“Thanks.” You mutter, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “It’s too late anyway.”

“Too late?”

“I forgot my lunch.”

“Seriously? That’s what you tried to murder the fridge over- Right, sorry.” She smiles apologetically at your glare. “Not just a joke, this time. Didn’t read that one right.” 

“No, it’s-“ You let out a slow breath, and you’re so fucking tired. “You’re right, it’s stupid-“

“It’s not stupid, it’s just kind of insane.” She gives you a small smile. “Forgetting food sucks. I’m sorry I laughed at your plight.”

You huff, just through your nose, but with everything feeling a little lighter. It sucks. It’s not the end of everything. 

“Who forgot their food?” Clark says, and you turn to see him frowning at you and Lois with an odd intensity. “Lois, you ate earlier, you got taco all over my keyboard-“

“No, I didn’t. That was Jimmy.”

“But Jimmy said it was-“

“Jimmy is a liar. And I didn’t forget my lunch,” she says your name, and all of Clark’s attention seems to hone in on you. It makes you feel fucking dizzy. “She did.”

“You did?” There’s a depth to the concern in his voice. Like you’re swimming into the ocean, when it was just supposed to be the deep end of the pool, and now he’s worried everything is going to sweep you away. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” You try to hold his gaze, as you speak. It’s shockingly difficult. As if you’re staring at the sun, instead of clear, blue eyes. “I haven’t been sleeping well. Must have thought I grabbed it, then didn’t. I’ll be-“

Clark cuts in, voice earnest. “Do you want mine?”

“No, yours looks like it was made out of dead fish guts.”

“Huh.” He frowns at his spaghetti, still in the white take-out box. “I think it’s just like- Gooey pasta.”

“Wrong, fish guts.” You keep his arm around your shoulders, holding one of his large hands in both of yours, playing with his fingers as you examine dinner. “Why couldn’t we just do pizza?”

“Because Pa taught me to treat a lady-“

“To fish guts?”

“To fancy food.” He kisses the side of your head, dropping the food onto the plate. “If it tastes bad, I can hold your hair back while you vomit.”

“What if you vomit,” you say the noise you can’t hear, and he grins at you.

“I don’t get sick, darling.”

“Maybe. But look at this, I’m sure it could do the job, even on you-“

He kisses you, and your words fall into a loud, long moan. He smiles against your lips, and you wish he’d never figured out this trick for shutting you up. It’s playing dirty, for someone who always follows the rules. You think he justifies it to himself with how you try to chase him when he pulls away, and how he always asks you to finish your thought. As if the kiss was just to kiss. 

This beautiful, sweet man might really believe it is just a kiss. 

Something low shines in his eyes, though, when he finally gets you to come up for air. 

And he fucking knows. 

“Gosh,” he mutters, looking over to the food. “You think this will make me sick?”

“Maybe.” You blink at him slowly. “I don’t know.”

“Huh. I mean, I don’t mind pizza. If you don’t mind. I can go get it, right now, but, um- Only if you think this will make me sick-“

You say the sound you can’t hear softly. “I know you worked hard to get this, you don’t have to-“

“No, I think I want pizza.” He leans down, holding your gaze. “Do you want pizza, sweetheart?”

“Yes.” You smile at him, planting a small kiss on his nose. “Please.”

Clark says your name, and you swallow. You don’t feel hungry, anymore. Only sick. 

“I’m good, Clark.” You mutter, ripping your gaze down to your shoes. “Thank you.”

You almost run back to your desk, and start talking to people at work less and less. They seem to always set it off—the empty space, the echo—more than anyone else. And avoiding them isn’t a permanent solution, but it should ease the vastness of everything feeling like it’s just fucking wrong.

It should. 

But as long as you’re where people can say things to you, it doesn’t.

“You look nice tonight.” A guy with dark hair and darker eyes grins at you, taking a slow swig of his beer like you’re supposed to respond. 

You turn your glass in your hands, and give him a small smile. He’s pretty. Not that pretty, but enough to make you not hate looking. And in the dark—once you’re one drink deeper and everything has been numbed a little more—it won’t fucking matter. 

“You end up here often?”

You smile, and try not to make it too many teeth. Just be easy, and you can forget better. “Here, or at a bar?”

He laughs. Not a bad sound. Just sort of flat, like there’s an element of it that’s missing. “Either, dollface.”

“Well, I’ve been here a few times.” You try to keep your voice light and breathy. You feel fucking insane. “But usually, I’m just soliciting.”

“Yeah? For what?”

“Mormons.”

The man laughs again, and you try to make your smile wider. The drink can get you halfway there, easily. 

It’s the rest of you, that’s always the problem.

You end up in a booth, half on the lap of your bar man—Jack or Jax or Max or Miles or Martholomew, but it really doesn’t fucking matter—and with your tongue shoved down his throat. You’re grabbing at his shoulders and dragging him forward as you try to grind down, but it feels like trying to start a fire with soggy driftwood.

There’s just not enough of him. This man is nice enough, but there’s something shaped like the hole in your body that’s missing. His hands are possessive, but they should be teasing and gentle as well. As if you’re a delicate work of blown glass, that’s stronger than it looks but still needs care. He should let you play until you get tired, and he eagerly jumps in to take over. He’s supposed to have slightly longer hair, and bigger hands, and wrap around you as he kisses, as if he’s more shield than man. 

You don’t have any idea where you got those fantasies. 

No one has ever touched you like that. Kissed you like that. Been enough that you’d hold them higher than the sun. 

“Yeah, doll,” the man grabs your ass as he drawls. “You’re such a dirty girl, aren’t you.”

You frown against his lips. That’s not right either. He’s supposed to say- 

“There you go.” He keeps your legs spread apart easily, pushing a finger in until it’s knuckle deep. “Yeah. That’s it. Oh fuck, you’re soaked.”

A loud, desperate moan tears through your lips, the word fuck maybe the most sinful thing in the world, when it’s from his lips. “Please, I- I need it, just-“ You try to roll your hips forward, grabbing at the sheets. “Please-“

“You’ll get it, baby.” He kisses your inner thigh, rubbing the sensitive skin in firm circles. “I always help you, don’t I? I take care of you.”

“Yeah, yes, you do, but- Fuck-“ You moan the sound you can’t hear, grabbing at his wrist. “More-“

“Can you relax, darling? For me, please?”

You go slack, and he grins. 

“There you go. That’s my good girl.” 

For a moment, as the bar comes back into focus, you’re frozen. 

Then the man grunts from below you, and you almost vault off his lap. 

Wrong. 

Everything, everywhere, is so fucking wrong. 

You leave with rushed apologies and a twenty-dollar payment for two drinks—too much, but you just need to go so they can keep the tip—and try not to trip over yourself running home. 

And you check the locks, twice. Close the windows and keep all the lights on, even as you get ready for bed. 

But it’s not safe. 

Not anywhere. 

You’re digging through your underwear drawer, and your fingers brush over a thick, warm fabric. When you pull it out, it’s a flannel that smells of stale amber and wood. It feels right, on your fingers, but you don’t have a clue where it came from, or why it’s here. 

But it’s warm. Even after months at the bottom of a cold dresser, it’s so warm. Like an ember. Like something clinging to a flickering fire that just refuses to die. That sparks, just when it’s about to go out. 

That keeps you warm. 

“Put it on, baby. Please.”

“No.” You raise a hand, blocking him from your view. “Puppy eyes don’t work on me,” you hum the noise you can’t hear, grinning out at the field. “I am perfectly warm. I’m basically a furnace. I think I could power the eastern seaboard, with how warm I am.”

“I, um- I don’t think that’s how energy works, sweetheart-“

“But maybe it does.”

He sighs, even as the heavy sound is laced with affection. “Okay. That can be how it works, but- Please. Put it on.” He pauses. “For me?”

You drop your hand, and glare at his pretty, innocent face—which is a fucking act, because he was face deep in your pussy like three hours ago—and hopeful, clear eyes. He just smiles at you nervously, still holding out the flannel, and you roll your eyes. 

“I hate it when you play that card.”

He blinks, looking honestly confused. “What card?”

“Shut up.” You grab the flannel out of his hand, and he grins.

“Yes, ma’am. Do you want help putting it on?”

You nod, shuffling closer to his side. If it were anyone else, they’d get a biting, harsh no. You can do it yourself, it’s just a flannel, and—because you’re not fucking seven—you know how sleeves and buttons work. 

But it’s him. And you want a reason to be as close to him as possible, so you can figure out how to crawl into his lap after. Be as surrounded by him as possible, and run your fingers through curly hair as he breathes against your neck. It makes you shiver, the feeling of his lips grazing sensitive spots on your throat while his hands splay over your back. 

“I’m not cold anymore.” You mumble in his ear, and you can feel his lips curve into a smile.

“Sorry, darling, but- I thought you weren’t cold at all?”

“Don’t be mean.” You whine the sound you can’t hear into his neck, and he chuckles. 

“I’ve been learning from the best. And she,” he kisses a spot behind your ear. “Is also so smart, and cares so much, and never lets anything hold her down-“

“That’s not true.” You grumble. “I let a lot of things hold me down.”

“Yeah, but you never give up,” he pulls back, holding your face gently in his hands. His thumb traces over your cheek, and it feels like he’s taking you apart. “You’re strong.”

You laugh dryly. “You’ve been through more.”

“Yeah. Once a goat ate my favorite shirt, and- Gosh, sweetheart, remember how the ice cream place didn’t have the flavor I wanted to show you.” He grins, kissing your cheek. “I’m basically going to hell and back.”

“I’ve had banana splits before-“

“Not like these, though-“

You sigh the sound you can’t hear, and he falls silent. “You know what I mean.”

Something blurs. Like you’re scrubbing through film footage. The world moves fast, and you’re being pulled like a puppet. Saying something, but not having a clue what. Like your voice was taken from your throat. Then it slows down, the world resuming, and your voice resumes.  

“I just think- It’s not the same-“

“I know it’s not the same.” He mutters your name, kissing your knuckles. At some point, his hand had taken yours during the blur. You hadn’t even noticed. “But you still get through a lot of stuff, baby. I think it would make most people fall.”

You smile at him sadly, voice dropping to a whisper. “I think it makes me want to fall, sometimes.”

“Well.” He folds his fingers through yours, and the sleeve of his flannel flops slightly. It looks like you don’t really stop at all. You just continue. Right into him. “I’m pretty freaking grateful that you don’t.”

The flannel gets shoved back into the underwear drawer. 

You stop looking around at things.

And it’s not fine. Nothing’s fucking fine. You’re not talking to anyone, really. Not going anywhere. Hiding in your own bed, just knowing that something is so incredibly off, as the echoes continue to grow, but you don’t have a word for it. And if you tried to find one, you’d sound fucking bananas. At best, you’re just having hyper-realistic daydreams that are freaking you out way more than they should. At worst, you have a brain tumor. 

You’ve explored all the options, in your new favorite place, the bathroom floor. And you’ve settled on a very sustainable do nothing until you either drop dead or someone pins you down and makes you get help. It’s a strategy that’s worked well this long, and nobody has managed to get you pinned down at all. 

“You’ve got a flu, sweetheart, you need to stay in bed-“

“You can’t make me,” you sing the sound you can’t hear, spinning in a wide circle, all the colors neon and pastel around you. “You’re not my boss, and you’re not bigger than me. I am,” you wrap your arms around his neck. “Bigger than a mouse.”

“Well, that’s not wrong.” He sighs, and picks you up as if you weigh nothing. 

“Wow.” You poke at his muscles, squirming in his arms. “You’re strong. And big.”

“I, uh- Thanks.”

“And hot. It’s so hot.” You whine the sound you can’t hear. “Why is it so hot?”

“That’s the fever, darling.” He sounds amused, but kisses the side of your head so gently. “I’ll text Perry from your phone, okay?”

“Okay.” You mumble, clinging to his shirt when he tries to set you down. “Can you stay?”

He sighs, scanning carefully over your face. “I have work, and- You know, the other thing-“

Everything blurs again. But this time, all of his words blurring together while you’re stuck in a static. Then it all resumes, and it’s as if nothing happened at all. 

“Please?” You pout, and he nods slowly. 

“Yeah. Okay. I mean, I can’t make a promise about that, but- I swear to you I’ll see what I can do-“

“Yay.” You beam, and flop back down onto the mattress. “I love you, Martian Man.”

“Different guy. And, um- Wrong planet.” He kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter shut. “But I love you too, my cow.”

You hum. “Would you buy me in an auction?”

“You know I’m not answering that, pretty girl.” He mutters, and he’s using the other voice. The deeper, smooth one that always makes you listen to whatever you say. “Go to sleep.”

The lights are getting long. The shadows of the small, Daily Planet bathroom feel longer. 

Your eyes are stinging with tears, and you wipe them with the thin corporate napkins. 

Spend a little too long looking in the mirror. 

Apparently, your thoughts aren’t fully safe anymore either, even in the quiet.

And you’d never said I love you. To anyone. 

But you said it to him.

The man who just lives in your head, who you can’t even afford to give a name, pulls love out of you in a way that feels bigger than the hole in your chest. In a way like a tree. Always growing and growing and taking deeper root, until it’s embedded in the Earth.

And he loves you back. 

But only in your fucking head.

“I’m not saying it’s weird.” Steve is almost shouting at Jimmy and Lois, and you poke your head over your computer to watch. “You know I’m a big fan of the guys, Lois, I’m just asking questions! Isn’t that our job?”

“To… learn about Kryptonian biology?” Lois snorts, taking a sip of her coffee. “No, I think that’s up to scientists, Steve.”

“Well, they have nothing to study-“

“Neither do we, dude.” Jimmy’s grin is shit-eating. “It’s not like Superman is in this room, so we can ask him questions about his penis.”

Clark coughs loudly, and you frown at him. His leg is bouncing, and his ears look a little red. 

Lois sees it as well, and calls across the room, “You alright, Clark?”

“Uh, yeah- I’m, yeah.” Clark clears his throat, shooting to his feet and walking over to join their group.

Which is gathered near your desk. 

It’s not making you nervous so much as wired. With every step Clark takes across the room, you feel more and more like electricity is humming under your skin, sparking up in that emptiness and just making everything very fucking confusing. 

Then Clark looks at you.

Only a quick glance, with that same worry in his brow and odd shine in his eyes. It’s the only way he’s been looking at you, lately. 

You flush, and look back to your computer with everything in you feeling like it’s on fire. 

“Um-“ Clark’s words are low, and you see him shake his head in your periphery. He’s looking at you. For too long, you can see the clearness of his eyes, feel them singeing on your skin. 

Then he looks away.

And you just feel cold. 

“What are we talking about?” He asks the group, and Steve scowls.

“I don’t want your thoughts on it, Kansas, I’m looking for the big leagues opinion-“

“Steve wants us to give Superman a pat-down.” Jimmy says quickly. “The full TSA. He says it’s for science.” 

“Which is a ridiculous claim.” Lois adds. “But also pointless. Because what, are you going to just call him out of the sky and start asking him questions?”

“I mean...” Steve pauses. “Isn’t that just what you and Kent do?”

“No. Or, well-“ Clark coughs. “Sort of, I guess. But we’re asking him important questions. About world politics.”

Jimmy raises his hand. “Didn’t your last interview with him consist of only questions about cows and breakfast.”

You peek over your computer again, and Clark is blushing. 

“I- He had a hard few weeks-“

“Or you’re just a pussy, right?” Steve laughs, raising his hand for a high five, and Lois gives him a flat look. 

“None of us are high-fiving that, man.”

“Whatever.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Why does Kent get to work with Superman and not me.”

Jimmy laughs. “You write sports, dude-“

“I’m sure he has opinions! The people want to know who he is! What baseball team he’s rooting for this season!”

“Yeah,” Lois shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s what people want to know about Superman.”

“I know.” The wind is biting at your skin, and you’re glaring at him in the dark.

This seems like it’s from a long, long time ago. The air is hotter, your shirt one you think you lost months ago. When you reach up to nervously run your fingers through your hair, that’s different as well. And he’s across from you, something different in his clear eyes. 

Different from all the other flashes. 

The same as it seems to be now. 

He sighs, taking a large step forward. “Can we not do this on the roof, please? I’m worried you’re going to catch a cold-“

“I’ll live.” You snap, raising your chin. Which is a mistake—the wind only bites you harder now—but you’re not going to back down from it. You’ll see this through. “I want you to tell me.”

“Tell you what?” He frowns, and winces slightly under your withering look. “I can’t say it. You know I can’t. If I tell you, then that’s on me-“

“What’s on you, the truth-“

“No, what I’ll be doing to you-“

“You’ve done a lot worse-“

“This isn’t a joke!” He shouts your name, taking a large step forward. “You could get seriously hurt, if you actually know! And if you get hurt, and I can’t save you, I’m-“ He shakes his head. “No. I’m not telling you.”

“I already fucking know-“

“Then just know, don’t make me tell you-“

“No, Clark! I know what it means that I know! I-“ You take a ragged breath, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “I’ve known for months, you dummy. I just- I sort of-“ You swallow, choking on the sob forming in your throat. “Never mind.”

You turn to walk away, and the world is blurring from tears in your eyes, but everything is also getting sharper at the same time. Like a camera lens, coming into a focus you hadn’t even known was off.

“No, wait-“ Clark shouts your name, grabbing the crook of your elbow. “Don’t- Shoot-“ 

He moves in front of you as you yank your elbow away, blocking your path off the roof. 

“Move.” You mutter, and he shakes his head. 

“You said you wouldn’t never mind me, baby.” He’s using the deep, commanding voice. The Superman voice. It’s cheating. “You promised. I always want to know what you’re thinking. Please.”

You shake your head, staring at his shoes. “It’s stupid-“

“No.” He grabs your chin, gently angling it up. Forcing you to meet his clear, bright, affectionate gaze. When you don’t speak—not out of spite, you’re mostly just trying not to cry—he prompts you gently. “You’ve really known for months?”

“Yeah.” You whisper. “I knew like, the first week I met you.”

His eyes widen. “How-“

“You wear your suit under your clothing, Clark.” You smile at him weakly. “You stretched. I saw. That was sort of it.”

“Oh.” He sighs, glancing down at that same suit, then back to you with a guilty expression. “Shoot.”

“Yeah. But nobody else has noticed, I promise. I asked around in a very covert way and the only other person who’s seen is Jimmy. But he said he asked you about it, and you said it’s just a weird compression shirt. Which, by the way, we need to come up with a better lie, Clark, because that one is-“

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” He mutters, and you swallow. 

“I wanted you to tell me.”

“Oh.” Clark nods, then says your name gently. “Why were you looking at my shirt, darling?”

You flush. “Don’t- This isn’t about me-“

“Really?” He grins. “Because I kinda think most things are.”

“I- Well-“ You sigh, dropping your face into his chest. “You’re cute.”

“Cute?” You can hear the grin in his voice. “You think I’m cute?”

“And… other stuff.”

“What other-“

“We’ve fucked, Clark!” You shove away from his chest. “You know I think you’re attractive, don’t be mean-“

“Yeah, I’m sorry.” He catches you easily, pulling you back into his body. “I just like hearing what you think about me, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”

“You said I’m sorry twice.” You grumble, and he kisses the tip of your nose. 

“Well, I am very sorry. And I love you. You’re the only cow I’d ever want to love.”

Your eyes widen. “You- Clark-“

“You don’t need to say it back,” he mutters your name, moving to kiss the corner of your mouth. “But I do. And I need to tell you something.”

You stare at him, and he grins at you, swiping his thumb over your lip.

“I’m Superman.” 

“Oh.” You can’t stop your stupid, wide smile. “Cool.”

“It kind of is, right?” He laughs, and pulls you up into a deep, full kiss. 

The long, dramatic kind of kiss. Where there might be music swelling in the background, and spotlights angling down to make the whole focus of everything just you and Clark. He’s dipping you down slightly, and your foot kicks into the air, and you’re dizzy and breathless when he finally pulls you upright. Still giving you smaller, softer kisses as you find your balance. 

“Just, um-“ He sighs, still holding you tight to his chest. “Please don’t call me Clark when I’m in the suit, sweetheart.” 

You giggle, murmuring against his lips. “I won’t if we can use it for sex stuff.”

“Oh. Uh-“ He blushes, but nods, dipping down to kiss your throat. “I think we can do that. You know you might be the death of me, right?”

“No. You’re not allowed to die.” You kiss the side of his head, and he sighs. 

“Yeah. But you aren’t either.” He pulls back, a deep furrow in his brow. “I’m serious. I really don’t want you to get hurt because of this-“

“I won’t.” You smile at him. “I promise.”

Someone says your name, and you blink to see Lois waving a hand in front of your face.

“Um, yeah?”

“Are you okay?” She frowns at you, scanning over your face. “You’ve been staring at the same spot for like, ten minutes. If you need, I can bring you to the hospital-“

“I don’t need a hospital.” You say quickly, looking back to your computer. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

And when you say it that time, it sounds even more like a lie than before. Lois isn’t convinced, even when you manage to talk her into just getting you some ice. You’re not convinced, because you can feel it. Even your computer doesn’t seem to be convinced, the screen so bright it feels judgmental. 

But most of all, Clark isn’t convinced. 

He’s not looking, when you do your routine scan to make sure nobody is watching. He’s just sitting at his desk, leg bouncing. 

Which is something he does, when he’s listening.  

You don’t know how you know that. Why you know that. When you learned that. 

But you know it’s Clark. 

That in your head, it’s Clark. It’s always been Clark. 

Or it’s never been Clark, and you’ve just lost your fucking mind. 

You don’t know anymore. What’s real. Why your brain has decided Clark is Superman, and why he’d ever say he loves you, or why this is happening to you. 

Something is more than wrong. Something is broken. It’s that massive fucking hollow in your chest, and it’s making your heart skip in all the wrong ways. Like you lost your metronome. Lost the beat. Can’t find it again, and now you’re falling and drowning on steady ground. 

Everything is so, so wrong. 

And when you don’t know what’s broken, you don’t know how to put it back together. 

You’re not even sure it can be put back at all. 

You have to ask him. 

It’s eating you alive. 

Clark sits across the office, and you squint at him until his face is a little more blurred, trying to blend it into the man of the echoes. You spend hours staring at your computer screen—decidedly not doing work—listening to his voice imagining him saying things to see if they match. 

Every night you watch shadows move over your ceiling at night, trying to organize every single strange moment into its place. 

Every morning, you stare at the flannel and try to remember something more. 

It’s a puzzle you can’t stand to finish, but need to or everything feels like it’s going to crumble apart. It’s a game you don’t want to play, but can’t bear to lose. 

There’s no logical reason for it to be real. You’d remember if you’d been kissing and dating and in love with Clark. Someone else would have known, someone would have said something, Clark wouldn’t have just let you forget if you had the love that seems to run under your every memory of him. 

And you’d think about it all the time if you knew Clark was Superman. 

You know, because you do think about it all the time. You’ve crunched the numbers. Built Rome in a day then tore it down, outlined the case and solved it with a pipe—anxiously chewed-up pencil—in your mouth. 

Clark is Superman. 

He’s always vanishing randomly, in the middle of the day. He’s always oddly invested in conversations about Superman, for someone who claims not to care much for superheroes, only ever commenting that they do good work before going to back to scrolling on his computer. He’s never sick, but when he is, it’s right after Superman’s had a really bad fight. His leg bounces when he’s listening to conversations he shouldn’t be able to hear. 

He has the same fucking face.

When you look at Clark, then down to the photo of Superman you pulled up on your phone, it’s the same fucking face.

But in the echoes—you’re afraid to call them memories, because that makes all of this too real—you’d told him you figured it out. 

It seems like, when you lay it all out on cluttered paper, you’d been dating before you told him you knew. 

You don’t know how you started dating. 

You’ve stared at him, and every corner of the office, and every single item you own, trying to will the answer into your existence. 

Then the building shifts, something clatters in your kitchen, and you shriek. 

The paranoia hasn’t gone away. 

You still don’t know where it came from in the first place. 

And you have to. You have to know. This isn’t something that’s going to pass. It’s only going to build and build and get worse and worse until you’re drowning in the vacuum of it all.

One person has the answers to your questions. And he’s at his desk, tapping on his phone and glancing up at the TV every few minutes.

It shouldn’t be that hard to talk to Clark. He’s your friend, and all you have to do is ask a very carefully calculated question that doesn’t make you sound crazy, but does invite him to tell you what you need to know. 

You can’t figure out what that question should be. 

So you’ve resorted to eavesdropping. 

You shuffle over to the copier, paper crumpling slightly in your fingers, and act as if you’ve never seen a machine before in your life. You’re not sure what you’re hoping he’ll say—maybe, oh, my coworker fell and hit her head and we’re all very worried, but she seems to be alright—but it’s a better plan than just driving yourself insane. 

You’re probably still going to end up doing that. It’s the plan you committed to first. 

This is mostly so you can say you tried.

And maybe, just maybe, so you can be a little closer to him. Hear his voice. 

See if anything at all comes back. 

“Ma.” Clark mutters into his phone, and you press a random button. “I’m coming home soon, I promise.”

There’s a pause as another voice crackles through the speaker, and Clark sighs. 

“No, I’ve told you, we’re not- Uh, it’s- Ma, it’s complicated- Yes, I know love shouldn’t be, but it’s not the feeling, it’s- Um-“ His eyes flick you, and he clears your throat. “I know I love her, Ma. But- I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it, please. Yes, I’ll wait for Pa.”

The line goes quiet, and he’s still looking at you. It’s like you’re being set on fire. 

You give him a weak smile. “I entered the wrong thing. To be copied.”

“Oh.” He returns the smile, and his looks so soft and real, it makes your throat ache. “They’re, uh- It’s still going?”

“Yeah, I, um- I figured other people might need some.” There’s an awkward moment of silence—he won’t stop looking at you—and you clear your throat. “Relationship problems?”

“No.” He says softy. “Nothing was ever a problem.”

You flush, looking back to the copier, and something really fucking stupid bubbles out of your throat. “Do you like cows, Clark?”

“Yeah. I love them.” He’s still fucking staring at you. “Do you?”

You shake your head. “I’ve always been more of a dog person.”

Ma Kent—with kind eyes and wrinkled hands that just finished touching pretty much everywhere on your face—laughs. “Oh, well, Clarkie was a dog boy, too, y’know. He liked to run around with the shepherds, and fly them up into the-“ Her eyes widen suddenly, and her eyes shoot to Clark. “Oh, I mean- He was just. flyin’ kites with Pa-“

“I would fly the herd dogs up into the sky.” He tells you, hand rubbing on the small of your back. “They liked being up there. Seeing all the birds. Made them happy, so I kept doing it. And it’s alright, Ma. She knows.”

“Oh. Wonderful. Did ya tell her, or did she figure it out.”

“I figured it out.” You beam, standing a little taller, and Clark sighs.

“That’s true. She did.”

“Oh, a smart girl.” Ma tilts her head at you, reaching up to cup your cheek once more. “Do you like pastries? Pa made too many, and I don’t got it in me to eat them all myself.”

You beam at her, leaning into Clark’s side. 

She likes you. 

The majority of the ride was spent with you working out every possible reason she might not like you, just to be ready. Clark had said you were just nervous, and she’d adore you. You’d told him that it wasn’t about you, it was about him.

You’d never think anyone was good enough for him either. 

He’d blushed, and muttered that you felt pretty good for him.

You’d made a sex joke. He’d blushed more. 

The goal had been to get them all out of your system before you arrived, because lewdness and vulgarity were on the list of reasons Clark’s parents might not like you. Even if Clark said they didn’t judge other people who swore, you hadn’t been about to take any chances. 

But it didn’t matter. 

She likes you. 

And when Ma Kent starts to lead you into the kitchen, you tug on Clark’s sleeve until he leans down, allowing you to whisper in his ear. 

“She likes me.”

“I know.” He chuckles, diving down to quickly plant a kiss on your lips. “Probably cause I love you.”

The paper you’d brought over is shredded on the floor, and Clark is saying your name. 

It’s with more and more worry every time, and he’s dropping the phone from his ear. Trying to reach for you. 

You can’t let him reach for you, because then he’ll touch you. Trigger another series of sparks in your chest. And it will keep slipping through your fingers too fast, when you still don’t know how to hold on.

But Clark’s a little faster than you think, for a guy his size. 

He moves forwards, and catches you by the wrist. “Sweetheart-“

“You’re pushing it.” He murmurs in your ear, and you lean your head back on his chest. “I thought you were tired?”

“I am.” You turn your face, pressing it into his shoulder as you sit in his lap. 

He holds you like he couldn’t bear to let go, even when you’re just in bed. Kisses your nose like you’re something sweet, when you’ve been all but grinding down onto his crotch for the last five minutes. But you can feel him, pressing through his sweats and rock hard. And if he just keeps dragging against your thighs and clothed core, you’re going to burst into tears. You need him inside of you.

Now. 

“If you’re tired, darling, we can go to bed-“

“Clark.” You whisper, turning your head to meet clear, slightly hooded eyes. “You could cut glass with this.”

You grind down onto him again, and he hisses softly.

“Don’t do that, it’s not fair-“

“Do you want me to stop?” You pout at him in a picture of innocence, and he groans.

“You know I don’t. But-“ He sighs, watching you carefully in the dark. “You’re tired. You sleeping is more important than me, you know-“ He thrusts up, and your lips fall over with a broken moan. 

Clark’s eyes widen at the reaction, and he’s quickly grabbing your face, angling it around to check for damage. 

“Shoot, baby, I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to-“

“Clark.” You whine, leaning into his touch. “Please.”

His throat bobs, and his thumb drops to slowly trace your lips. “You’re tired.”

“I’m always tired.” You mumble. “I want you.”

“Well, you kind of always want me- Christ.”

You take his thumb fully into your mouth, sucking on it with a lidded, sweet and drunken gaze, and you know you’ve won before you even let your tongue flick over the pad of the finger. 

He used a grown-up curse word. 

You’re getting what you want. 

“You want it?” He mutters your name, voice rough and low, and you hum around him. “Yeah? Can you please use your words, darling?”

You pop off of his thumb, and lean forward until your nose is bumping against his. “Can you please fuck me, Clark. Pretty please?”

He smiles, tangling his fingers in your hair. “That bad?”

You nod, and he raises his brows. 

“You going to let me take care of you?”

“Yeah- Oh-“

Your words die with a happy squeak as Clark drags you forward into a deep, long kiss. You’re too lost in the haze of it—of him, lips moving heavy and demanding over yours, teeth grazing your lips—to really notice how he’s moving you, until the angle is one you can’t hold the kiss in.

“Clark- Mmm-“ Your head falls against his shoulder, as he palms your breast with a large hand. “Don’t tease-“

“I’m not teasing.” He hums, slowly guiding your legs apart with his ankles over yours. “I’m taking care of you. And you like it, don’t you? This,” he rubs your nipple between his fingers. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” You whisper, and he grins.

“I know. Just feel it, darling.” He kisses the soft skin of your neck, and his hand wanders down between your thighs. “Can you feel it?”

You nod, grabbing his forearm as his massive fingers start to play between the folds of your pussy. You’re not sure when he got your clothes off. You don’t really care. 

“Yeah, there you go.” He’s cooing in your ear, and your free arm tries to reach up and wrap around his neck. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re so wet, sweetheart, you want a little more?”

“Yes.” Your back arches as Clark teases over your entrance. “More. I- I need it Clark, I-“

“Can you say please?” He flicks your nipple, and you nod.

“Please. Please, Clark, god-“ You let out a loud, sinful sound as his fingers find your clit, and start to rub. Harsh and fast, back and forth while he keeps playing with your breasts, and it’s already too much.

He’s worshipful, on your neck. Kissing and sucking on your skin, all while his fingers continue to drive you insane. You’re staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, just trying to keep up with what he’s doing to you, and Clark just keeps kissing you and touching your breasts like they’re something holy. 

You writhe in his arms, and he just keeps you steadily pinned. You drive to drive your hips up or grind down onto his cock, he slaps your pussy once—lightly, just a sting that makes you gasp—and keeps going. Your arousal is dripping down, wet on your ass and inner thighs, and you fly off the edge without a warning. 

Clark doesn’t stop. You can’t manage to close your legs, against his strength, and when you whine for him, you just get the same, low whisper in your ear. 

“Need you soaked, darling.” He whispers, just his voice making you moan. “Need you ready for me. You know that. Just one more.”

One more turns into two more, and by the time Clark’s hand finally slows, you’re a shaking, wired mess. He lands light hits on your cunt as you float down, and drags two fingers through the mess with a satisfied groan. 

“There she is.” He turns your head, offering you a gentle, loving kiss. “You ready, sweetheart?”

You nod, and Clark clears his throat.

“Can I please do the, uh-“

“Yeah.” You breathe out, trying to worm out of his arms to help. 

He doesn’t let you.

Clark grins like he just won the lottery, catches you by the waist, and pushes you slowly down into the mattress. Your face presses into the sheets, your ass up in the air, and Clark runs his fingers back through your pussy. Spreads your arousal around, groaning as his forefinger dips slightly into your cunt, and you flutter around him. 

“Yeah. That’s good” He crawls over you to kiss your neck. “You ready?”

You nod, trying to wiggle back into him, and he grunts.

“Yeah, alright, you’re ready. Fuck, darling, you’re so pretty.” He kisses down your spine, slowly massaging your hips and ass. “There you go. Just relax. Oh- Shit-“

Clark pushes into you, the stretch burning so fucking good, and your hands fist in the mattress. 

“So good.” He groans. “Always so good and tight for me, sweetheart, you’re-“ He grunts, bottoming out. “So fucking perfect, like an angel, so fucking good. Take me so well, this pussy was made for me-“

“Clark.” You whine, clenching around him, and he ruts into you.

“Oh, God-“ He draws fully out, then slams into you, knocking the air out of your lungs. “Yeah, fuck- Doing so good for me, baby, taking my cock like a- Shit-“

Clark cuts himself off with a groan, and pulls out for a split second, flipping you onto your back.

He slams back in, crashing his mouth down over yours, and starts to fuck you at an animalistic pace. Your nails scratch at his back, your body already so sensitive from before, but it’s pointless. Clark always fucks you like he’s never going to touch you again. His cock hits every spot inside of you that lights you up, his hands wander and touch you in every way you love, because he has them all memorized. 

When he hits a sensitive one, and gets a reaction, he fucks you a little harder. You moan his name, and his tongue shoves down your throat.

But Clark still drives his hips in a measured, careful way, keeping himself on a tight leash until you’re shaking and pleading around him. 

Then his kisses grow sloppy. 

His thrusts become uneven.

And he gives in fully when you cum with a cry of his name, your orgasm rushing through your whole body. 

Clark groans, slamming home with a grunt and messy, hungry kiss. 

You’re a little dazed, when you float down, but you still manage to reach up. Trace his slack, adoring features with light hands. 

“The point of the doggy is that you can dirty talk, baby.” You whisper, and he sighs, dropping his face into your neck. 

He still hasn’t pulled out. He hasn’t even fully softened inside of you. 

He’s probably not going to for a while. Clark likes to keep himself buried in you for as long as possible, until you need to pee and he’s carrying you to the bathroom.

He also has a dirty fucking mouth, that drives you out of your mind, and he refuses to use it. 

“You’re tired.” He mutters. “Felt mean when you’re tired.”

You laugh softly. “You know I like it, Clark-“

“Yeah, but I love you. And you should get the best.”

“I have the best.” You smile at him, and his lips twitch. 

“Yeah. I have the best too.” 

Clark says your name, voice almost as rough as it had been in your head. 

But without any lust or need. 

Just worry. 

And the same, tangible fucking affection, as his fingers squeeze your wrist.  

“I- I have to go.” You whisper, pulling your hand out of his grasp. 

He lets you. 

Clark could so easily hold on, but he lets you go.

But when you stumble away, and turn to run, you can feel it again. 

Someone watching. 

And when you glance over your shoulder, this time, Clark doesn’t look away. 

He just watches you with something so fucking heavy in his eyes, mouth hanging open as his hand still reaches out. 

Like he wants to catch you, but can’t. 

Like he knows you’re already gone. 

You can’t sleep. 

If you get into bed, you look to the side and see Clark there. Lying next to you and grinning. Holding your hand on his chest, then kissing your knuckles before rolling on top of you with a laugh. 

Something you’ve never had before. 

That it feels like you never really had at all. 

And you don’t understand. 

You crawl out onto the fire escape of your apartment—curling into a little ball on the stairs and just trying to breathe in the fresh air—and you can’t fit all of it in your head. Where this all came from, why it feels so right, and why you would have ever forgotten it. 

If this is something that was real, and you’re not just going insane, then you would never have let it go. You would have climbed mountains and screamed at the clouds, if it got taken away from you. If Clark got taken away from you. 

But he was, and you’re just sitting on cold metal stairs.

At least, it feels like he was taken away from you. Something was taken away from you. Something that you needed and wanted has been turned into his gaping hole, and the only thing that seems to fit is Clark. 

He hasn’t said anything. Hasn’t treated you any different than you can remember—although you don’t really trust your own mind anymore—and just stares at you with that worry. 

As if he knows something’s wrong, but can’t fix it. 

Won’t fix it. 

If Clark knows it’s broken, he won’t fix it for you. And if it’s not just all in your head, you’re not sure he loved you at all. 

Then, you feel it. 

Something watching you. 

Your head shoots up, and the streets are dark. Quiet, for the city. Not too quiet that it’s heralding certain death, but quiet. 

There’s a shadow, in the alley across the street. Oddly shaped, and sort of suspended in the air. 

You swallow—if you’re wrong, nobody ever has to know—and whisper, “Clark?”

Superman darts out of the alley, landing across from you on the fire escape, and smiles. Soft. Confident and nervous all at once, with his shoulders relaxed but words gentle and gaze filled with that worry. 

And it’s Clark. You can look at him and know that better than anything else. You know his face, because it’s imprinted like a burn on your brain. It’s not strange to see him in the suit, because you’ve seen it a million times before. 

You think you’ve seen it a million times before. 

But you know you’ve seen the worry. The furrow of his brow and pressing of his lips that’s all Clark, and all for you. 

Like he cares. 

“I’ve told you not to call me that when I’m in the suit, sweetheart.” 

You pull your knees into your chest, blinking up at him. “I- I’m-“

He mutters your name, taking a step forward, and you curl into a smaller ball. 

“Why are you here?”

Clark sighs, throat bobbing. “I shouldn’t be.“

“Cl- Superman.” You correct yourself quickly, and it feels strange on your tongue. “That’s not an answer-“

“I was supposed to keep away.” He says suddenly, wincing slightly. “I really shouldn’t be here, I should’ve been avoiding you all together, but-“ He mutters your name, looking up with clear, sad eyes. “I have to know you’re okay, sweetheart. I need you to tell me you’re okay.”

You swallow, forcing your gaze to hold on his. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why do you need to know?” You whisper. “Why does it matter to you?”

His jaw presses together, and his attention darts out to the street. Mostly empty.

Something tugs on your head, and you can hear him muttering in your ears. Nothing’s ever empty enough. Safer than safe. Don’t want a mostly safe fence post, whole thing will go kaboom down.

Your lips twitch, because you remember laughing at kaboom. 

Everything hurts, because you don’t really remember it at all. 

“Can we go inside, please?” He points to your window, and you nod weakly. 

He reaches out to help you to your feet, but pulls away at the last second, and it makes your heart burn. He opens the window, and holds it up for you to go first. 

You want to reach for him, when he clambers in behind you. You can’t get yourself to move. 

The moment he’s inside, it hits you like a wave. 

Clark’s sitting with you at the table and holding your hand, because he refuses to let go. He’s spinning you around in the kitchen, and carrying a million plates while you giggle, worried he’s going to drop them. He’s hanging that painting on your wall and making your bed while you hug him from behind and kissing you on the couch because you couldn’t wait for the bedroom, but he won’t just take you on the floor. He’s painting your nails, because he spent hours practicing just for you. Kissing your cheek before he leaves in the morning, and looking back with a sweet, secret grin before he leaves out the window.

And it all feels so fucking real. It all fits so neatly into that space in your chest. It makes your heart beat the way it should, and the world seems to stop spinning at an off-kilter angle. 

You never would have forgotten that. 

But you did. 

And you don’t understand. 

Clark looks like he’s going to reach for you, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. He should be out of place, in the bright, costumey superman outfit. 

But he doesn’t. 

This seems like somewhere he’s supposed to be. The walls feel closer, and it could be the shallowness of your breath, but it also might just be how they’re trying to reach for Clark. As if even they feel emptier without him. 

They shouldn’t know him at all. But they do. 

You do. 

And it makes the emptiness hurt even more. 

Clark says your name, watching you like you’re going to turn to dust before his eyes. “Please, tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m not.” You say it before you can think. 

You can tell him. 

You tell Clark everything.

He mutters your name, and you shake your head.

“I- I’m not okay, Clark, I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know what’s real, I don’t trust myself, I don’t trust anything, and I- I scared, Clark, please, I’m so, so scared-“

A sob chokes in your throat, and he moves in a flash. Pulls you into his chest, holding you tight and wrapping over you. Like he’s trying to shield you from every bit of harm. 

You hug him back. Your arms fly up because it feels like the only thing to do, and your face presses into his chest because there’s no other place for you to be. You fit so well there. 

You never would have let go. 

“I don’t know what’s real.” You whisper into his body, and he stiffens slightly. “Clark, I can’t tell anymore, please, I- I don’t know what happened, I don’t know,” you shake your head, words weak and broken through the tears. “Please.”

You’re not sure what you’re begging for. All you know is that Clark is running his fingers through your hair, and holding you the same way he looked at you. 

As if he’s afraid you’re going to vanish from his hands. 

“I’m so sorry,” he mutters your name, heavy strain in his voice. “I can’t tell you. It’s not safe.”

You sniff, clinging to him a little tighter. “But I- I think I loved you.”

There’s a long silence, and Clark’s voice is hoarse when he breaks it.

“You did.” He murmurs, and when you lean back, his eyes are shining with tears. “You really did, darling, but- You said it wouldn’t get you hurt.”

Something haunted flashes over his face, and in the very back of your head—pushed under something deeper than the emptiness, under something iron you don’t want to open and set free—you can hear it. 

Your own screams. 

“It got me hurt?” You blink up at him, and he gives a small, tight nod. “How-“

“Luther.” He mutters, and your blood goes cold. “He worked out I might not just be up in the arctic, all the time. He thought you knew my identity, about my family, my parents. He took you, and-“ Clark’s hands tense on your body, and a tear slides down his cheek. 

“Clark-“

“You never broke.” He whispers. “You were so, so strong, but- I can’t let you get hurt again. I- I’m not worth that. Ma and Pa, they wouldn’t want it, nobody should have to go through that just because of me, and I- I found you.” He shakes his head. “I’m never living in a world where I don’t find you.”

“You’d rather not have me at all?”

Clark sighs your name, and you shake your head.

“No, I- I don’t want to forget, you can’t just-“

“It wasn’t me.” He says glumly, reaching up to trace a hand over your face. “You were so worried about me. You said you’d already talked to Terrific about it, and he knew a guy who could wipe it. Everything about us. Everything about me being Superman. Oh, geez.” He laughs weakly. “He’s not going to be happy it didn’t work.”

You drop your chin on his chest, keeping your words soft. “It didn’t. At all.”

“When-“

“The first day I got back from vacation. I remember us talking about redwood trees. You’ve always wanted to go.”

He looks like you’re shooting him. “Yeah. I have.”

“That wasn’t a vacation, was it.”

“No.” Clark bows his head, brow pressing to yours. “It wasn’t.”

There’s a moment of silence as you just breathe each other in, then Clark’s fingers curl on your hips. 

“Do you want me to fix it?” He mutters. “Wipe you again?”

Your heart moves into your throat. “No. No. Clark, I- I just want you.”

He frowns, and takes a sudden, large step away. “But what if you get hurt again? It’s not- It won’t be safe-“

“I feel safe now.” 

You do. 

For the first time since the vacation, you feel safe. 

And you’re not going to let go.

“What about when you aren’t safe?” Clark shakes his head, still backing away. “What about when I can’t find you?”

“You will, I trust you-“

“I almost didn’t-“

“But you did-“

“What if I don’t?” His voice is rising, and he’s taking another step away. “Broken hearts heal, I- I’m not God, darling, I can’t put you back together-“

“I already feel broken.” You whisper, and he freezes. “Please, Clark. Please. I- I can feel it here.” You point to the center of your chest. “So much of my life is you, you’re everywhere, I- I’m never going to be able to forget, please don’t make me-“

“I- I’d never make you-“

“So let me stay.” You plead, taking a small step forward. “I still love you, I- I’ll wait forever for you to love me again-“

“I never stopped.” He whispers. “I still love you, of course I still love you, I’ll never stop, you’re- You’re everything to me, but- If you get hurt-“

“I’ll be okay.”

“But-“

“I’m okay now.” You give him a sad smile. “With you. I- I need to remember, Clark. Please.” You take a ragged breath. “Tell me it’s real.”

Clark’s eyes flash, and he shifts on his feet for a second. 

Then he’s moving. 

Lunging forward, and pulling you into his arms.

Kissing you. Long and deep, like he’s never needed to breathe, and you’ve never needed to breathe either because this is better. This is warm and safe and cared for, and it’s all around you in a way you know so well. Your arm slots around his neck and you trace his face as you get lightheaded, because you could draw him in your sleep. 

And the kiss sends so much of it flooding back. Clark’s warm, and he smells like amber and wood. Tastes like sweet pastries and coffee. 

Feels like yours. 

“It’s real.” He mutters against your lips, and his voice in your head is as clear as the rest of him. 

“Clark…” You mumble, and he nods, smiling against your lips.

“You and me.” Clark whispers. 

He’s not letting go either. 

“It’s always been real.”

✦End note: Oh to love someone so much it physically cannot be erased. I'm very normal about memory fics, guys✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[whimsynerd7]

the other Bennet sister fills me with so much hope. for the girls who were never chosen. for the girls who have never fit in. for the girls who’s sisters naturally seem to flourish socially but couldn’t understand why it wasn’t the same for them. for the girls who are overlooked. for the girls who dream of a gentle and stable love. for the girls who tell everyone they’re okay with being alone. this one was for us, love is possible.

[callsign-mayhem]

One bed trope with Bradley Bradshaw is a need!! The reader is a little shy (very little) and Bradley is always loudly flirting with her too. It just makes sense. Maybe some misarrangements during a destination wedding for a dagger squad member makes this event happen.

no vacancy (b.b)

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Shy!Reader Word count: 10.5k CW: Slightly explicit content towards the end, MINORS DNI. Use of Y/N, a few swears.

A/N: Thank you so much for requesting! This one got away from me a bit, so I hope it's not too far off what you had in mind. I had the best time writing this one! The one-bed trope never gets old.

Javy Machado’s wedding was supposed to be a relaxing getaway for you.

He and his wife-to-be, Paisley, had chosen Cabo for their destination wedding, and you were more excited at the prospect of a getaway with your squad than the actual ceremony.

If that made you a bad friend, then so be it.

It was a miracle that you’d all been granted leave for the three-night extravaganza, and you intended to make the most of every second. Your suitcase was full of brand new bikinis with matching sunglasses for each, paperbacks you’d been meaning to read for months, and two cute outfits for each day in case you wanted to change in the evenings. Your wedding outfit was in a separate garment bag, slung over your forearm.

The resort Javy and Paisley had picked was, quite frankly, magical—funny since it was situated in a “Pueblo Mágico,” which translated to “magical town.” Located in Todos Santos on the Pacific coast of Baja California Sur, it had its own private beach with clear blue water and white sand. Plenty of art galleries and surf spots surrounded the area if you fancied any excursions, although you had every intention of spending most of your free time lounging by the pool or swimming in the ocean.

Penny and Maverick checked in first, then the rest of your squad. Everyone was paired off and given their room keys, leaving just you and Bradley. Jake shot you a cheeky wink as he followed Nat across the foyer, and your skin prickled as realisation dawned on you.

‘You two are booked into one of our ocean-view rooms on the third floor,’ the receptionist said with a warm smile. ‘I’m going to give you two key cards, but if you lose them, let me know, and I can make you another.’

Your eyes flicked to Bradley, who had a shit-eating grin on his pretty face.

‘We’re sharing a room?’ He asked.

The receptionist frowned and glanced between the two of you with a confused expression on her face.

‘You’re Mr Bradshaw? And Miss Y/LN?’ She queried. ‘I’ve got you two down to share, as the rest of the rooms are filled with other guests from the Machado wedding party.’

You groaned internally as Bradley’s smile widened. ‘No worries,’ he said, taking the keys.

No worries? Of course he’d say that. And of course you’d be the one stuck sharing with him. Javy probably thought he was hilarious, orchestrating this. You made a mental note to tell him exactly what you thought of that when you saw him at dinner tonight.

It was an ongoing thing: Bradley’s overbearing and loud attempts at flirting with you and your hurriedness in shutting him down. Objectively, you knew he was attractive. And despite his loudness, he was funny, kind, and reliable. Bradley Bradshaw was the kind of guy most women tripped over themselves to be with, and rightly so.

But you?

You’d always believed that you were too quiet for someone like him.

He didn’t seem to share this belief, and he flirted with you every chance he got. Sometimes you wondered if he was just doing it for the bit, but he hadn’t been with anyone else for as long as you’d known him. As far as you were aware, he’d never even taken anyone home after a night at The Hard Deck, and you knew with absolute certainty that he could’ve if he wanted to.

On the walk up to the room, Bradley hummed to himself, irritatingly joyful about this turn of events. You still hadn’t said a word, because what were you supposed to say? “I snore when I’m really tired, and I like to have the windows open instead of the AC. Also, please don’t touch my expensive shampoo?” Anything you thought of in your head sounded ridiculous and obsolete. While Bradley fiddled with the key card, you pulled your phone out of your pocket to text Phoenix if she knew about this. 

Truthfully, you suspected that the whole squad knew. You wouldn’t have been surprised if Bradley had been the one to suggest it. Bradley opened the door and stepped aside so you could go in first, ever the gentleman. The room was stunning. Huge, bifold windows that opened out onto a balcony with a table and chairs for morning coffees, a flat screen TV that you doubted you’d even turn on, ornate decorations and crisp white bed sheets…

On the double bed.

The one large, double bed.

Bradley appeared behind you, smelling of clean cotton and whatever aftershave he always wore that you found yourself searching for in the shops. But that was besides the point.

‘Shit.’

You could hear the smirk in his voice, and you just managed to refrain from smacking him around the head.

‘What are we going to do?’ You fretted, scanning the room for a couch or a pullout bed, of which there was neither.

Of course.

Bradley wheeled his suitcase further into the room and pushed his aviators up into his hair. He turned to look at you, trying to gauge your reaction to the situation.

‘I can sleep on the floor,’ he offered with a shrug. ‘Or I can see if Mav’s room is any bigger. Maybe he has a couch.’

You ran your fingers through your hair. ‘You can’t share with Mav and Penny. That’s ridiculous.’

Bradley set his backpack down on the bed with a sigh. ‘Then I’ll sleep on the floor.’

‘I find it hard to believe that there’s not a single other room left in this whole place,’ you grumbled, dumping your purse on the bed next to Bradley’s bag.

‘Paisley has five sisters,’ Bradley reasoned, ducking his head into the bathroom to investigate. ‘Coyote has four brothers. They’ve invited most of their friends and family, and our whole squad and all their partners are here. That doesn’t even account for the rest of the people Coyote’s invited from the navy.’

You kicked your suitcase over with a little more force than you’d intended and unzipped it in search of a bikini. Just because you were stuck sharing a room with Bradshaw didn’t mean you had to change the rest of your plans.

‘I can’t imagine wanting a big wedding like this,’ you ruminated. 

‘You wanna get married someday?’ Bradley asked, sliding the balcony doors open.

‘If I find the right guy.’

‘Maybe you already have.’ He teased.

You gave him a flat look. ‘I think I’d know.’

‘See, you say that,’ he drawled. ‘But you seem to be painfully unaware of a lot of things.’

You gaped. ‘I am not.’ You flushed, indignant.

Bradley smirked. ‘Whatever you say, sweetheart.’

You set about unpacking some of your things while Bradley helped himself to drinks and snacks from the minibar.

It was strange to be alone with him in a setting like this. You couldn’t help but wonder if things might be easier between the two of you if he weren’t so damn forward all the time. Even after knowing him for the better part of a year, he always managed to catch you off guard with a flirtatious comment or a sultry stare. It wasn’t so bad at work or The Hard Deck, where you had common ground and the rest of your squad to act as a buffer, but you hadn’t spent a great deal of one-on-one time together.

Mostly because you avoided it.

If you weren’t alone with him, he couldn’t make you flustered. And if you weren’t flustered, you couldn’t make a fool of yourself.

Now, you kind of felt like you’d been thrown to the wolves, and you dreaded to think what was going to be left of you by the end of the weekend.

‘I’m going to the beach,’ you announced, grabbing your bag and a pair of sunglasses.

Bradley looked at you, chocolatey eyes wide and expecting in a way that made you want to run and jump into his strong arms. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but you didn’t give him the chance.

The sight of him was honestly just too much, and you didn’t trust yourself to be normal when he looked at you like that. 

You should’ve known you’d find Bob at the beach with a tattered paperback in hand, glasses sliding down his nose. He was a lot like you in the sense that he wasn’t one for commotion—perhaps that’s why you connected so easily.

When he saw you approaching, his cheeks dimpled with a smile so wide, you couldn’t help but smile back.

‘Hey,’ he said, closing his book. ‘You okay?’

You dumped your beach bag in the sand and pulled another sun lounger over so you could sit beside him. ‘I was,’ you replied as you sat down. ‘Until I got stuck sharing a room with Rooster. Apparently, there are no other rooms left.’

Bob gave you a glib look. ‘You know Javy and Jake planned the whole thing,’ he told you. ‘They made sure there were no more rooms left.’

Indignation sparked in your chest. ‘I knew it! I fucking knew it!’

Bob chuckled. ‘I’m sorry, Y/N.’

You waved him off. ‘I should’ve expected it from those two,’ you said. ‘Who are you sharing with?’

Bob handed you a bottle of water, and you thanked him. ‘Fanboy,’ he sighed. ‘We’re the only two singles left in the group.’

You took a sip of your water—it was nice and cold and just what you needed in the heat of the Mexican sun.

‘You forgot Rooster and me,’ you corrected, pointing your bottle at him accusingly.

Bob gave you a sly grin, which was a rarity for him. ‘Come on, Y/N. You don’t have to pretend with me.’

‘I’m not pretending!’ You sputtered. ‘Nothing is going on between me and Rooster!’

Bob scoffed. ‘Yeah, right. And I suppose the sky isn’t blue, either.’

You lay back against your sun lounger and covered your face with your hands. Sure, Bradley flirted with you incessantly, and yes, maybe you did have a teeny tiny crush on him. But you’d always found it hard to believe that there was any real weight behind Bradley’s words. You told Bob all of this, and when you peeked between your fingers, he was looking at you like you were the biggest moron in existence.

‘Rooster is a lot of things, but he’s not the kind of guy who’d play around with someone’s heart like that. He probably just doesn’t wanna go in too heavy and scare you off.’

Deep down, you probably knew this, but you weren’t ready to face the music.

‘I’m not the right type of person for him, Bob,’ you said quietly. ‘He’s literally the human embodiment of sunshine.’

The pages of Bob’s book rustled as he leaned forward and patted your hand affectionately. ‘Don’t sell yourself short, Y/CS. You’re pretty special, too.’

You looked away, blushing. ‘Thanks, Bobby.’

‘Any time you need a reality check, I’m your guy,’ he joked. ‘But seriously, you should think about what I’ve said. Maybe this weekend is the perfect opportunity to find out if he means what he says.’

Your stomach quite literally clenched at the thought.

Bradley was good at talking, but what would it be like if he actually put his money where his mouth was? You could only imagine what being truly loved by him would feel like, how changed you’d be after basking in his impossibly bright rays.

Water lapped the shore gently as you and Bob fell into an easy beat of silence. You liked spending time with Bob; being in his company was as easy as breathing, and he never asked anything of you. Because of this, you were rarely shy. What you wouldn’t have given for it to be like that with Bradley.

‘What are you reading, anyway?’ You asked, desperate for a change of subject. It was hot enough outside as it was without thinking about Bradley.

‘East of Eden,’ Bob replied, flashing the cover of his book to you. ‘I’ve read it before, but not since high school.’

‘The classic debate of good vs evil,’ you remarked. ‘Just a bit of light reading on vacation, huh?’

Bob laughed. ‘I like to keep my brain fed.’

‘I know you do,’ you smiled. ‘That’s why I love talking to you so much.’

It was Bob’s turn to flush. He looked away and swallowed nervously.

‘What about you?’ He stammered. ‘What are you reading?’

You handed him the battered, well-read copy of one of your favourite books. It was part of a series, and you’d been rereading them for nostalgia purposes. He read the blurb and nodded approvingly.

‘Sounds pretty good, actually.’

A heavy hand landed on your shoulder, making you jump. Thoughts veering totally off track, your body’s reaction told you who it was without you needing to turn around.

‘What does?’ Bradley asked, stepping over the end of your sun lounger and perching on the edge.

‘Y/N’s book,’ Bob replied, shooting you a knowing smirk.

‘What is it?’ He asked, reaching for the book which Bob handed him.

‘Just an old favourite from when I was a teenager,’ you explained, keeping your eyes planted firmly on your lap so you wouldn’t oggle too much. ‘I’m rereading the whole series.’

‘Oh, cool,’ he replied, hand coming to rest on your shin. ‘I forgot my book.’

Your eyes flicked to his calloused hand on your leg. It was such a simple, casual act, but it drove you nuts nonetheless; it was an effort to stay focused on the conversation. ‘I didn’t know you could read.’ You said sweetly, hoping you didn’t sound too affected.

Bob choked on his water, and Bradley tipped his head back and laughed, a full-on belly laugh that made your chest tighten.

‘I’ll have you know, I like reading,’ he said, locking eyes with you. ‘Just have to be in the mood.’ His grip on your leg tightened, and warmth pooled in the bottom of your stomach.

‘That so?’

‘Uh-huh,’ he grinned, winking at you over his aviators. ‘I’m going for a swim.’

And with that, he was off like a shot towards the water, muscles expanding deliciously as he ran.

Bob was trying and failing to contain his laughter.

You read a few chapters of your book, stopping now and then to share lines you liked with Bob, who was doing the same. When Bradley came back dripping wet and somehow even more God-like than he’d been thirty minutes ago, you decided it might be a good idea to go for a swim as well, just to cool down. Being around him on base or at The Hard Deck was bad enough, but on a beach in Cabo in the blistering summer heat when he looked like that? It was impossible to think straight, especially when he pulled a sun lounger so close to yours that the arms touched and took a long drink from your water bottle. The worst part of it was that he did all this as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Almost like you were already a couple, which everyone else in your squad seemed to think you were.

Nat and Jake appeared with more drinks and a large platter of fresh fruit to share, which she promptly deposited in Bradley’s lap so she could lay her beach towel out. Jake took one look at Bradley, who was so close to you you might as well have been sharing a sun lounger, and smirked to himself like the cat who got the cream.

‘This looks cosy,’ he drawled, moving his toothpick from one corner of his mouth to another.

Bradley squinted up at him, unable to move without jostling the impressive tray of fruit. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something smart in response to Jake’s comment—something that would probably make you even more flustered—so you jumped up and grabbed hold of Nat’s arm.

‘Shall we go for a swim?’

Nat straightened, eyes flicking from you to Bradley as a knowing look spread across her face. You could feel Bradley’s gaze burning holes into your back, and you adjusted the straps of your white bikini self-consciously, suddenly hyperaware of the miles of skin you had on display.

‘Sure,’ she replied, brows raised. Then, once you were out of earshot of the rest of the group: ‘You’re acting weird.’

You threw your hands up. ‘I can’t help it! I feel like a caged animal!’ She laughed and you shot her a glare. ‘Glad to see my pain is funny to you, Trace.’

‘Oh come on,’ she nudged your ribs playfully. ‘You need to relax, stop taking it so seriously.’

You’d reached the shore. The cool, clear water lapping at your ankles was just the kind of grounding you needed.

‘I can’t help it,’ you whined. ‘There’s too much pressure on the situation. Bob told me that Jake and Javy were behind us sharing a room.’

Nat rolled her eyes. ‘You weren’t supposed to know that.’

‘You knew too?’ You exclaimed, shoving her lightly. ‘I can’t believe you! Dating Hangman is really rubbing off on you in the worst possible way.’

The two of you waded deeper until the swell reached your waists; then, you leaned back and let the tide claim you, your hair fanning out beneath the waves.

‘If it makes you feel any better,’ Nat said, pushing her dark hair out of her face. ‘Bradley didn’t know.’

You regarded your friend. Being the only two females in your squad meant that you were quite close, and you always knew when she was lying. You could tell by the set of her shoulders and the look in her eye that she was telling the truth about this.

‘I just don’t like being backed into a corner,’ you admitted, scrunching your toes in the sand. ‘He makes me nervous enough as it is.’

‘Y/N,’ Nat sighed. ‘Can I give you a piece of advice?’

‘I have a feeling you’re going to anyway, no matter what I say.’

She gave you a glib look. ‘Get out of your own head and just lean into it,’ she told you. ‘So what if Jake and Javy orchestrated the whole thing? At some point, something had to give. He looks at you like you hung the fucking moon in the sky.’

You couldn’t help but glance back at the beach. With the distance, you couldn’t be certain, but you were pretty sure that Bradley was still watching you over the top of his sunglasses.

‘Bob said pretty much the same thing,’ you relented.

‘Well, Bob’s a smart guy,’ Nat said, standing up. ‘If you’re not gonna listen to me, you should listen to him.’

You followed her back to shore, mulling over what she’d said. Did Bradley really look at you like you’d hung the moon? Most of the time, you were too flustered to properly read into it, but maybe your friends were right, and there really was more to his flirting than simply getting under your skin.

As you approached the guys, Bradley tracked you without shame, leaning back on his forearms like he didn’t have a care in the world. You almost lost your nerve when he sat up higher and pulled his sunglasses down further so he could see you better. For once, instead of shying away, you decided to be bold and add a little sway to your hips. His eyes immediately darkened as he ran his tongue over his bottom lip.

When you reached your sun lounger, you took your time drying off with your towel and brushing the sand from your legs before sitting down. Bradley’s attention never once left you.

‘You’re always looking at me like that,’ you said lowly, so only he could hear you.

‘Like what?’ He asked, smirking.

‘You know what.’

He reached up and ran his fingers through his curls and released a long breath. ‘Sorry. Can’t help it.’

His voice had dropped lower, and he seemed to be struggling to sit still. In the spirit of leaning into it like Nat had said, you allowed yourself a small moment of satisfaction in knowing you had an effect on him.

‘Don’t apologise,’ you told him.

His eyes darted to you, questioning, like he wasn’t sure whether he’d heard you correctly. The air seemed to shift around the two of you, and you were distantly aware that there was no turning back now.

‘I’m gonna go get some ice cream,’ you announced. ‘Want one?’

‘Sure,’ he sputtered, tracking you once again as you stood up. ‘Thanks.’

You flashed him your widest, prettiest smile and relished in the way his lips tugged upward beneath his moustache.

‘No problem, roomie.’

Bradley let you take the first shower when you got back to your room. You took your time washing your hair twice, and then took extra care scrubbing the sand from every inch of your body.

You were stalling.

The Daggers had a reservation at a fancy restaurant a little way from the resort, but it wasn’t for another hour. That meant sixty whole minutes alone in a room with Bradley Bradshaw with nobody to act as a buffer and no ocean to disappear into.

Hence the twenty-minute-long shower.

The bathroom was just as beautiful as the rest of the suite, complete with a waterfall shower, his and hers sinks and light-up mirrors. You stepped out onto the fluffy mat in search of a towel, but all you could find was a couple of small hand towels.

An icy chill ran down your spine as you remembered the towels folded up at the foot of the bed.

Fuck.

Gingerly, you opened the bathroom door and poked your head out. Bradley was stretched out on the bed, flipping through your current read.

‘Can you pass me a towel?’ You squeaked. ‘There are none in here.’

Bradley’s head snapped up.

You watched the realisation that you were naked behind the door wash over him, and his eyes darkened just like they had on the beach. A sly grin tugged at his lips as he set your book down and swiped a towel from where they were folded into swans.

‘What’s the magic word, sweetheart?’ He teased, voice an octave lower than usual.

Your toes curled instinctively, grip tightening on the edge of the door

‘...Please.’

He came right up to the bathroom door, but didn’t hand the towel over right away—just stood there, a little too close, like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to be doing.

His eyes flicked over your face and settled on the water pooling in your collarbones. You thought you saw his breath hitch, though surely smug, confident Bradley Bradshaw wouldn’t be so affected by the sight of your naked shoulders.

You reached around the door and waved your hands impatiently, and he blinked as though startled.

‘Sorry,’ he murmured, biting back a grin as he handed you the towel. When his fingers brushed yours, your breath hitched, and you slammed the bathroom door shut suddenly and leaned against it.

He didn’t even have to try to get you worked up. Honestly, it was a little embarrassing.

After wrapping yourself in the fluffy towel, you bit the bullet and walked out into the bedroom. All your clothes were in your suitcase because—of course—you hadn’t thought to take them in the bathroom with you. You didn’t feel like asking Bradley to root through all your underwear to find you an outfit, thank you very much.

He didn’t move an inch as you sashayed across the room, just kept his eyes planted firmly on the wall in front of him, jaw set like it took effort to keep them there. After the way he’d stared at you at the beach earlier, you weren’t sure why he was bothering to be chaste now. He swiped another towel from the foot of the bed and disappeared into the bathroom, all without fully turning around, like he was afraid to look at you.

Or maybe he was afraid that you’d look at him.

After taking a deep, steadying breath, you moisturised and put on your evening dress. It was a cute, baby yellow number that you’d picked out especially for this trip. Admittedly, you’d had Bradley in mind when you’d bought it, though you’d die before ever telling anyone this.

It was hot enough outside that you could leave your hair to air dry, so you grabbed a mini bottle of prosecco from the fridge and a glass and headed out onto the balcony. The view of the private beach was breathtaking and made you wish you could take vacations more often.

By the time you heard the bathroom door open, the sun had started to set, and you’d nearly finished your drink.

Bradley had taken longer than you in the shower, and that was saying something.

You blamed the bubbly for your inability to keep your eyes on the beautiful ocean view, and turned subtly in your seat.

Bradley had his back to you, a white towel hanging low on his waist. Up until now, you hadn’t given men’s backs much thought, but now you were reconsidering. The expanse of tanned skin pulled taught over impressive muscles had you wondering about other areas of his body.

Now who was shamelessly staring?

Practically drooling, you watched him dig through his suitcase for some clothes, mesmerised by his fluid movements—so mesmerised, in fact, you only just managed to turn back around before he dropped his towel to the floor.

‘Hey, Y/CS?’ He called.

Your stomach somersaulted. ‘Yeah?’ You squeaked.

‘This mirror on the wall by the door’s nice, huh?’ He replied, smirk audible in his voice.

Your brows furrowed as you tried to work out what he was talking about. What did a mirror have to do with anything?

Silence stretched out for a second.

Then it dawned on you.

He must have seen you ogling him in the reflection.

Heat crept up the back of your neck as you rubbed your temples, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole.

After a few minutes of quietly simmering with embarrassment, Bradley appeared on the balcony, dressed in black dress pants and a loose-fitting, white linen shirt. He’d combed his wet hair back, and his aviators were perched precariously on the tip of his nose. To top it all off, he smelled delicious.

‘Ready to go?’ He asked innocently.

You knocked the rest of your drink back and stood up. ‘Yep.’

He followed you across the room, and just as you opened the door, he placed a hand on your shoulder to stop you. Gently, he untucked your wet hair from beneath the back of your dress and tucked it over one shoulder so your back wouldn’t get wet. It wasn’t the feel of his fingers against the nape of your neck that startled you; it was the softness of the gesture. It affected you more than his loud, outward attempts at flirting.

You were frozen to the spot as he let his hand linger for a little longer than he should’ve before pulling away.

‘Thanks.’ You squeaked.

He was so close to you that you could feel his breath on the back of your neck as he said: ‘No problem, roomie.’

The restaurant was called Jazzamango, and it sold the most expensive pizza you’d ever had in your entire life. It had been Mav and Penny’s idea to come here, and they were paying for the whole thing. The Daggers were family, and you were grateful for the way Penny had taken you all under her wing—just because Mav had to, didn’t mean she did.

Naturally, you ended up sandwiched between Natasha and Bradley, because there had been no other seats left when you arrived. It was incredibly hard to focus on your $400 pizza when Bradley’s leg kept knocking into yours beneath the ornately decorated table. Every time it happened, you inched a little closer to Nat.

‘Wanna sit in my lap or something?’ she whisper-shouted after the fourth time it happened.

‘Sorry,’ you hissed. ‘Bradshaw’s all up in my personal space.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, you’re sharing a room with him for the next three nights, so you might wanna get used to it.’

You flashed your teeth at her. ‘Thank you for captioning my nightmare.’

‘You know, this whole playing hard to get thing is getting really boring to watch,’ she told you with a smirk. ‘I thought I told you to lean into it.’

His knee touched yours again, and this time you didn’t move away—you told yourself it was because you had nowhere else to go, but was it?

‘Relax,’ Bradley murmured, low enough that only you could hear. ‘You look like you’re about to bolt.’

‘Maybe I am.’ You shot back.

‘Don’t,’ he said simply, before going back to his conversation with Reuben and his girlfriend.

By the time desert came out, you were jumpy, exhausted and ready for bed. Which would’ve sounded inviting after a day of socialising, if not for the fact that you had to share with Bradley.

‘So,’ Nat said suddenly, cutting into her piece of cheesecake. ‘How’s the room?’

You almost choked on your drink, but Bradley didn’t even look up from his plate. ‘Great, actually.’ He said.

‘Is it?’ She asked.

‘Yeah,’ he said, finally glancing your way. ‘We’re getting along really well.’

You kicked him under the table. Hard. His leg didn’t move. In fact, it pressed closer.

You went completely still.

By now, you were sure this man was going to be the death of you, and you were sick of him always getting one up. Resolutely, you put your hand on the top of his thigh and squeezed, hoping nobody would notice. His fork clattered onto his half-empty plate as he glared at you, pupils blown completely black.

‘Yeah,’ you smiled at Nat. ‘We are.’

She couldn’t see your hand from this angle, but she could see the pained expression on Bradley’s face. Honestly, you were taken aback by your own boldness. You had no idea whether to move away or double down, and your pulse was going ohshitohshitohshit.

‘Weirdos.’ Nat huffed.

For the first time since you’d met him, Bradley Bradshaw didn’t have a comeback.

He ate the rest of his dessert in a stunned sort of silence, glancing at you now and then like he was making sure you were really there. 

When you got back to the room, the energy between you and Bradley was loaded in a way it hadn’t been before.

You didn’t know if Bob and Nat’s words had gotten to you, if you’d had too much champagne or if the forced proximity to Bradley had finally broken down the last of your resolve—either way, you were seeing the situation from an entirely new angle.

It was hard to believe that all these months of teasing had purely been for fun when he’d looked at you like that when you’d grabbed his thigh. And this stunned silence he’d been trapped in since the restaurant? It was so unlike him that you could only assume you’d had a real effect on him.

Bradley went over to the minibar and grabbed two miniature bottles of Patròn.

‘Do we have to pay for these?’ He asked, waving the bottles at you.

‘I guess so,’ you replied, following him out to the balcony. ‘Unless the happy couple are footing the bill at the end.’

He handed you one of the bottles and uncapped his. ‘Guess we’ll find out,’ he smirked. ‘You ready?’

You scrunched your nose up. ‘We’re just gonna drink it straight?’

‘That’s the whole point of tequila,’ he reasoned.

Shooting straight tequila in a hotel room with Bradley Bradshaw? You said a silent prayer for your sanity before following Bradley’s lead and downing it, wincing at the harsh taste.

‘I don’t usually drink tequila,’ you sputtered.

‘Neither do I,’ he admitted, smiling sheepishly. ‘Doesn’t normally end well.’

‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ you laughed.

And that’s how you and Bradley ended up swapping stories about your worst drunken nights. By the end of it, you were clutching your sides, which ached from laughing so hard, and your jaw hurt from smiling so wide. He made you feel careless and present in the moment, as though nothing and nobody outside of it was more important. It was easier to laugh than to acknowledge what had changed.

Eventually, you cast a glance at the very inviting bed. Bradley watched you intently, like he was waiting to see what you’d say first.

The tequila had gone straight to your head. You leaned back in your seat and took a deep, steadying breath of ocean air.

‘You can’t sleep on the floor, Rooster. I wouldn’t be able to sleep.’

Bradley gave you a bemused grin. ‘You wouldn’t be able to sleep?’

‘No,’ you pouted. ‘Because I’d just be thinking about how uncomfortable you were all night.’

Fiddling with his empty bottle, Bradley smiled dazzlingly. ‘You would?’

Before you could stop the words flying out of your mouth, you asked: ‘Is it so hard to believe that I care about you?’

Bradley’s smile dropped, suddenly serious. ‘Kinda.’

His admission was like a sharp stab in your chest. ‘Well, I do.’

He didn’t drop his gaze from you as he said: ‘That’s good to know.’

Suddenly, the quiet between you was too loud. You couldn’t sit still anymore, and you could feel your clothes sticking to your body.

‘I’m going to put my pyjamas on,’ you announced, getting up from your seat.

‘Need a hand?’ Bradley teased.

Your mouth dried out at the thought. ‘Nope,’ you squeaked, hurrying into the bathroom with your night things.

As you dressed, you wished you’d brought something a bit nicer than an old Harley Davidson t-shirt and skimpy sleep shorts, but you hadn’t been expecting anyone to see you after 10pm. What kind of psycho could sleep in lace, anyway?

After brushing your teeth and combing through your hair, you headed back into the bedroom where Bradley was perched on the edge of the bed scrolling on his phone. He was shirtless in a pair of grey sleep shorts, and your brain short-circuited at the thought of sharing a bed with him.

When you flopped down on top of the duvet, he turned to face you, propping his head up on his hands. God, he was handsome. Nobody had the right to be so perfect.

‘I sleep with the windows open,’ you told him, lips tugging upward. ‘No AC. And sometimes I snore if I’m really tired.’

Bradley laughed delightedly. ‘I sleep with the windows open too,’ he told you. ‘And I snore all the time.’

‘Now you’ve got me second-guessing letting you sleep in the bed with me,’ you joked.

Bradley laughed again, and something in your chest shifted. You found yourself trying to come up with ways to hear that laugh again.

He sat up and moved further up the bed, close enough to you that you could feel heat rolling off him.

‘You’re on my side, though,’ he said huskily.

‘That so?’ You asked, raising a brow.

‘Yup.’

Emboldened by the wicked glint in his eye, you straddled him so you could get to the other side of the bed. Instinctively, his hands flew to your hips, and even though the contact and proximity were short-lived, it still set an electric current buzzing beneath your skin. His little ‘oof’ had your pulse jumping into your throat.

Without giving him any time to respond, you reached over and snapped the bedside lamp on, plunging you into near total darkness. The only light came from the moon, which was almost full up in the sky, and a spattering of twinkling stars.

Bradley pulled the duvet back and nestled beneath it, and you followed suit. You could barely hear the ocean outside over the pounding of your own heart as you grabbed a few of the extra pillows (what bed needed this many?) and made a barrier between the two of you. You knew full well that it was childish, and you felt a bit like an idiot, but really, what other choice did you have?

‘You’re not serious,’ Bradley laughed, voice more unsteady than usual. You couldn’t tell him that you didn’t trust yourself, or that you knew you’d never drift off to sleep if you could feel him lying beside you.

‘Night roomie.’ You said sweetly.

He scoffed, but you could hear the smile in his voice when he said: ‘Yeah. Goodnight.’

You woke up a few hours later completely disoriented.

It took you a moment to remember that you were away in Cabo, and not in your own bed in San Diego.

Slowly, you came to terms with your surroundings: the lovely, light breeze in through the balcony doors, the sound of the ocean gently lapping the shore, and someone snoring.

Your brain hadn’t quite caught up yet—it was still somewhere between sleep and waking.

And then it did, all at once.

The pillow barrier you’d built hastily before falling asleep had been kicked to the foot of the bed. In your sleep, you and Bradley seemed to have found your way into each other’s arms. Your face was pretty much buried in his chest, and both of his strong arms were wrapped around you. He smelled of sandalwood and sunscreen, and he was so incredibly warm.

You’d never been this close to him before. Not like this. Not where you could feel every single breath he took.

The heat you were becoming all too familiar with unfurled deep in your belly. It was desire mixed with nerves and anticipation, and it was slightly intoxicating; better than any expensive champagne.

You debated rolling away, probably should have rolled away. But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Bradley was so warm and inviting, and he wasn’t awake to make a sly remark and totally ruin the bliss. Tentatively, you draped your arm across his middle, hand hovering for a second before you let it settle against his back, fingertips tracing slow, absent lines like you were testing whether the moment was real. He shuddered in his sleep, and your breath caught, and not because he’d moved—because he’d felt it.

You bit back a pleased grin.

Just as you’d started to drift off again, his arms tightened around you, somehow pulling you even closer.

‘Y/N?’ He murmured.

You inhaled sharply. ‘Yeah?’

‘Are we cuddling?’

And damn if his raspy, sleepy voice wasn’t the sexiest thing you’d ever heard in your entire life.

‘I think so.’ You whispered.

Silence for a second, then a quiet, ‘Okay.’

His grip didn’t loosen; it just settled, like he’d decided something. And not two minutes later, he was snoring again.

Just like that.

You didn’t move, not even after he’d fallen asleep.

And that meant something you weren’t quite ready to face just yet. 

Bradley didn’t think he’d ever been this close to losing his mind before.

Every little thing you did drove him insane—the way you got embarrassed and couldn’t hold eye contact when he flirted with you, the smell of your expensive shampoo, the sight of you in that fucking white bikini, water sliding down your stomach and legs.

And now, he could add your little snores and the way you clung to him like a koala in your sleep to the list.

He woke up to you still nestled against his chest, arms wrapped around his torso like you two did this sort of thing every night. It didn’t surprise him that you two fit together like puzzle pieces—he’d always known that you were meant for each other. What surprised him was that you hadn’t moved all night, even after waking up and finding yourself pressed against him. Most of the time, he had a hard time even having a serious conversation with you without you disappearing on him or retreating inward, so he was counting this as a step in the right direction.

Being careful not to wake you, he peeled your arm off him and crept to the bathroom, closing the door behind him softly. No matter what, he started every single day with an ice-cold shower, but today it was more necessary than usual. His skin smelled of your perfume, he finally knew what it felt like to hold you close, and after spending the better part of six hours pressed up against your gorgeous body, he was more than flustered.

He gripped the edge of the bathroom sink, suddenly all too aware of his own body, which had totally betrayed him.

He felt more than a little guilty for sorting out his morning problem with you sleeping ten feet away, but what other choice did he have? You cut and run from in The Hard Deck when he winked at you, so he couldn’t imagine what would happen if you woke up to his dick pressing against your stomach. Hell, you’d probably never be able to be in the same room as him again.

Bradley tried not to take it personally; he really did. He understood that you were shy and more reserved than the rest of your rowdy squad. But that was one of the things he loved most about you. He also knew that you didn’t believe that he genuinely liked you, that he wanted more with you than the sex he hinted at too often.

Maybe that was his own fault, but he just loved teasing you so damn much.

As he went through the motions of his morning routine, he thought about how incredible it had felt to wake up cuddling you. By the time he was done in the bathroom, he’d replayed the memory so many times he no longer fully believed that it had really happened. Had he dreamt your arms tightening around him, or the lazy circles you’d traced into his back?

The sight of you tucked up in the middle of the bed, hair splayed out across his pillow, was the only proof he had that any of it was real. Bradley dressed quickly and grabbed his phone and key card. Breakfast would be starting any minute, and he thought you might like some time to yourself to get ready for the busy day ahead. Cocktails had been scheduled for the afternoon, followed by the rehearsal dinner, and he knew you well enough to know that you’d want some time to charge your social battery before all that.

Down in the restaurant, Natasha, Jake, Mickey and Bob were already seated at a table close to the window. Bradley grabbed himself a cup of black coffee and a plate of fresh fruit before joining them.

‘There he is!’ Jake said, smirking smarmily.

‘Fucking finally!’ Nat exclaimed. ‘I need details, now. Did it happen?’

Bradley stabbed a strawberry with his fork. ‘No.’

All four of his squad mates visibly deflated with disappointment. ‘What do you mean “no?”’ Nat demanded. ‘You shared a bed with her! She had like, four glasses of champagne!’

‘So?’ Bradley rolled his eyes. ‘What was I supposed to do, take advantage of her because she was drunk?’

Bob leaned forward in his seat. ‘Did anything happen? Anything at all?’

Bob Floyd wasn’t one for gossip, so if he was interested, then the situation must have been getting dire.

Bradley shrugged. ‘We had some tequila, chatted for a while, then we went to bed.’

‘Did you share the bed?’ Mickey asked, waggling his eyebrows.

‘Yeah,’ Bradley snorted. ‘With a fucking pillow shield between us.’

Jake’s eyes lit up, and Bradley immediately regretted saying anything. If you found out that he’d told anyone about what had gone on behind closed doors, you’d never talk to him again.

‘Come on, Rooster,’ Nat pleaded. ‘Just make a move already!’

‘I don’t know if she wants that! She’s so hot and cold, I never know whether I’m coming or going.’

‘But I bet you wish you were co—’

Natasha punched Jake’s arm, cutting him off abruptly. Bradley busied himself with his fruit, although it was difficult to focus with four pairs of eyes boring holes into the top of his head.

He huffed. ‘We cuddled.’

Chaos erupted. He only meant to give them something to shut them up, but now he was being bombarded with a whole slew of other questions, like “who initiated it?” and “did you get to second base?” Bradley banged his fork down onto the table.

‘Can you guys cut it the fuck out!’ He snapped. ‘It’s none of your business—and if you tell her I told you that, I’ll never speak to any of you again.’

Mickey snorted. ‘Yeah, cos it took you a whole fucking year to even get her in a room alone.’

Bradley picked up a grape and threw it at Mickey’s head.

‘Low blow, Fanboy,’ Nat growled.

Mickey threw his hands up. ‘But it’s true!’

‘Y/N’s different,’ Bob said quietly. ‘If you really wanna be with her, you have to show her that it’s not all just for show.’

Bradley blinked. He knew you and Bob talked a lot, probably because you were both quiet and relatively reserved. Judging by the look in the WSOs eyes, he knew more than he was letting on.

Nat nodded in agreement. ‘Bob’s right,’ she said. ‘Maybe slow down on the flirting and let her get comfortable.’

Bradley chewed on this. Out of everyone in your squad, Phoenix and Bob definitely knew you best. If he was going to take anyone’s advice, it would be theirs. Maybe all his shameless flirting was only harming his cause.

He could tone it back, let you come to him for a change. He just had to hope that you actually did, because he didn’t think he could survive another night in bed with you without kissing you.

Bradley couldn’t stop admiring the way your pretty, blue evening dress clung to your body in all the right places. You looked so stunning he couldn’t think straight, just kept going back to the previous night in his mind.

You sipped your cocktail, smiling slightly at something Penny was telling you.

It was the first time he’d seen you since this morning in the room. When you hadn’t come down for breakfast, he’d taken you up a croissant and some coffee, but you weren’t in the room. He’d checked the beach, the pool and the bar, but he hadn’t been able to find you anywhere. He didn’t even see you when he went back to the room to get ready for cocktails and the rehearsal dinner, which was disconcerting.

It wasn’t until he’d arrived at the garden that he saw you, leaning against the wall with an impressive-looking drink in hand, chatting with Penny. Either you hadn’t seen him come in, or you were ignoring him, because you hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction.

Javy clapped a hand on his back, startling Bradley from his reverie.

‘How’s it going?’ He asked, face split in a wide grin.

‘Good,’ Bradley replied. ‘What about you? Feeling the pre-wedding jitters yet?’

Javy shook his head. ‘Not in the slightest. When you know, you know. I’ve never been more sure of anything my whole life.’

Bradley’s eyes darted to you. ‘I get that, man.’

Javy followed Bradley’s line of sight and smiled sheepishly. ‘I hear mine and Jake’s plan isn’t exactly working.’

Bradley shrugged, hoping he didn’t look as dejected as he felt. ‘Bob and Phoenix think I’ve been coming on too strong, but I’m not sure if it’s that anymore. Maybe she just doesn’t like me back.’

‘Bullshit,’ Javy said. ‘You just need to take a different approach.’

‘Yeah, so I’ve heard.’

‘It’ll happen. Like I just said—when you know, you know.’

Bradley nodded, because he did know. He just wasn’t sure that you did.

You were halfway through your drink when you felt him beside you. You kept your eyes trained on the couples dancing beneath the pergola, which was strung with twinkling, golden fairy lights. Bradley inched closer to you, resting his arm on the back of the stool you were sitting on. You wore a backless dress, and the feeling of his arm against your bare skin reminded you of last night.

‘You disappeared on me today,’ he said quietly.

You leaned back slightly until you were almost in the crook of his arm ‘Sorry.’

‘Everything okay?’

You didn’t even know where to start. ‘Yeah,’ you said. ‘Just wanted some peace and quiet.’

‘Charming,’ he said, voice teasing.

‘I didn’t mean—’ you sputtered, covering your face with your hands. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

His chuckle reverberated through your body. When you removed your hands from your face, he leaned even closer to you. ‘It’s okay,’ he murmured, eyes darting to your lips. ‘I get it. You don’t have to hide from me, Y/N. I can go as slow as you want.’

You lost yourself in the depths of him, totally enamoured. It was as if the rest of the garden had faded away, and it was just you and Bradley left. A few more inches, and you could’ve kissed him. It would’ve been so easy if you could just forget about your insecurities and stop overthinking everything.

‘Why do you keep trying with me?’ You asked a little breathlessly.

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, thumb lightly brushing your jaw, and your whole body trembled with a mix of nerves and anticipation.

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ He answered.

Your eyes fluttered closed. His breath fanned across your face as he exhaled, slowly closing the distance between the two of you. Your stomach flipped just as the tip of his nose bumped yours, and

‘Everyone, if you could please make your way to the dining area,’ somebody announced over the microphone. ‘Dinner will be served shortly.’

The spell was broken.

Around you, everyone scraped their stools back or set their empty glasses down on tables. Your body was a live wire, veins coursing with adrenaline that now had no place to go. Bradley pulled back, and your heart sank, and that was when you realised just how much you wanted him to kiss you.

He gazed at you longingly and held out his hand for you to hold, which you took. ‘Later,’ he breathed. 

This time, when Bradley’s leg touched yours beneath the dinner table, you didn’t pull away.

That alone told you everything had changed.

Like last night, you’d spent most of dinner thinking about sharing a room with Bradley, but it was different tonight. You’d given yourself time to breathe instead of immediately talking yourself out of anything. You hadn’t let yourself go round in circles about the cuddling or what it meant, just let yourself accept that it had been nice. And that almost kiss? The way your body and heart had reacted told you everything you needed to know about how you truly felt about Bradley—something you’d always known, deep down, but had been too afraid to let yourself accept.

Part of you still found it hard to believe that Bradley truly liked you, but Bob and Nat’s words were starting to make a lot more sense to you now you’d seen he could give you more than obnoxiously flirty comments that set your skin on fire.

I can go as slow as you want.

Bradley was midway through a conversation with Mav when he filled your wine glass up for you, like taking care of you was something he didn’t even have to think about.

You tipped your head to the side, resting it on his shoulder for two seconds while you thanked him.

Nat, who was opposite you tonight, caught the whole thing and raised a brow.

You flushed scarlet, but didn’t pull away from Bradley, and she smirked knowingly. The two of you were good at having conversations with just facial expressions, and hers right now told you that you would be talking about this later, even if she had to tie you down to force information out of you.

When you finally looked away from her, your eyes caught on Bradley’s. He wasn’t listening to Maverick anymore; he was already looking at you. Not in that easy, teasing way you were used to—not like he was about to say something that would make your cheeks burn and your heart race for all the wrong reasons. This was quiet and steadier, like he was waiting.

Your breath hitched as something warm and certain settled low in your chest.

You didn’t look away this time, and neither did he.

After dinner, Javy and Paisley’s parents gave lovely speeches, and then, as he was basically an extra father for all intents and purposes, Mav gave one too. It made you a little emotional to see Mav standing so proudly as he recounted stories about Javy and his many achievements in the Dagger squad.

By the time all the plates were cleared and the speeches were finished, you could hardly keep your eyes open.

Bradley put a steadying hand on your shoulder. ‘Shall we go up to bed?’

You’d never experienced butterflies like the swarm that fluttered in your stomach at those words. Like going up to bed was something the two of you did—like it was normal. A world existed where those words actually meant something, and the two of you were right on the precipice of it.

‘Yeah,’ you said, taking his hand once again. ‘Let’s.’

He was grinning from ear to ear as you stood up and wrapped your hand around his bicep.

You threw a glance behind you at your squad, who were losing their collective shit. Maverick and Penny shared a knowing look that made you wonder just how many people were rooting for you and Bradley, and whether you were supposed to be flattered or embarrassed by it. 

The room felt different.

When Bradley closed the door behind you, it felt smaller than it had before. You kicked your shoes off and sashayed over to the bed, all too aware of Bradley trailing behind you.

‘Want a drink?’ He asked, voice thick with tension.

You nodded, and he set about pouring two glasses of wine.

He crouched down by the fridge, and you stared at the muscles in his arms as he uncorked a bottle of white wine and poured two big glasses.

It was a stark contrast to how you were used to seeing him: climbing into a multi-million dollar fighter jet, body tense but relaxed at the same time in a way that came only from being in the military. He was a totally different guy in this setting, and you couldn’t decide which version you liked best.

Your brain was ticking again now, starting to spiral. What if this didn’t work out? What if it all went to hell in a handbasket and you couldn’t work together anymore? What if all your worst fears came true, and Bradley decided you weren’t right for him after all?

You snatched your pyjamas from beneath your pillow and clambered off the bed towards the bathroom.

‘Going to change.’ You muttered.

You pushed the door open and stepped in, but before you could close it, Bradley was there, hand around your wrist and a steady look on his face.

‘Don’t,’ he said, gently tugging you towards him. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘Do what?’ You asked hoarsely, laying your hands on his chest to steady yourself.

‘Run. You don’t get to look at me like that and then run.’

He was almost pleading, and you were struggling to catch a breath.

‘This whole time, I thought this was just you being…you,’ you admitted. ‘I never thought you actually—’

‘Liked you?’ He released a shaky laugh. ‘I honestly don’t know what else I can do to get you to believe me.’

He let go of your arm and ran his hands through his curls.

‘At the start, I thought you were just flirting with me as a joke,’ you admitted, cheeks flaming. ‘And then when you didn’t stop, I started to wonder why you’d even go for someone like me. I’m quiet and boring, and you’re like sunshine, Bradley,’ you took a breath, and he reached out like he was going to touch you before thinking better of it. ‘Then this weekend, Nat and Bob have been trying to convince me that you really do like me and to just relax, but I can’t because you’re you and I’m me and you just make me so fucking nervous and—’

Bradley’s lips crashed into yours as he pressed you up against the wall, caging you in with his arms. You’d been kissed before, but not like this—not like you were the very air somebody needed to survive. It was natural then, the way you put your hands on the back of Bradley’s neck—still warm from the heat of the day—and pulled him in closer, licking his bottom lip and deepening the kiss. He whimpered, like actually whimpered, when you began exploring his mouth, and your stomach clenched so hard it was almost painful.

When he eventually pulled away, he was panting hard, eyes blown so wide you lost yourself in them for a moment.

‘I can’t believe you’d think that,’ he breathed. ‘You—you’re everything,’ he swallowed thickly, cupping your face in his hands. ‘I’ve liked you since the day I met you, but every day that’s passed since then it’s only gotten stronger. And maybe I should’ve given you more than stupid comments, but I didn’t wanna risk fucking things up with you.’

You closed your eyes and rubbed your nose against his. ‘I’m sorry for pushing you away.’

He kissed you slow and gentle, like he had all the time in the world. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart.’ You laid your hands flat on his chest and pushed him towards the bed, collapsing on top of him in fits of giggles. He gazed up at you, well, like you’d hung the moon. Nat had been right about that, at least. With his eyes wide, curls a mess and his lips slightly parted he looked totally disarmed, like you’d rocked the very foundations he existed upon. His hands came to rest on your hips as you leaned down and kissed him again, his moustache tickling the tip of your lip.

If you were to be honest with yourself, it was a feeling you’d been imagining for a very long time, but a feeling you never felt like you were allowed to want.

You could feel the way your weight was affecting him by his short breaths, wandering hands and the impressive length pressing against the inside of your thigh. The idea of sleeping with him both terrified and excited you at the same time. What if you didn’t live up to his standards? What if it made him change his mind?

It would’ve been easy to go into a downward spiral, but every passionate kiss and hungry grab pushed the negative thoughts further and further away until there was only him.

Just Bradley.

If you’d known it was going to be this easy, you’d have leaned into it a long time ago.

You pulled back slightly, and he leaned forward, chasing your lips for another kiss.

‘If we do this,’ you panted. ‘I don’t want it to be because of tequila and a wedding.’

He softened, adjusting you so you lay beside him, facing him. He twirled a strand of your hair around his finger absentmindedly. ‘We’ll go at whatever pace you want,’ he rasped. ‘I’ve waited a year for you, and I would’ve waited five more if I had to.’

Your heart soared. ‘You’re lying.’

He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t lie about something like that, Y/N.’

And you believed him. ‘Thank you for being patient.’

He kissed you again and smiled against your lips. ‘Thanks for believing me.’

Bradley opened his arms so you could snuggle closer, tucking you beneath his chin and tangling his legs with yours. In a way, it was even better than the kiss. He made you feel safe and secure, and what more could you really ask for than that?

‘Big day tomorrow,’ he murmured, and you could hear how sleepy he was.

You ‘hmmed’ in agreement, and Bradley reached up and started combing through your hair with his fingers. Your eyes drifted closed, and you knew it wouldn’t be long before you fell asleep.

You didn’t miss the hopefulness in his tone when he asked: ‘That thing you said yesterday, about finding the right guy?’

‘Too soon to say,’ you replied, smiling against his chest. ‘But I’m pretty certain.’

The next morning, the two of you meandered down to the beach hand in hand. Javy and Paisley had chosen to have their ceremony on the sand, and you made Bradley stop so you could kick your heels off and walk barefoot. He had a massive, lottery-winning grin on his face that hadn’t disappeared all morning, and matched your own.

It had taken you longer than necessary to get ready because he’d kept interrupting you with kisses and hugs and compliments, and as a result, the two of you were the last to take your seats. The Dagger squad had a whole row to themselves, and Nat had saved you and Bradley the seats on the end.

All of them—including Penny and Maverick—had twisted around in their seats to get a look at the two of you walking down the aisle. All of them had variations of ecstatic and shit-eating grins on their faces. Nat and Jake were the worst of them all, and you knew that you were never going to hear the end of this. Jake would probably have “The Reason Bradley and Y/N Finally Got Together” carved into his tombstone.

‘Are those wedding bells I hear?’ Jake teased when the two of you sat down.

Bradley glanced around. ‘No, I think we’ve still got ten minutes till the ceremony starts.’

‘Not what I meant.’ Jake smirked.

Javy, who was standing at the altar looking very dapper in his tux, waved enthusiastically.

‘DID IT WORK?’ He yelled.

Everyone in the audience turned to look at you and Bradley. You’d never felt embarrassment like it, but Bradley squeezed your hand encouragingly, and it faded away.

He was good at that.

Jake stood up. ‘YEAH, IT WORKED! FINALLY!’

Javy cheered, and the rest of the Daggers followed suit. Nat and Bob were giving you smug, ‘I told you so’ looks that made you feel a bit like an idiot. You didn’t let yourself dwell on all the time you’d spent overthinking it.

Maybe it had taken a while, but you’d gotten here in the end. But you supposed everything happened exactly when it was supposed to—not a second before nor after.

And the two of you were right on time.

[xpeachsunsidex]

Can’t You See I’ve Been Waiting For You?

Steve Harrington x Fem!Mayfield!Reader

Summary: You’re convinced Steve has a thing for Robin, but he really just has a thing for you. 5.6k wc

Warnings & What to Expect: Slight angst, a dash of hurt/comfort, set in season 4, Max is kind of a jerk (I mean she’s going through a lot ya’ll), reader is head over heels for Steve - it’s mutual, reader is oblivious tho, Dustin being a slight menace (when is he not?), happy ending (& let’s pretend Max doesn’t end up in a coma/trance 🤗)

Masterlist If Interested!

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Steve Harrington was unfairly good looking all the time. The jeans that hugged his waist just right, the polo shirts whether long or short tucked in - snug around his biceps, Nike sneakers that always seemed pristine somehow, and the perfectly styled hair.

God, his hair. You wanted to card your fingers through the soft brown locks, tugging at them, desperate to watch him fall apart at your touch.

It was so unfair that he always looked like a Greek God, but it was even more unfair when you realized you had feelings for the man.

Not only were you stuck in his orbit all the time suffering over how hopelessly attracted you were to him, but you were also pretty sure that he had a thing going on with Robin Buckley.

Now if you asked Steve and Robin that? They’d freak out, assert they were just friends, platonic with a capital P. You almost believed them sometimes; mostly when Steve would turn those puppy dog eyes on you and you almost thought you had a chance with him.

Like earlier today, when Steve had grabbed your wrist, thumb stroking delicately against your pulse point; asking how you were holding up after learning your little sister likely only had 24 hours left to live, unless your friends figured out a way to stop Vecna’s curse.

Or like last week, when you and the party had gone out to the local diner. The kids had practically scarfed down the shared fries, leaving you none and your meal hadn’t come with any.

Upon seeing the disappointed look on your face, Steve had pushed his plate of the fried goodness towards you, claiming he wasn’t hungry anymore when you knew he’d normally demolish his food whole.

There was also that time a month ago when you and Steve were in charge of getting the popcorn and snacks at the movies tor everyone. When the teens behind you in line had been a bit rambunctious and bumped into you, Steve was quick to place his hand on your lower back, guiding you just a bit closer to him. He hadn’t taken it off until you were done ordering.

There was a series of things that Steve did that would forever be ingrained into your mind; the casual compliments he’d throw your way nearly on a daily basis, how he remembered you liked Diet Coke over regular, noticing when you went quiet - always the first to check in with you, or more recently letting you cry into his arms about the fact that your sister had been snarkier to you now than ever before.

So, yeah, you could believe they weren’t secretly together when Steve treated you that way, but you mostly chalked it up to him just being a good guy - because Robin and Steve were around each other constantly, attached at the hip. Working together, hanging out together, and Steve had dragged Robin into you and your friends' world permanently.

Which, don’t you get wrong, you loved Robin. She was hilarious, insanely smart, and fiercely cared about your friends. Dustin noticed these things about her too, and was constantly pushing Steve to go for it, which always hurt you more than you cared to admit. Why didn’t Dustin think that you were good enough for Steve?

As much as Robin and Steve vehemently denied that anything was going on between them, you didn’t want to get stuck in one of those situations where the guy had to choose between his best friend or girlfriend because he was secretly harboring feelings for the best friend.

So you kept your mouth shut, feelings for Steve tucked away inside of you. You were good at pretending.

No one knew how you truly felt, not even your own sister who was the most observant person you knew and could smell desperation from a mile away.

You had always been good about pretending in front of Max because you were the older sister. You had to be strong for her.

You had to be strong and pretend like it hadn’t shattered your heart to leave your dad behind in California. You had to be strong and pretend like Neil and Billy hadn’t scared the absolute shit out of you for their aggressive behavior. You had to be strong and pretend to be positive about the move to Hawkins even though it made you full of dread. That one wasn’t just for Max, but for your mom too.

The move to Hawkins had indeed been hell on Earth like you assumed it would be.

It had been one bad thing after another. Max and you getting involved in a world of alternate realities. Billy being controlled by the Mindflayer, then sacrificing himself; dying in front of your eyes. Your stepfather up and leaving your mom afterwards, which caused her to spiral into drinking after having to get two jobs just to make ends meet. Moving into the trailer park which you knew people would judge you about. The cherry on top was finding out that this Vecna asshole had now made your baby sister his next target.

The one good thing to come out of moving to Hawkins? Steve Harrington.

It’s why it was so, so unfair that you had these feelings for him and felt like you couldn’t say anything about it to him.

Steve had become a constant in your life. He had protected you and your sister from Billy that night he came searching at the Byers house, had always given the two of you free ice cream when he worked at Scoops Ahoy, drove you to school because he knew you and Max thought the bus was disgusting.

Somewhere along the way he was no longer Steve; the guy you went to school with by day and fought monsters with by night. He became Steve; the guy you were totally hung up on; and not just because he was a total babe, but because he had this heart of gold that he didn’t boast about, and yet it shined clear as day based on his actions for you, your sister, and the rest of the party.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steve’s currently on babysitting duty with you once again.

The two of you were watching over your sister, Lucas and Dustin while Nancy and Robin tried to figure out more about this freaky Victor Creel man, and the demon that had tormented his family years ago.

Your eyes trail over Steve, who was watching your sister like a hawk; never letting her leave his sight. His jaw was tense, a muscle there popping just slightly, brows drawn in as he watched her furiously writing at the desk across the Wheeler’s basement.

You were sitting on the couch, squished between Steve and Dustin. Your right leg and arm pressed against Steve’s left. Your heart hadn’t slowed down since he had patted the spot next to you, inviting you to take a seat by him.

You weren’t sure if Steve was making it his mission to completely invaded your personal space with the way he kept leaning into you, but you could get used to the feel of his body against yours.

You couldn’t help it when you started taking advantage of looking at his side profile, as his eyes weren’t on you. You may be good at keeping your infatuation with him a secret, but it didn’t stop you from watching him whenever you had the chance to.

You were lost in gazing at the smattering of freckles creeping up from out of the collar of his shirt and up his neck. Your eyes continued to trace the lingering few of them that reached his face. You so badly wanted to brush each of them with the tips of your fingers and lips.

You were fascinated by the length of his eyelashes at this angle, watched as they fluttered each time he blinked. You move your eyes to the slight stubble above his upper lip, his perfectly kissable plush lips that you so badly wanted a taste of.

You loved watching how protective Steve got of the kids when danger was around the corner, but you especially loved watching his concern for your sister. It tugged at your heart strings, knowing that someone other than yourself had her back without argument.

“I know you guys are staring at me,” Max suddenly shares, shoulders tensing up. It quickly snaps you back into reality that you had just been gawking at Steve.

You force your eyes away from him, not wanting to be caught by the boys or Steve himself, cheeks flooding with heat. You let out a brief hum of noise, pretending like you had just been caught staring at Max like the rest of them.

“What sorry-,” Steve replies, grabbing the stress ball off the small table in front of you and tosses it up in the air. It causes the muscle in his right arm to flex, his tongue poking out in concentration.

Your brain nearly short circuits, and you try to pretend like you were busy looking along at the book that Dustin had grabbed when Max interrupted the staring fest the boys were indeed having.

“You said you needed something,” Lucas tries to play it cool.

“Just hanging out,” Steve says, and you plead with the universe to make him stop throwing that damn ball into the air so you’re not tempted to watch him.

“How you think your eyes boring into the back of my head is protecting me from Vecna, I don’t know,” Max sighs, standing up, stacking a bunch of envelopes in her hands. You continue to pretend to be interested in the book while she starts walking towards the group of you.

“You can look at me now,” Max stops, and sighs in slight annoyance at how obvious you all are.

“Thank you,” Dustin mumbles quietly.

“Sorry-” Lucas and Steve reply, and Steve thankfully drops the ball back on the table.

“Max, what are you holding?” You ask her cautiously. You’re worried about her. She’s been coiled in on herself, like a spring ready to snap at any and all times, refusing to let any of you in.

You can see her clench her teeth, but she loses her resolve. Passing out an envelope to each of you on the couch. You stare at the letter with your name printed on it in disbelief, already realizing that it’s a goodbye.

You also realize it’s an extremely inappropriate time for your heart to tighten at the fact that Steve received a letter from her too; finally understanding that Max loved Steve like a brother despite her frequent smart ass quips to the man.

“Oh, and um, give these to Mike, El, and Will. If you can ever get a hold of them again,” She passes the rest of the letters to Lucas.

Steve and Dustin start to open up their envelopes, but yours is now crushed tightly in your hand. Head spinning over the fact that your sister thinks she’s not going to make it out of this.

“Hey, what are you doing? No don’t, that’s not for now. Don’t open it now!” Max snaps at them.

“Don’t- okay,” Dustin starts, “I’m sorry, what is this?” He finally gets out.

“Yeah Max, what is this?” You echo, voice hard, eyes narrowing at her. Steve turns his attention towards you at the change in your tone, eyes flitting back and forth between you and Max.

“It’s, um, it’s a fail safe for after. If things don’t work out,” She shrugs it off, like she hadn’t just admitted she has accepted her death. Your mouth drops open at her words, standing up from the couch to talk some sense into her.

“Wait, whoa Max things are going to work out-,” Lucas starts to plead with her.

“No! I don’t need you to reassure me and tell me it’s all gonna work out, because people have been telling me that my entire life and it’s almost never true,” She bites out, her eyes move to meet yours, her expression turning angry.

“It's never true,” She spits out at you, and you swallow hard, throat constricting at her bitter words.

Your relationship with her hadn’t been the same since Billy died. You knew she blamed herself, despite how many times you tried to convince her it wasn’t her fault.

She wasn’t the same girl anymore. No longer did she run into your room, giggling about something dorky Lucas had said to her. No longer did she ask you to braid her hair or paint her nails or watch a movie with her. No longer did she sit and talk with you for hours about anything and everything, now preferring her walkman and headphones over her older sister.

It sucked. It felt like losing your best friend, because as much as she was your sassy little sister, she was the one person you loved more than life itself.

You can remember holding her in your arms when she was born, and as you grew together, you swore you’d always shield her from the harshness of the world.

“Max,” You start, and fold your arms together, trying not to seem as upset as you are, “You’re not alone in this. We are going to come up with a plan to protect you. I don’t know how, but we will figure something out.”

Your words don’t soothe her. You didn’t really expect them too, considering she had just basically told you that your words of encouragement in the past had never meant anything to her.

“You’re always trying to protect me, but guess what? You can’t. Not this time,” Max shakes her head, her irritation growing by the second.

She’s nearly seething at this point, and you haven’t seen her this upset since she used to make her gaming name Mad Max; nicknaming herself after all the anger stored in her heart from the shitty cards life had thrown at the both of you.

Max says the cruel words before thinking, “Maybe if you weren’t so busy staring at Steve all the damn time because of your stupid schoolgirl crush on him, you’d realize I’m grown up now. I don’t believe in fairytale bullshit like you. I don’t need you to pretend to be strong for me when I know you’re not!”

Your eyes grow wide at her throwing what you thought was a secret in your face. Of course you had been naive enough to believe that she didn’t know you were into Steve. Just because she didn’t say anything, didn’t mean she didn’t notice it.

Not only had she just revealed that very private information in front of him, but she’d also just insulted your whole personality. You grit your teeth together, trying not to yell back at her, because as much as you wanted to explode on her for being a selfish brat right now, you knew that she was in so much pain mentally.

Steve watches you now, his lips parted incredulously at Max’s words about you liking him. He watches as the blow lands hard. He watches as the tears start gathering in your eyes at your sister’s sharp words.

The basement was suddenly suffocating, as you felt everyone’s eyes on you. You refused to look at Steve, worried about his reaction. You didn’t want to look at him and see him pitying you.

You needed air. You needed to get out of this situation. So you give her a short, curt nod, and then bolt up the stairs.

Steve immediately stands up, ready to follow you. Before he does, he puts his hands on his hips and gives a pointed look at Max.

“That’s,” Steve starts, shakes his head, then sighs, “That wasn’t cool, Max,” He says softly to the girl, who already had regret written all over her face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You don’t know where to go. You didn’t visit the Wheeler’s house very often, but you knew Ted and Karen were still home with Holly somewhere, not inclined to leave the house due to the fact that they believe a serial killer on the loose in Hawkins.

You also didn’t want to get stuck having a conversation with Mrs. Wheeler, though she really was lovely.

You just couldn’t handle her bubbly persona right now when you felt like your heart had just been ripped out of your chest and stomped on by your sister.

You decide to slip out the front door before anyone sees you. You don’t want to go too far, considering how even though you were beyond pissed and hurt by what Max had said, she was still doomed by Vecna, and you should be close enough to get to her if needed.

You catch sight of Steve’s burgundy BMW parked on the street by the mailbox. You walk over to it and try the passenger door where you’ve found yourself sitting in the last couple of days because of everything going on. You pull, it’s locked; of course.

You carefully prop yourself up on the flat trunk of the car, feet resting on the lip of the bumper. You’re not too worried about Steve being upset with you over it, as you’ve seen him sit here himself quite a bit; typically when the group is trying to make a plan and decide who’s doing what.

Your head falls into your hands, finally letting the tears flow freely now that you are alone.

You were extremely embarrassed at the fact that Steve had just heard that you watched him like an absolute weirdo.

It was awful knowing that he now knew you had a crush on him, when he so clearly wasn’t into you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Unbeknownst to you, Steve had already made his way up the basement stairs, did a quick check of the main floor of the house, before realizing you must be outside.

He glanced briefly out the back, then the front and his heart jumped to his throat when he saw you perched on his Beamer.

He’s nervous as hell to go talk to you. No one but Robin and Dustin knew it, but Steve was absolutely captivated by you.

He had been for a long time now, but never had the courage to bring it up to you. Dustin loved to tease him about it, purposefully bringing up Robin in front of you, trying to pressure Steve into just being honest with you.

You sort of intimidated him; you were this strong, capable, independent woman who protected the people she loved without fail or question. He was completely enchanted by it, but he wasn’t sure if he’d measure up to you.

He didn’t think he was in the same league as you, let alone have a shot with you. He hadn’t been great at talking to girls in a while, and he didn’t want to totally screw things up with you by making a fool of himself.

He had been pretending for so long that you weren’t the girl of his dreams, but after hearing what Max had said about you being into him, he knew he needed to make a move before it was too late.

He slips out the front door of the house, briskly walking up the driveway to meet you at his car. You don’t notice him approaching because your head is still in your hands.

When he gets closer, he can hear the tell tale sign of crying by the sniffling noises you're making, shoulders shaking gently. His heart breaks over seeing you in such a state.

He’s not sure how to approach you without scaring you off, so he reaches out to your arm, fingers gently grazing over your warm skin.

“Hey,” He whispers hesitantly to you, trying to get you to look up at him.

You go still at the sound of Steve’s voice and touch, groaning inside of your head. You couldn’t catch a break could you?

You want to stay hidden in your hands, but know you need to put your big girl pants on and face what’s surely about to be the most awkward interaction you’ve ever had with him.

“Hi,” You whisper back, head lifting from your hands, quickly wiping the tears off your face. You tuck your hair behind your ears and lean back to see Steve gazing at you already.

He’s got this funny look on him. One you haven’t seen before, and it scares you that you don’t know what he’s thinking about. If you didn’t know him, you’d call it adoration, but surely that’s not the case.

“Um, can I-?” Steve doesn’t finish his sentence, but he raises his hand towards your face making your eyes go wide. You give him a slight nod, not sure what he means.

When he gently curls a piece of your hair back behind your ear that you must’ve missed just moments before, you feel the tips of your cheeks burning.

He then trails that same hand to your chin, swiping away at some of the left behind moisture you had missed. He lets his hand linger there for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” You blurt out before you can help yourself, being around him like this starts up the word vomit, “I’m sorry, about what Max said about you. It was stupid, I think she was just talking in the heat of the moment and not realizing what she was saying. I’m so sor-” Steve gently quiets you with his thumb brushing across your rambling lips.

God, what is this man doing to you?

“Is it true?” He asks quietly, leaning towards you now. It’s like magnets being drawn towards one another. His feet are planted so close to you that the tips of your knees are brushing his thighs.

“Is what true?” You ask shyly, dropping your eyes to his lips and promptly lose concentration when his tongue darts out in a quick press to wet them.

When you flick your eyes back up to meet his, you notice his are already trained on your own lips. You swallow harshly, and think you might have to pinch yourself to make sure you’re awake right now.

He’s never been this close to you before, and it’s kicking up a wild storm of butterflies in your stomach. He’s still got one hand stroking your face, and he moves the other one to drop on your hip. His hand is heavy and holds you firmly.

You involuntarily let out a little whimper at the contact, making Steve grin cockily at you. It’s the signal he needed to gain his self confidence back, nerves he was feeling before disappearing.

He needed to make sure that he didn’t leave this conversation without officially making you his.

“Oh, I like that noise coming from your lips, honey,” He playfully tells you, stepping even closer.

His leg nudges one of yours, and he settles himself fully in between your legs. Your lips part, gasping at the movement.

What in the world is happening right now? Had you somehow died and gone to Heaven without realizing it? Surely you had because the feeling of Steve’s legs between your own was devastating.

“You still haven’t answered my question, angel. I think you know what I’m talking about; is it true?” Steve repeats himself.

You stare at him, at a loss for words. Your seconds away from throwing yourself at him.

Steve waits patiently for your response, but figures he knows how to get you talking. Since you hadn’t shown him any resistance, he presses a kiss to the underside of your jaw, right below your ear.

Your eyes shut at the contact, another soft noise being pulled from you that you didn’t even realize you could make.

“Does it matter?” You stutter out, feeling like you're about to run out of oxygen.

“Why wouldn’t it, angel?” He says that damn pet name again, causing your head to swim.

Your hand reaches out to the blue bomber jacket he’s wearing, grasping onto the material to try to ground yourself in reality despite this unbelievable situation you’ve found yourself in with him.

“Because, you’re in love with Robin aren’t you?” You decide to bite the bullet and just tell him, and Steve reacts like you’ve just dumped a bucket of ice cold water over his head.

He rears back from you, eyes wide in disbelief. It would almost be comical if you weren’t waiting on an answer that could absolutely shatter you right now; if he were to say yes.

He’s gaping at you, clearly not having expected you to say that.

“W-what?!” He yelps out, squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head before continuing, “Is that a joke? Did someone tell you that?”

“No one had to tell me, Steve. It’s not a joke either. It’s pretty clear you love her,” You shrug your shoulders half heartedly.

He’s still looking at you like you’ve just opened your mouth and started to speak to him in a foreign language. He tilts his head, lips pursing, mouth opening and shutting, trying to find the right words to say.

“Okay. Okay, sure, I love Robin as a friend, but I’m not in love with her,” Steve replies, still in a state of shock at what you’ve told him.

His eyebrows are furrowed a bit, creating a small dent in the skin in the middle of them. You desperately want to reach out and smooth it over, but you’re still uncertain about where you stand with him, about what’s happening between the two of you right now.

“I can see you’re still silently debating inside that pretty little head of yours, aren’t you? Can I prove it to you?” Steve questions when he sees you're still feeling doubtful.

“Please,” You manage to choke out.

Steve doesn’t hesitate, he presses another kiss to the spot below your ear, before trailing his lips down your jawline. He’s taking his time, ravishing you with his mouth.

You tighten your hand that’s resting against his chest, fingers still curled around the fabric of his jacket. Your other hand moves to rest at the back of his neck, playing with the tufts of hair that sit there.

Steve’s lips continue down to your neck. When he reaches your exposed collarbone, he gently nips at it, causing you to tug him closer to you, if that’s even possible. His tongue presses against the skin that he just bit, and you swear you see stars.

He makes his way back up the other side of your neck that he hasn’t touched yet, then drags his nose up your jaw and finally his mouth is just inches from yours.

He presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, teasing you, before parting his lips, still hovering above yours.

“Just kiss me already, Harrington,” You whine, tipping your head closer to him, and he laughs breathily against you.

“My needy girl, you’ve been so patient haven’t you?” He quips, and before you can snap at him to stop toying with you, he finally presses his mouth to yours in a greedy kiss.

His pink lips are pressing against yours hungrily, both hands on your hips now, dragging you towards him so you become fully flush against him.

Steve knows what he’s doing, expertly swiping his tongue against your bottom lip, coaxing your mouth open so he can kiss you deeper. You’re completely gone, dizzy with want for him.

Your hand slips further into the hair at the base of his neck and you tug at the strands there the way you’ve wanted to for so long. Steve makes this irresistible noise from the back of his throat, causing him to break away for a moment.

You don’t let him get far though, eagerly pressing your lips to his again not willing to let him slip away from you yet. You grow braver at the sounds of desire coming from him, letting your tongue dip into his mouth when he gasps for air.

You could stay here with him forever, drowning in this growing need for each other, but the moment is ruined when you hear the Wheeler’s front door slam.

You and Steve jump apart, but still have a hold of one another, breathing hard, glancing to see who just came out of the house. It’s Dustin, hands on his hips like a disappointed parent.

“Hey lovebirds!” Dustin yells, “We’re giving you five more minutes to make out before you both need to get your asses back in here so we can ask you something.” He turns around to walk back into the house, closes the door behind him just as hard.

Your eyes trail to the front window, seeing Lucas and Max peeking at you and Steve from the living room window. You roll your eyes, but with no true malice, at the fact that they’re always trying to get into your business.

Your lighthearted mood starts to fade at seeing your sister, knowing that she’s the reason you had left the house in such a rush to begin with.

“That little shithead.” Steve huffs a harsh breath out.

“He’s totally gloating right now. Constantly bringing up Robin in front of you trying to - wait a second - he’s the reason you had that wild idea in your head, isn’t he? I’m gonna m-,” Steve breaks off when he turns his attention back to you.

He notices your deflated look, clearly not paying attention to what he’s saying, and thinking about the words Max had told you.

“Hey, look at me, sweetheart,” He urges you. When you do, he cups your face with both of his hands, holding you steady.

“What your sister said back there, about you believing in fairytale’s and not being strong? Don’t listen to that,” Steve starts, cutting to the chase, “She’s hurting right now. You know what they say about hurt people hurting people; not that it makes it okay.”

You bite your lip, nodding briefly, but your eyes well up with tears again at his words.

“I think it’s so, so attractive that you choose to believe in the good in this world. It doesn’t mean you're living in a fairytale, it just means you want a life that’s worth living, a life you deserve,” Steve says softly.

“And not strong?” He scoffs at the idea, “You’re the strongest person I know, having to deal with all the shit that you and Max have gone through. Despite it all, you continue to show up for her, take care of her, even when you're on the receiving side of her wrath,” He gives you that charming smile of his, trying to comfort you with his words, and you’re nearly blinded by his beauty.

“God, I’m obsessed with you, Steve,” You admit, bringing one of your own hands up to cup his jaw.

He closes his eyes at the touch and hums briefly, turns his lips to kiss the palm of your hand, before letting his head rest against your touch.

“Are you,” You swallow, “You sure you’re not in love with Robin? Because that would really, really suck for me.”

“I’m standing here, between your knees. I just had the best kiss of my life, with you, and you’re still asking me if I’m sure that I’m not in love with Robin?” He chuckles, shakes his head, and grabs your chin with his thumb and forefinger.

“Silly girl,” He chides you, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips this time around. Then his face grows serious, making sure you’re looking into his eyes before the next words come from his mouth.

“I promise you, I don’t feel that way about Robin. I can’t explain it to you, it’s not for me to share. But one day, I think Robin will tell you why it won’t ever be like that between me and her,” Steve tells you softly, eyes begging you to believe him.

You don’t really understand what he means, but you trust him, and you trust Robin, so you decide it’s enough and the last of your hesitancy dissolves

“If I knew you were gonna kiss me like that, I never would have pretended to not be carrying a torch for you. This feels so much better than pretending like I haven’t wanted you this whole time.” You laugh quietly.

Taking him in freely like this, without it needing to be a secret feels almost like love, it must be love you think; though you know you’re not quite ready to say that just yet.

“I’d say can’t you see I’ve been waiting here for you the whole time, but I’m a pretty good pretender too,” Steve shares with you.

“I’ve always wanted you, I want this, if you’ll have me,” Steve says, starting to feel love sick on you.

You answer him with another kiss, and before the two of you can get lost in one another again, there’s a clearing of someone's throat. You pull away reluctantly, and see Max standing there.

She looks uncomfortable, probably because of the position you and Steve are in against his car. He turns his head over his shoulder to see her there, and pulls away from you.

He grabs your hand to help you hop down off the car, hand sliding to your lower back to brush off the top of your jeans. Hand briefly gliding over your ass mischievously under the guise of getting the dirt off you.

“I guess our five minutes are up,” You joke, as you watch Dustin and Lucas walking up the driveway towards you.

“We’ll give you a moment,” Steve says, pressing a kiss to your temple, releasing you to usher the two boys back inside before they cause chaos.

You wait silently for Max to say something to you. She doesn’t, instead choosing to inch her way forward, before slipping her arms around you. You melt into her hug, never able to stay mad at her for too long, arms holding her tight.

“I shouldn’t have said those mean things to you. They weren’t true. It just that I’m-,” Max apologizes, and you fill in the blank for her.

“Scared?” You ask gently. She sighs, nodding against you.

“I just, I know you want to protect me. You always have. Physically or emotionally, you’ve done it since we were kids, but this feels heavier. Like the stakes are higher, and I don’t want you getting hurt. I can’t lose you,” Max confesses.

“Oh, Max,” You don’t know how to reply, knowing she’s right. The stakes do feel higher this time around, and there’s a good chance someone may not make it out of this.

“I can’t tell you the outcome of this. But I promise, no matter what happens, I’m going to be there for you. I meant it when I said you’re not alone in this,” You say after a beat of quiet. She nods silently again, holding you for just a bit longer.

“So, Steve?” She asks you once she’s pulled back, a smile forming on her face.

You roll your eyes and go to playfully pinch her cheek like you used to when she was younger. She swats your hand away from her, “I mean it looked like he was trying to swallow you whole.”

You laugh at her words, “Well I guess I have you to thank for that. You ratted out my secret! Luckily for me and you both, it turns out he feels the same way. What if he hadn’t? And how did you even know that I liked him like that?”

“You clearly don’t see the way Steve has a staring problem for you, just like you have for him. Besides, sisters always know,” She shrugs.

“So like how I know you obviously want Lucas back?” You tease, and a rare blush starts to form on her neck, confirming your suspicions.

“Shut up!” She cries out, but you see the warmth in her eyes, “And speaking of, let’s go get the boys. We’re making Steve take us on a field trip. I’m not spending what could be my last hours on earth in the armpit that is Mike Wheeler’s basement,” She shudders at the thought.

You hate that that's even a possibility, but you take her hand firmly, reminding her that you’re there, and head back inside.

Steve’s already got his car keys ready to go in his hand, eyes lighting up when he spots you and Max coming back in, clearly having solved the issue.

“You better treat her right, Harrington. I know a good lawyer,” Max points at him sternly, and Steve just smirks at the threat.

“Wouldn’t surprise me, Mayfield,” He replies, and pulls you into his side, refusing to let you go now that he has you.

“Besides, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ve been waiting a long time for her. I wouldn't dream of screwing it up,” Steve gazes at you, about to lean in to kiss you and the teens around you immediately pretend to gag.

You giggle as Steve groans in annoyance, before leaning his head towards you, whispering, “After this shit show ends, I’m taking you on a proper date.”

It’s an assurance that you’re looking forward to. You’ve waited all this time for him, a little bit more time wouldn’t hurt.

[underoospeterparker]

chasing cars — part five ★ steve harrington

After being forced to relocate when men from Hawkins Lab find you, Steve finds your new abode with just one clue from your phone call. You discuss your powers and what happens next.

notes — experiment!reader (reader is 009), mentions of Hawkins Lab, past torture/abuse, medical trauma, referenced experimentation, emotional distress, protective!Steve, angst, violence, implied sexual assault, i'm sorry but tw this gets extremely dark, suicide, death, mental manipulation, hurt/comfort

Steve harrington x fem!reader, 3.8k words

link to series masterlist

Steve has been walking for hours.

The woods at night are darker than he expected — darker than that first night, when he found you huddled against the oak tree.

Back then, he'd had the rain to guide him, the sound of your sobs cutting through the storm. Now there's only silence, and the moon, and the desperate hope that he's going the right way.

Heart, you'd said. Heart. Remember?

He remembers. Of course he remembers. That oak tree with the carved heart — he'd noticed it the night he found you, had run his fingers over the rough etching. He'd wondered who carved it, and when, and why.

The tree is easy enough to find. He's been there before, after all. But finding the tree is just the beginning. You'd said heart, and he knows you well enough by now to know you meant more than just the tree itself.

So he starts walking. Circles, at first, expanding outward from the oak like ripples in a pond. He looks for paths, for broken branches, for any sign that someone has been this way before.

And then he sees it. A small trail, barely visible, leading deeper into the woods. The beginning of the path looks like a heart. He smiles.

The trail winds through the trees, up a small rise, down into a hollow. And there, almost invisible against the darkness, is a cabin.

He moves forward, careful, quiet, his heart pounding so loud he's sure they can hear it. He doesn't know who else might be out here — the men who attacked the first cabin, maybe, or worse.

He keeps his hand ready, though he doesn't have a weapon. He didn't think to bring one. He only thought of you.

The cabin door is old, solid. He raises his hand to knock—

And then it opens. Hopper is standing there.

For a second, neither of them moves. Then Hopper's face shifts — relief, maybe, or something like it. "Took you long enough," he says quietly.

Steve laughs, a shaky, breathless sound. "Is she — is she okay?"

"She's inside. Asleep." Hopper steps back, letting him in. "Go on."

Steve doesn't need to be told twice. The cabin is small, warm, lit by a single lamp. A kitchen in the corner, a little sofa, a door that must lead to the bedroom. He's halfway across the room when said door opens.

And there you are. You're standing in the doorway in bare feet and the sweater he gave you — his sweater, you're wearing his sweater — and your eyes are wide and wet and fixed on his face. "Steve?" you whisper.

He can't speak. He can't move. He can only stand there, drinking you in, alive and whole and real.

You cross the room so fast you nearly fall, and then you're in his arms, your face buried in his chest, your hands gripping his jacket like he might disappear. He holds you just as tight, his face pressed to your hair, his eyes squeezed shut.

"I found you," he breathes. "I found you, angel."

"You came," you breathe. "You came, you came, you came."

"Of course I came." He pulls back just enough to look at your face, to cup it in his hands. "I'll always come. Always."

You look up at him — your face wet, your eyes shining, your smile so bright it hurts — and then you're practically climbing at him. Your legs wrap around his waist, your arms lock behind his neck, and you press yourself against him like you're trying to crawl inside his skin, like you always have been trying so.

Steve stumbles back a step, catching himself, and then his arms are under you, holding you up, holding you close. You stay like that for a long time. Steve doesn't mind. He could hold you forever.

Eventually, you pull back just enough to look at him. Your hand comes up to touch his face, your fingers tracing his jaw, his cheek, the dark circles under his eyes.

"You look tired," you whisper.

He laughs. "I've been walking all night. I couldn't sleep. I had to find you."

"You found me." Your smile is small and soft and everything. "You always find me."

He presses his forehead to yours. "Always."

Hopper clears his throat gently from the kitchen. "Maybe sit down before you fall down, kid."

Steve laughs again and carries you to the couch, settling down with you still in his lap. You don't seem inclined to move, and honestly, he doesn't want you to. He just wants to hold you and never let go.

Hopper pours two cups of coffee — black for himself, lighter for Steve — and brings them over. He sits in the armchair across from you, his eyes tired but alert.

"We need to talk about what happened," Hopper says quietly.

Steve feels you tense against him. His arm tightens around you. "I know," Hopper continues, his voice gentle, "that you've been through a lot. But there are things I need to understand. Things that might help us keep you safe."

You nod against Steve's chest, but you don't look up. Steve's hand finds its way into your hair, stroking gently, the way he knows you like. You relax against him just a fraction.

Hopper leans forward, his voice careful. "I'm not trying to scare you, kid. I'm trying to understand. The lab — they don't send that many men for just anyone. They want you bad. Worse than they've ever wanted anyone." He pauses. "I need to know why."

Steve feels you tremble. His hand slides from your hair down to your back, slipping just under the edge of his sweater — your sweater now — and rests against the warm skin at your side. He rubs slow circles there, soft, soothing.

"You don't have to tell us everything," Steve whispers against your hair. "Just what you can. Just what you want to. We're not going anywhere."

You turn your face into his neck, and he feels your breath against his skin. "In the lab," you start, your voice so quiet he has to strain to hear, "they test me. For everything. Telekinesis, like El. Pyro..." You try to remember. "Pyrokinesis. Many times." You pause. "I fail. Every time."

Steve keeps rubbing your side, slow and steady. His other hand stays in your hair.

"They said they are going to terminate me," you continue. "Kill. I think." Steve's jaw tightens, but he doesn't let it show in his touch. He just holds you closer. "Before I run... ran away," you correct your tense, which makes Steve press a kiss to your temple, "they said they are going to terminate me."

"But they didn't," Steve whispers. "They didn't terminate you. You got out."

You shake your head against his neck. "Before I left. The night I left. They found out."

Hopper leans forward, his face carefully neutral but his eyes sharp. "What do you mean, kid?"

You're quiet for a long moment. Steve can feel you gathering yourself, feel the way your fingers grip his shirt tighter.

"There was a guard," you whisper. "His name was Raymond. He was... bad. The worst." You swallow. "He hurt El once. A long time ago. I made him forget. Made him tired. Made him go home."

"But that night — the night I left — he came back. To my room. He was angry. He said he remembered. He said he didn't know how, but he remembered what I did. He remembered me... pushing into his head."

Your voice breaks a little. Steve holds you tighter.

"He said he was going to tell Dr. Brenner. He said they would finally know what I could do. That I wasn't a dud. That I was maybe the most powerful one of all." You pause. "He laugh. He said they will use me forever. That I would never see sun again."

Hopper's jaw is tight. Steve can see the anger in his eyes, but his voice stays gentle. "What happened then?"

You're quiet for a long moment. Steve feels your fingers twisting in his shirt, feels the way your whole body has gone tense.

"Angel," he murmurs, his lips against your hair. "You're okay. You're safe. Take your time."

You take a shaky breath. "I was so scared," you whisper. "He was so big. So angry. And he was going to tell them. He was going to—" You stop, swallowing hard. "I did not think. I just... reached out. Inside his head. And I told him—" Your voice breaks.

"Told him what?" Hopper asks gently.

You press your face harder into Steve's neck. "I told him to stop. To go away. To never hurt anyone again." A pause. "But it came out wrong. Or right? I do not know. I was so scared. I just — I pushed so hard. And I told him—" You stop again, and Steve feels you shaking.

Steve's hand keeps moving on your side, slow circles, warm and steady. "It's okay, angel. Whatever it was, it's okay."

You shake your head. "I told him to die." The words come out in a rush, barely audible. "In his head. I told him to die. And he—" You gasp, a sob catching in your throat. "He reach for knife and..." You stop, your whole body shaking now.

You can't finish. You don't have to.

Across from you, Hopper has gone rigid in his chair. His face is pale, his eyes fixed on you with an expression Steve can't quite read.

"He killed himself," Hopper says quietly. It's not a question.

Steve goes completely still beneath you. For a second, he doesn't breathe.

Mind reader.

You're a mind reader. You can get inside people's heads. You can make them do things. You can make them—

You've been in his head.

The realisation hits him so hard he feels dizzy. All those times he held you. All those whispered endearments. All those moments when he thought you were just learning to trust him — you were listening. You knew every thought. Every feeling. Every stupid, embarrassing, vulnerable thing that passed through his mind.

Did you know he was falling for you? Did you know he lay awake at night thinking about your smile? Did you know he'd already started imagining a future where you were his?

Did you know everything?

His heart is pounding. His palms are sweating. He can feel his own panic rising, a wave of it, unstoppable—

"Steve?"

Your voice. Small. Terrified. He looks down.

You're staring up at him with eyes so wide, so wet, so scared that it punches the air out of his lungs. Your lower lip is trembling. Your whole body has gone rigid in his lap.

"You're — you're scared," you whisper. "I can feel it. Your heart is beating so fast. You're—" A sob catches in your throat. "You're scared of me."

"What? No, angel, I—"

But you're already shaking your head, frantically, tears spilling down your cheeks. "I did not read your thoughts. I promise. I swear. I would never — I never—" You're gasping between words, your hands clutching his shirt like a lifeline. "Sometimes feelings slip through. I cannot help it. But I never — Not on purpose."

He stares at you. At the absolute terror on your face. At the way you're looking at him like he might push you away, like he might leave.

"You're my Steve," you sob. "I would never — I could never — please. Please do not be scared of me. Please."

Something in his chest cracks wide open. He thinks about everything you've been through. All the people who used you. All the people who hurt you. All the people who looked at you like you were a thing instead of a person.

And now you think he's going to be one of them.

"Angel." His voice comes out rough, broken. He cups your face in his big hands, forcing you to look at him. "Sweetheart, stop. Stop. Look at me."

You look at him with those huge, terrified eyes, tears still streaming down your cheeks.

"I'm not scared of you." He says it slowly, clearly, so you can see the truth in his eyes. "I was — for a second, I panicked. Because I thought about all the embarrassing things you might have heard. All the stupid thoughts I have when I'm around you." He laughs, wet and shaky. "But I'm not scared of you. I could never be scared of you."

Your bottom lip trembles. "But you — your heart—"

"My heart was racing because I'm an idiot who panics before he thinks." He presses his forehead to yours, his thumbs still gently wiping away your tears. "I'm not scared of you. I'm not going anywhere. You're my angel. You hear me?"

You stare at him, searching his face for lies. For pity. For fear. Your breath comes in short, shaky gasps, your whole body still trembling in his lap.

"I love you," you whisper, so quiet it's almost lost. You've never said it to anyone before, but here, with Steve, you can say it. "I love you so much. I would never — I would never hurt you. I would never—"

"I know." He pulls you closer, one hand cradling the back of your head, pressing your face gently into the curve of his neck. "I know, angel. I know."

You cling to him, your fingers twisting in his shirt, your breath hot and uneven against his skin. He can feel your heart pounding, rabbit-fast, terrified.

"Shh," he murmurs, his lips against your hair. "Shh, I've got you. I've got you. Just breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe."

Steve holds you through it. Through the shaking, through the tears, through the gasping breaths that slowly, slowly begin to steady. His hand never stops moving on your back, slow circles, warm and soothing. "I love you," he murmurs against your hair.

"I'm gonna step outside," Hopper says quietly, already standing. "Check the perimeter. Give you two a minute." He pauses at the door, looking back at you both with something soft in his eyes. "I'm glad you found each other."

Then he's gone, the door clicking softly behind him.

"You... you love me?" you whisper then, like you can't quite believe it. Like the words are too big, too heavy, too good to be real.

Steve's heart cracks open all over again.

"Yeah, angel." His voice is soft, steady, sure. "I love you. I've loved you since—" He laughs, a little shaky. "I don't even know when. Maybe that first night, when you took my hand in the shower. Maybe when you smiled at me for the first time. Maybe just... always. Like I was always waiting for you."

"I love you too," you murmur. "I did not know what it was. I did not have a word. But it is—it is like sun. In my chest. In my head. Every time I see you."

Steve's eyes sting. He presses his forehead to yours again, breathing you in. "Like sunshine," he replies gently, tucking you closer to him.

You give him a wobbly smile, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Then you look back at the front door, checking Hopper's okay. Your eyes flit back to Steve. "He is... he is good. Hopper."

Steve nods, brushing a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering on the underside of your chin. "Yeah. He is."

"He is like... a dad." You say it slowly, testing the word. "I never had a dad. But I think... he is like that."

Steve's heart swells. "Yeah, angel. I think he is."

You're quiet for a moment, your fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. Then you look up at him again, shy and hopeful. "Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"You are... my Steve." You say it like it's the most important thing in the world. "Forever?"

He cups your face, so gentle, and kisses your forehead, your nose, the tip of your chin. You giggle — actually giggle — and the sound is so bright, so free, that Steve thinks he wants to bottle the sound and put it in his pocket, never let it fade away.

"Forever," he promises. "And ever and ever. You're stuck with me, angel."

You smile and curl back into his chest, your hand over his heart, your breath warm against his skin.

"Good," you murmur. "I want to be stuck."

Later, after Hopper comes back and the fire has burned low, you talk.

"Okay," he says quietly. "Let me make sure I understand. You can read minds — thoughts, feelings, memories. And you can also... plant things. Suggestions. Images. And if you push hard enough, they'll act on them."

You nod. "Like seeds. Small at first. Then they grow. They think it is their own idea."

Hopper leans forward in the armchair. "And Raymond — you didn't just plant a seed. You pushed hard. Made him see himself doing it. And then..."

Your face crumples slightly. "I did not mean to. I was so scared. I just — I wanted him to stop. I wanted him to never hurt anyone again. And he—" You stop, swallowing.

Steve's hand rubs your back gently. "It's okay, angel. You don't have to go over it again."

Hopper nods, understanding. "That's enough. I get it." He pauses, rubbing his jaw. "Here's what I'm thinking. The lab, they know you're a mind reader. Probably. They might have suspected for a while. But they don't know about the planting. The way you can influence people's actions. That's our advantage."

You look at him, curious. "Advantage?"

"Leverage," Hopper says. "If it comes down to it — if they find us, if there's no other way — you might be able to use that. Not to hurt anyone. But to protect yourself, and us. To make them forget they ever saw us. To make them look the other way."

Steve feels you tense slightly in his lap. He squeezes you gently.

"I'm not saying we're going to put you in danger," Hopper adds quickly. "I'm saying — what you can do, it's not just a curse. It's a gift. And if we're smart, it might be the thing that keeps you free."

You're quiet for a long moment, processing. Then, slowly, you nod.

"Okay," you whisper. "I... I can try. If I need to."

Hopper's face softens. "That's all I'm asking, kid."

The fire crackles, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Outside, the wind has picked up, rattling the windows gently. Everything feels warm, safe, right.

But something nags at you.

You can't explain it. A feeling, deep in the back of your mind. Like everything is too okay, that something is coming.

You shift in Steve's lap, trying to shake it off. His hand automatically soothes down your back. "You okay, angel?" he asks.

You nod against his chest. "Just... tired."

He kisses the top of your head. "Close your eyes, then. I've got you."

You do. You close your eyes and listen to his heartbeat, steady and strong. You listen to Hopper's breathing across the room, slow and even. You listen to the wind, the fire, the quiet.

But underneath it all, there's something else.

A presence. Faint. Distant. But there. Like something is crawling under your skin, lingering. You try to reach for it, to identify it, but it slips away like smoke. Every time you get close, it vanishes.

Probably nothing, you tell yourself. Just your mind playing tricks. You're exhausted.

Steve's hand moves in your hair, gentle, soothing. You focus on that. On him. On the warmth of his body, the safety of his arms.

The feeling fades.

You let out a breath you didn't realise you were holding. Relief, maybe.

"Love you," you mumble, already half-asleep.

Steve's arms tighten around you. "Love you too, angel."

Hopper watches from his chair, a small smile on his face. He reaches for his coffee, takes a sip, and settles deeper into the worn cushions.

For a while, everything is perfect.

You don't know how long you've been asleep when it happens.

A voice. In your head. Not Steve's. Not Hopper's. Not El's. Someone else.

—can hear me, can't you? Number Nine.

Your eyes fly open.

The cabin is dark. The fire has burned low, it is just embers now. Steve is still asleep beneath you, his breathing slow and even. Hopper is slumped in his chair, his chin on his chest.

You didn't think you could really escape, did you?

You know that voice. You've heard it a thousand times, in the white halls, in the testing rooms, in your nightmares.

Dr. Brenner.

You press your hands to your ears, but it doesn't help. The voice is inside your head, not outside.

I'm closer than you think, he says, and there's something like amusement in his tone. Did you never wonder why the headaches never stopped? Why your walls never stayed up?

Your blood runs cold.

I'm inside them, he says. I'm inside your head. Does that scare you, Nine?

You reach up, without thinking, and touch the back of your neck. Just below your hairline. There's a spot there. You've always assumed it was a scar. A birthmark. Nothing to worry about.

But now, under your fingertips, it feels different. Hard. Like something small and smooth, just beneath your skin.

Three years ago, Brenner's voice continues, soft and pleased. A routine procedure. You were asleep. You never even knew.

Your breath catches. Your fingers press harder against the spot, and you feel it—a tiny bump, a foreign object, something that shouldn't be there.

A chip, he explains, like he's teaching a slow student. State of the art. It allows me to — how shall I put this? — visit. Whenever I want. Wherever you are.

Steve shifts beneath you, mumbling in his sleep. You don't move. Can't move.

I've been watching you, Nine. These past weeks. Your little boyfriend. The Chief. Your sister. A pause. You've been busy.

Horror crawls up your spine.

Don't worry, Brenner says, and his voice is almost kind. I'm not coming for you tonight. I just wanted you to know. To understand. You can run, but you can never hide. Not from me.

Sleep well, little ghost. I'll see you soon.

You sit there in the dark, trembling, your hand still pressed to the back of your neck. Steve sleeps on, unaware. Hopper sleeps on, unaware.

No one knows.

No one but you.

You look at Steve's peaceful face, at Hopper's relaxed form, at the door to the bedroom where El sleeps. They think you're safe. Free. You'll never be free, not really, not while he's inside you. A part of you. A little piece of the lab, buried under your skin, whispering in your head.

And he can find you. Always.

You don't sleep for the rest of the night. You just sit there, in Steve's lap, and wonder how long you have before they come.

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[underoospeterparker]

chasing cars — part four ★ steve harrington

You're forced to relocate after you're found by men from Hawkins Lab. Steve worries when he visits the cabin and sees you gone.

notes — experiment!reader (reader is 009), mentions of Hawkins Lab, past torture/abuse, medical trauma, referenced experimentation, emotional distress, protective!Steve, angst, violence, guns, implied sexual assault, blood and injuries, death

Steve harrington x fem!reader, 3.1k words

link to series masterlist

The door splinters.

Wood cracks and breaks, pieces flying inward, and you curl yourself around El, your body a shield, your eyes squeezed shut. You wait for hands to grab you, for voices to shout, for the nightmare to start all over again. You wait for the worst.

But the hands don't come.

Instead, there is a voice. Rough. Familiar.

"Hey. Hey, it's me. It's okay."

You know that voice. Your eyes fly open. Hopper is standing in the broken doorway.

He's alive.

The relief that crashes through you is so overwhelming, so complete, that for a moment you can't move. You can only stare at him — at his chest heaving, at his dark eyes fixed on you and El.

"Hopper," you breathe.

You scramble out from behind the dresser so fast you nearly fall, your legs unsteady, your heart still pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. El calls out behind you but you can't stop, can't wait, because Hopper is there, Hopper is alive, and you need to touch him, need to make sure he's real, need to hold onto him because if you don't you might shatter into a thousand pieces.

Your arms wrap around his middle, your face pressing into his chest, and you hold on like he's the only thing keeping you from drowning. You feel his heartbeat — fast but steady — and you press closer, closer, trying to crawl inside his ribs and hide there forever.

"Whoa, kid—" He stumbles back a step, catching himself, and for one terrible second you think he's going to push you away. But then his arms come up around you. Awkward at first, like he's not sure what to do with a crying girl attached to his front. Then they tighten.

"You're okay," he murmurs, rough and quiet. "You're okay. I got you."

You're crying.

You didn't realise until now, but you're crying, heaving sobs that shake your whole body. You can't stop. You don't want to stop. You just want to hold onto him and never let go.

You didn't know. You didn't know how much he mattered. You didn't know that in these few short weeks, this gruff man with the sad eyes had become something so important to you. He taught you how to make coffee. He left the lamp on. He looked at you like you belonged. He let you stay in his home.

And now he's here. He came for you. He saved you.

"You are hurt," you gasp against his chest, your hands patting at him frantically, checking for wounds, for blood, for anything that might mean he's not okay. "Blood—"

"It's not mine." His hand catches yours, stilling it. "It's not mine, kid. I'm okay."

You look up at him, your vision blurry with tears, your face wet and messy and probably ugly. You don't care. "Promise?"

His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away tears. "Promise," he says quietly.

Behind you, El appears. She's standing in the corner of the room, her face pale as milk, her eyes wide.

Hopper looks at her over your head. Stretches out his arm to make room for her. "Come here, kid."

El crosses the room in three steps and buries herself against Hopper's side, her face pressing into his ribs, her small hands gripping his shirt. Hopper's arm comes down around her, pulling her in. And then he's holding both of you, his two girls, his arms around you like he can shield you from everything.

"You're safe," he whispers, and his voice cracks on the words. "You're both safe. I got you."

For a long moment, none of you move. The cabin is silent except for your sobs and the distant creak of settling wood. The men are gone — dead or fled, you don't know and you don't care. All that matters is this.

Eventually, your tears slow. Your breathing evens out. You're still holding onto Hopper, still pressed against his chest, but the desperate panic has faded into something quieter. Something softer.

Hopper's hand is still in your hair, stroking gently the way Steve does. It's different — rougher, more awkward — but it's still warm. Still safe.

"Okay," he says quietly. "We need to move."

You pull back, looking up at him. "Move?"

He nods, his jaw tight. "Three of them are dead. The rest ran, but they'll be back. With more. This place isn't safe anymore."

El looks up at him, her dark eyes serious. "Where will we go?"

Hopper is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "I know a place. Another old hunting cabin, deeper in the woods. Off the grid. No one knows about it except me." He looks at you, then at El. "You'll be safe there. For a while, at least."

"Steve," you say suddenly, your voice sharp with panic. "Steve don't know. Steve will come tomorrow and we will not be here and he will not know where we are and he will think — he think they took us or we are dead or—"

"Hey." Hopper's hands cup your face, gentle but firm, forcing you to look at him. "I'll find a way to let him know. I promise. He's a smart kid. He'll figure it out." A pause. "And when this is over, he'll find you. Okay?"

"Okay," you whisper.

Hopper releases your face and stands, pulling you up with him. El rises too, still pressed close to his side.

"Grab what you need," he says. "Clothes. The sweater Steve gave you. Anything important. We leave in five minutes."

You don't have much. You never have. But you grab the sweater — Steve's sweater, the one that smells like him — and you hold it tight to your chest.

El is beside you. She's packed her most important things into a bag. You look at her, and for a moment, she's just your little sister, scared and brave all at once, her dark eyes wet with tears she won't let fall.

You reach out and take her hand.

Hopper appears in the doorway, a duffel slung over his shoulder, his gun holstered at his side. He looks at the two of you, holding hands, and something in his face shifts. Softens. Cracks, just a little.

"My girls," he says quietly, almost to himself. Then he clears his throat. "Ready?"

You follow him out of the room, through the wreckage of the cabin. The living room is destroyed — glass everywhere, furniture overturned, the lamp you love shattered on the floor. The kitchen is worse, dishes broken, food scattered. The front door hangs off its hinges.

You step over the bodies without looking at them. You don't want to see their faces. You don't want to remember.

Outside, the cold night air hits you. Cold and sharp and smelling of pine. The moon is high overhead, pale and distant, and the trees stretch out in every direction like dark walls.

Hopper leads you away from the cabin, into the woods. You follow without question, your hand still clutching El's, your other hand holding Steve's sweater.

The path is rough, uneven, full of roots and rocks. You keep walking, following Hopper's broad back through the dark.

After what feels like hours, he stops.

There's a shape ahead. Small. Wooden. Almost invisible against the trees. The hunting cabin. It's much like the one you're coming from — only a little smaller, more hidden in the trees.

Hopper pushes open the door and gestures you inside. It's warmer than you'd expected, tiny but cozy, with a worn sofa that's seen better days, a kitchenette in the corner, and a single door that probably leads to a bedroom.

"Not much," Hopper says, dropping his duffel by the door. "But it's safe. No one knows about this place."

El moves further inside, her dark eyes scanning everything, cataloging exits and hiding places the way she was trained to. You watch her and feel a pang of something — sadness, maybe. That she had to learn that. That both of you did.

"Bedroom's through there," Hopper says, nodding toward the door. "One bed. You two take it. I'll take the couch."

You look at the couch. It's small. Too small for a man his size.

"No," you say.

He turns, eyebrows raised. "No?"

You cross the room and take his hand. He looks down at it, surprised, but doesn't pull away.

"You stay with us," you say quietly. "Bed is... bed is big enough. For three." You struggle for the words, but your eyes say the rest. Please. Don't leave us. Not tonight.

His face does something complicated. For a moment, he looks like he might argue. Then his eyes flick to El, who's watching him with the same hopeful expression, and something in him softens.

"Yeah," he says roughly. "Yeah, okay, kid. I'll stay."

The bedroom is small, barely big enough for the bed and a dresser. But the bed is bigger than you expected — a full, at least, with thick blankets and soft pillows. You climb in first, still holding Steve's sweater, and El curls against your side immediately, her head on your shoulder.

Hopper stands in the doorway for a moment, looking awkward. Then he toes off his boots and lies down on the other side of El, his back to you, his body taking up as little space as possible.

You lie there in the dark, listening to the wind outside, to El's breathing evening out, to Hopper's steady heartbeat.

It's crowded. It's awkward. It's nothing like sleeping alone.

It's the safest you've ever felt, you think, as you rest your head on Hopper's chest and let his arm come around you.

You must have fallen asleep, because the next thing you know, soft grey light is filtering through the curtains. El is still curled against you. Hopper is already up — you can hear him moving around in the main room.

You slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake El, and pad barefoot into the living room.

Hopper is on the phone.

It's an old one, rotary, mounted on the wall near the kitchen. He's speaking in low tones, his back to you, but you catch enough.

"—need you to listen. Don't come here. It's not safe. But I need you to know they're okay. Both of them. We're at—" He pauses, listening. "No, I can't say. Lines might be tapped. Just... wait. She wants to talk to you."

He turns, sees you, and holds out the phone. "Steve," he says quietly.

Your heart stops. Then it starts again, faster than before. You cross the room in seconds and take the phone, pressing it to your ear.

"Steve?" you whisper.

"Angel." His voice crackles through the line, rough and frantic. "Oh god, angel, are you okay? I came to the cabin this morning and it was destroyed and there was blood and I thought — I thought they took you, I thought you were—"

"Steve." You cut him off, because you can hear him falling apart and you need him to be okay. "I am okay. El is okay. Hopper is okay. We are safe."

A shaky breath on the other end. "Where are you? Tell me where you are, I'll come get you, I'll—"

"I cannot say." You glance at Hopper, who nods grimly. "The phone... the phone might be... listen to. They might hear."

"Tapped," he supplies. "The line might be tapped."

"Yes. Tapped." You repeat the word, memorising it. "So I cannot say where we are. But—" You think, your mind racing.

Steve found you by the oak tree, three weeks ago, in the woods. That same oak tree is only a hundred meters, give or take, away from the cabin. You remember a tiny heart, etched on the inside of the wood.

"Heart," you breathe quietly. "Heart. Remember?"

There's a pause on the other end of the line. You can hear Steve breathing, can hear him thinking.

"Heart," he repeats slowly. "The—"

"No." You cut him off quickly, your voice urgent but quiet. "Do not say. They... hear."

Another pause. Longer this time. You can almost hear him putting it together, trying to connect the dots in his head.

"Okay," he says finally, his voice careful. "Okay, angel. It's okay."

You clutch the phone tighter, wishing you could reach through it and touch him. "Good. That is... that is good."

"But I can't — I don't know where you are, exactly. I can't protect you if I don't know—"

"You will find me." You say it with certainty, because you believe it. "You always find me."

A shaky breath. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You glance at Hopper, who's watching you with something soft in his eyes. "You found me in the rain. You will find me again."

"Okay." His voice is steadier now. "Okay, sweetheart. I'm gonna figure this out. I'm gonna find you."

"I have to go," you whisper. "Hopper says—"

"I know." He sounds like he's trying to be brave. "Go. Be safe. I'll find you."

You hang up the phone and stand there for a moment, your hand still on the receiver, your heart pounding. Hopper is watching you. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are soft.

"That was smart," he says quietly. "The heart. He'll know what it means."

You nod, not trusting your voice.

"Come on." He gestures toward the bedroom. "Get some more sleep. It's still early."

You pad back to the bedroom, crawl into bed beside El. She shifts in her sleep, curling closer to you, and you wrap an arm around her.

But you don't sleep.

You lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, and you think about Steve. About the heart carved into the oak tree. About the way he looks at you.

You wonder if he'll look at you the same when he finds out what you've been hiding.

Your powers.

You could slip into someone's mind like slipping through an unlocked door. You could walk through their memories, their fears, their deepest secrets, and they would never even know you were there. You could feel what they felt, see what they saw, know what they knew.

And if you wanted to — if you really wanted to — you could change things. Plant a thought. Twist a memory. Make them believe something that never happened.

You remember the first time you did it on purpose. You were seven. A guard had been rough with El — shoved her against the wall for not moving fast enough. You didn't say anything. You just looked at him. And you reached out, found the edges of his mind, and you pushed.

Nothing dramatic. Just a tiny suggestion, buried deep where he'd never notice. You're tired. So tired. You should go home. You should sleep.

He'd yawned. Rubbed his eyes. And then he'd left, muttering about pulling a double shift.

El had looked at you with those big dark eyes, and you'd just shrugged. You didn't tell her what you'd done. You didn't tell anyone.

Because if they knew what you could really do — if they knew you could rewrite a person's thoughts like editing a page — they'd never stop using you. They'd never let you be anything but their weapon.

In the lab, they tested you for telekinesis like El. They tested you for sensory abilities, for pyrokinesis, for every power they could think of. And you failed. Every single time.

They called you a dud. A waste of resources. They were going to terminate you — you heard them talking about it once, through the thin walls of your room. Number Nine is non-functional. No viable powers detected. Recommend reallocation of resources.

You were seven years old, and you knew they were going to kill you.

But then something happened. A scientist — Dr. Ellis, his name was — left his journal in the testing room by accident. You picked it up, just to look at the cover, and suddenly you could hear him. Not his voice. His thoughts. Loud and clear, like he was standing right next to you.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Brenner will have my head if I lost that data. Where did I put it? Think, Ellis, think—

You dropped the journal like it had burned you.

After that, you learned to control it. To reach out and listen without anyone knowing. You learned which guards were kind (none of them) and which ones were scared of their own shadows (most of them). You learned that Dr. Brenner dreamed about his mother, that he cried in his sleep sometimes, that he was just as broken as the children he tortured.

You learned that knowledge was power. And you kept your power hidden.

When they tested you, you gave them nothing. You stared at the cards, at the objects, at the people behind the glass, and you let your mind go blank. You let them think you were nothing. A dud. A waste.

Even if they were to kill you, at least you wouldn't be their tool. A weapon for mass destruction.

Not even El knows. You've never told her. You've never told anyone.

You've kept your walls up so tight for so long that sometimes you forget there's anything behind them at all.

But lying here in the dark, with El warm against your side and Hopper's steady heartbeat somewhere in the other room, you feel the walls shifting. Cracking. Just a little.

It happened by accident, a few days after you arrived at Hopper's cabin. You were sitting at the kitchen table, watching him make coffee, and your mind just... slipped. Just for a second. Just long enough to catch a flicker of something.

Sara.

Her name. His daughter. You saw her — a flash of pigtails and a gap-toothed smile, a laugh that sounded like the chiming of bells. And underneath it, a grief so vast and so deep it nearly drowned you.

You'd pulled back so fast you'd given yourself a headache. But it was too late. You'd already seen. You'd already felt.

You didn't mean to. You never mean to. But sometimes your mind just reaches out on its own, like a hand stretching in the dark, searching for something to hold onto.

You haven't tried to read Steve. You've made sure of it. Every time he's near, you keep your walls so tight it hurts, because you're terrified of what you might find. Terrified that deep down, he might be like the others — pitying you, using you, secretly afraid of the broken girl he found in the woods.

You just hope — you pray — that when he finds out what you really are, when he finds out what you did to escape... You hope he'll still look at you the same way.

You hope he'll still want you to be his angel.

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[underoospeterparker]

chocolate chip cookies

Steve Harrington x sunshine!fem!reader, 4.1k words

Summary: Steve Harrington treats you like an annoyance, all heavy sighs and eye-rolls, and you adore him anyway. Then he goes too far, says something that hurts, and realises that he's loved you all along.

Steve Harrington is mean to you.

Well, not mean, exactly. He’s just… Steve. Which is to say, his voice carries a permanent layer of exasperation that is seemingly only reserved for you in particular. He speaks to you in a shorthand of sighs and grumbles. You are, in his lexicon, “a nuisance,” “underfoot,” and most frequently, “in the way, sweetheart.”

He calls you “kid” when he’s feeling particularly dismissive, even though you're only a year younger than him, and he has a habit of flicking your forehead or ruffling your hair into a mess.

And you adore him. Hopelessly. You bring him a Coke without being asked, you memorise his work schedule so you can “accidentally” bump into him, and you hang on his every gruff word as if it’s gospel.

You're terrible at hiding your crush on him, shining from your eyes every time he enters a room. He finds it baffling. And, in his most private moments, a little bit breathtaking.

He finds your attention strange because he knows he doesn’t deserve it. His high school crown is gone, his hair is less perfect, and his most exciting evening plans usually involve re-shelving returns.

Yet, there you are. A constant. When he mutters about his stupid car making a weird noise, you nod along with grave concern and help him look up possible problems when you go to the public library. When he complains that Robin used the last of the good popcorn, you look genuinely outraged on his behalf.

You have this way of tilting your head just so when he talks, your entire being focused on him, as if the rest of the world has politely blurred into the background. It's unnerving.

It's also kind of nice.

It happens on a Thursday. Steve's had a horrible day. His head is pounding, his car is making a new, expensive-sounding whine, and a customer just yelled at him for five minutes because Risky Business was checked out. He’s a tightly coiled spring of pure, undiluted annoyance.

And then you appear. A burst of sunshine in the stale video store air. You’re holding a small, slightly lopsided cookie on a napkin, your face lit with a hopeful, proud smile.

“Hi! I baked,” you announce, presenting it to him like a sacred offering. “Chocolate chip. I know you said your grandma's were the best, but I tried the recipe you mentioned and I added extra chips, just like you like.”

You’re beaming, so pleased with yourself for remembering this tiny detail about him. You wait, your eyes wide and sparkling, for his approval.

Steve looks from your hopeful face to the cookie. The smell of sugar and chocolate, usually comforting, feels cloying. Your cheerful voice scrapes against the raw edges of his mood.

The spring inside him snaps.

“Christ, can you just… not for five minutes?” The words come out flat and cold, sharper than he intends.

Your smile wavers. “What?”

“The hovering. The… the constant attention.” He gestures vaguely, his jaw tight. “It’s suffocating. Do you ever just… exist without making it about trying to get me to notice you?”

Your face crumbles in less than a second. The light in your eyes dims so completely it’s like someone flipped a switch. Steve's mean, but he's never this mean. Not on purpose, not with an intent to hurt, but this hurts.

You look down at the cookie in your hand as if you’ve just realised you’re holding something disgusting. Your lower lip gives a tiny, traitorous tremble before you bite down on it hard, trying to steady yourself.

You don’t say a word. You just set the cookie down on the counter, turn on your heel, and walk out.

The silence you leave behind is deafening. Steve stands there, staring at the stupid, lopsided cookie. The angry heat in his veins instantly cools, replaced by a cold, sinking dread that pools in his stomach.

What has he done?

"Steve."

He turns. Robin is standing there, her face pale. She looks dangerously close to tears, staring at the space where you just were, then back at him, her expression one of utter disbelief.

“How could you?” she whispers, her voice trembling with a hurt that isn’t even hers. “How could you say that to her?”

He opens his mouth, but no defence comes.

“She’s just trying,” Robin continues, her voice gaining strength, thick with emotion. “She tries so hard, all the time, just to be near you. She thinks you hung the damn moon, and you just…”

Her voice switches to an angry tone. “Do you have any idea how rare that is? For someone to look at you like that? After everything? To see all the crap and the baggage and the scars and still think you’re worth a lopsided cookie?”

Steve feels like he’s been hollowed out.

“She’s the kindest person who walks in here,” Robin says, her voice breaking. “And you made her feel like a pest. You broke her heart, dingus. And for what? Because you had a bad day?”

She turns and walks back into the storeroom, leaving him alone with the cookie and the echoing, agonising truth of her words.

You don't show up at all on Friday. Robin only speaks to him when absolutely necessary, and every clipped word feels like a shard of glass.

Every time the bell jingles, Steve’s head snaps up, a pathetic, hopeful lurch in his chest that’s immediately crushed when it’s not you. He straightens the same row of horror movies six times.

By Saturday, he’s a walking bruise. He doesn’t sleep. He can’t eat. He’s been hollowed out and filled with a churning, toxic mixture of guilt and terror. He drives past your street three times but can’t make the turn. What if you look at him with that shattered expression again? He doesn’t think he could survive it.

Sunday is worse. The silence in his own house is maddening. He tries to watch TV, but he just sees your face—the way it fell. He hears Robin’s voice: You broke her heart.

He has to fix it. He has to try. Even if you slam the door in his face, he has to see you.

Monday afternoon, after a horrible shift, he drives to your apartment. His hands are sweating on the wheel. He knocks. Once, twice. No answer. Just a faint, muffled sound from inside that twists his gut.

He knows where your spare key is. You’d told him, months ago, laughing as you taped it under the ugly ceramic frog pot by your door. “In case I ever lock myself out!” you’d said. He’d rolled his eyes then. “That's the worst possible hiding spot, sweetheart. If I was a thief, I'd look there first.”

His fingers are clumsy as he feels under the cold ceramic. The key is there. Using it feels like a violation, but the silence from inside your apartment is worse. He unlocks the door and pushes it open slowly.

“Hey…? It’s me,” Steve calls, his voice strained.

The living room is dim, blinds drawn. And there you are. Not on the sofa. On the cold hardwood floor in front of it, curled into the smallest possible ball. Your arms are wrapped tight around your knees, your face completely hidden in your knees.

The sight knocks the air from his lungs.

“Oh, angel,” he breathes, the endearment a pained exhale he didn’t know he had in him.

He closes the door and crosses the room in three long strides. He doesn’t hesitate. He bends, slides one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, and scoops you up from the floor. You’re so light, so boneless with misery, you don’t even startle. You just let out a small, broken whimper against his neck.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Can’t have you on the floor, sweetheart. It's so cold.”

He sits on the sofa and settles you on the cushions between his legs, your back to his chest, so you’re fully surrounded, cradled in the space he makes for you. One hand splays over your heart, feeling its frantic, sad rhythm. The other cradles your head, his fingers sinking into your hair.

You finally break. A raw, ragged sob tears from your throat, and then another. You twist in his hold just enough to press your face into the collar of his shirt, your tears soaking the cotton instantly.

“That’s it,” Steve whispers, his lips pressed to your temple. “Let it out. I’m here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby. God, I hate that I said that crap to you.” His own eyes burn, but he keeps his voice steady to calm you as best he can. “I didn’t mean it. Not a single word. You’re my favourite thing in the whole world.”

His hand moves from your chest to find yours, lacing your icy fingers with his and bringing your joined hands up to rest under his chin. “I love you,” he says quietly, the first ever time. “I’m in love with you. And I was so scared of it I tried to ruin it.”

You tremble against him, your sobs slowly softening into hitching breaths. You turn your head just enough to look up at him, your eyes swimming with a heartbreak he put there. He hates himself for it. “You looked at me like I was nothing,” you whisper, the words scraped raw.

“You are everything,” he corrects, his voice thick with tears. “And I was too stupid to know what to do with it. Forgive me. Please. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

You stare at him, searching for the lie, finding only a desperate, open honesty you’ve never seen before. You blink up at him, eyes clearing of their sadness.

"You... you love me?" you whisper, your voice small and hoarse from crying, but laced with a wonder that makes his heart clench.

Steve lets out a watery, relieved breath that's almost a laugh. He nods, his nose brushing against yours. "Yeah. So much it makes me stupid. Obviously."

A shaky, almost incredulous little giggle escapes you, followed by a sniffle. "You are stupid," you agree, but the words are soft, devoid of any real bite. They're just a fact.

"You bake me cookies and look up car manuals for me," he points out, his thumb stroking your cheek. "So what does that make you?"

"Also stupid," you mumble, but you're nuzzling into his touch now, a movement that sends pure warmth through him.

"The perfect amount of stupid," he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. It's chaste, gentle, a promise. "My kind of stupid."

You're quiet for a moment, your fingers tightening around his where they're still laced together. You're studying him, the last of the walls around your heart crumbling under the weight of his sincerity. "You're really not just saying it because I'm sad?"

Steve's chest aches. "Partly, but not in the way you think," he murmurs quietly. "Not 'cos I feel sorry for you." He shifts you slightly so he can see your face. "I'm saying it 'cos seeing you this sad... because of me... it's like looking at the sun going out."

He takes a deep breath. "The truth is I'm an asshole. An asshole who's in love with you. But I'm gonna try to be less of an asshole, if you'll let me."

You're quiet for a long moment, just looking at him. Then, you lean forward, resting your forehead against his. "You're not an asshole. You're just... you. And I really love you."

The words, so softly spoken, land in the centre of his chest and explode into a supernova of pure joy. He closes his eyes, letting the feeling wash over him, before pulling you tighter against him, burying his face in your hair.

"Say it again," he murmurs, the words muffled.

"I love you, Steve."

He kisses your hair. "Again."

A real, genuine laugh bubbles out of you, light and clear. It's the best sound he's ever heard. "I love you, you big, mean, stupid jerk."

"That's more like it," he laughs into your hair, tucking you closer against his front.

The next day, Tuesday, around the usual time, the bell over the Family Video door gives a single, timid ting.

Steve’s head snaps up. His heart, which has been a heavy, anxious weight in his chest all morning, gives a hopeful, painful thud.

You’re standing just inside the door, frozen. You’re clutching a small, brown paper bag to your chest. Your eyes, while clear of the devastation from yesterday, are wide and watchful. You don’t smile, not yet. Even after yesterday, you're still wary. He doesn't blame you.

Steve sets down the pen he’s been fidgeting with and slowly rounds the counter. He stops a few feet away from you, his hands in his pockets.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he murmurs softly. Barely any gruffness, there, only soft care.

You swallow, your grip tightening on the bag. “Hi, Steve.”

“You brought me something?” he asks, his voice a low, coaxing hum. He nods toward the bag, a gentle prompt.

“Cookies,” you say. “I… I wanted to try again. Properly.” You take a small, hesitant step forward and hold it out. “If you want.”

Steve’s heart swells. God, you're the bravest person he knows. He closes the distance between you, hands coming up to cover yours where they hold the bag.

“Look at me, angel,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper meant just for you.

You lift your gaze, and he holds it, letting you see every ounce of the remorse and adoration in his own. He sees the flicker of fear in yours, the memory of his cold voice. It guts him.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his thumbs stroking gentle circles on your skin. “C’mere.”

He opens his arms.

You hesitate for just a heartbeat, your eyes searching his. He doesn’t move, just waits, his expression open and patient.

Then you step into him, and he folds you into his chest with a sigh of pure relief. His arms wrap around you, one hand splayed wide on your back, the other cradling the back of your head, holding you close. He feels you take a deep, shuddering breath, your body slowly relaxing against his.

He presses a lingering kiss to your temple. “I’m not gonna yell again. I’m not gonna be mean. Okay? My voice is never gonna sound like that when I’m talking to you. That guy’s gone.”

You nod against his chest, your arms tightening around his waist. “Promise?” you whisper.

“I swear on everything,” he vows. Steve pulls back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. “You’re safe with me. Always. You could set the whole damn store on fire and I’d just be worried you got ash in your hair. You’re it for me. Got that?"

A smile tugs at your lips. "Got it."

He smiles back, his own eyes stinging. “Good.” He leans in and presses a soft, chaste kiss to your lips. “Now, what do you say we actually eat one of these cookies together?"

You let out a wet laugh. "Okay."

He keeps one arm around your shoulders as he leads you behind the counter, pulling out the stool he keeps there just for you. He opens the bag, pulls out two slightly-less-lopsided cookies, and hands you one. He takes a bite of his own, watching you the whole time.

“Mmm,” he hums, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Perfect. Just like you.”

You blush, ducking your head, but you’re smiling as you take a bite of your own cookie.

The back room door bangs open, to Robin standing there, arms crossed, taking in the scene. Steve leaning against the counter, his body angled towards you, a soft, dopey smile on his face as he watches you eat. You perched on the stool, swinging your feet a little, looking up at him with stars in your eyes.

She lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “Unbelievable.”

You jump a little, your eyes going wide like a deer in headlights. Steve just shoots Robin a look that’s half-warning, half-plea.

Robin ignores him and stalks over, plucking the remaining cookie from the bag. She points it at you. “So. This is it? He says ‘I love you’ once, and you just... fold? No further questions? No demands for a written apology? No ceremonial burning of his hairspray? I could've helped you with that, you know.”

You shrink a little on the stool, clutching your half-eaten cookie to your chest. Your eyes dart from Robin’s stern face to Steve’s fondly exasperated one. “He… he meant it,” you say, your voice small but terribly earnest. "He said he was sorry. And that I was his favourite thing in the world."

Robin stares at you. She looks at your utterly sincere, smitten expression. She looks at Steve, who is gazing down at you with a look of such raw, besotted tenderness it’s almost embarrassing to witness.

She shakes her head. "You're hopeless, babe. Adorable, but the biggest pushover in Indiana." She takes a big bite of the cookie. Chews. Her eyes widen slightly. "Holy shit."

You blink. "What?"

Robin points the remaining half of the cookie at Steve. “You are a lucky fuck, you know that?"

Steve grins knowingly. "How so?"

“How so?” Robin repeats, her voice full of theatrical disbelief. “Let me count the ways. One: she bakes.” She takes another bite, speaking around it. “And well, might I add. The chocolate is still melty. The edges are crisp. The centre is chewy without being raw."

"Two: she looks at you like you invented the concept of joy. Even after you were a monumental dingus. The freaking loyalty, oh my God." She pops the final piece of the cookie into her mouth. "And three: you do not deserve her. And yet, here she is."

Steve's grin hasn't faded as he turns his attention from Robin's impassioned rant to you. Your face is burning with flustered embarrassment.

He leans down to turn you on the stool so you’re facing him, your knees bumping his legs. “She’s right,” he murmurs. “I am a lucky fuck. The luckiest. And I definitely do not deserve you. But I'm gonna try to."

“You don’t have to try that hard,” you whisper.

“Yes, he does,” Robin interjects, leaning on the counter. “The minimum effort is daily compliments, foot rubs on request, and never using the word ‘suffocating’ for the rest of his life.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s still looking at you, a lovestruck smile on his face. He leans down to give you a kiss. It’s slow. Sweet. A gentle press of his lips to yours that feels like a promise sealed. When he pulls back, just an inch, he’s smiling, his nose brushing against yours.

“Alright, that’s my cue! I’m clocking out early before I develop diabetes from second-hand sweetness,” Robin announces, grabbing her bag and scattering off, the bell jingling after her.

The store is suddenly, wonderfully quiet. It’s just the two of you, surrounded by shelves of movies and the late afternoon sun streaming through the window.

Steve doesn’t move away. He stays right there, looking down at you, his features soft with adoration.

“Hi,” he says, his voice a low, warm rumble, as if he’s greeting you for the first time all over again.

“Hi,” you whisper back, feeling a fresh, giddy shyness bubble up.

One of his hands comes up, his fingers gently brushing a stray crumb from the corner of your mouth. His touch lingers, his thumb smoothing over your bottom lip. “You’ve got a little…” he murmurs, his eyes fixed on your mouth.

“Oh,” you breathe, your lips tingling under his thumb.

Instead of pulling away, he leans in and kisses you again. This one is even softer than the last, just a tender press of his lips, over and over, as if he’s savouring the taste of chocolate and you and love. When he finally leans back, his eyes are dark with a soft, dazed kind of wonder.

“So sweet,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You duck your head, but he catches your chin with a gentle finger, tilting it back up.

“Hey,” he coaxes. “None of that. Look at me.” You do. His smile is unbearably fond. “There you are. My gorgeous girl.”

The praise, so sincerely given, makes you squirm with happy embarrassment. “Steve,” you whine softly, a feeble protest under his attention.

He chuckles. “What? It’s true.” His hands slide from your face down to your waist, his grip firm and sure. “You’re sitting here, at my work, swinging your feet and blushing ‘cos I called you gorgeous. It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

You bite your lip to stop the ridiculous, happy smile that wants to take over your whole face. It doesn’t work. You’re beaming at him, and he looks like you’ve just given him the sun.

Steve's heart feels too big for his chest. “God, you’re pretty,” he breathes, the words falling out, reverent and awestruck. “The most stunning, beautiful girl in the whole damn world.”

You’re melting, a puddle of adoration in his hands. “You’re so… much,” you manage to whisper.

He grins, that lopsided, heart-stopping grin. “Only for you, sweetheart.” He kisses the tip of your nose, which makes you scrunch it up, and him smile. “Only ever for you.”

So, Steve Harrington is mean.

Well, not mean, exactly. He’s just… Steve. Which is to say, his voice still carries a permanent layer of exasperation, but it’s reserved for idiot customers and broken VCRs. He still speaks in a shorthand of sighs and grumbles, but they’re directed at Dustin’s latest conspiracy theory and the never-ending mess in the break room.

He is, and always will be, a little bit of a grump. A lovable grump with a sharp tongue and a low tolerance for nonsense.

But not to you. Never to you.

To you, his voice is soft. His sighs are breaths of contentment against your hair. Now, you are, in his lexicon, “sweetheart,” “angel,” and most frequently, “baby”. He calls you “kid” only when he’s teasing, his eyes sparkling with affection. He still ruffles your hair, but now it’s a prelude to tucking you under his chin. He still flicks your forehead, but it’s feather-light, followed by a kiss to the same spot.

He finds your attention breathtaking. He knows he doesn’t deserve it, but he’s going to spend every day of his life trying to be a man who does. His high school crown is gone, his hair is less perfect, and his most exciting evening plans now and forever involve you.

You're terrible at hiding your adoration, shining from your eyes every time he walks into a room. He no longer finds it baffling. He finds it home.

And when he comes home after a long day, his shoulders tight with the weight of the world, and sees you curled on the sofa waiting for him... the grumpiness melts away. The sharp tongue gentles. The guard drops.

“Hey, baby,” he’ll murmur, as he sinks down beside you and pulls you into his lap.

“Hi, Steve,” you’ll whisper, nuzzling into his neck.

And he’ll sigh, soft and deep, and press a kiss to your hair. “Missed you,” he'll say.

Sometimes, the air in your house will smell like brown sugar and warm chocolate. He’ll pause in the doorway, smiling.

“You baked,” he’ll state, the words soft with awe.

You’ll nod from your spot on the couch, a little shy, always so pleased to have done something for him. “Extra chips,” you’ll say, just like that first time, but now your voice is sure, your smile confident in his love. “Just like you like.”

He’ll toe off his shoes and cross the room, not to the kitchen for a cookie, but to you. He’ll sink down and gather you close, burying his face in the curve of your shoulder.

“Perfect,” he’ll murmur against your skin, and he won’t be talking about the cookies.

Later, he’ll eat three in a row, making ridiculous, happy noises of appreciation, and you’ll laugh, tucked under his arm, your heart so full you think it might glow. He’ll kiss your temple, his lips dusted with sugar, and whisper, “I love you, sweetheart.”

There's no grand gesture. No dramatic, romantic declaration of love, but you wouldn't want one anyway. You just want him. Steve. Your Steve. Mean to the world, impossibly, beautifully soft with you.

And you love it.

[underoospeterparker]

chasing cars — part three ★ steve harrington

You settle into life at the cabin, living with El and Hawkins' Chief of Police. Steve comes to visit often, and you grow more attached to the boy who found you sobbing in the woods.

notes — experiment!reader (reader is 009), mentions of Hawkins Lab, past torture/abuse, medical trauma, referenced experimentation, emotional distress, protective!Steve, fluff, angst, violence, guns

Steve harrington x fem!reader, 3.4k words

link to series masterlist

The weeks that follow Steve finding you in the woods are strange and soft and unlike anything you've ever known.

You stay at Hopper's cabin. He tells you it's your home now, as long as you need it. You don't really understand what home means, but you think it might be this — the warm blankets, the food always there when you're hungry, the way Hopper leaves the lamp on in the living room at night because he noticed you're scared of the dark.

El is there. Your little sister, alive and real and here. You sleep in the same bed most nights, curled around each other like you used to in the lab, except now there are no bars, no guards, no screams from other rooms.

Steve isn't there.

He comes. He comes almost every day, sometimes twice. He brings things — a new hairbrush, a book with pictures, a soft sweater that he says is just for you, and it smells like him and you wear it every night.

But he always has to leave.

His parents, he explains. They notice when he's gone too long. They ask questions. He has to go home, has to sleep there, has to pretend everything is normal.

You don't understand normal. But you understand leave. You understand go away.

Every time he stands up to leave, you feel something cold creep into your chest. You don't cry — you learned long ago that crying doesn't bring people back. But you press closer to him, your hand gripping his sweater, and you look up at him with eyes that beg without words.

Don't go. Please don't go.

And every time, Steve kneels down in front of you, cups your face in his hands, and promises. "I'll be back tomorrow, angel. First thing. I promise."

He always comes back.

The hours without him are filled with small things.

Hopper teaches you how to make coffee. You don't like the taste, but you like the way he smiles when you bring him a cup. You like the way he says "thanks, kid."

One morning, you bring him his coffee and he's sitting at the table, looking at something on paper. Maps, maybe. You don't know. You know he is head of the police. Steve taught that word to you last week. He says Hopper keeps people safe.

"You're getting good at that," Hopper says, nodding at the cup.

You feel your face warm. "Steve showed me. How much... how much coffee you like."

His eyes soften. "Steve's a good kid."

You nod fiercely. You stand there for a moment, unsure. Then, because something in his face looks kind, you ask, "You have... kids?"

Hopper goes still. For a second, you think you've said something wrong. But then he looks at you, and his eyes are sad in a way you recognise. "I had a daughter," he says quietly. "A long time ago. She died."

Your chest hurts. You know about death. You've seen it. You reach out, hesitating, then touch his hand.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

He looks at your hand on his, then back at your face. Something shifts in his expression. "Yeah," he says, his voice rough. "Me too."

El teaches you words, too. She's patient, the way Steve is patient, and she never gets frustrated when you struggle. She just waits, her dark eyes soft, and helps you try again.

"Tree," she says, pointing out the window.

"Tree," you repeat.

"Good." She smiles, small and shy. "You're good at this."

You shake your head. "Steve good at this. Steve teach me."

El's smile grows. "Steve is good. But you are good too. You learn fast."

You don't know about that. But you like when she says it.

Sometimes you sit together and she tells you about her friends. Mike, who she loves in a way that makes her face go soft. You tease her about it a little, nudging her shoulder playfully. She tells you about Lucas and Dustin, who are loud and funny. Max, who you met, who is sharp but kind underneath.

"They are my family now," El says. "Like Hopper. Like you."

You look at her. "I am your family?"

"You are my sister." She says it simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You always were. You always will be."

You feel tears prick your eyes. You don't cry — you're still learning that it's allowed. "Sister," you murmur quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Steve comes in the afternoon, as promised. You hear his car before you see him — you've learned the sound, the way his engine rumbles different from Hopper's truck. You're at the door before he knocks, your hand already reaching for the handle.

He's there. Smiling. Alive. "Hey, angel," he says softly.

And then you're in his arms, your face buried in his chest, your hands gripping his jacket like he might disappear if you let go. He holds you just as tight, his lips pressing to your hair, his arms wrapping around you like a shield.

"Missed you," you mumble against his sweater.

"Yeah?" His voice is warm, soft. "I missed you too, sweetheart. So much."

He stays for hours. You sit on the couch together, your head on his shoulder, your hand in his. He pulls out the picture book again, pointing at things, teaching you words.

"Book," he says, pointing at a small red item.

"Book," you repeat.

"Good girl." He grins, and your chest does that warm thing again. "What's this one?"

You look at the picture. A big yellow thing in the sky. You remember this one. He taught it to you last time.

"Sun," you say proudly.

His whole face lights up. "Yes! That's right, angel. You remembered!"

You beam at him, and he pulls you into a hug, squeezing you tight. "So smart," he murmurs into your hair. "My smart girl."

My. You know what that pronoun means now. Hopper explained it when you heard Steve use it the first time. It means belongs to. It means special to.

You like it. You like being his.

"Okay," Steve says, flipping to a new page. "Let's try something harder."

You look at the page. There are sentences now — longer ones, with more words. He's been teaching you grammar, the way words fit together, the rules that make sentences make sense.

"Read this one," he says, pointing.

You concentrate, sounding out each word. "The girl... is... walking... to the store."

"Good. Now this one."

"The boy... is running... to the park."

"Perfect. You're getting it."

You feel warm inside. Not because he's praising you — though that's nice — but because you can feel yourself understanding. The words are starting to make sense, the way they fit together, the way you can use them to say what you mean.

After a while, you get an idea. You shift against his side, turning to look up at him. "Steve?"

"Yeah, angel?"

You point at his lap. "I think... I better when here."

His eyebrows go up, amused. "My lap?"

You nod, keeping your face serious. "You lap."

He grins, and you watch his mouth shape the word. "Your," he murmurs, correcting you gently, without malice. "Your lap."

You repeat it, feeling the shape of it. "Your lap."

"Good girl." His eyes are warm, teasing. "So you learn better in my lap?"

You nod solemnly. "Is science."

Steve laughs and you feel your own mouth twitching in response, giving you away. "Science," he repeats, amused. "Is that right?"

You nod again, but you can't keep the straight face anymore. A grin breaks through, wide and bright, and you duck your head to hide it against his shoulder.

"Oh no," Steve says, still laughing. "Don't hide. Let me see that smile."

You shake your head, pressing your face harder into his shoulder, but you're still grinning and he can probably feel it against his sweater.

"Angel." His hand comes up, gentle, trying to tilt your face toward him. "Come on. Let me see."

You resist for a moment, then peek up at him through your lashes. He's looking at you like you're the most precious thing in the world, and it makes your chest do a warm, fluttery thing that you don't have words to explain. Maybe Steve will teach you someday.

"There she is," he says softly. "There's my girl."

Before you can react, he shifts, his hands finding your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted — gently, carefully — and settled right in his lap. Your legs curl to the side, your back against his chest, his arms around you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

You blink up at him, surprised.

"What?" He grins innocently. "You said you learn better here. I'm just following the science."

You feel your face go warm with heat. A giggle escapes you before you can clamp your mouth closed — when was the last time you laughed? You can't remember — and you press a hand over your mouth.

Steve lets out a delighted laugh, pressing a kiss to your temple before pulling away a fraction to beam down at you. "Okay. Where were we?"

He teaches you about pronouns next. I, you, he, she, we, they.

"I," he says, pointing to himself. "You," pointing to you. "He," pointing to a picture of a boy. "She," pointing to a girl.

Then he teaches you about possession. My, your, his, her, our, their.

"My book," he says, holding up the picture book. "Your hand," touching yours gently. "His dog," pointing to a picture. "Her cat."

You watch his mouth, the way it moves, the way the sounds come out. You're learning more than just words — you're learning him. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. The way his voice goes soft when he talks to you. The way his arms feel around you, solid and safe.

"My," you repeat, touching your chest. "Your," touching his.

He nods, pleased. "Yeah. That's right."

You think for a moment, then point to the book. "Your book?"

Steve grins then. "My book, yeah. But I'm sharing it with you. Sharing. Means I have and you have. Together."

You nod, understanding. Then point to yourself. "My... what?"

He tilts his head. "What do you want to be yours?"

You think. Really think. There are so many things you want. Safety. Warmth. Someone who stays. Someone who looks at you like you're not broken.

You point at him.

His eyes soften at the edges. "Me?" he asks quietly. "You want me to be yours?"

You nod then. "My Steve."

He swallows. You feel it against you, the way his throat moves. "Yeah," he says, his voice a little thick. "Yeah, angel. I'm your Steve."

You practice more sentences. He teaches you about putting words together, about making them flow the right way.

"I am hungry," you try.

"Perfect."

"She is tired."

"Good."

"We are happy?"

He smiles. "Are you happy, angel?"

You think about it. You're in his lap, warm and safe. El is in the other room, alive and real. Hopper is in the kitchen, making coffee. No one is hurting you.

"Yes," you say quietly. "I am happy."

His arms tighten around you. "Good," he whispers into your hair. "That's all I want. For you to be happy."

You reach up and touch his face, the way he's always touching yours. Your fingers brush his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. "Are you happy, Steve?" you ask softly.

His breath catches. "Me?"

You nod. "You make me happy. I want... I want you happy too."

He makes a sound — something small and a little bit broken — and for a second you're afraid you've said something wrong. But then his arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, and he presses his face to your hair.

"I'm happy," he whispers, and his voice is thick. "I'm so happy, angel. Because of you."

You pull back just enough to look at him. "Really?"

"Really." He cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks. "You know what I was doing before I found you? Fighting with my dad. Driving around. Being angry at everything." He shakes his head. "And now? Now I get to come here and see you. Teach you words. Watch you smile. Hear you laugh." His voice cracks. "You have no idea what you've done for me."

You don't understand all of it. But you understand enough. You lean forward and press your forehead to his, the way he does with you. "I am happy you are happy," you murmur.

Steve laughs wetly, tugging you closer to his front. "I'm happy you're happy, too."

The light starts to fade outside, and you feel the shift in him. The way his body tenses slightly, the way he glances at his watch.

You don't want him to go. You never want him to go. But you also know he will come back. He always comes back.

"Steve," you say quietly.

"Yeah?"

You point at the window. "Dark soon."

He follows your gaze. "Yeah. It's getting late."

You look up at him, eyes wide and sad. "You go?"

His face twists with regret. "I have to, angel. My parents—"

"I know." You cut him off gently. "You will come back?"

"First thing tomorrow. I promise."

At the door, you cling to him the way you always do. He holds you just as tight, his lips in your hair, his arms around you.

"Tomorrow," he whispers.

"Tomorrow," you repeat.

He pulls away slowly, and you watch him walk to his car. He waves before he gets in, and you wave back.

You stand at the door for a long moment, staring at the empty driveway. The cold creeps into your chest, but it's smaller now. Less sharp. Because you know he'll be back.

"Come on, kid." Hopper's hand is on your shoulder, warm and solid. You let him guide you away.

Dinner is nice.

Hopper makes stew, and you eat at the table with El. She's telling you about her day, about Max and Mike and the others. You listen, nodding, asking questions when you can find the words.

"You're talking more," El says at one point, surprised.

You think about it. "Steve is teaching me. He is a good teacher."

"He's good at teaching."

You nod. "He is patient. With me."

El smiles, small and knowing. "He likes you."

You feel your face warm and you take a sip of water to hide the way you want to smile. "He is my Steve."

"Your Steve?" She raises an eyebrow, teasing.

You nod firmly. "My Steve."

She laughs, and the sound is light and happy. You like making her laugh. After dinner, you help Hopper clear the table. You're getting better at it, knowing where things go, not dropping anything. Hopper's cabin feels a little more like home.

El has gone to her room to draw, and you're left in the living room with the fire crackling softly. You curl up on the couch with the blanket that still smells like Steve, and you watch the flames dance. The cabin is warm. Quiet. Safe.

But something nags at you. You can't explain it. A feeling. Like a thread pulling tight in your chest.

You get up slowly, your bare feet padding on the hardwood floor, and you move to the window. The one that faces the trees. The one Steve always looks out before he leaves, checking the sky, checking the dark.

You press your hand to the glass and look out.

At first, you see nothing. Just the dark shapes of trees against the deep blue of the night sky. Just the moon, pale and distant. Just the wind moving through the branches, making them sway.

You're about to turn away when you see it.

A light. Small and quick, darting between the trees.

Maybe it's an animal. Maybe it's nothing. You've seen deer at night before, their eyes catching the moonlight.

But then another light appears. And another. And behind them, shapes. Dark shapes. Moving with purpose. Moving toward the cabin.

Men.

Your heart stops. Then it starts again, too fast, too loud, pounding in your ears like a drum.

You know those shapes. You know the way they move. You've seen it a hundred times, a thousand times, in the halls of the lab, in the rooms where they did things to you, in the moments before the worst happened. They move like hunters. Like predators.

Your breath fogs the glass. Your hand leaves a print on the window. You can't move. You can't breathe.

Then one of the shapes looks up. Looks directly at the cabin. At the window. At you.

You stumble back, a sound catching in your throat.

Hopper is there in an instant. He must have seen your face, heard something in your silence. He's at the window before you can speak, looking out, and you watch his whole body go rigid.

"Hopper," you whisper. "They found me. They—"

"I see them." His voice is low, calm, but his hand is already moving to the shelf where he keeps his gun. "How many did you count?"

"Eight," you breathe. "I am sorry, Hopper, I—"

"Hey." His hand lands on your shoulder, firm but not harsh. "None of that. You didn't do anything wrong. You hear me?"

You look up at him, your eyes wet, your chest heaving. "But they come because of me. If I was not here—"

"If you weren't here, they would have come for El," he says firmly, but not unkindly.

He crouches down so he's at your level, his eyes boring into yours. "Listen to me. You're going to take El, and you're going to go to the back room. The one with no windows. You remember?"

You nod, frantic.

"Good. You're going to go in there, and you're going to be quiet. So quiet. Not a sound. And you're not going to come out until I come for you. Do you understand?"

"But—"

"No buts." His hand squeezes your shoulder. "You're brave. You're smart. You've survived worse than this. And I'm not gonna let anything happen to you or El. You got that?"

You want to believe him. You need to believe him. "Yes," you whisper.

"Good girl. Now go."

You run. El's door bangs open and she looks up, startled, her pencil slipping from her fingers

"What is it?" she whispers, even though you can see in her eyes that she already knows.

"They are here." You grab her hand, pull her toward the door. "The men from the lab. They find us."

Her face goes pale, white as bone, but she doesn't scream. She doesn't cry. She just holds your hand tighter and follows you into the dark hallway.

The back room is small and windowless, filled with boxes and old furniture and things Hopper doesn't use anymore. You pull El inside and close the door behind you, pressing your finger to your lips.

You find the darkest corner, behind a heavy dresser that smells like mothballs, and you pull El down with you. You curl around her, your back to the wall, your body between her and the door.

The cabin is silent for a long moment. Then you hear it — loud, angry voices. Men shouting.

"Hopper! We know she's here! Number Nine. Hand her over and no one gets hurt!"

You hear Hopper's voice, low and hard. You can't make out the words, but you hear the tone. Defiant. Refusing. Protecting.

There's a crash. Glass shattering. Furniture breaking. A thud that shakes the floor beneath you, rattles the boxes around you, makes dust fall from the ceiling.

El makes a small sound against your hand. You hold her tighter, press your face to her hair, breathe her in.

Then—

Gunshots.

Three of them. Loud and terrible, echoing through the cabin, through your bones, through everything. They sound like the end of the world.

El shakes against you, a sob trapped in her throat. You press your face to her hair, your eyes squeezed shut, your heart pounding so loud you're sure they can hear it. You pray. You don't know who to, but you pray. Please let Hopper be okay. Please let El be safe. Please let Steve—

You hear footsteps, coming closer, heavy boots on the wooden floor.

The door handle turns.

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[underoospeterparker]

chasing cars ★ steve harrington

Steve finds you in the rain, sobbing and terrified after running away from Hawkins Laboratory. All he wants to do it wrap you up and never let anything hurt you again.

notes — experiment!reader (reader is 009), mentions of Hawkins Lab, past torture/abuse, medical trauma, referenced experimentation, mentions of blood/injuries, emotional distress, protective!Steve, hurt/comfort, angst, requested here

Steve harrington x fem!reader, 3.6k words

The rain is coming down in sheets, the kind of cold, miserable October downpour that soaks through clothes in mere seconds. Steve curses under his breath, wiping water away from his eyes as he trudges through the woods on the edge of the Hawkins boundary.

A stupid fight with his dad has driven him out of the house, and now he's paying for it, soaked to the bone and half-lost in the dark.

He's about to turn back, admit defeat and find the road, when he sees it. A flicker of movement near the base of a large oak tree. At first, he thinks it's an animal, a deer caught in the undergrowth. But as he gets closer, the shape resolves into something else entirely. A person.

You're curled into the smallest possible ball against the tree's massive trunk. You're wearing what looks like a thin, tattered hospital gown, completely soaked and plastered to your skin. Your arms are wrapped around your legs, your face buried in your knees, and you're shaking so violently he can see it from ten feet away.

For a second, Steve's brain short-circuits. His first instinct is to make a joke, to call out, "Bad night for a swim?" But the sight of you, so small and utterly wrecked, chokes the words in his throat.

He takes a hesitant step forward, the squelch of his sneakers in the mud loud in the quiet rain. Your head snaps up.

And Steve's heart stops.

It's your eyes. Wide, terrified, and ringed with a faint sheen that is definitely not a trick of the light. You're crying. Your face is gaunt, smudged with dirt, and you look so small. You look scared.

"Hey," he breathes, voice so soft, holding up his hands, palms out. "Hey, it's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you."

You're like Eleven, he realises. His eyes drop to your wrist, checking, looking, and there he sees — nine, tattooed on the inside of your left wrist. The word 'experiment' flashes in his mind like a warning siren.

"You're safe," he says, softer this time, trying to infuse his voice with all the calm he doesn't feel. "My name's Steve. Steve Harrington. I'm not with them. Whoever hurt you, I'm not with them."

You blink up at him, looking so impossibly scared. Your gaze flickers from his face to the dark woods behind him, searching for a threat.

"It's just me," he assures you quickly. "Just me. You're soaking wet. You must be freezing." He's stating the obvious, but he's scrambling. He takes a slow, deliberate step closer, then another. You flinch, but don't run. "I have a car. It's not far. It's warm and dry. Can I take you there? Just to get you out of this rain?"

He watches the internal war play out on your face. Fear versus the desperate, primal need for warmth and safety. Finally, you give a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

"Okay. Good. That's good." He shrugs off his letterman jacket, ignoring the rain that instantly soaks his sweater. He holds it out to you. "Here. Put this on."

You look at the jacket, then at him, confusion in your eyes. Like the concept of someone giving you something, offering warmth, is utterly foreign.

"It's for you," he coaxes gently. "To keep you warm. Can I put it on you?"

You nod again, and his shoulders relax. He moves with exaggerated slowness, not wanting to spook you away. He drapes the jacket over your shoulders. It swallows you up. He carefully pulls the collar up around your neck, his fingers barely brushing your cold, wet skin.

"My car's this way," he says, pointing. "You gonna be okay to walk? Do you want me to... carry you?"

The idea seems to startle you. You shake your head, pushing yourself up on shaky legs. You sway, and Steve instinctively reaches out to steady you, his hand hovering just by your elbow, not quite touching.

"Whoa, easy. Take your time."

You make slow progress through the woods. You stumble often, your bare feet cut and bruised. Steve aches to just pick you up and carry you, but he's terrified of scaring you. He keeps up a low, one-sided conversation, just the sound of his voice a tether in the dark.

"You're doing great. Almost there. See that clearing? Just past those trees." He points. "It's a BMW. Not as tough as it looks in this weather, but the heater's a dream. My dad will complain about the mud I track in, but who cares, right?"

He's rambling, and he knows it, but your eyes, when they flicker to him, seem a little less terrified.

He opens the passenger door and helps you inside, his hand finally, gently, on your arm to guide you. You sink into the leather seat slowly, wide eyes blinking up at him. Steve leans down to buckle your seatbelt for you himself. He wonders whether you'd ever even been in a car.

He jogs over to the driver's side to crank the engine, letting the heater start up. He looks over at you. You've pulled his jacket tighter around yourself, your face tilted towards the vent, your eyes closed. 

"Better?" he asks. You give him another tiny nod.

Steve doesn't know what to do. Take you to a hospital? The police? His mind races. If you're like Eleven, the lab will be looking for you. He can't take you anywhere official. There's only one person he can think of. One person who might know what to do.

"Okay," he says, putting the car in drive. "I'm gonna take you somewhere safe. To a friend. His name's Hopper. Jim Hopper. He's the Chief of Police, but he's a good guy. He helped Eleven. Do you know who Eleven is?"

Your eyes widen with a flicker of recognition.

"Yeah," Steve confirms. "He helped Eleven, and he'll help you. But right now, just try to get warm, okay?"

The drive to the cabin is tense and silent. Every few seconds, Steve glances over at you. You're huddled in the seat, watching the rain-streaked trees pass by with a look of wonder. This is all new to you. The world. The car. The warmth.

When he pulls up to Hopper's cabin, the lights are on. He helps you out of the car, keeping a protective hand hovering at your back. You're so close to him now, you're almost pressed against his side, your cold hand reaching out and gripping a fistful of his damp sweater. It's the first time you've initiated contact, and it makes his heart clench.

Hopper must have heard the car. The door swings open, his large figure filling the frame, rifle in hand. His eyes go wide when he sees you both, taking in you, the gown, your bare feet.

"Harrington? What the hell…" His voice trails off as understanding dawns.

"She was in the woods, Chief," Steve says, his voice low and urgent. "By the old oak. Just… curled up. She's like Eleven, I think. She's really hurt. Can she stay here? Please?"

Hopper's gaze softens as it lands on you, now practically hiding behind Steve, your face pressed into his back, your grip on his sweater like iron. He lowers the rifle.

"Get her inside," he says, his voice gruff but gentle.

The cabin is warm, and it smells like coffee and woodsmoke. Steve guides you inside, your hand still fisted in his sweater, and he can feel how hard you're trembling. "El's at Max's for a sleepover," Hopper explains as he watches you enter, brow furrowed in worry.

He closes the door, the lock clicking into place with a sound that makes you flinch. You press closer to Steve, and he feels your forehead bump against his shoulder blade.

"Hey, hey," he murmurs, twisting slightly to look at you. "It's okay. That's just the door. We're inside now. Safe, remember?"

You don't answer. You just keep holding onto him, the only safe you've ever known.

Hopper sets the rifle down by the door and turns to face you both. His expression is careful, measured. "Okay," Hopper says quietly. "First things first. We need to get her warm. Clean her up. Those feet look bad."

Steve looks down. He hadn't really let himself look before, not properly. Your feet are a mess — cut up from the forest floor, caked with mud, bruised purple in places. There's a gash on the bottom of one that's still seeping blood, mixing with the dirt. His stomach turns.

"Yeah," he says, his voice rough. "Yeah, okay. Shower first?"

Hopper nods. "Bathroom's through there." He jerks his chin toward a door off the main room. "Towels are in the closet. I'll find her something to wear. Something of El's will fit. She's into the whole... oversized craze, now. At least it'll be comfy."

Steve turns to face you properly. You're looking up at him now, your eyes huge, and he can see the tears still wet on your cheeks. You look like you're waiting for something. For him to tell you what comes next. For him to hurt you, maybe. The thought makes something hot and angry twist in his chest.

"Okay, sweetheart," he says softly, and the endearment slips out before he can stop it. "We're gonna get you cleaned up, alright? Get you warm. There's a shower in there, with hot water. Do you know what a shower is?"

You stare at him blankly. Of course you don't. God, what did they do to you in that place?

"It's like rain," he tries, gesturing vaguely. "But warm. And inside. It'll feel really good, I promise. Get all the mud off. Then we can put you in clean clothes and you can sleep. How does that sound?"

You don't respond, but your grip on his sweater loosens just a fraction. He takes that as a win.

"Come on," he says, starting to move toward the bathroom. You move with him, still holding on, and he realises with a pang of something he can't name that you're not going to let go. Not yet. Maybe not for a while.

Steve flicks on the light in the bathroom, and you both blink in the sudden brightness. He lets go of you gently to turn on the shower, testing the water with his hand the way his mom used to do for him when he was little. When it's warm, he looks back at you.

"Okay," he says. "So you just… get under the water. Let it run over you. There's soap and shampoo in here." He points to the bottles on the edge of the tub. "Do you… do you need help?"

The question hangs in the air. You're still in that thin hospital gown, plastered to your skin, shivering. Your arms are wrapped around yourself now that you're not holding onto him, and you look so impossibly small and lost that Steve wants to cry.

You look at him. Then at the shower. Then back at him. And slowly, so slowly it breaks his heart, you reach out and take his hand again.

"Oh," he breathes. "Okay. Okay, yeah. I can… I can stay. If you want. I won't look, I promise. I'll just—I'll be right here. So you're not alone."

He doesn't know if you understand all the words, but you understand enough. You don't let go.

Steve's mind is racing as he stands there, your cold fingers wrapped around his. This is insane. He's in Jim Hopper's bathroom with a girl who escaped from a secret government lab, a girl who might have powers like Eleven, a girl who's trusting him with her safety when she has no reason to trust anyone.

But standing here, feeling your hand in his, watching you try to figure out how to shower with one hand because you won't let go of him — none of that matters. Nothing matters except making you feel safe.

"Hey," he says softly. "You gotta let go for a second. Just to get the gown off. Then you can take my hand again, okay? I'll be right here. I won't move."

You look at him with those huge, terrified eyes, and for a terrible moment he thinks you're going to refuse. But then you nod, just a tiny movement, and slowly release his hand.

Steve turns his back immediately, facing the door. He hears the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of the gown falling to the floor. Then the shower curtain opens, and he hears you step into the shower stall.

You inhale sharply when the water washes over you.

"You okay?" he asks quickly, not turning around. "Is it too hot? You can adjust the handle—"

Then he hears you. You're crying. Not the silent tears from before, but real sobs, wracking your whole body, and underneath them, words. Broken, gasping words. You're talking.

"Warm. It's—it's warm. It's—"

Steve's hands curl into fists at his sides. He doesn't turn around. He promised. But god, he wants to. He wants to see your face, make sure you're okay, tell you it's alright to cry, that warm is good, that warm is how it's supposed to be.

"It's okay," he says instead, his voice cracking. "It's okay to cry. You're safe here. Nobody's gonna hurt you. I'm right here."

He listens to you cry under the spray of the water, and he cries a little too, silent tears running down his face that he wipes away quickly with the back of his hand. He doesn't even know you. He found you an hour ago in the woods.

But somehow, he'd die for you. Because you trust him, and he's not planning on letting you down.

You take a while in the shower. Steve doesn't mind. He can't imagine — this must be your first one in a long time, and he'd want to scrub himself clean too.

He stands there, with his back to the shower, listening to the water run and your sobs slowly quiet to sniffles.

Finally, the water shuts off. He hears the curtain pull back.

"There's a towel on the rack," he says, keeping his voice steady. "Right next to you. Can you reach it?"

More rustling. Then a soft sound that might be acknowledgment.

"Good. Okay. I'm gonna turn around now, but I'll keep my eyes closed, alright? I just need to make sure you're wrapped up so you don't get cold again."

He turns slowly, eyes squeezed shut. "You covered up?"

Nothing.

"Sweetheart? You gotta tell me yes or no so I know it's safe to look."

A pause. Then, so quiet he almost misses it. "Yes."

It's the first word you've spoken to him. Directly, at least, meaning to. Just one word, small and rough and barely there, but it's a word.

Steve's eyes open, and there you are, wrapped in a big towel that swallows you just like his jacket did, your wet hair plastered to your face, your eyes red from crying. You're still shivering a little, but less than before. And you're looking at him.

"Hi," he says softly, a smile tugging at his mouth. "There you are. You did so good, sweetheart. So good."

You blink at him. Then, slowly, very slowly, you reach out your hand. Steve takes it without hesitation.

Steve leads you out of the bathroom, your hand still clasped in his. You're looking around the cabin with huge, wary eyes, but at least you're not trembling anymore.

Hopper's on the couch, and he stands when you enter, a pile of clothes in his hands. "Found some stuff," he says quietly, holding them out. "Sweatpants, t-shirt, socks."

Steve nods, taking the pile with one hand, holding onto yours with the other. "Come on, let's go change," he coaxes you softly, guiding you over to El's room.

It's the first bedroom you've ever been in, you think, but you don't have words for that, to explain those feelings. It's weird.

He closes the door halfway, leaving it open just a crack so you can still see the light from the main room. Then he turns to you, and his eyes are so gentle.

"Okay, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Same thing as before, alright? I'm gonna help you get dressed, but I won't look. You just tell me when you're ready. Squeeze my hand."

You nod, and he turns his back, still holding your hand.

But you don't move, not yet. You stand there, looking at his back, at the way his shoulders curve, at the dark hair at the nape of his neck. And something rises in your chest, a question you've been holding since the moment he found you in the rain.

"W-what..." you start, your voice cracking from disuse.

Steve tenses, but doesn't turn around. "Yeah? What is it, sweetheart?"

You swallow hard, forcing the words out one by one. "What... is your name?" You try so hard to get the question out, because you want to know.

He turns around, slow, eyes wide and shining. "You want to know my name?"

You nod, a tiny movement, your eyes fixed on his face.

Steve's mouth opens and closes. He looks almost overwhelmed, like he doesn't know what to do with the feeling moving through him. Then he smiles at you, and you wonder if you could pocket this moment forever. "Steve," he says, his voice thick. "My name is Steve. Steve Harrington."

"Steve," you repeat carefully, tasting it.

He makes a noise, something like a wet laugh. You feel something warm bloom in your chest. You made him make that sound. You did that.

Then Steve's looking at you with those gentle eyes, and he points to himself. "Steve," he says again. Then he points to you, his finger hovering in the air. "What's your name? What do I call you?"

You understand the question. But you don't know how to answer. Your eyes drop to your wrist, to the number tattooed there. Nine. That's what they called you. That's all they ever called you.

Steve follows your gaze and his face falls. "Oh," he says quietly. "Is that... is that what they called you? Nine?"

You nod, but something in you rebels at the thought. That's not your name. That's what they gave you. That's what they used to summon you, to control you, to remind you that you were a thing and not a person.

You shake your head quickly, frantically. "No. Not—not name. That is... what they... called me. But not—" You struggle, frustration building. "Not my... name."

Steve's eyes soften even more, if that's possible. "Okay," he says gently. "Okay, it's okay. I get it. That's not your name." He squeezes your hand. "So what is your name? Your real name? Do you remember?"

You do remember. A whisper from so long ago you'd almost forgotten. A woman's voice, soft and sweet, humming in the dark. A word she used, over and over, before they took you away. Before everything.

You murmur it softly, barely above a whisper. The name she gave you. The name they tried to erase.

Steve's breath catches. For a long moment, he just looks at you, his eyes bright and wondering. Then he says it back to you, your name in his voice for the first time, and it sounds like the most beautiful thing you've ever heard.

"That's your name," he repeats softly, reverently, like he's holding something precious. "That's you. That's who you are."

He says it again, slower this time, shaping each syllable with care. "It's the prettiest name I've ever heard," he tells you softly, entirely earnest.

"Steve," you whisper, because you need to say his name too. You need him to know that he matters, that he's not just some random person, that he's Steve, the one who found you.

"Yeah," he breathes, still in wonder. "Yeah, sweetheart. That's me."

"Come on," he says, his voice still thick. "Let's get you dressed. Then we'll go see Hopper, and you can tell him your name too, if you want."

You nod, and this time when he turns his back, you let go of his hand long enough to drop the towel and pull on the clothes. They're big and soft and they smell like the cabin.

When you're done, you take his hand again and squeeze. Give him a smile, the first one he's seen on you, and his heart squeezes.

It's like all the air has left the room, like someone's reached inside him and squeezed. You're smiling at him. You, who have every reason to never smile again, who spent god knows how long in that place being hurt and used and broken — you're looking at him like he's something good, and you're smiling.

He wants to give you everything. He wants to wrap you up in every soft thing he can find and never let anyone near you with harmful intent again. He wants to learn your name's every syllable, wants to whisper it to you in the dark when the nightmares come.

He would burn down the entire world for that smile.

"Hi," he whispers, because he can't find any other words. Just hi, like you haven't just destroyed him in the best possible way.

You squeeze his hand again, and your smile doesn't fade. It stays, small and tentative, like you're not sure you're allowed to have it. Like you're waiting for someone to take it away.

No one's ever taking anything from you again. Not while he's breathing.

read part two

[underoospeterparker]

chasing cars — part two ★ steve harrington

After escaping from Hawkins Laboratory, you fall asleep in Steve Harrington's lap in Hopper's cabin. When you wake up, you see Eleven — who ran away from the Lab three years ago, who you've been protecting your whole life.

notes — experiment!reader (reader is 009), mentions of Hawkins Lab, past torture/abuse, medical trauma, referenced experimentation, mentions of blood/injuries, emotional distress, protective!Steve, hurt/comfort, angst, implied sexual assault

Steve harrington x fem!reader, 2.8k words

read part one

You wake to warmth.

You're lying on your side, your head resting on something soft and solid. It takes you a long moment to realise it's a lap. Someone's lap. And there's a hand in your hair, gentle and still, like it's been there for hours.

You tilt your head back carefully, and there he is. Steve.

He's asleep, his head tilted back against the couch cushions, his mouth slightly open, his hair a ridiculous mess. One of his hands is in your hair, fingers loosely tangled in the strands. The other rests on your shoulder, warm and heavy.

You stare at him for a long time.

You don't really know him, yet. You don't know why he found you in the woods, why he took you home, why he put his jacket on you, why he held your hand, why he stayed all night.

You don't know what he wants.

But his hand is in your hair, and it's gentle. So gentle. No one has ever touched your hair gently before. No one has ever touched you gently at all.

You don't move. You barely breathe. You just lie there, in his lap, and let yourself feel what it's like to be held without being hurt.

Last night comes back in fragments.

After the shower, after the clothes, after you told him your name and he said it back like it was something precious — you'd sat on this couch together, and he'd talked to you. Softly, slowly, teaching you things.

"Couch," he'd said, pointing to where you were sitting.

"Couch," you'd repeated.

"Good." He'd smiled, and something warm had flickered in your chest. "Blanket." He'd touched the blanket covering your legs.

"Bla... ket," you'd tried.

"Yeah. Close. Blanket." He'd said it slower, letting you see his mouth. "Blank-et."

"Blanket," you'd tried again, proud when it came out better.

His smile had grown. "Perfect, sweetheart. You're so smart."

You hadn't known what to do with that. Smart. No one had ever called you that. They'd called you numbers, called you subjects, called you things. Never smart. Never sweetheart, either.

He'd kept going. "Lamp." Pointing. "Window." Pointing. "Door." Pointing.

You'd repeated each one, your voice getting stronger, and every time you got one right, he'd praise you. "Good girl," he'd say, and you'd wondered why your chest felt all warm on the inside.

Eventually, your eyes had gotten heavy. You'd fought it, because you didn't want to sleep, didn't want to close your eyes and risk waking up alone in the dark again. But Steve had noticed.

"Hey," he'd said softly. "It's okay. You can sleep. I'll be right here."

You'd shaken your head, small and frantic. "No go?"

His face had softened. "No go. I stay. Promise."

You'd looked at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, you'd pointed to his lap. He'd understood immediately. "Yeah, sweetheart. You wanna lay here? Go ahead."

"Close your eyes, angel," he'd murmured, when you'd laid down, your head in his lap. "I got you."

And you had.

Now it's morning, and his hand is still in your hair, and you've never felt anything like this. You don't want to move. You don't want this to end.

But eventually, he stirs above you. You feel his hand tighten slightly in your hair, feel him shift, hear him make a soft sound as he wakes. Then he stills, clearly realising where he is. Where you are.

"Morning," he whispers, his voice rough with sleep.

You tilt your head back to look at him. His eyes are soft, a small smile on his face.

"Hi," you manage.

His smile grows. "Hi yourself, sweetheart. You sleep okay?" He mimes the action of sleeping — putting two clasped hands next to his ear and tilting his head a little, closing his eyes. You like that he doesn't assume you know what he's saying, that he helps explain.

You nod in response to his question.

"Good." His hand moves in your hair, stroking gently. "That's good. You need more sleep? Or you hungry?" He rubs his stomach a little.

Your eyebrows furrow and then something clicks in realisation. "Food?" you try.

His face lights up like you've just done something miraculous. "Yeah," he breathes, smiling so wide. "Yeah, food. You want food? Breakfast?"

You nod, a tiny movement, but you don't move from his lap. Don't let go of his sweater. Because moving means leaving this warmth, leaving his hand in your hair, leaving the only safe you've ever known.

Steve seems to understand. He doesn't push you up, doesn't make you move. He just keeps stroking your hair, so gentle, and looks down at you with those soft eyes.

"We can stay here a minute," he murmurs. "No rush, angel. Food'll wait."

You don't know what angel means. But the way he says it — soft and warm, like you're something good — makes it seem like a good hing.

You lie there a little longer, your head in his lap, his fingers in your hair.

After a while, your stomach makes a sound. A loud one. You flinch, embarrassed, but Steve just laughs — a quiet, gentle laugh that doesn't make you feel bad.

"Okay, okay," he says softly. "I hear you, stomach. We'll get you fed."

He helps you sit up slowly, his hand on your back the whole time, and you immediately press yourself against his side, your hand finding his sweater and holding on. He doesn't seem to mind. He just puts his arm around you, warm and solid.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let's go see what Hopper's got."

Hopper's in the kitchen when you emerge from the living room. He's standing at the stove, and when he looks up and sees you, his eyes soften a little around the edges. "Morning," he says. "You two sleep alright?"

You press closer to Steve, your eyes on Hopper. He's big. Much bigger than Steve. But Steve said he was safe. Steve said he helped Eleven.

"She slept good," Steve answers for you, his voice warm. "Didn't move all night."

Hopper nods. "Good. That's good." He looks at you, and something in his face softens just a fraction. "You hungry? I'm making eggs."

You look at Steve. He nods encouragingly. "Eggs are good. You'll like them."

You look back at Hopper. "E...eggs?" you try.

Hopper grins down at you. "That's right," he says. "Eggs. Good job, kid."

You turn to Steve, beaming up at him at the praise, and Steve thinks his heart might actually explode.

Hopper puts a plate in front of you with eggs and toast and something called bacon that Steve calls "the best part." You eat slowly, carefully, still holding Steve's hand under the table. Every few bites, you look up at him to make sure he's still there. He always is. He always smiles at you.

"More?" you ask when your plate is empty, pointing at his bacon.

Steve's face lights up. "Yeah, angel. You want more?"

You nod, and he gets up to get you more bacon, and when he comes back, you're waiting for him, your hand reaching out automatically to take his again.

There's a sound at the front door, which makes you freeze. The noise of something being unlocked.

A girl comes in — red hair, freckles, sharp eyes. She's wearing a jacket and carrying a bag. She sees you and stops.

You've already moved. One second you're sitting next to Steve, and the next you're behind him, pressed against his back, your face buried between his shoulder blades, your hands gripping his sweater so tight your knuckles hurt. A sound comes out of you — small, scared, like an animal caught in a trap.

"Hey, hey, hey—" Steve's hands are on yours, gentle, not prying, just covering. "It's okay. It's okay, sweetheart. It's just Max. She's a friend. She's safe."

You don't move. You can't.

"She's Eleven's friend," Steve continues, his voice so soft, so patient. "She won't hurt you, angel. Promise. You trust me, yeah?"

You nod against his shoulder blades.

"Good girl," Steve murmurs. He pauses. "Do you wanna say hi? You don't have to. Only if you want."

You look at Max again. She's still not moving. Still not being scary.

"Hi," you whisper, so quiet it's barely a sound.

Max's face softens. "Hi. You know El?"

You're about to open your mouth to respond when she appears. Small. Pale. Short, dark, curly hair, dark eyes. She steps through the door, and her eyes find you immediately, and something happens to her face.

You step out from behind Steve without realising you're doing it. Your hand slips from his sweater. You take one step, then another, your eyes locked on hers.

"El?" you whisper.

"Nine?" Her voice breaks on the word.

And then you're moving, and she's moving, and you meet in the middle of the cabin, and you're holding each other so tight you can't breathe.

"El," you sob into her hair. "El, El, El."

"Nine," she cries back, her arms like iron around you. "Nine, I thought—they said you—" She hiccups. "I thought you were dead."

"I run," you gasp. "I run and run. And then—" You pull back, just enough to look at her face, to touch it, to make sure she's real. "Steve find me."

El pulls back, her hands cupping your face, her thumbs brushing away tears you didn't even realise were falling. She looks at you like she's trying to memorise every detail, like she's afraid you'll disappear if she blinks.

"You're here," she whispers. "You're really here. I missed you."

"I missed you too." You press your forehead to hers. "Every day. I think of you every day."

You're guided back to the couch. El refuses to let go of your hand, and you refuse to let go of Steve's, so there's a chain — El, you, Steve — stretched across the cushions. Max pulls up a chair close by, her sharp eyes soft and wet. Hopper stands by the fireplace, arms crossed, watching.

"Tell me," El says quietly. "Tell me what happened. After I left."

You look down at your hands. At the number on your wrist. At El's hand in yours.

"When you go," you start slowly, "they... angry. Papa angry. Guards angry." You pause, swallowing. "They want to know where you go. They hurt people. Try to find you."

El's grip tightens. "Did they hurt you?"

You're quiet for too long.

"Nine." El's voice is sharp, scared. "Did they hurt you?"

You look at her, and something in your face makes her go still. "They want to know where you go," you whisper. "I no tell. I never tell. So they—" You stop. Your throat closes. "They do things. Bad things. To make me tell. But I no tell. I never tell."

El's eyes are wet again. "What things?"

"I tell them," you continue, your voice barely a whisper, "to leave you alone. I say—don't touch El. Don't hurt El. She just little. She just baby." You pause, swallowing against the lump in your throat. "You can—" You stop. Swallow again. "You can do what you want to me. But not El. Never El."

A sound comes from somewhere. A sharp inhale. You look up, and it's Steve.

He's gone pale. His face is frozen, but his eyes are wet, and bright, and full of something that looks like fury and grief all tangled together.

"Sweetheart," he says, and his voice cracks. "Angel. What do you mean?"

You look at him, confused. You don't understand why he looks like that. Why his hand, still holding yours, is shaking.

"They want to hurt someone," you explain, because he asked, because you want him to understand. "They always want to hurt someone. And El is small. El is little. So I tell them — hurt me. I bigger. I can take." You pause, frowning. "Some guards — they want different things. Not just hit. Other things. Bad things. But is okay. Because El safe. El no get those things."

Steve makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob.

You look at him, alarmed. "Steve?"

He shakes his head, can't speak, but his hand squeezes yours tightly.

Beside you, El makes a small, broken sound. You look at her, and her face is crumpled, tears streaming down her cheeks. She's crying silently, the way she always did in the lab, when she learned that making noise only made things worse.

"El," you whisper, reaching for her. "El, it's okay—"

But Max is already there. She's off her chair and on the couch in a second, her arms wrapping around El, pulling her close. El goes willingly, burying her face in Max's shoulder, her small body shaking with sobs.

"I got her," Max says quietly, looking at you with wet eyes. "I got her. You talk. We're right here."

You nod, grateful, and turn back to Steve. He's still holding your hand, still looking at you with those devastated eyes, and you don't understand why he's so upset. You're the one who was supposed to protect El. You did your job. Why is he sad?

"Steve?" you try again, smaller this time. "You okay?"

He makes a sound — something between a laugh and a cry — and shakes his head. "No, angel. I'm not okay. But that's not—" He stops, swallows. "That's not your fault. I'm just..." His voice breaks. "I'm just so angry. And so sad. For you. For what they did to you."

You tilt your head, confused. "But I'm okay. I'm here. El safe. That good, yes?"

Steve's face crumples. He lifts his free hand, then pauses. Hovers in the air near your face.

"Sweetheart," he says, his voice so soft, so careful. "Can I touch you? Can I hold you?"

Your heart does something strange. He's asking. He's asking. No one has ever asked before. They just took. They just grabbed. They just did what they wanted.

But Steve is asking.

"Yes," you nod.

He moves slowly, so slowly, giving you time to change your mind. His hand cups your face first, gentle, his thumb brushing your cheek. Then his other arm comes around you, and he's pulling you carefully, carefully, into his lap.

Steve watches you curl into him, and something in his chest cracks open. Your face is pressed so tight against his neck he can feel your eyelashes flutter against his skin. Your hands — one fisted in his sweater, one flattened over his heart — are pulling, pressing, like you're trying to find a way inside.

Like you want to crawl into his chest and stay there.

The thought makes his eyes burn.

You make a small sound against his neck — frustrated, desperate — and shift again, trying to get closer. There's no space left. You're already plastered against him, your legs curled around his hips, your body tucked into every curve of his. But you're still trying. Still reaching for something you can't quite reach.

"Hey," he whispers, so soft. "Hey, angel. I got you. I'm right here."

But you keep pressing, keep searching, and Steve realises with a ache in his chest that you don't just want to be held. You want to be so close that nothing can ever get to you again. You want to live in a place where no one can hurt you.

And God, he wants that too.

He wants you where he can see you, always. He wants you curled against him every night, warm and safe. He wants to be the reason you sleep without nightmares, the reason you learn to smile, the reason you finally believe you're allowed to be happy.

He wants to wrap himself around you like armour and never let anything touch you again.

He thinks about what you said. About the guards. About the things they did. About how you traded yourself for El, over and over, because you thought that's what you were for. Because no one ever told you that you deserved to be protected too.

No one ever told you that you were precious.

Well. He's going to tell you. Every day. Until you believe it.

He presses his lips to your hair, then your temple, then the corner of your eye where a tear is slipping out.

"You're safe," he whispers against your skin. "You're so safe, angel. I've got you. And I'm not letting go. Not ever."

Across the room, Hopper catches his eye. The Chief's face is wet, and he doesn't bother to hide it. He just nods at Steve and Steve nods back.

He looks down at you, curled in his arms, finally still, finally peaceful. He's never wanted anything the way he wants this. Not popularity, not Nancy, not any of the stupid things he used to think mattered. Just this. Just you. Just the chance to be your safe place forever.

You look up at Steve, and for the first time, you feel something you don't have a word for. Something warm and full and terrifying and wonderful.

Later, Steve will tell you it's called hope.

[marwrite]

best friend's brother cousin

summary: you’ve known kara since she crashed through your sorority house five years ago, spilling the truth about her superhuman dna; a secret you've guarded with ease. but then you meet clark kent- her sweet, shy, older cousin who knows your favourite cake from memory & folds your laundry- and suddenly, everything you believed about kryptonians shatters.

clark kent x kara's bff ! reader

themes: slight age gap, clark is such a subtle flirt in this, you and kara are platonic soulmates! fluff. clark again is a domestic king. suggestive. enjoy! xx

Five years ago, you were painting your nails a beautiful shade of burgundy; a glass of cheap wine balancing on the table next to the open bottle of polish, when you heard it.

A crash. A curse. A yelp. You, startled, because every sister had gone to the opposing fraternity to watch the most recent hazing, and you'd decided to hang back, hoping for some peace and quiet.

You were supposed to be the only one at home.

Or, so you thought.

"Motherfucker!" you'd heard. For a lack of better judgement, you'd sprinted out of your room and practically skidded down the polished oak steps; heart pounding, fingers still wound tight around Essie's limited edition 50 Bordeaux. You hadn't meant to, but there was simply no time to screw it back into the pot.

The sight before you would have been rare- if you hadn't lived where you did. Sorority girls partied hard and often suffered harder. You knew better than anybody that a smashed window was often the result of mixing spirits, and throwing up was usually just dehydration met with a further lack of water.

So, no; the heaving blonde before you didn't stun you because of the mess she was currently making on your carpet. No- what stunned you was the horrific get-up she was wearing; all bright red and bright blue with a terrifically comical yellow belt to match.

Except for her boots. You quite liked her boots.

You didn't let go of the polish. She threw up some more. Eventually, you stumbled into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and an advil.

"That won't work on me." was the first thing she said when you nudged both things forward. Your eyebrow raised.

"The water or the advil?"

"Both."

"Huh."

You'd waited for her to stop vomiting first, eyes scanning her body for any cuts and bruises. Surprisingly, you couldn't see any- no matter how much your eyes narrowed and you walked around her in cautious circles.

Eventually, she stopped heaving long enough to tell you she was fine- alongside a half-hearted apology and an even more lackluster promise to clean your carpet and fix your window.

"Don't worry about it," you'd shrugged, watching as she downed the glass in two gulps. "They probably won't even notice."

She'd asked you who they were. You said, your sisters. She asked how many you had, and you laughed, and you informed her that they weren't your actually sisters, not really; that's just what you called each other at Delta Nui.

"Delta what?" puzzled, she looked at you, "Are you in a cult?"

"Are you?" you quizzed back, pointing at the prominent 'S' badge on her chest.

She smirked then, holding out her clean hand for you to shake. You took it albeit reluctantly, your firm grip matching hers.

"I like you," she'd told you, lips curved in a way that looked both dangerous and comforting at the same time. "I'm Kara."

You told her your name, finalised the shake. And everything after that was history; leading up to now, five years later, both of you stumbling through the hallway of a penthouse apartment you've personally only ever been to a handful of times. Giggling, shushing the other, knocking into random things that teeter but never fall. Her arm is looped around your neck, yours on her waist, as you both try to navigate the darkness of the apartment.

"I think he keeps his food in that box over there," Kara slurs, mouth slack, head probably a lot hazier than yours due to the fact that while you stuck to vodka crans, she'd moved onto heavier mixes that only her outer-space biology could take. You dipped your tongue in it once. Kara had to take you to the interdimensional ER straight after.

You hold back a laugh, eyes finally landing on the direction of her finger, "You mean, the fridge?"

She shrugs, hoists herself up onto a stool.

It was only supposed to be a few celebratory drinks. You’d snagged your first "real" job in the heart of the city, reporting for a paper Metropolis actually paid attention to and Kara had insisted on celebrating, and naturally, the drinks were on her.

It wasn’t meant to spiral like this. But with your best friend, nothing ever stayed small for long.

Over the years, you've learnt a lot about the girl you call your best friend. She's not human- she's Kryptonian, Martian being politically incorrect and frankly quite rude. She likes metal music. She can annihilate an entire family-sized serving of chocolate pecan pie- and she did so once, sitting in a roof-top convertible on Mars before driving into a group of actual martians.

She likes animals. Loves them. So much so, that for Kara's birthday a couple years back, you got her a dog; an awfully behaved, no boundaries, and absolutely no recall whatsoever type mutt- yet she fell in love with him faster than you could call the space zoo authorities for a refund.

"What should we call him?"

"Uh... Kryptodog."

She'd narrowed her eyes, "Too long."

"But that's what he is!"

"Come on, journalist. You're supposed to be good at this creative stuff."

And thus, Krypto was born.

You also learnt that Kara- parentless, off the rails and completely, utterly insane Kara Danvers- had a cousin.

"He's a total geek," she'd said dismissively, holding a flayed hand out for you to paint as she blew distractedly at the other one, "he works at some magazine, book place, whatever, in the city. I think they still print newspapers, something like that. Ever heard of it?"

You'd nodded, though at the time, you hadn't really been paying too much attention, regardless of your own major being in Journalism and Reporting. It probably would have done you some good to tune in for a beat or two.

It had just been one of those nights; chick flicks on repeat and discarded popcorn kernels littering both your bedsheets and the floor. You always loved those nights in with Kara. It reminded you that no matter where she was in the world- no matter what threats she drank her way around and exploding disco-balls she threw at unsuspecting aliens- she'd always come back home. Safe.

"Anyway, I miss my dog. Do you think we could get him off Kal-el tomorrow at some point?"

"Who?"

"Sorry. Clark."

"From his place or that spiky ice castle in the middle of nowhere?"

She'd laughed, "The fortress, probably. I can fly us?"

Though you'd visibly cringed, you nodded anyway. "Sure."

"You're the best."

Of course, Kara had decided to make a quick stop on some red-sun planet on the way, despite her promises of being designated flyer. You just hung on, waiting for the moments to pass by and hoping the sky was clear of both birds and planes the rest of the way.

You had no idea what to expect.

Obviously, you'd been to the fortress before- briefly. Kara mentioned one time that Clark liked to keep loose change in random pockets of his penthouse in case he needed them, and she'd been banking on him doing the same at the Fortress (there was an unsettled score between her and a casino regular at Metropolis Bets). Unsurprisingly, you helped her. And unsurprisingly, you both came away with a good forty dollars between you.

"He'll never know." she'd winked. You didn't doubt her.

But what greeted you when you both came to pick up Krypto wasn't what you'd expected at all.

"He's nerdy. He wears these glasses that change his face, and he writes a lot, and I think he's dating someone called Louise. He has post-it notes that remind him to tie his shoes before he gets up. Oh, and he keeps a jar of peanut butter on his desk. For emergencies, he says. Freak."

What were you supposed to think?

Don't judge a book by it's cover- that rule, you'd always lived by. But when the book had been written so clearly by somebody else- little anecdotes and pieces of information right there for you to just piece together- what was a girl to do?

You expected a mess. A blabbering, head-down, sorry Kara, Krypto's here Kara, anything else Kara mess of a man that couldn't look anybody in the eye for too long. Tall, like she'd told you, but defeated in a way that made him look smaller.

But when you got to the fortress, there was nobody there of that description. Just Clark; tall, yes- but also broad, impossibly beautiful, chiselled jaw and square shouldered.

Kara said he wore glasses around people he didn't know, but you'd never actually seen him with them on. Somehow, you didn't think they'd make much of a difference. Only a complete fool would be able to look past those simple black frames and not see the god underneath.

"Dude!" Kara groaned, eyes icy as she glared at the man being tended to by about half a dozen robots. You trailed in after, one of Kara's puffer coats engulfing your frame, as you tried to make sense of the sight before you. "Why did you move the door?!"

"I didn't move the door," he had a deep voice, one that felt like a warm audible blanket amidst the bite of the cold around you.

"Where's my dog?"

All of a sudden, a blur of red, white and blue came barrelling towards you both. He knocked Kara down first; a fluffy force met with contagious giggling that had you clamping a hand over your mouth.

Then, Krypto turned on you.

"No, no, boy. Down!" Kara grabbed his collar before he could lunge, though you'd bent down anyway to give him some well-deserved scratches behind his ear. "You'll kill her, silly boy."

"Kill her? Bit dramatic." Clark noted.

You couldn't help but notice that his attention had shifted now; away from Kara and Krypto, from the robot checking his bicep.

Now, it was on you. Out of confusion or interest, you didn't know, but it made you feel a certain way regardless of which one.

"Not really," Kara folded her arms. "She's human. And Krypto's a menace."

"You said it." Clark shrugged. But his eyes hadn't left yours, and you took note of the sparkle behind them when he raised his hand in a small wave, parted his lips again and said, "Hi, I'm Clark,"

You smiled back, ignoring the red-hot feeling creeping up your cheeks. Your heart began to beat in a way so unlike itself, Kara's head snapped towards you as you said your name back, "Nice to meet you, Clark."

"Hope you're keeping her out of trouble," he quipped playfully. "She can be a bit of a handful."

"Okay, rude." Kara frowned.

"It's all I do." you replied then, shooting her a playful wink.

Thud, thud, thud.

"Okay," Kara then said slowly, turning her body to face yours. You knew immediately what was coming just by the tone of her voice alone.

You blinked back at the accusatory look on her face.

"Hello?"

"Hi. Why do you sound like that?"

"Sound like what?" you asked, bewildered.

She nodded towards your chest, skeptical.

"I can hear you, you know,"

"Hear what?" at this point, you thought that feigning dumb would probably produce the best outcome.

She lowered her voice then, knowing exactly what you were trying to do, "Either you're really cold, or you're totally crushing on my cousin right now." thankfully, her now narrowed brows stayed fully concealed from Clark's vision. "I really hope you're just one degree away from hypnothermala."

"Hypothermia." you corrected, but the whispers had already been exchanged and you had already willed the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

Not that it would have mattered much, anyway- you knew that being Kryptonian came with perks human beings were just too simple to understand. Superhearing- unfortunately- being one of them. It often meant non-consensual listening to the littlest sounds your body would make- a slight rumble, an irregular skip of the organ in your chest.

Kara would laugh and say she was just looking out for you, but you personally didn't find it as funny.

Your theory was further proven right by the way a small smirk played on Clark's lips, his gaze falling to the floor.

You gritted your teeth. You wanted to die. You'd chew Kara out about this in death, you figured. You'd haunt her until she couldn't take it anymore and flew around the Earth to reverse time, back to the moments before completely and utterly humiliating you in front of her hot, older cousin. Then, you'd make her bring you back to life for a much-deserved re-do.

Eventually, she just shrugged, shaking the thought out of her head as quickly as it came.

She gave Krypto another fuss, and you didn't dare look in Clark's direction again as she came back up.

"Ready?" she asked. You nodded. She smiled.

"Thanks for watching him, bitch." she then called behind her, looping her arm through yours before resuming her stumble out of the newly-made entrance.

Krypto trailed behind the pair of you, tongue wagging in sync.

"See you around, Clark," you said awkwardly, your wave accompanied by a wince that you hoped conveyed, I am so sorry for her.

You heard a small exhale come from the man, a sound of amusement that threatened to both collapse your lungs and jellify your legs.

"You know where to find me."

That, was two years ago.

And in those two years, you learnt two things; one, that not every Kryptonian was like Kara, and two; that there was a massive, undeniable possibility that Clark Joseph Kent would be the best boyfriend to ever grace this planet to whomever gets so be so lucky.

Not that you’d thought about it. Obviously not. It was just… a theory. A harmless little hypothesis built from a thousand tiny moments- each having solid, irrefutable evidence you tried very, very hard not to notice.

It was all in the little things. The notes he left whenever you ended up crashing at his place for the night- which was happening more and more, you realised- along with breakfast waiting on the counter for when you woke up. The perfect cup of coffee, and even differing pieces of dessert for both of you, their boxes marked with a sticky note in his neat handwriting and a smiley face with a nose.

For your trip to... wherever :-) - CK it would say.

You bite your lip now, the alcohol settling heavily in your head. You already know that when you open Clark’s fridge, you’ll find two little confections inside- each in its own neat box, each labeled, each perfectly suited to the two of you.

"I hope it's cake." Kara slurs. You laugh a little, opening the fridge and almost melting at the sight of two pastry boxes inside.

Neither of you had told him you were coming. How could you have known this is where you’d end up tonight, when barely two hours ago you were playing Hennessy hopscotch on Saturn’s rings?

Yet, Clark had been prepared; just as you expected, and just as you hoped. A dark, rich chocolate cake for Kara; red velvet for you. With extra cream cheese frosting and those little curls of white chocolate that you like.

"Oh, I do love that son of a bitch sometimes," Kara breathes, and as you slot her slice in front of her, the focus on her face is otherworldly. You watch as she holds up her fork, prongs slathered in chocolate frosting. "To new jobs and a shitload of money!"

You grin, holding your own pinkish fork up to meet hers, "To new jobs, and a shitload of money."

You eat your cakes in a comfortable silence, only letting your thoughts slip out in half-mumbled mutterings about tomorrow, frosting sticking faintly to your fingers.

"Are you nervous?"

"Yes. Very,"

"Don't be. Remember, they're all just human,"

"Kara." you deadpanned, "I'm human."

"Yeah, but you're one of the good ones."

Amidst your conversation, your let your eyes drift around Clark's penthouse-partly out of curiosity, but also because this is probably the first time you’ve been here sober.

It looks different at night. Now, you can see it through fresh eyes, no longer washed out by the brazen morning light. The space is minimalistic and sensible, the floor to ceiling window facing the city made entirely of shatterproof glass.

A table he built on a rainy afternoon sits pressed against the other wall connected to it, a fancy record player resting on top alongside a pair of light dumbbells you’re pretty sure are more decorative than practical. You snort lightly, tearing your eyes away to focus on your half-eaten dessert.

If Kara can hear how your heart is pounding in your eardrums, she doesn't let on. Instead, she finishes her food with a yawn and a stretch. Then, she tells you she's gonna go crash in the spare room and to join her when you're ready.

"But if my snoring's keeping you up, take Clark's bed," she yawns, and you have to swallow down the choke threatening to come out, "He won't mind, and you've got a full day tomorrow. He'll probably just take the couch."

Truthfully, you don't want to think about sweet Clark Kent waking up the next morning with both a sore neck and resentment, so you tell her you'll join her after washing up.

Kara disappears down the hall with a slight, sleepy stumble, leaving you alone with the quiet hum of the apartment.

"Wake me up before you leave!" is the last thing she says to you, before the bedroom door slams shut and you're left to your own thoughts.

The room feels bigger without her in it, more foreign, as if the silence can finally stretch its limbs.

You let out a breath and gather the dishes, trying not to think too hard about her casual Clark won’t mind comment. It's stupid, so stupid, but you can't help it; just thinking his name sends a traitorous flutter down your spine.

The warm spray from the sink hits your hands, and suddenly washing up feels like the safest thing in the world; something mindless, grounded. Something that definitely does not involve the sparkling fog of Clark Joseph Kent smiling at you, sending a wink your way, pressing you up against his penthouse window and making you moan in a way that he has to stifle with one big, burly hand-

You scrub gently at the dessert plate, trying not to replay the reel of little moments that flash behind your eyes.

He's done a lot for you; far more than necessary to the average person. But you knew from Kara that Clark had been raised with a certain, effervescent farmboy charm that he carried through with him to the city; always thoughtful, always sweet. Sometimes a little too much, but who were you to complain?

There was the morning you’d woken up in Clark’s spare room with the hangover from hell, head pounding so violently you thought the sun itself was inside your skull. And there, at the foot of the bed, were your clothes; freshly pressed, neatly folded, smoothed with the kind of care most people reserved for sacred things.

You blinked at them for a full minute before realising you were wearing an oversized The Mighty Crabjoys shirt, clean of Tequila spillage, soft and worn and unmistakably his. You had absolutely no memory of putting it on. And when you’d asked Kara, she’d shrugged and said, "Not me." leaving only one possible culprit.

The idea of Clark, big and gentle and absurdly shy, wordlessly draping the shirt over you while he looked away like you were something delicate- well, needless to say, it stayed with you far longer than the hangover did.

Then, there was the night you’d knocked out cold on his sofa, too tired to pretend you were 'just resting your eyes'. You’d woken up to a blanket tucked up to your shoulders and a pillow carefully propped beneath your head, angled just right like someone had studied the shape of your neck and moulded what was needed to fit it.

You never heard him do it. You never saw him. But you knew.

And the next morning, when you murmured a thank you, Clark had gone pink to the tips of his ears, a soft Don't mention it falling from his lips before he shot you a wink you couldn't read.

Little things. Harmless things. Things he probably didn’t even register doing.

But they lived in you anyway, taking up space in the corners of your mind that you swore you'd keep under lock and key. They tucked themselves between your ribs, soft as bruises and twice as dangerous.

You rinse another plate, face warming. You force yourself to focus harder on the bubbles, but your brain doesn't listen.

Instead, it brings up every memory of Clark leaning in close- too close. The way his curls fall into his eyes when he first wakes up, and how those baby-blue eyes look at you through the contrast of his dark lashes; both accompanied by that gorgeous, dimpled smile. The gentle bump of his shoulder against yours- playful, warm, effortless.

You shake your head, set another dish in the drying rack, and sigh. "Get a grip," you mumble to yourself over the running water.

You turn to grab the next plate, trying to focus on the warm water and the steady rhythm of washing. It should be grounding, but of course your brain has other plans.

It drifts back to him, and you're left replaying past memories in obsession.

You don't realise how much time actually passes, but you've cleared all the dishes in the sink and then some.

It's only when a soft rush of air brushes your cheek, and your pulse skips, that you finally move.

You spin around quickly, the shift in the room different, now- and it's immediate, the way your heart flips.

"Sorry," a voice says, genuinely apologetic despite not having anything to say sorry for, "It's me! It's just me,"

Clark.

He’s hovering just inside the floor-to-ceiling window, one hand resting lightly on the frame, cape settling behind him like it’s barely even there. The city lights catch the jagged edges of his face, haloing him in soft gold.

His eyes meet yours, and his mouth quirks into that crooked, slightly cheeky, masked by something bashful smile that always leaves you breathless.

"Hey," he says softly, voice warm and a little embarrassed. "Didn’t mean to sneak up on you."

"N-No, it's fine!" you manage, voice higher than needed, "Don't worry. I was just..."

You fumble with the last plate in your hands, cheeks instantly flaming, and he takes a small step closer, careful not to crowd you. There’s a little twinkle in his eye, the kind that says he knows exactly what he’s doing, but he’s still adorably shy about it.

"You’re washing up?" he asks, teasing but gentle, as if you being here doing ordinary dishes is somehow the most amusing thing he’s ever seen.

You shake your head, trying to keep your voice steady. "Yeah… sorry. Got distracted," you mumble, blinking at him. "Kara's here too, by the way. She's in the other room."

Clark chuckles, soft and light, and it wraps around you like a warm blanket. "I figured. Wherever you are, she goes," he says, "And you didn't have to do that, but thank you. I appreciate it."

"It's no problem, really." you tell him, when really, all you want to say is, It's the least I can do. At this point, we're your unofficial roommates that don't pay any rent and eat all your food, but you keep your mouth shut.

"Had a good night?" he asks you then, before flopping down on the armchair closest to the window and kicking his boots off. You walk around the partition, facing him fully now.

"It was... okay."

"Not the best, I take it," Clark all but smirks, elbows resting on his knees as he looks at you. "It's past midnight and you're still up."

"What? I've had a great night!" you fold your arms defensively.

"So great, that all of that liquor's already wearing off," he chuckles, shaking his head as you narrow your eyes. "Can feel your blood rushing steadier than usual."

"You know, you cousins really need to stop paying so much attention to my body. Is this what you do with all the human people you meet?"

"Only the ones that matter," Clark jokes, and you know he probably doesn't mean it the way it sounds, but still, another shiver attacks the base of your spine. "How's Kara?"

"Drunk."

"Did she like the cake?"

"Didn't even need to soap the plate. She licked it clean," you joke.

Clark chuckles lightly, and when he pauses, his look focuses shyly on you, "Did you?"

"Red velvet, white chocolate and vanilla cream cheese," you place a hand on your chest, clutching it playfully as you grin at him, "Perfect combination. I loved it, Clark. Thank you."

He looks pleased with himself, truly. Like a puppy being given his first treat after performing some elaborate trick. You can't help but notice how boyish he looks under this light now; regardless of the suit clinging perfectly to every curve of his muscular frame.

"It's alright. Thought you might need it for your big day tomorrow," he says softly, and there's something in his eye that you can't quite make out. "You start at 9, right? How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay, I guess," a slight shrug lifts your shoulders, "I'm nervous, more than anything. It's been a while since I've worked at a paper,"

"You're going to be just fine," Clark smiles at you, and your stomach's immediately in the danger zone for an exceptional number of flips done in under one minute. "You're a smart girl, Kara's shown me your work. They're gonna to love you."

You blush, gaze falling to the floor as you busy yourself with the sight of your socked feet. A comfortable silence settles between you, one lost in the buzz of the city outside.

Eventually, Clark stands up, stretches the stress of the night from his limbs. He gives you yet another small, award-winning smile as he makes his way to the hall.

"I'm heading off to bed, but..." he starts, "Are you and Kara coming back here tomorrow? After work?"

"Probably. If that's okay," you rush, "She'll probably still be asleep by the time I finish, so..."

"Yeah, of course. No problem," Clark tells you kindly, "You can tell me all about it then too, maybe. I'll make some cocoa. Or get more cake, depending on how it goes."

You laugh; a light, little sound that makes his smile stretch just that bit wider.

"Sure thing, Clark."

He chuckles, nods his head and bids you a soft goodnight. By the time you hear his bedroom door shut, your heart feels ready to burst out of your chest at any moment.

You scrub your hands one last time, desperately, the water running over your skin like it might somehow wash Clark Kent out of your mind entirely.

Unfortunately, it doesn't work.

No amount of tossing or turning can help the thoughts from running rampant in your head. He's the last thing on your mind when you fall asleep, and the first thing you think of at 7:30am in the morning when the vapid hammering of your phone's alarm clock finally goes off.

Kara groans, flayed hand shooting out and slamming against nothing but the bedside table.

You manage to grapple your phone off the side, pressing buttons every five minutes to ward off the incessant noise. Your mind fades in and out of reality, eyes fluttering shut, reopening before you can even claim it as rest.

Regardless, it rings. And rings. And rings.

It's relentless, unstoppable. It jolts you awake far too many times for you not to have memorised it by heart.

"Turn that off, oh my god." Kara groans, her entire head buried under a mountain of pillows. "I'm begging you."

So, you do.

With every ounce of strength you can possibly muster, you brave a single open eye toward the brightly-lit screen in your hand.

And a petrified gasps leaves your mouth.

8:48am.

"Shit!" you yell, practically jumping out of the covers. They land on the floor in a heap and for a second, you feel bad for the girl sleeping soundly beside you; but you can't dwell on it. Your legs propel you towards the door before your mind can even catch up.

The entire morning is a blur. You shower quickly; brushing your teeth and shaving your legs in record time. You've barely buttoned more than four buttons on your blouse before you're racing down Clark's apartment complex, a string of complex curses tumbling from your lips as you skip a couple steps and almost break a leg.

You hail a cab, terrified of the subway's delay. The taxi driver says something you fake-laugh to, and you hand him a note that's no doubt far too much, but it's all you have and you refuse to wait for change.

"Good luck, miss!" he calls after you, and you shoot him a thankful smile that's soon swallowed by a rush hour crowd.

Your chest is hurting, heart a permanent sped-up metronome in your chest. You have no time to gawk in awe at the building before you as you rush inside, shoulders slamming against the revolving doors in a way that forces the people in the other side to stumble.

"Sorry, sorry!" you mouthe, but you don't even stop then.

You take the elevator right to the very top, feet tapping impatiently on the floor. You fix your top, re-apply the mattified gloss on your lips. Your hair's probably a mess, and you've definitely forgotten something important back at the apartment, but you can't think too long or too hard about it.

Today, you decided, is going to be your day.

You glance at your phone. 9:13am. The elevator doors part just as your shoulders slump, and for the first time since you woke up, you take a slow, careful step inside.

It's busy. Incredibly so. Bodies pass each other in frenzied waves, and papers are flitted around more than words are even exchanged. There's a smell of coffee and ink in the air; the sound of printers and voices filling the otherwise daunting void that is, the bullpen.

You keep walking forward, mesmerised by it all.

Someone barks your name. Someone loud, and important, who introduces himself with a name you recognise and a hand shake that's firm. But you don't dwell on him, either; not even as you mumble apologies about being late and it never happening again.

He simply guides you to the middle of the floor, to a desk littered in post-it notes and rewrites and red-penned assignments and...

A jar of peanut butter?

"Take a seat, kid," the man huffs, shaking his head as he checks his watch. "I swear, the only journalist willing to take you on is going to be even later than you. That's not a nasty habit you pick up here, or we'll be having words. You hear me?"

You nod, obediently. Maybe, you think, if you sit still enough, he'll leave you alone.

So naturally, you sit and watch. A man and a woman bicker opposite you, lost in their own conversation about a deadline due last week and a byline missing a letter.

"Jimmy, you're annoying me,"

"You're annoying me! I told you, the prints won't be ready 'til tomorrow. Have some patience, Lois."

It's a lot. You expected it, actually maybe even looked forward to it; but now that you're here, right smack-dab in the middle of it all, you can't help but feel overwhelmed.

You're a smart girl.

You wonder what Clark would say now, if he could see you. Frozen in fear and unable to look away from the people who actually looked like they belonged.

They're gonna love you.

There's a clatter coming from the pair in front of you.

A woman with bouncy hair and thick-rimmed glasses walks past, high heels clicking against the shiny floor.

"Hello, sweetheart." she smiles at you. You can barely nod back.

Absentmindedly, your fingers fiddle with each other, darting this way and that, as well as with the different knick-knacks on the random table your new boss put you on.

"Ah, there he is! Finally."

"Sorry, Perry."

The words float somewhere behind you, swallowed by the rest of the noise. Phones ring. Keys clack. Someone is arguing about a draft that should have been finished yesterday, and you have a feeling it's those same two again.

It’s a hurricane of sound, and you’re stuck right in the centre, trying not to get swept under.

Your new boss- Perry- says something; sharp and quick, important to him but static to you, but you can’t make any of it out. Your heart is too loud in your ears.

You drop your gaze to the desk in front of you, clinging to it like an anchor. The clutter is almost comforting. Almost. A discarded post-it, half ripped, sits in the paper basket next to your foot, Send half of paycheck to Ma & Pa.

"She’s a little skittish," Perry comments. "Figure you can calm her down. God knows Lois can’t."

You exhale shakily. At least the person who sits here seems nice enough. Messy, but with a heart, hopefully soft around the edges.

Hopefully, they'll go easy on you.

A hand taps your shoulder, putting your thoughts on abrupt pause.

"Up, kid. Come say hello."

You jolt to your feet too fast, knee slamming against the desk.

Papers explode off the table, skidding across the floor in frantic little bursts. One even lands on your shoe. Something metal spins out, rattling loudly enough to make a few people glance over before losing interest in you entirely.

You drop into a crouch, mortified. Great. Perfect. First day and you’re already a human earthquake.

"I'll leave you both to it." Perry grumbles. "Try not to break anything."

Your fingers close around the fallen object- a nameplate, cool and weighty- and you rush to set it back where it belongs. No attention. No fuss. No one even has to know-

You flip it upright.

And the second you do, every noise in your head halts.

Your mouth is already at a part, forming some kind of polite greeting to whoever stands before you. But then, your eyes focus. They narrow in on the letters.

Two words. Just two.

Black, embossed, unmistakable; and the speed in which your heart drops is record-breaking.

CLARK KENT.

Your chest tightens. Something in your stomach twists.

"So..." the voice behind you mumbles then, and you can suddenly feel the warmth of Clark's body behind yours, the breath of his words brushing faint against your shoulder; familiar enough to detonate your entire nervous system. "...you're my new intern."

okay so i kinda hate this im afraid, but it was an idea i had and i just had to write something anything! so i hope you liked!!<3

[marwrite]

sugar talk

summary: clark kent is shy, bashful, and impossibly sweet; and despite barely being friends, he splurges on extravagant gifts for you daily. so naturally, you repay him by getting his initials on the set of acrylics he paid for, sending his entire world into freefall.

clark kent x fashion writer ! reader

themes: based off of this ask! clark is basically a super sweet sugardaddy in this, he's obsessed with you and so sweet about it, love language is OBVIOUSLY gifts, you are emotionally unavailable and so girlboss. enjoy!

Nobody forced you to do it.

Nobody held your hand under that nail lamp, a gun to your head and a threat to your existence- yet you chose to, anyway.

Just like you were choosing to miss your floor entirely. Instead of staying inside the metal box to get to the 17th, your floor- the floor of fashion writing and countless wannabe Miranda Priestley’s- you hit the button that takes you to the top of The Daily Planet building instead. To where he is.

Clark Kent.

Ever so sexy, ever so enamoured with you Clark; who blushes when you call him darling and tries yet fails miserably to cover the tent in his slacks whenever you’re around. Clark, whose glasses slip down his nose in a way that practically begs you to push them up, with a slight clack of your acrylic against the frame.

Clark, who is responsible for every single luxurious coat, handbag, and scarf you own now, as well as every nail set you get done monthly. Who greets you every morning with an oat flat white and a gluten-free pastry- just how you like it- like some desperate PA who lives to please.

Truthfully, you don’t even remember when this arrangement began.

It started off as gifts; gold bags with curly ribbon and post-it notes on your desk. At first, it had been trinkets; an empty picture frame, a luxe little candle that smelled like vanilla and wealth, a little keychain that had your initials on.

Then, it turned into roses.

And that’s when your brain slips; like you can’t remember the exact date those roses transformed into Clark’s credit card being the default on your Apple pay, or when it snowballed into your loyal nail-tech refusing to let you pay because Mr Kent paid me in advance, miss. For the rest of the year. Tip included.

You let him. Obviously. Because it was nice to be taken care of every once in a while, especially by someone as attentive and caring as the man with a jar of peanut butter on his desk and post-note reminders to send money back home to his parents in Kansas. You were always so independent, so against external help- that sometimes, it was refreshing to be spoiled every now and again.

"Clark, you shouldn't have." you'd gushed one time, though the furrow in your brows showed more concern than gratitude.

He held the coat open for you to step into- all $500, faux fur (obviously) fluffy beige of it, with a handbag from some unknown designer brand you loved to match. Working in fashion meant that you could sus out a price from the first glance alone, and you knew immediately that he'd splurged quite a lot on you that week already.

And it was only a Tuesday.

The smile on Clark's face was giddy, cut by a sheepishness that always came with the fear of you not liking it.

"I wanted to."

You'd scolded him, but barely.

He already did so much for you. He even took it upon himself to brave the entirety of the fashion floor every day just to walk you to your desk; just to set your coffee and pastry down and pull your chair out like an experienced waiter waiting eagerly for a tip.

Yet Clark never asked. Nor did he impose. He just smiled, that soft, simple little smile of his that made your heart flutter and your palms sweat.

You'd thank him, genuinely. Sometimes, you'd even peck him on the cheek. The one time you hugged him, he'd short-circuited so hard he ended up knocking into the edge of your desk, sending your picture-less picture frame flying.

"Oh, darling. It's fine," you'd said absentmindedly, already logging onto your computer with a mirage of different things to do as he sighed, annoyed with himself, fingers already fumbling to pick up the pieces. "I didn't have anything in it, anyway."

Regardless, another gift bag greeted you on your desk the very next day. The same frame sat inside, only now it was brand new and still in the packaging. Still without a picture. Always.

You left it in the bag and shoved it somewhere underneath your desk, collecting dust next to some old copies and print. Out of all the gifts Clark had ever gotten you, that one probably resonated with you the least, though you were still thankful. You just didn't have anyone you cared enough about to put inside of it. You loved your friends, but pictures with them had become a rare occurrence since work had become your life.

This was all just a bit of fun- something new- you realised. You got a slight kick out of the way Clark fawned over you, how he treated you like God's gift to earth; clad in a leopard print blouse and nails so long they should be considered their own lethal weapon. He didn't have a girlfriend, that much you knew- otherwise, this would have started and ended at the first coffee he'd ever gotten you.

No; the infamous, nervous, smoking hot Clark Kent was completely single. He also just happened to be utterly, undeniably obsessed with you.

And although you'd always been quite bad at communicating your feelings (every ex-boyfriend you'd ever had ended the relationship with a tearful goodbye and a suggestion for you to go to therapy- all while you typed away at your work laptop and made mental notes to call a few clients after the whole interaction was over) you couldn't deny that even you felt the same.

Somewhat.

Almost.

How could you not, first of all? You thrived in being alone, but you weren't bulletproof. And shots came in the form of Clark coming down to see you with your favourite lunch everyday; in him listening to every single thing you had to say, remembering important anecdotes for next time.

It felt like a machine gun, heavy duty; the way he'd hold the elevator door open for you to step in and out of, large palm steady on your lower back as he guided you down the hall to your office; your fur draped over his arm, your work bag slung over his shoulder.

Though oddly enough, he's never asked anything from you in return. Not your number. Not even your email. Never money, or anything in exchange for all the extravagent things he gets you. He even walks you home most days and has never once waited to be invited inside.

You told yourself it was fine. Maybe Clark just had a thing for it- a money kink, something that paired well with his shy, bashful persona. Or maybe, he was just waiting for a greenlight; something you had always struggled to give.

"You're killing him, doll," Rita, your second-in-command at the office once said. She'd been flicking through last season's magazine for inspiration when Clark came bumbling towards your desk; another coffee you hadn't asked for yet were in dire need of clutched in his big hand.

Figured you could do with it. Have you had lunch yet? I'll get you lunch. That place from Monday okay? Did you like that?

The coffee was the good kind, too- a cortado that came from your favourite artisan cafe down the street and left, not the black sludge from your kitchenettes at the office.

You'd smiled at him, lips still on the rim of the cup, while he swallowed and moved his satchel in front of the growing problem in his work trousers.

The second he walked off, Rita had turned to you.

"Give the poor boy a break. He wants you so bad, at least give him a little somethin'."

You'd rolled your eyes, watching as she made a foul gesture with a piston of her free hand and a comical tongue in cheek.

After waving her off, you caught sight of your own growth beginning to take place between your acrylics and your cuticles. You were in dire need of an infill, something new.

The cogs in your mind started whirring then, dangerous and risky- and you booked an appointment almost immediately for the very next day.

Which evidently, brings us to now.

You wriggle your fingers beneath the elevator light, one eyebrow lifting as you admire your new set.

It had been a simple request; stiletto French tips, a few tiny diamonds scattered across a couple of nails- and on your ring finger, two unmistakable glittering gems, glued in place to steal the show whenever they catch the light just right.

Initials. Someone's.

His.

The ride to the top of the Planet is unbearable. Your heart is in your throat, thick and pulsing, and you swear the altitude of being this high up feels otherworldly all of a sudden- even though your floor is only a few spaces below. Even though you spend half of your life in jets and planes, thinking nothing of it when you land in different fashion capitals of the world.

Your body moves before your brain has a chance to catch up and eject, and you find yourself click-clacking out of the elevator with steps so loud, and so unstoppable, that a few heads turn.

First, it's Steve. A knuckle-headed, poor excuse of a man who whistles and says, "Lost, princess?" earning a scowl from you and a kick under the table from the woman he's sitting next to.

Then, it's Cat; beautiful Cat Grant, who you've had many a conversation with about the industry you love, and the social and economic dread you both feel about fast fashion. She waves at you excitedly, but she's stuck in a conversation and makes a small gesture with her hand to just give her a minute.

But you don't dwell. You're here for one reason, and one reason only.

You find what you're looking for before anyone else can point you in the direction. A smirk tugs at the corner of your lips, especially when you see the empty chair behind him.

Clark's head is ducked, a highlighter in his hand that spills across a page of small text. He's mumbling to himself, scrunching his nose every now and then to keep his glasses upright.

Before you can drink him in, he pauses. And you have no idea how- because you're practically concealed in the bustle of the bullpen- but he looks up in your exact direction.

And his eyes widen. His mouth parts.

When you start walking towards him- the tiniest smile on your face and something he can't quite make out glittering behind your eyes- he fumbles for the seat next to him, large hands dropping his highlighter so that he can stand up to greet you.

"H-Hi," he starts, and you'd be blushing too if it wasn't for the five different pairs of eyes on you both.

Out of the corner of your own gaze, you can just about make out Jimmy Olsen- Rita's one-sided Work Husband, you learnt a while back- with his eyebrows raised almost to the roof. Lois Lane watches behind a chipped mug of black coffee, shock on her usually composed features.

"Clark," you say slowly, taking a gentle seat on the chair before you. He does the same, a confusion on his face that he tries to hide with a deep clear of his throat.

"Is everything... everything okay?" he lowers his voice, blue eyes gazing into your soul so deep, your heart jumps again. For a split second, they narrow at your chest, before pulling away and locking with your own again.

"Everything’s fine," you say softly, already feeling the tension begin to melt from your shoulders. Clark exhales at that, the sound short and carefully controlled, like he’d been bracing for something much worse.

"Okay," he murmurs, nodding once, twice, as if committing the word to memory.

"Okay, that’s good. That’s really good."

You tilt your head, watching him with an affection you rarely let yourself indulge in. He looks impossibly earnest like this; sleeves rolled just enough to expose his forearms, tie loosened in a way that tells you he’s been at this desk for hours longer than he should’ve been.

It’s sweet. He’s sweet. And it makes your chest ache in that familiar, inconvenient way.

"I won’t take up too much of your time," you say, voice light, fingers resting casually in your lap. "I just… I was nearby."

A blatant lie, and you both know it.

Clark smiles anyway, wide and helpless, like you’ve just handed him something important instead of a flimsy excuse.

"You can take up as much time as you want," he says before he can stop himself, then flushes pink all the way up to the tips of his ears. "I mean- not that- I just-"

You hold back a laugh, your smile gentle, leaning forward a fraction. "Clark."

He stills instantly at the sound of his name on your lips, attention snapping back to you like a magnet finding its pull. His eyes flicker over your face, your coat, the line of your shoulders- lingering in places he tries very hard not to linger- before finally, finally, dropping to your hands when you lift them to gesture.

You pretend it’s nothing. A careless movement. Fingers flexing as you brush imaginary lint from your sleeve.

That’s when he sees it.

The glitter catches first, subtle and deliberate, and then his breath leaves him entirely. His gaze locks onto your nails like they’ve reached out and grabbed him, pupils blown wide behind his glasses.

Two letters, neat and unmistakable, worked into the design with the same care he uses when he picks out your coats, your fabrics, your colours.

CK.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Just stares, stunned, reverent, like you’ve carved his name into something permanent and not into a set of frenchies you'll only have for the next few weeks. A swallow bobs in his throat.

"You-" he breathes, the word barely there, like he’s afraid to say anything at all.

His eyes flick between your fingers and your face, stunned and searching.

"Is that…?"

You don’t let him finish. You lift your hand just a little higher between you, letting the letters catch the light once more, your voice low and certain when you say, "My way of saying thank you."

The smile that breaks across his face then is slow and reverent. Then, it turns bright and boyish, and you know- with a certainty that settles deep in your bones- that you’ve undone him completely.

Something shifts in him then.

You can see it, feel it- the hesitation over anything other than gifts that he’s worn like armour finally cracking.

His hand twitches on the desk, like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t quite dare. When he looks up at you again, there’s a softness there that makes your chest tighten.

You're hyperaware of how much time you're taking up. So, smoothly, you stand; wrapping your coat back into place as Clark rises with you. He moves quick- too eager and alert, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t.

His voice is lower now, steadier, though his smile still gives him away and the way he can't tear his eyes away from your fingers makes it very, very obvious what he wants to ask.

He says your name.

Your lips curl in amusement.

"Yes, Clark?"

"Are you- um. Are you free tonight?"

You can see it in him, how much of his willpower it's taking to risk rejection. But he says it anyway, braving the chances.

And you pause, just long enough to make him nervous. But you already know your answer.

"I think I could be," you reply, eyes dancing.

Clark's grin turns radiant, broad shoulders relaxing under his strained dress shirt. "Then-" he clears his throat, "if you're not too busy- would you let me take you out? Properly. Dinner. Anywhere you want."

You tighten your coat- the $500 gift with the handbag to match sitting comfortably at home- around you, and give him a small nod. You lift your hand once more between you, the letters glinting under the newsroom lights.

"I’d like that, Clark."

He grins so wide, it's you who nearly ends up bumping into the edge of his desk.

You leave him standing there, glowing and stunned and very much probably very much in love with you.

And when the elevator doors slide shut around you once more, you catch your reflection in the mirrored walls. For the first time, the thought doesn’t scare you.

Beacuse by the time the elevator begins to move, you already know...

Soon, you’ll finally have something worth putting in that frame.

[thebestandworstdayofjune]

you can call me honey if you want

summary: To you, he's always been Stevie. Until one day he's just Steve. He isn't handling the change well. wc: 2.5 k warnings: lovesick Steve, reader is overly fond of nicknames, meddling kids, tooth-rotting fluff a/n: I am absolutely losing my mind over the new season, please feel free to send Steve thoughts/requests my way <3

“Hey, Steve?” 

The yelling that had filled the entirety of Steve’s living room for the past ten minutes ceased. His heart started beating out of his chest. There was no reason to get all twisted up about it, that is the name his parents gave him. Except, you were so sweet, and everyone had a nickname. Everyone, but especially him. He’s your Stevie. Well, not strictly yours, as much as he’d like to be. 

You would drop the others’ nicknames when you were tired, or when you had a headache after a long day. Dustin was no longer Dusty-Bun, which you’d gleefully stolen from Suzie. The ‘Y’ was dropped from the end of Mike. Steve could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard you call his best friend ‘Robin’ instead of ‘Robs’. But always, without fail, he was ‘Stevie’. 

He’d been Stevie when your respective parents had brought the both of you to the company Christmas party and you were the only two there below the age of 30. He’d been Stevie when you found him shamefully cleaning up Tommy’s graffiti on the front of the theater, Stevie when you saw him from across the mall, face beaten to a pulp and there was no one else to pick him up. And he was Stevie every single time that he crawled in through your window after a nightmare or when he needed someone to sit with him in the aftermath of another concussion. 

Max was still sitting on the floor in front of you as you diligently weaved her hair into a braid, eyes looking as far up as they could to catch a glimpse of you. Robin was hanging upside down in her typical arm chair, and the other kids were tangled up in a pile on the rug. But without fail, every eye in the room was boring into you. Steve watched you tie off the braid in an elastic and jump a bit when you looked up, squirming under their scrutiny. You blinked, confused. “What?” 

Oh God, you didn’t even realize. You hate him now and you don’t even know it. 

Robin was the first one to break her trance. “You called him Steve,” she said, her finger pointing at you accusingly as she sat up straight in the armchair. Steve’s heart, which was already doing double time, picked up the pace. He loved her, but Robin was the last person he would’ve chosen to try and sort out this mess. 

Your head tilted to the side of it’s own accord. “That’s his name?” Max turned towards you, head already in her hand. 

“Riiight,” Robin said, eyes darting between the two of you. “Right! Okay, yes.” She nodded her head slowly, as if trying to convince herself. 

Steve could see Max’s smile threatening to break into a grin, and Dustin looked dangerously close to snarking off. He couldn’t let it go on like this, someone was dangerously close to blowing his poorly maintained cover.

Steve snatched the pile of VHS tapes off the coffee table and flipped through them. The Thing, The Exorcist and The Shining? He was never letting Robin escort the kids to Family Video without him again. Last movie night, you’d all watched Nightmare on Elm Street and you’d nightmares for a week. It wasn’t that he minded you waking him up, but hearing your voice shake over the phone made his chest tight in a way he would do almost anything to avoid. “Executive decision, we aren’t watching any of these.” He announced, tossing the tapes on top of the tv and kneeling down to dig through the entertainment cabinet. 

For once, he was thankful for the chorus of groans and teenage whining from the couch. Anything to break the tension. Steve chanced a glance you and was content to find you giggling with Max and El. Crisis somewhat averted. He grabbed Pretty in Pink off the stack of John Hughes tapes he’d stashed in the back of the cabinet and popped it in. If anyone asked, he’d claim they were his moms. He’d bought them two towns over after you came into Family Video with your heart set on it only to find the shelf empty. 

He flopped down on the couch beside you in this usual spot, mindful not to sit too close. If you were mad at him, he didn’t want to make it worse. You gave him a strange look, but El quickly distracted you by asking to have her hair braided as well. The trailers played softly in the background while the tv casted a cool glow across the room. Steve was thankful you were distracted, because he couldn’t stop watching you out of the corner of his eyes. 

You smiled at the top of El’s head, unfazed to be missing the beginning of your favorite movie. He wracked his brain, trying to figure out what had caused you to drop his nickname. He’d been on time picking you up from work, but even when he’s been occasionally late you hadn’t minded in the slightest. You’d seemed fine last night on the phone when you’d called to make sure that he’d gotten home okay. He was in the middle of replaying the short conversation you’d had when he opened the door when your hand found his and your head settled on his shoulder. El had rejoined the pile of teenagers and snacks on the rug and you were right back where you belonged.  

“You okay?” He asked quietly, leaning so close his lips almost brushed the top of your head. Your concentration on the tv didn’t break as you hummed a ‘hmm?’ back to him. Steve smiled despite himself. “You okay, honey?” 

His heart shuddered when he realized a nickname of his own had slipped out. A quick glance around you confirmed that you were just as focused on Andie making her prom dress as you had been thirty seconds ago. You nodded, adjusting so that you could nuzzle further into his bicep, your grip on his left arm growing tighter. “I’m fine, Steve.” Your voice was muffled, but Steve still felt his stomach drop.

Steve didn't realize he’d spent the whole movie worrying over whatever must’ve done to upset you until the credits roll and the kids are gathering up their blankets and pillows from the floor. He started to stand up to chauffeur everyone home, but you weren’t following suit. In fact, your lashes were brushing the tops of your cheeks and your breathing was deep and steady. You’d fallen asleep on him.

Mercifully, Robin was already corralling the kids out of the house, confirming that she would walk them to the Wheeler’s. “Talk to her, Stevie!” She calls from the front door before shutting it behind he. Steve winced, glancing down at you to confirm that you hadn’t woken up. If you hadn’t been dead to the world on his chest, he would’ve given her an earful. 

He felt like he was going to be sick from all the whiplash. You were so unbelievably normal today. You were sweet with the kids, laughing with Robin and unable to last through an entire movie without falling asleep. It all checked out. And still, he was ‘Steve’. His head fell back against the sofa, and he fought the urge to groan. Suddenly, he was tired. Surely it wouldn't hurt to rest his eyes for a second.

Steve woke up to the sight of you about to slip out the front door. “What’re you doing?” He asked, his voice heavy with sleep. 

You froze with the door half open, as if he’d caught you with your hand in the cookie jar. Your eyebrows scrunched together and your lips parted in an ‘o’. “Just, I didn’t realize I fell asleep,” you said, your hand still grasping the handle of the Harrington’s front door. “Felt wrong to wake you up,” you shrugged.

Steve scrambled over the back of the couch, nearly falling when his foot caught on one of the kids’ blankets. A strangled cry of “Wait!” Came out shakily as he managed to catch himself before falling face first into the carpet.

“Oh my god, Steve!” You laughed, doubling over at the waist. 

Usually, the sound would cause the butterflies in his stomach to kick up. But there it was again. ‘Steve’. He gently took your hand off of the door handle, shutting the door behind you. “We’ve gotta talk about this, honey.” His thumb was rubbing soft circles around your knuckles, and when he noticed what he was doing, he couldn’t bring himself to stop. 

You leaned back against the door, ducking down in order to catch his gaze. “Is everything okay?” Steve could feel his cheeks turning pink, and it was suddenly very difficult to meet your eyes. 

He took a deep breath, and leaned his free hand on the door behind you. “You’ve been calling me Steve all day.” 

“Oh, that.” Your eyes are wide, and if he’s not mistaken, you’re pouting. 

It’s one of the cutest things he’s ever seen and he can’t help it, he’s grinning. “Yeah, that.” Maybe you don’t hate him after all. He squeezed your hand once, and then threaded your fingers together. “You’re breakin’ my heart here.” 

“I just,” you started to explain and then paused, taking a deep breath and gathering your courage. “Didn’t wanna embarrass you.” 

Steve’s hand slid down the doorway to rest on the side of your neck. “Now where’d you get a crazy idea like that?” the tip of his nose was nearly brushing against yours. “Thought you were mad at me all day, honey.” 

You blinked up at him, suddenly feeling woozy. You had always been affectionate with each other, but something about this felt different. “When I was visiting you at work the other day?” Steve nodded, doing his best to be patient. “I, well…” you weren’t sure how to get the words out. “I heard the kids laughing at us, and I just. I don’t know. I guess I got shy.” 

Steve was holding himself back from rolling his eyes. Those little shits managed to get in the way of things even when they weren’t in the building. “I’m sure they weren’t laughing at you, honey.” 

Embarrassed tears begin to well at the corners of your eyes. “I’m pretty sure.” Steve’s hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that managed to escape. “They were giggling, and I thought it was just over a movie or something,” Steve nodded, his hand not leaving your face. “But then I heard Dusty say ‘she doesn’t even know’ and they all took turns saying… well. They were all saying ‘Stevie’ in high voices. And I don’t even sound like that!” You winced, hearing your voice pitch up at the end. 

“When have you ever cared what the kids think? Hell, when have I ever cared what they think?” He was laughing, but it didn’t feel unkind. You could tell he wasn’t laughing at you. 

“And you always tell them to shut up if they call you Stevie. I thought maybe you didn’t like it anymore.” 

You hesitated, the reality of the situation really hitting you for the first time. Steve had you trapped between him and the door, one hand intertwined with yours and the other making lazy strokes across your cheekbone. And he was hurt that you’d stopped using his nickname. One that you have specifically heard him telling the others that they weren’t allowed to use. Did he-? No. 

“I was so worried.” He said, voice barely a whisper. 

“About what?” Your asked gently, matching his volume. 

“Thought I’d screwed it all up. Your Dusty-Bun is always insisting I’m going to mess this up. Guess he got in my head.” Steve’s forehead rested against yours, his eyes fluttering shut. 

Oh. Maybe he did. “Mess what up, Stevie?” 

His grin was blinding, despite his eyes remaining shut. “Say it again.” You felt like your face was on fire, and your heart was doing summersaults in your chest. A swarm of butterflies was causing a ruckus in your stomach. Your eyes fell shut, and you tried to pull away. Steve’s hand slid from your cheek to find the back of your neck, the his other hand leaving yours so that his thumb could run along the end of your eyebrow. “Please,” he was practically begging, and not one part of him had managed to feel ashamed of it. 

Your hands found his forearms, needing something to cling to. “Stevie?” You couldn’t wrap your head around this. It was like you had all the pieces but they wouldn’t fall into place. Your eyes peak open, and the next thing you know, Steve is smoothing out the space between your brows with his thumb. 

“You don’t know how hard it’s been for me,” his inhale is shaky, and loud to your ears. “To not do that constantly.” His eyes were soft in a way that you realized had been more and more common lately. “Wanna kiss you so bad, honey.” Steve watched as your eyes went wide, but you didn't pull away. You’re processing, and he has been working on his patience for a good long while now. 

Moments feel like a lifetime before you nod your head, just once. Up and down and so sure. Steve mirrored you, his nose bumping gently against yours before he was leaning in. 

You would’ve expected fireworks, big explosions that made you go weak in the knees. You got something better. Steve’s arms wrapped around your middle, molding you to him, and it felt like coming home. He was gentle at first, giving you a moment to adjust. And then your arms found their way around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair, and he couldn’t help it anymore. 

You didn’t know how long you were backed up against the door, but you were sure you would’ve happily stayed for a few more hours. And you would have, if it weren’t for the banging from the other side of the door. In seconds, Steve had swept you behind him and plucked the bat that sat in the umbrella stand near the door. 

“Steve, man! I don’t care if you’re asleep I left my walkie.” 

Steve sighed, his shoulders deflating as he propped the bat up against the wall. “We don’t have to answer it,” he whispered, hands at your waist again. 

You laughed, forehead resting against his shoulder. “Stevie, don’t make him suffer.” 

Steve grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “he’s never suffered a day in his life” and before planting a kiss on your temple and throwing the door open. “Henderson, you’re lucky she loves you.” 

Dustin rolled his eyes, shouldering past his friend. He had the decency to give you a sheepish look on his way to the living room. “Where’d you leave it, Dusty-Bun?” You asked, Dustin called something back, but you were distracted by Steve playing with the hem of your sweatshirt. 

“You waited months, a couple more minutes won’t kill you, hot-shot.” 

Steve groaned, his forehead meeting the space between your neck and your shoulder. “It’s sweet you think it’s only been months.” 

[wildxwidow]

stevie is so cute and shy UGH i love this

[djotime]

STEVE HARRINGTON 5.02 — The Vanishing of Holly Wheeler

[pankowcrumbs]

Can I request a fluffy Steve Harrington x fem! reader long oneshot where Steve works at the radio station and gives a loving shoutout to reader while she listens to him on the radio and she decides to surprise visit him at the station later in the day and finds him with his back turned to her sorting through tapes and she sneaks up behind him and puts her arms around his waist and whispers hello handsome in his ear?

MasterList

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

Joe Keery Masterlist

I’d never imagined Steve Harrington waking up before sunrise willingly. For years, I’d known him as the guy who rolled out of bed ten minutes before school, hair sticking out in seven directions, eyes half-closed until his first cup of coffee. Yet somehow, here he was in adulthood, wide awake at 5 a.m., spinning records and talking to a whole town on purpose.

“WSQK, The Squawk! Your morning wake-up with Steve the Dream”

Yes. That was what he called himself.

I burst out laughing the first time I heard it. He tried to pretend he hated the nickname, but I knew secretly it made him feel cool. Like he wasn't just Steve Harrington, former high school babysitter and monster magnet. He was Steve the Dream, with a voice people actually looked forward to waking up to.

I could picture him now: perched in that swivel chair, mug of coffee clutched like a lifeline, hair too perfect for someone who swears he doesn’t style it anymore. He’d argue, “It just does that.” Sure, and I just woke up looking like a shampoo advert every morning.

The radio hummed in the background as I walked around the kitchen at 9 a.m., making toast and drinking orange juice. Steve’s voice filled the room like sunlight.

“Alright, Hawkins, it’s a chilly one out there today. Perfect time to grab a sweater, a hot chocolate, and listen to Robin and I ramble about absolutely nothing.”

He chuckled at himself, and I couldn’t help smiling into my mug.

“But before we get into the news, music, and my highly unpopular opinions... I want to give a little shoutout.”

I paused, toast mid-bite.

“A certain someone may or may not be listening right now.” His voice softened, warmer. “And if she is, then she should know that I saw she borrowed my flannel again, and I swear one day I’m going to forget I ever owned clothes.”

I choked on my toast, laughing.

“She also makes the best pancakes in existence, even though she denies it and says I’m delirious.”

My cheeks heated. He wouldn’t.

“And her smile,” he continued, “genuinely makes getting up at stupid o’clock not feel so stupid.”

I froze. Completely.

“So, good morning, Y/N,” he said softly. “You’re my favourite part of today. Just thought the town should know.”

The radio fell silent for a beat. Then he cleared his throat, awkward and adorable.

“Right! Here’s 'I Can’t Fight This Feeling' by REO Speedwagon"

The music kicked in, but my heart was louder.

Steve Harrington had just confessed to the entire town of Hawkins that he liked me. Or loved me. Or something dangerously close.

And I was sat in my kitchen, wearing his flannel.

It didn’t take much convincing to hop in my car and drive across town. I didn’t text him. Didn’t warn him. Didn’t plan anything beyond hug him senseless and maybe kiss him stupid.

The station was in the middle of nowhere and old. I buzzed myself in (Steve had insisted I learn the code “in case of emergencies like coffee delivery”).

Inside, posters plastered every wall, tapes stacked in crooked towers, and the faint smell of burnt coffee lingered in the air. And then there he was.

Steve stood with his back to me, rummaging through boxes of cassette tapes, headphone cord trailing down his back, shoulders slightly swaying with music through his headset.

He hadn’t noticed me.

Which made this more fun.

I tiptoed forward, careful not to knock anything over. When I was close enough to feel his body heat, I slipped my arms around his waist and pressed myself against his back. He jolted only for a second.

“Guess who,” I whispered, lips brushing his ear. “Hello, handsome.”

I felt the breath go right out of him.

Slowly, he lifted one hand to hold my arm where it wrapped around him, the other pushing his headphones off.

“You heard that, didn’t you?” he asked, voice embarrassingly high.

“Hmm,” I hummed, tightening my hold. “Loud and clear.”

His cheeks were already red I could see it even from the side. He turned slowly in my arms until we were face to face, barely any space between us.

“You came here just to make me feel like an idiot?” he asked, pretending to pout.

“No,” I said. “I came here to do this.”

I reached up, and before he could say another word, I kissed him soft at first, then deeper when he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into him like he’d been thinking about it all morning. His lips tasted like cheap coffee and mint gum, and somehow that combination became my new favourite flavour.

He broke away only to lean his forehead against mine. “Y/N, you’re gonna kill me,” he whispered with a grin. “In front of all these tapes. They’ll have to label it a tragic romance.”

“I’ll make a soundtrack for it,” I teased.

He groaned softly, burying his face in my neck as if to hide the world. “You’re really here.”

“Couldn’t resist,” I whispered into his hair.

His hands slid up my back, gentle but certain, as though committing every inch to memory. I tugged lightly on the hair at the back of his head, and he melted into me with a small, helpless sigh. That sound alone was worth the drive.

“You know,” he murmured against my jaw, “I meant what I said on air. You do make mornings better.”

“You make them louder,” I jokingly replied.

“You love it,” he said, pulling back slightly.

“I love you,” I corrected.

His eyes widened in relief, like he’d been holding that truth on his tongue for weeks.

Then he kissed me again, firmer this time, hands in my hair, lips smiling against mine.

A beep sounded from the control room. Steve groaned dramatically. “That’s my cue,” he sighed. “If I don’t go back, Robin will replace me with a talking crow.”

I pecked his cheek. “Do your job, Steve the Dream.”

He pointed at me. “Do not call me that outside of broadcasts.”

“No promises.”

He kissed me one more time, cheeks flushed and eyes full of every feeling he’d tried to hide on air.

Then he slipped on his headset, sat at the mic, and clicked the button.

“And that was Elton John… appropriate name drop because I… uh… definitely did not just get surprised by someone wearing my flannel.”

He threw me a look through the window bold, playful, madly affectionate.

Someone outside might’ve thought it was just a radio host being silly.

But I knew better.

I waved at him through the glass, and his voice cracked just slightly with a smile.

“Life advice for the day, Hawkins,” Steve said into the mic. “If someone makes you smile before coffee… don’t let them go.”

His eyes stayed on me as the next song began to play, something warm and soft, perfect for the moment.

I barely had time to melt into the sentiment before a voice behind me muttered, loud enough for the dead to hear “Oh my god, gag. I walk away for two minutes and suddenly we’re broadcasting Pretty in Pink.”

I jumped, turning to find Robin standing there with a clipboard, eyebrows scrunched, nose wrinkled.

She pointed accusingly at me. “You. You’re a menace. Steve used to be normal. Grumpy. Coffee-dependent. Now he’s out here giving relationship advice like Doctor Love on a breakfast show.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but she dramatically held up a hand.

“Don’t speak. I can’t handle more romance before lunch. My stomach is fragile.”

Behind the glass, Steve was desperately pretending not to see us. His shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

Robin cupped her mouth and yelled through the window, “GET A LIFE, STEVE!”

He only turned up the volume on his headphones and waved her away like she was a pigeon.

She scoffed. “Unbelievable. And I’m the dramatic one.”

Then, under her breath, “I’m never drinking coffee again. It clearly does something to people.”

I snorted so hard I nearly choked, and she glared at me like it was my fault.

“Don’t laugh, flannel thief,” she grumbled. “You’re an accomplice.”