keep lookin' up.

Steve Harrington had a knack for throwing himself onto the metaphorical grenade and you were sick of it.

You won’t lie, his instinctual nature of being the hero and protecting the people he loved was one of the things that drew you to him in the first place. But what first came off as charming, is now infuriating.

Every bone in your body is tense, fingers clenched tightly into fists at your sides, and your feet stomp across the grass outside the WSQK building as you speed walk inside. Without looking behind you, you know Steve is fast on your trail.

Nancy and Jonathan stay behind, clearly aware of the simmering tension between you and Steve, near the van and try to occupy themselves with talk but you know they must feel awkward at the argument they’re about to witness.

“Baby, will you please slow down and talk to me?” Steve begs from behind you. Rather than listening to him, your feet carry you up the three steps and you swing open the glass door and step inside.

The gesture is only enough for you to slip through and you hear Steve groan when his chest collides with the door trying to shut itself before he can stop it.

Good, serves him right after his stunt tonight.

You ignore the passive glances aimed towards you from Dustin and Lucas who are sitting on the couch in the middle of the common room. Despite not being there physically, everyone is aware of the events of tonight and you’d like to think they’re on your side.

But you’re also not in the mood to discuss them. You continue on your path, although you’re not even really sure you know where you’re planning to go but for now, you head towards the kitchen.

You’re ready for an argument with him, truly you’re craving it – maybe then you’ll have an outlet for the anger you’ve been feeling lately. Tonight marks the third time in a single month where he’s put himself in danger and you’re at your wits end. And while you have every intention of fully laying into him, you prefer not to do it in front of an audience.

Steve calls your name again, still carrying the most patient tone he always embodies when it comes to you. Tonight, it only angers you even more. How can he stand there and be so calm and sweet when he nearly died less than an hour ago?

Once you’re both away from the others, safely tucked inside the small kitchenette of the radio station, you spin on your heels to face him. His feet all but screech to a halt when he realizes you’re finally looking at him, but you don’t give him a chance to even be relieved before you’re speaking.

“Are you set on carrying out a suicide mission or have all those blows to the head you’ve taken over the years knocked some screws loose in there?” You demand.

Steve watches your arms cross tightly over your chest and your eyes blaze up at him. He’s a 5’11” man and looking down at you now, he knows it should be physically impossible for him to fear you and yet that look in your eye has him nearly cowering away.

“What?” He asks stupidly.

“I’m serious, Steve. You went way off track tonight and not only did you put yourself in danger, you put the rest of us in danger!”

Truth be told, you couldn’t care less about yourself being in danger. It was Steve you were worried about, he was the only one you were ever truly worried about but there was a stubborn part of yourself who was too scared to admit it, even now.

“I know, I know,” Steve sighed, taking a step toward you but you take one backwards, insistent on keeping the distance between you two. You watch his eyes sadden and fight the urge to run into his arms and make it better for him but damnnit, he gave you another memory of his near death and you needed him to understand that.

Steve swallows and doesn’t fight the distance. “I didn’t mean to, okay? I figured it was our last chance and I wanted to make it count. I’d never let you get hurt, or Nancy and Jonathan, you know that,” He pleads.

You shake your head. “That’s not the point, Steve. This is the third time this month you’ve done something so stupid and careless, and you still don’t seem to learn.”

It’s Steve’s turn to shake his head. “That’s not fair. I’m trying to keep everyone safe, I’m trying to get us closer to Vecna!”

“Using your body as a human shield isn’t going to do that!”

“Wha – I’m not using myself like that!” He argues. Based off his tone, you can tell he’s still not getting it. It seems like he has such little regard for himself that he can’t even recognize when he puts himself in harms way.

“You are! We all agreed going to that gate was only to make sure nothing could fit in or out, and what did you do? You –“ Steve cuts you off.

“I had to! The plan we ‘agreed on’ –“ He uses his fingers to make air quotes over the word – “was made when we didn’t know it was guarded with goddamn Demobats. Nancy and Jonathan were pinned, I was making sure they got out!”

“And your bright idea was sacrificing yourself?” You shout back at him. You’re aware of the increased volume of your voices and how the others inside the building no doubt are hearing your argument to some degree but that doesn’t stop you.

“Would you quit saying it like I was trying to kill myself? I wasn’t thinking about that, I was thinking of a way to keep everyone alive,”

“Exactly, you weren’t thinking about it. You never think about it! You just do stupid shit and expect me to be there to pick up the pieces.”

Steve’s expression pinches, and you can see the last of his patience begin to dissipate. “Hold on, I don’t expect anything from you. And again, what I did wasn’t stupid, I’m the one who kept us all alive tonight,”

You bark our a humorless laugh. “No, Nancy and her shotgun are what kept us alive tonight. If she hadn’t followed you, those bats would’ve tore you apart just like they did last year!”

It was a low blow, you know it was. Steve hated the reminder of his first time in the Upside Down – ironically, a time where you did exactly why you’re yelling at him for now and jumped through the watergate to save him – and he confided in you about that many times. He told you about his nightmares about that night, about how much he hates his scars and how scared he was and yet here you were, practically throwing it back in his face.

And you can tell the argument has hit a point of no return when his eyes lose all their softness. You hit the exact nerve you were aiming for but now, you’re not so sure you’re able to deal with the consequences.

“Right. I guess I should be thanking Nancy instead of wasting my time trying to apologize to you, especially after you did basically nothing the entire time tonight,”

Your eyes narrow at him and his implication. “Excuse me?”

Steve shrugs. “You heard me. You’re on my case about how I put myself in danger but at least I was doing something. Nancy was the one who followed after me, all while you stayed behind and pouted until I got back,”

A piece of heart splinters from itself and it lodges deep in your gut. Just as you were aware of Steve’s fears, he was aware of your insecurities when it came to Nancy. You’d been sort of friends with Steve growing up and were a distant viewer of his relationship with her. You knew of their history, something you didn’t share despite your relationship with him now and you’d done your best to be up front with him about it. Not once has he ever given you a reason to doubt him, his love for you, or his lack of feelings for Nancy. Until now.

In all fairness, you started the war below the belt so, you reap what you sow. But still, it stung. It really stung.

“Oh I see, you’re just reliving your glory days then, is that it?” You mock him and he’s quick to pick up on it. But you’ve started now and there’s no coming back. “Is this whole thing your weak attempt at regaining Nancy’s attention? You’re doing whatever you can to make yourself seem like the King Steve that Nancy Wheeler fell in love with three years ago?”

You see the way his jaw ticks when you say his old nickname and you know you’re heading in the right – wrong, really fucking wrong – direction.

“I hate to break it to you, Steve, but you were knocked clean off that high horse in high school. You’re so worried about being forgotten and replaced that you can’t even see how careless you’re being. You’re not in high school anymore and no matter how much you try and chase it, you’ll never be what you were back then and it’s embarrassing having to watch your pathetic attempts anyway!”

Your chest is heaving by the time you’re done and you’ve spent the last two minutes ignoring that small voice in your head telling you to stop, that you’re hurting him, that you’re ruining things. A voice you didn’t listen to even thought you know you should have.

Steve stands in front of you, shoulders tense and his hands loosely curled into fists but all you can focus on is his face. His irritatingly handsome face, usually covered with an even handsomer smile, is now covered in a look you can only describe as hurt. Pure hurt.

Your stomach twists with guilt and you know you have to apologize, but no words seem adequate enough to make up for the things you said.

In a matter of seconds, he pulls his gaze away from yours and casts his eyes at the ground instead. He shakes his head, biting his lip and when he looks back up at you, his face is stoic. He’s sealed you off from him and his emotions.

“I’m done,” He says suddenly and you feel your heart drop to the floor. He doesn’t clarify what he means, although you’re not sure there’s much clarity to give. You pushed him too far, something you’ve done plenty of times, and he finally reached his breaking point. He’s done with you.

He doesn’t wait for a response or offer anymore before he walks out of the kitchen and all you’re left with is the distant sound of his footsteps moving further and further away from you.

Your throat tightens and your eyes burn with unshed tears threatening to fall. Your mind tries to piece together how things got so bad so fast but you know exactly how – because of you. Always because of you.

You got what you wanted. You wanted him to hurt like you did, so why did you still feel so bad?

You’re not sure how much time had passed by the time you left the station. All you know is when you did, the building was clear. The kids weren’t occupying the common room like they were when you arrived, Nancy and Jonathan weren’t by the van and Steve was nowhere to be found.

The air around you was suffocating despite you being alone and you know it’s because you’re wallowing in a state of self hatred. You crossed a line tonight, and you were certain Steve would never forgive you. Not that you could really blame him.

Your drive home is silent, save for the sound of your own subconscious screaming at you for being so mean and stupid. There were some other things she’d yelled at you but vulgar enough you don’t care to repeat.

When you finally get home, it’s just after 8 o’clock and you feel like a zombie as you run through the motions of a bedtime routine. You don’t bother with dinner or a shower, and quickly change into pajamas – your bottoms and one of Steve’s shirts – before shutting all the lights out and climbing into bed. 

You’re foolish enough to hope he’ll come over tonight. He’s spent the majority of your relationship here now that Dustin and Eddie have sort of moved into his house. It’s not like there wasn’t enough room for all of you, but Steve really enjoyed having space where it was you and him. Just you two.

It’s been a little over a year since you two became official, but you both know now how long you’ve spent secretly in love with each other. Your love for Steve has been something you’ve always been open about, something you’re proud of but there’s always been a distance you’ve kept with him.

Blame it on the dismissive approach your mother took to parenting, or the heartbreak from your father abandoning you as a child, or the bad luck you’ve had in your singular relationship before Steve that ended with him cheating on you – it didn’t matter. No matter how much you loved Steve, it was hard to trust him. Not his intentions or his loyalty, no there wasn’t a single part of you that worried he was a cruel man but who was to say one day he wouldn’t wake up and decide he didn’t want you anymore?

How could you know for certain that if you trusted him with every part of yourself, light and dark, he wouldn’t leave? You couldn’t be certain, that was the problem. And his instinct to hurl himself toward danger only made that feeling worsen. If he didn’t break up with you, he could leave you by dying and that was your worst nightmare. At least he’d still be alive if he didn’t love you anymore, but if he was no longer breathing? There’d be no reason left for you.

You’re tossing and turning in your sheets, clinging to his pillow that smells just like him, while your mind races and your chest aches.

You’re being unfair, and unreasonable. Steve’s never given you a reason to doubt him, as a matter of fact, he’s worked serious overtime to try and break down the walls you’ve spent years building. He’s kind, and selfless and so fucking patient it makes your heart bleed.

And in minutes, you’ve managed to break that. You’ve had exactly one good thing in your life and you broke it. You’ve broken him. The look on his face after hearing what you said is permanently etched in your brain and it worsens your guilt. Suddenly, you sit up in bed and you’re reaching for the landline on the bedside table. You don’t expect him to forgive you, you’re not even sure you want him to after the awful things you said to him, and you won’t try and change his mind on the breakup but he has to know everything you said tonight was a lie.

You’re dialing his number without a second thought and you ignore the way your hands shake with nerves. You’re not sure he’ll pick up, or that he won’t immediately hang up on you once he hears your voice but you need to try.

The line rings several times, all while you feel your body shake from anxiety. Your finger wraps around the cord, so tight you should worry about blood circulation. It’s still pitch black around you but all you can focus on is trying to find the right worlds.

None of it matters however, because after seven rings, you’re met with his parents voices on the voicemail.

And while you should take it as a sign to give him space, you’re shoving the covers off yourself and quickly slipping your shoes on instead. Your body is moving on its own accord, like a magnet being pulled to metal, you’re being pulled towards him.

You’re basically on autopilot as you drive to his house, still trying to find the right words to make it up to him. You’re pretty sure there’s nothing you could say to make it up to him but you’re determined to try.

The first thing you notice when you get to his house is the absence of his car, and then how dark it is – not even the porch light is on. When you glance at the clock in your car, it reads 1:03AM. You’re surprised he’s not home, and try not to think too hard of where he could be. You park on the curb across from his house and you’re hoping either Eddie or Dustin are here as you climb out of the car to knock on the door. Maybe waiting inside wouldn’t be such a good idea, but it increases the likelihood of him listening to you and not slamming the door in your face whenever he gets home. Not that you wouldn’t deserve it.

You walk up his driveway and knock on the door, nervously rocking on the balls of your feet. After a few moments and no answer, you assume either nobody’s home or whoever is must be asleep. Which means you either wait here for Steve to get home – if he comes home – or for one of the other two boys to potentially wake up and let you in.

Or go home.

With a sigh, you make your decision and sit on the second step of his porch. Your arms hug your knees to your chest and you rest your chin on the tops of them. With your decision made, you spend even more time internally berating yourself and trying to figure out what to say.

I’m sorry for throwing your worst fear and biggest regret in your face, I was being stubborn and instead of trying to ask for help, I acted like a bitch. Will you forgive me?

Yeah. That probably wasn’t going to work.

And anyway, this wasn’t about forgiveness. This was about making sure Steve knew he wasn’t pathetic and he’s so much more than who he was in high school. It was about making sure your own fears didn’t make him feel stupid or useless. He was none of those things.

Thinking back on it, there was probably a lot more truth to his words than you would’ve liked to admit. Nancy was the one who went after him, you did stay behind but it wasn’t because you couldn’t do something – it was because you were scared all you’d find was his body. But regardless of the reason, he was right. Tonight, you were the useless one and he made the call to try and protect everyone else, yourself included, when the group was faced with a threat. That was more than you did.

It’s relatively dark along his street and the lack of light on his porch makes it worse. There’s a breeze in the air and you’re beginning to regret not bringing a jacket in your quick frenzy to get here.

Suddenly it hits you.

Five hours ago, you said some of the worst things you could think of and without insulting you back, Steve walked away and ended things. He didn’t want you anymore, he couldn’t handle it and instead of listening to him and respecting his choice, you showed up at his home in the middle of the night. With what – a demand that he listens to you, all to appease your own guilt?

Oh God, you should not be here.

Just as you’re ready to scramble upright and head back to your car, headlights cover the pavement and you recognize them almost immediately. Your breathing has shallowed and your anxiety spikes. You’re still not set on what you’re going to say to him but it doesn’t seem like you have much of a chance to rethink anything – or leave like you’d now like to.

Steve cuts the engine off, returning you into darkness before he steps out of the car. He doesn’t seem to have noticed you or your car as he makes his way up the driveway. He’s lazily spinning his keys around his fingers, eyes trained on the concrete beneath him.

As he gets closer to the porch, his head lifts and it’s only when he’s a few feet away from you, that he finally notices you. He freezes almost instantly and at the same time, you practically jump to your feet.

For a moment, you both just stare at each other. He’s still in the same clothes from earlier, but his hair is messier than he’d ever kept it and he looks tired. You’re not sure if you’re to blame or because the late hour. Surely a mix of both.

You’re visibly nervous as he quickly takes in your appearance. Your pajama bottoms that are too long for you, one of his old favorite t-shirts you stole from him, and some random shoes that aren’t even laced all the way. Your hands are in front of you, wringing together and once he sees that, Steve realizes you’re here.

He finally meets your gaze and you watch his face twist from surprise to .. worry?

He says your name quickly, almost a breathless sound. “It’s 2AM, what’re you doing out here?”

You swallow and your throat suddenly feels dry. You’ve been trying to answer that exact question to yourself for the past hour. But despite his worrisome expression, you notice his words and it’s pretty easy to think your earlier assumptions were right, he doesn’t want you here.

“I.. I was waiting for you,” You offer softly.

It’s lame is what it is.

His brows furrow, and you’re both unsure what to say next and you figure it’s best if you start.

“I got here but you weren’t home, and nobody answered the door, so I-I just thought I’d wait here,”

Steve nods once. “Was at Robin’s. Eddie took Dustin to Mike’s, probably decided to stay,”

You don’t miss the shortness in his words and your heart pinches, but you have nobody to blame by yourself for that. After all, that’s why you’re here.

“Oh.” You nod, trying to give a smile but you’re sure it ends up looking more like a painful grimace.

Without you really noticing, Steve’s eyes drop down to your hands in front of you again. He watches the way you’re wringing them together so roughly and it’s your tell tale sign of not just how nervous you are, but how scared you are.

Unbeknownst to you, Steve is five seconds away from rushing towards you and forcing you into his arms. He hates seeing you scared, much less being the cause of it. He’d just spent the last five hours with Robin trying to come up with a plan to fix things between you two.

He hated what you said, of course he did, and he knows there’s absolutely no truth in the things you said about him and Nancy but maybe you weren’t so far off from the other things. Maybe he does the dangerous jobs because he has something to prove, something to fix, but not because of Nancy. Because he spent years being the worst version of himself and he’s desperate to make up for it.

He knows he’d be just as upset, if not more, if the roles were reserved and he was constantly watching you put yourself in danger, no matter the reason. He also knows you well enough to know the anger and mean words were your way of telling him how you really felt.

You were scared to lose him. He couldn’t fault you for that.

Just as he’s ready to break the silence and ask for forgiveness, you beat him to it.

“Listen, I just wanted to apologize for the things I said,” You’re avoiding eye contact and Steve can already feel his heart constricting in his chest. He knows how hard it is to be vulnerable with him, and especially how hard it is for you to apologize and yet, you’re doing it anyway. For him.

“Breakup or not, I don’t ever want you to think any of that was true,”

Wait, what?

Your words are nice and your tone is so kind, but they fall on practically deaf ears because all Steve can focus on is the word ‘breakup’. It’s ringing in his ears, practically taunting him.

“Hold on, hold on,” He rushes, shaking his head. “Who said anything about a breakup?”

He sure as hell didn’t. He wouldn’t let you go even if his life depended on it. Not unless you told him you no longer loved him and wanted him to let you go. Even then, he wasn’t sure he’d actually listen. But he was sure you hadn’t said that tonight. Sure, you were angry – so was he – but that wasn’t a breakup. Was it?

It’s his turn to internally panic but you only blink at him.

“Earlier, y-you said you were done. I get it, I really do, I-I was awful to you and you didn’t deserve that,” Your stuttering is hard to control and it’s only making your anxiety all the more obvious.

You shake your head, force your eyes to the ground and before your brain can tell your heart to shut up and protect itself, the words are spilling from your mouth.

“You never deserved that. I was just scared. I was scared that one day you’re going to do something and you won’t come back to me and instead of admitting that, I got mean and pushed you away but I swear, I didn’t mean any of it. Everything you do is from the most selfless parts of yourself,”

You still haven’t met his gaze.

“You’re so good, Steve. Too good for me, and I just proved that even more tonight. I’ve never been easy to be around, let alone be easy to love, but you did, and I want – no, I need you to know nothing I said was true. None of it,”

With your eyes trained on the floor, you see his shoes suddenly appear in your vision. He’s so close you can smell him, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, and just as suddenly, you feel the softness of his palms cradling your face.

You nearly sob at the contact. Your eyes squeeze shut and it’s only then that you realize your cheeks are wet from tears, while more continue to fall freely. His warm hands hold your face, and you feel the light touch of his thumbs brushing away the tears.

Steve says your name so softly, so full of love and it nearly overwhelms you. It’s an encouragement for you to look at him and so helpless for him, you listen and finally meet his gaze. The look in his eyes match the softness of his voice.

“Baby, that wasn’t me breaking up with you. I just didn’t want to make it worse, I was saying some pretty bad things,”

Relief sits heavy in your heart but it’s short lived.

He was saying bad things? You were the awful one.

“I’m sorry for storming out like that. I should’ve told you what I meant, not let you think I broke up with you all night,”

Immediately, you protest in his arms.

“Steve, you don’t have to apologize for anything. I was so awful to you,”

His expression shifts and his shakes his head. “Hey, stop. None of that. You’re not awful, baby. And I’m not too good for you,”

You hear in his tone how you speaking those words really upset him and a small part of yourself is happy to hear the disagreement, even if you don’t really believe it. He knows you’re ready to argue but he cuts in.

“I’m serious. I don’t wanna hear you talking badly about yourself. I don’t care what it is, there’s nothing you could say that would make me believe you’re not enough for me. You’re everything to me.” Steve leaves no room for arguing and the weight of his words sink into your bones.

Even after everything, he’s still so sweet to you. What the hell did you do to deserve him?

All the love and adoration seeping from his tone and eyes finally overwhelms you and you don’t even bother stopping yourself from launching into his arms completely. You jump to the tips of your toes, wrap your arms around his neck tightly and bury your face into his shoulder. Your chest is pressed firmly against his and he can feel the way your heart races. He catches you easily, one large hand cradling the back of your head and the other anchored around your waist.

You cling so tightly, Steve almost worries you’re about to merge into one being. Not that either of you would care.

He continues to hold you as you cry, and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. He’d take a lifetime of nasty arguments with you over a life without you.

“Sweetheart, I know it’s been hard for you to trust people before, and I’m sorry I wasn’t always around to protect you..” You’re unsure where he’s going with this but you don’t move from your place at his neck. “But I promise, I’m not going anywhere. You were right earlier, I throw myself into danger and didn’t stop to think about how that would affect you, I’m sorry,”

Gently, he pulls you from his skin so he can look at you. Despite all the heavy tears, your puffy eyes and reddened cheeks, you’re still the most beautiful girl in the world. He smiles despite himself.

“Please don’t apologize anymore,” You say softly. “I’m sorry for everything,”

His thumb strokes across your wet cheek. “I know, sweet girl,”

When you move to bury yourself into him again, he notices the way you shiver and he remembers how you’re still outside in the middle of the night.

“Come on baby, let’s go inside, yeah?” He murmurs. You nod immediately but make no movements to separate. A smile reappears on his face and without a second thought, your hands wrap around the back of your thighs and he effortlessly lifts you into the air.

You let out a startled gasp and instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist. You feel the rumble of his chest when he chuckles and he quickly kisses the top of your nose.

“Don’t worry baby, I won’t drop you. Trust me,”

You smile at him, you own palms coming up to cradle his cheeks this time. “I trust you, Steve, I promise.”

A slow ache chews his stomach and turns it jammy as he watches you grab a fuzzy hand towel off the counter to scrub dry. He thinks about what to say. He's never been good with this part of you, though he wants to be, because he loves you in an overwhelming entirety.

To ask if you're really okay would cause embarrassment. You'd start worrying about how obviously vulnerable and worked up you look, so he won't ask, but he'll cross the small space and pull the cloth from your fingers gently because you're being too rough.

"Didn't know you were back," he murmurs, one palm settling over the rise of your hip. His thumb smooths circles there. You're warm. He draws the towel in soft strokes over your chin and the delicate skin beneath your pretty eyes.

"Sorry," you answer, staring at him jewel-eyed. He feels a lot at once.

"Why? You don't need to be. No reason."

"Oh. I'm glad you're here."

You're far away, voice a dreamy fade, gaze pointing an invisible dagger to the center of his chest. It narrowly misses his heart. He drops the towel once your face is matte and tilts his head. It crumples on the tiled floor with a hush.

"I'm here," he repeats. "Always here."

You hum. So distant, he'd like to take your arms and hoist you from this thick, sticky mass of overwhelm you've sunken into. He can make sure you don't fall too deep. Gives a squeeze to your waist and sways you with him. The tip of his nose kisses the bridge of yours.

"You smell good," you whisper.

"Thanks." He blinks at you. "What d'you need from me?"

"Dean, I don't need anything."

He takes in a small breath, heart swelling.

"Please," he begs. "Angel, just talk to me."

He desperately wants you to understand that you can ask for whatever you'd like, doesn't matter whether he knows how to give it. And if you need him to be different, if that would be easier, he'll scrape a new man together and spread the pulp over his skin in resemblance.

"I... I don't know," you say. "I don't know. Can you hold me?"

"Yeah," he says quick, already gathering his forearms around the small of your back. "'Course, whenever. I like holding you, sweetheart."

Dean is steady and pillowed by a weakness you've endowed; carapace dissipated. Tiny kisses land on your temple and he keeps you upright when your weight begins to slump. His plan is to stay like this forever, but your brows furrow when the fluorescent flickers, so he detaches only to guide you into his bed.

His sheets waft amber and earth and the faint, stuffy notes of immature cologne. He sweeps soothing fingers along your side and doesn't urge you to explain yourself.

first of all, i just have to say that i will most likely never get used to the imagery you are able to conjure up in my mind with your words. the way you describe things and build a setting is literally in a category of its own. i love it. i love it so much.

You offer a smile, eyes owlish. His pupils wobble in an impossible attempt to decipher tears from the rest of the water. He can't tell and hopes you would've come to him if you were crying, but knows better.

the instant masking with the smile asdfghjkl also the way you described him looking and trying to figure out what were tears and what was water, i love the words you chose for that 😭😭also also, him being so supportive and open to them coming to him anytime, but also knowing how its not realistic with how they carry their feelings/deal with the tougher things. asdfghjkl

A slow ache chews his stomach and turns it jammy as he watches you grab a fuzzy hand towel off the counter to scrub dry. He thinks about what to say. He's never been good with this part of you, though he wants to be, because he loves you in an overwhelming entirety.

there's something about someone not knowing what to do but wanting to do everything it takes to make things better. ugh.

also, it feels like there's a fear that they will shut him out if he pushes and he's afraid of that so he treads v lightly.

To ask if you're really okay would cause embarrassment. You'd start worrying about how obviously vulnerable and worked up you look, so he won't ask, but he'll cross the small space and pull the cloth from your fingers gently because you're being too rough.

he's a gem. i love him so much, helena. this is true, i would start to worry about how pitiful i must look and how bad i've gotten at hiding how awful i feel.

that last part literally makes me want to cry :(( he's so soft and attentive and caring, what is going on??? tbh i'd probably be being rough bc i want the tears to stop falling and am already bullying myself into not crying and not even noticing how rough i'm being.

that last part also reminds me of when i'm doing my skincare routine and it looks like i'm being so rough when rubbing products in and i just go,

"i know it looks like i'm being rough, but don't worry i am."

"Didn't know you were back," he murmurs, one palm settling over the rise of your hip. His thumb smooths circles there. You're warm. He draws the towel in soft strokes over your chin and the delicate skin beneath your pretty eyes.

i know he probably means 'back' in his dorm room (i am now choosing to think of this as college!dean) but i am gonna think about them leaving to go back home for the weekend and him referring to that. but also you know he misses them so much when they're gone, even if it's just for two days!

the last sentence kills me. #sendhelp.

"Sorry," you answer, staring at him jewel-eyed. He feels a lot at once. "Why? You don't need to be. No reason."

he's so gentle with them aughhhhhh

You're far away, voice a dreamy fade, gaze pointing an invisible dagger to the center of his chest. It narrowly misses his heart.

everything you write feels so romantic idk how to describe what i mean either. it's just all heart. IM SCREAMING.

"I'm here," he repeats. "Always here."

sometimes even just hearing this means so much. even if you can't take them up on their offer, or are vulnerable enough to indulge, it's still nice. asfdgfhgj

You hum. So distant, he'd like to take your arms and hoist you from this thick, sticky mass of overwhelm you've sunken into. He can make sure you don't fall too deep.

lord, help.

The tip of his nose kisses the bridge of yours.

"You smell good," you whisper. "Thanks." He blinks at you. "What d'you need from me?" "Dean, I don't need anything." He takes in a small breath, heart swelling. "Please," he begs. "Angel, just talk to me."

i'm sobbing. he's such a wonderful boyfriend. the 'dean, i don't need anything.' hit too close to home 🫣 and the lines after broke me completely. i think this is my favorite part of this fic. it hurts (so bad) but in the best way.

He desperately wants you to understand that you can ask for whatever you'd like, doesn't matter whether he knows how to give it. And if you need him to be different, if that would be easier, he'll scrape a new man together and spread the pulp over his skin in resemblance.

i love your brain so MUCH. bc what do you mean???? what do you mean??????? ahhhh!!!

Dean is steady and pillowed by a weakness you've endowed; carapace dissipated. Tiny kisses land on your temple and he keeps you upright when your weight begins to slump. His plan is to stay like this forever, but your brows furrow when the fluorescent flickers, so he detaches only to guide you into his bed. His sheets waft amber and earth and the faint, stuffy notes of immature cologne. He sweeps soothing fingers along your side and doesn't urge you to explain yourself.

imma just stay in this for a while. i love everything about it. your beautiful writing, the temple kisses, the way he holds them + again how he notices the way they frown against the lights.

& especially the tenderness and beauty of just being there for them & not pushing. i yearn for this man. oh, how i love him so.

⠀husband ! jack abbot ⠀𑇛⠀ who immediately loved the landscapes , the local fruits . . thinks it’s beautiful and every single one of those things makes him think about you, he’s smitten like that .

⠀husband ! jack abbot ⠀𑇛⠀ who recognized the dishes you cooked at home back in your old shared appartment and has secretly tried to look for various dishes & such he’s been seeing since he got here . surprised you one day by cooking a meal you’ve never cooked before for him and it made your day .

⠀husband ! jack abbot ⠀𑇛⠀ loooves gueneps . you’ve talked about it before but you could never find any of them no matter the market you went . always makes sure to stop by a guenep seller by the side of the road on his way home during summer ( july / august specifically )

⠀husband ! jack abbot ⠀𑇛⠀ who works in a teaching hospital er as the new attending . . and he sure does breaks heart of many residents with daddy issues and some kind of attraction to older men . plus he always mentions you at work whenever he has the opportunity to brag about his “ beautiful wife ” .

⠀husband ! jack abbot ⠀𑇛⠀ when your schedule coordinates and you finally get a paired day off, he makes sure to bring you outside to do some outdoor activity ( it may sometimes include semi public sex, he’s kinda horny )

⠀husband ! jack abbot ⠀𑇛⠀ who eat mangoes on you guys balcony with a knife in his hand while admiring the passersby’s

⠀husband ! jack abbot ⠀𑇛⠀ who’s the neighbor most wanted guy . everyone loves him and whenever he gets out, someone’s always greeting him or bringing him a bag full of seasons’s fruits or any other vegetables . . .

⠀husband ! jack abbot ⠀𑇛⠀ who loves chatrou fricassée!! he didn’t even know what it was until you brought a plate home after work . he said he was spicy but delicious nonetheless .

⠀husband ! jack abbot ⠀𑇛⠀ who often gets video calls from his nightshift colleagues and robby bc they all miss him and it’s obv not the same without him and his talented skills

•⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ caribbean ! reader ⠀ : ⠀ introduction, ⠀ tag nav.

•⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ jack abbot ⠀ : ⠀ thoughts, ⠀ more fics.

⠀⠀ 𝒾.⠀ 𓂅 ⠀·⠀⠀⠀　𝒕𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⠀ : @pittsick @rh1nestcned @cup1dssorrow @faiux @mtcloudsworld @nuitts @lilahthedoll @mcthsman , ⠀𓊆 to be added to the taglist , comment under this post or fill up the form 𓊇⠀.

the smell of apples and cinnamon carry clark straight to the kitchen, a smile creeping onto his face as his head peeked through the doorframe. his eyes scanned around the room until they locked onto solana, eyes darting between the open cookbook and the mixing bowl on the counter in front of her. clark’s body followed his head not too long after as he stepped into the kitchen to make his presence known, face lighting up as his favorite pair of dark brown eyes met his.

“what’cha doin there, pretty girl?” clark rounded the kitchen island to step closer to her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as he settled behind her, arms slipping around her midsection as his chin rested on her shoulder, taking in the messy counter in front of the both of them.

“making your favorite.” solana’s lips turned up into a smile as she leaned into clark, resting her head against his as she mixed the pie filling. the crust was already prepped in the tin and waiting for the mix before heading into the preheated oven, but clark was fully convinced that she could feel him vibrating from anticipation.

“mom’s apple pie?” clark’s voice perks up and his smile grows bigger as solana turns slightly in his arms to give him a small nod of confirmation. he leans down slightly to give her a gentle kiss on the lips. “you’re way too good to me, you know that?”

“only because you won’t stop reminding me.” solana teases him back as she turns her attention back to the pie filling, pouring it into the waiting crust as clark stepped back to let her work. he was practically vibrating with anticipation as he watched her slide the tray into the oven, his heart melting as she smiled warmly at him. “pie should be ready in about an hour if you wanna help me start dinner.”

“pancakes?” clark asks with a raised eyebrow and a smile, watching as she stepped closer to him. his large arms rested around her shoulders as her arms wrapped around his middle, her chin resting on his chest as she beamed up at him.

You swivel your chair around to meet his gaze, and his hands settle on the armrests, leaning low towards you. His nose would brush yours, if you'd just inch a little closer. He'd like you to. You're very pretty. Stars pale in comparison.

"You never want me to work," you tease and smile so sweet, his heart aches.

"Not true," he replies. "I just want you to take care of yourself."

You hum, and his chest feels a welling of light. Gone is the stress of research and timelines and the Hail Mary. All he can see is you, smiling at him, and he can't resist giving a chaste kiss to delicate skin of your under eye.

"Hi," he whispers.

"Hi, Ry."

"You look really nice today," he tells. "Every day, really."

Your lips twitch and petal with bashfulness, he tilts his head. In full honesty, you're glowing, and he's amazed by it. So smart and all sorts of perfect, he can't believe he gets to be the one bothering you like this, while you're trying to get important things done.

"Oh." You swallow. "Thank you."

"Will you please come get lunch with me?" he asks.

He watches as you think. There may as well be big hearts in his eyes.

"...Can we go to that new place that just opened?"

"Yeah, baby, wherever you want." He nods feverishly. "C'mere."

He pulls you up and away, weaving through research stations and busy astronomers with a warm hand on the small of your back, and decides to keep you for himself the rest of the day.

It was well past midnight when Holland March came stumbling through the front door, hair slightly tousled and reeking of cheap liquor. You stood in the kitchen, the only light in the room coming from underneath the refrigerator. March caught sight of you immediately, and wobbly made his way over to you, reaching out for you the moment he was close enough to touch.

"Hiiiiii, babyyyy," he slurred— oh, he was drunk drunk. "M'sorry i'm so late, got caught up with Healy," he murmured, wrapping his arms around your midsection and resting his head on your shoulder, causing him to bend down at an awkward angle.

You let out a little sigh, setting your glass of water down on the counter behind you. You threw your arms around March, one of them coming up to rest in his hair and gently scratch at his scalp, to which he hummed in approval. "You're shitfaced, hun."

"Lies," he mumbled, shaking his head and then pressing it back into the soothing touch of your hand. "Only had like… mm.. two drinks."

"Two drinks, yeah right," you murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your boyfriends head. You and March had been together for around 6 months now, and him stumbling home in the middle of the night drunk off of his ass was more common of an occurrence than you'd like it to be.

"Okay, maybe more like.. five or six.." he admitted, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Or seven. Shhh, my love."

You rolled your eyes, pulling him in a little closer. "I was worried about you, asshole. You need to start letting me know you're safe."

"M'sorry, sweetheart, but i'm fiiinnee, see?" He lifted his head from your shoulder as if it was heavy, and looked up at you with wide, glossy eyes. He pointed to his face, "This perfect face is still intact."

You gave him an unamused look, although in reality you always found him quite amusing. "Perfect face, yeah? Always so humble, March." you chuckled softly.

"Yr'so pretty, did'ya know that? You're like… a model. Like an angel," he murmured, looking at you with awe-struck eyes. It was endearing, even in his drunken state. "Y'got a boyfriend…?"

You let out a giggle, your arms still wrapped tightly around March's shoulders. "I do, yes."

His face fell, lips forming a little pout that you really wanted to kiss away. He let out a dramatic sigh. You rolled your eyes and gripped his face, planting a kiss on the bridge of his nose. "You're my boyfriend, idiot."

His eyes lit up at that realization, to the point where you could've sworn they twinkled. He broke into a cheesy grin, and giggled to himself, before crashing his lips against yours, albeit very sloppily. He tasted strongly of whiskey, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. You indulged in the kiss for a moment, before forcing yourself to pull back. He chased after your lips for more, but you brought a finger to his lips and tapped gently to stop him.

"M'the luckiest man alive…" he smiled to himself, before leaning in and peppering kisses all over your face, causing you to giggle and swat him away.

"I'm still mad at you, y'know," you gave him a slightly more serious look. "You need to stop doing this."

"Shhh…" he brought a finger up to your lips to shush you, then leaned in to bury his head in the crook of your neck. "Lemme make it up t'you, hun," he mumbled against your skin, beginning to press soft kisses to the side of your neck.

You sighed, and almost considered giving in when he gently nipped at the spot below your ear that he knew made you shiver. Instead, you pushed his head away, and cupped it in your hands to keep him looking at you. He whined and tried to get out of your grip, but you shook your head and he stopped.

"You need to drink some water, and then you need to go to bed, okay?" You spoke to him like you would speak to a young child or a wounded baby animal. He rolled his eyes (okay sassy,) but obliged, reaching behind you to grab your glass of water and down it.

You gave him a look. "Okay— that.. works, I guess."

He beamed, set the glass down, and immediately started towards his bedroom— which was more like your shared bedroom at this point due to how much time you'd been spending at the March household. He tripped over his own feet, almost falling face first onto the floor, but catching himself on the arm of the sofa.

"Oh— jesus, March," you breathed out, rushing over to his side to wrap an arm around his shoulder and guide him safely to the bedroom.

"My hero," he swooned, leaning his weight against you and almost falling forward again. You swore, this man was going to give you a heart attack by the time you hit your one year anniversary.

"Yeah, yeah," you shook your head in mock exasperation, leading him through the doorway of the bedroom and onto the bed. "Shoes off."

He leaned down to grab at his shoe, but almost toppled off of the bed. Your breath hitched and you caught him, rolling your eyes and getting down on your knees to help take his shoes off for him.

"Y'know what else y'could be doin' down there…" he gave you a shit-eating grin, to which you glared at him. "…I said nothin'."

"Good." You got both of his shoes off and tossed them by the foot of the bed, "All set."

He smiled dreamily, then clumsily kicked his legs up onto the bed. You climbed in next to him, and he immediately curled up against your side like he was magnetized to you. You pressed a kiss to his temple, and he let out a high-pitched giggle.

"Y'should….. kiss me," he suggested, like it was a revolutionary, never thought of before, idea. You turned your head slightly to look at him, arching an eyebrow in response.

"No. You taste like bad alcohol," you murmured, and he frowned like a little kid who'd just been denied candy.

"Mmmn.. but I want youuu," he grumbled, making puppy-dog eyes at you. This loser. You rolled your eyes, grabbed his chin, and pressed a chaste kiss to his mouth. He whined when you pulled away so quickly and chased after you, pulling you into a less PG kiss.

You pulled away after a moment, breathless, and raised your eyebrows at him. "Woah there, slow your roll."

He just batted his eyelashes at you innocently, like he hadn't had his tongue in your mouth five seconds ago. "M'not doin' anythin'…."

"Oh, suuure. So innocent," you chuckled, pulling him in closer so he was curled up against your chest. "I love you," you murmured against the top of his head, feeling a sudden rush of affection toward your boyfriend.

When he didn't respond, you pressed a kiss to his hair. "Hmm. March?"

A low rumbling noise began to exude from him, like a cross between a snore and a purr. You knew then, that he had fallen asleep. Something about that was extremely endearing to you. Slowly, you shifted to grab the edge of the blanket and drape it over the two of you, careful not to wake March. You pressed another kiss to his head, breathing in the smell of his shampoo— masculine and woody, but slightly overpowered by the strong scent of alcohol coming off of the man in waves. It was almost a comforting scent to you now, since the man was never not drinking.

You felt sleep threatening to take you, and you let it. You slowly drifted off with March drunkenly clinging to you like a koala. You realized, then, that there was no place you'd rather be.

His shoulders sagged slightly, and there were faint shadows beneath his eyes despite the victory tonight. A smile tugged at your lips as you tried to get his attention. "There he is, my favorite boy."

Garrett looked over at you and immediately groaned like he seemed the idea off of you. "Please don't ask me to do anything." You laughed at his words, shaking your head. "I wasn't going to, I swear."

"Good." He pointed toward the bed dramatically. "Because that's where I'm dying." Without another word, he shuffled forward and collapsed face-first onto the mattress, the entire bed bounced beneath his weight. You shook your head once again, a little smile on your face at his attitude. "You’re soooo dramatic."

"I'm an athlete," he replied into the pillow. "It's basically part of my job."

"You won." You voiced at him, to which he simply hummed an answer into your pillow, so you spoke again. "You scored twice." And he hummed again, not caring to move an inch from his position, making you smile to yourself. "The crowd was chanting your name." That finally earned a response, Garrett rolled his head enough to look at you with one eye.

"Okay, but did the crowd get checked into the boards three separate times?" You snorted and shook your head at him. "No, they didn’t." You answered your boyfriend softly. "Exactly." His face disappeared back into the pillow, the movement shifted his position slightly, exposing the tattoo stretched across his upper back.

Nullum Gratuitum Prandium.

Your smile softened immediately.

Garrett only had one tattoo, and despite how simple it was, you had always loved it, maybe because it was one of the few things about him that felt private. Most people saw Garrett Graham the hockey star: the confident captain, the guy who always seemed larger than life but moments like this were yours. Quiet moments with the real Garrett.

You scooted closer and lightly traced one of the letters with your fingertip. Almost instantly, his shoulders relaxed. "I was waiting for this," he murmured into the pillow. "Uh? For what?" You voiced, curious about what he was talking about.

"The post-game treatment." You laughed softly at the words leaving his mouth, almost rolling your eyes at him. "Oh, is that what this is?"

"Absolutely."

Your fingers continued tracing the tattoo and Garrett practically melted beneath your touch, and honestly, it was adorable. You watched as his eyes lifted up to your face, his own still into your pillow, nose taking your smell.

For a guy who spent most of his time throwing himself into six-foot-tall defensemen and taking body checks without complaint, he was surprisingly needy when it came to affection. You leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss against the beginning of the sentence.

Garrett's eyes closed immediately and another kiss of yours followed. Then another; slow, soft and patient. Each one lingering for just a second longer than the last.

A quiet sigh escaped him. "I love when you do that." He said quietly, you smiled against his skin. "Kiss your tattoo?" Your question was said so softly that he could have missed it with how relaxed he was at the moment. "Yeah." His voice sounded sleepy now. You rested your chin lightly against his shoulder, skin against skin.

"Why?" Garrett was quiet for a moment, long enough that you thought he might not answer but then, he finally shrugged. "I don't know."

"That's a lie."

"It is." You laughed at his words and Garrett turned his head slightly, enough to glance back at you. "It just feels different." He ended up saying, eyes focusing on your face and trying to remember all the edges and shapes. "Different how?" You asked then, curious about how he currently felt, about how he saw the moment happening. 

His gaze softened, then he whispered. "Because it's you." The simple answer made your chest ache.

You looked down at him for a moment before brushing a hand through his damp hair. "You're sweet." He shook his head then, the tiniest smile on his face before replying, amused. "No, I'm exhausted." His words made you chuckle and you shook your head too, amused. "Same thing, I think." A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth again.

"Maybe."

For a while, neither of you spoke—the room settled into a comfortable silence as your fingers rubbed circles across his shoulders. Every now and then you'd lean down and press another kiss against the tattoo, earning another content sigh from Garrett. It amazed you how quickly the tension disappeared from him; the rigid muscles, the stress, the adrenaline from the game.

Little by little, it all faded beneath your hands and eventually Garrett rolled onto his back and reached for you, without resistance, you let him pull you into his lap. His arms wrapped around your waist automatically, holding you close as if he'd done it a thousand times before (which he had).

You brushed a hand across his cheek. "Tired?" He hummed, nodding at you. You can see the sleepiness in his eyes, something he either tried to hide or brush off.  "A little." He shrugged but you knew better than that. "A little?" You repeated to him.

"A lot." You laughed at the words escaping his mouth, almost proud of yourself for that one. "Thought so."

Garrett tilted his head upward and captured your lips in a soft kiss. There was no urgency behind it; he was not teasing, he was not playful, there was just so much affection in his action. The kind that came naturally after months together, the kind that made home feel less like a place and more like a person. When he pulled away, his forehead rested lightly against yours.

Then his eyes narrowed slightly. "Turn around." He asked, voice quiet and soft. Still, you blinked at the demand and your eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

"Turn around." He says again, moving on the bed so you’d shift your position too. "Why?" You still ask, and Garrett’s expression softens, looking at you with tender eyes. "Just trust me." Suspicious, you tell yourself but you shift anyway. The moment your back faced him, you felt Garrett's hands settle gently on your waist.

Then his lips brushed against the tattoo hidden near your shoulder blade. Your breath caught immediately; the kiss was soft and lingering. A second followed, then a third and Garrett smiled against your skin.

"There." You looked over your shoulder when he spoke. "There what?" You end up asking, almost smiling at the kisses he had left on your skin.

"Now we're even." Your heart nearly melted at that.

For someone who spent most of his life being loud and confident and impossible to miss, Garrett always seemed to save his softest moments for when nobody else was looking. 

You shifted in his lap until you were facing him again and the movement earned a small smile from him, one that looked softer than any expression he ever wore in front of cameras or reporters. "What?" he asked quietly and you shook your head as you replied. "Nothing."

"Liar." A laugh escaped you; soft but loud just like your boyfriend liked it. Garrett reached up, letting his fingers trail down your cheek. The touch was gentle enough to make your chest ache. "You keep looking at me like that." He spoke again, eyes focusing on your face and the expression you had on.

"Like what?" His smile grew when you asked that, like you damn-well knew what he was talking about.

"Like I'm something special." You immediately rolled your eyes. "Garrett Graham, captain of Briar hockey, adored by half the campus, thinks I'm the one acting ridiculous?" Your words were said with amusement, making your boyfriend smile.

"Yeah."

"You're impossible."

"Maybe." His thumb brushed against your cheekbone as he shrugged. The teasing slowly faded from his expression then, replaced by something quieter, something honest. Garrett swallowed. "I mean it, though." He said, quietly, fondly. You frowned slightly. "Mean what?" You could only reply to him, curious.

His eyes held yours. "I love you." The words came easily, no hesitation in his voice. As though he had thought them a thousand times before and finally decided to say them out loud.

"I love you when you wait up for me after games. I love you when you steal my hoodies. I love you when you pretend not to care about hockey but somehow know all my stats." His smile returned briefly. "And I definitely love you for the tattoo kisses." A surprised laugh escaped you, though your eyes were already beginning to sting.

"You're such a dork." You said, voice trembling a little at the words that had left his mouth. "Yeah, but I'm your dork." The fondness in his voice nearly undid you.

You reached up, cupping his face between your hands. "I love you too." Garrett's expression softened immediately. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I love how competitive you are." Another kiss found the tip of his nose. "I love how much you care about people even when you pretend you don't." A third landed softly against his lips. "And I love you."

Garrett's eyes closed for a moment, all content and comfortable with all the kisses. When he opened them again, there was something almost boyish in the smile he gave you. "Good." He nodded his head and you laughed. "Good?"

"Yeah." His arms tightened around your waist, pulling you closer until there wasn't an inch of space left between you. "I'd be in a really awkward position if you didn't."

"After that speech?"

"Exactly." Your laughter filled the room again, and Garrett couldn't help smiling along with you.

As the evening stretched on around you, with the noise of the hockey game finally fading into memory, he settled deeper into your embrace. Your fingers found his hair, his cheek rested against your shoulder, and for the first time all day, he felt completely at peace.

Wins were nice, championships would be nice too.

But sitting here with you wrapped in his arms, hearing your heartbeat beneath his ear and knowing you loved him back?

Garrett was fairly certain nothing could ever top that.

it shouldn’t be. it’s just a few test covers for the next vogue issue— he’s done plenty of magazine photo shoots this far into his career— but it’s never been both him and you modeling together. it’s brand-new territory.

your smile, all pearly and sweet, plastered on your lips from the moment the first shutter was removed. your hand perched atop your favorite spot on his body as of late, lithe fingers curled around his shoulder in a way that feels more staged than affectionate. he’s smizing, his expression cool while his hand curves around your hip. if he squints hard enough, art can tell just how firmly his fingers are digging into the fabric of your outfit. he’s stiff, rigid— just like the ken doll that lily tucked into his suitcase because it “looked like daddy.”

and he does look like art in the photos, down to the cropped haircut, fixed posture, and subtle upturn of his lips. huh. does he look this plastic in real life?

… he can’t ever relax, can he? this kind of thing was always your element— the front-facing side of your shared fame— since he was more than content to stick to the sidelines. smile for the camera. sell the story. prove to the world that your knee blowing out in college isn’t a sore spot between you two— that it should be art prepping for a promising run at the u.s. open and not you.

but besides his fingers digging into your hip like you’re going to slip out of his grasp in the preferred option, the covers are good… really good. it’s the perfect way to generate buzz as you two head into the open, with art taking point and you right behind him leading his coaching team.

“they came out good,” you say from behind him, fresh from the shower if the lingering scent of your body wash gives anything away. your hand drops to that same spot on his shoulder like clockwork, and art’s minuscule flinch doesn’t go unnoticed. “… what’s wrong?”

nothing, he wants to say, nothing, don’t worry about it. however, it’s futile to even try and get away with a lie that even he’s not confident in telling.

“do you ever feel like all of this is just… fake?” art asks, ignoring the way his stomach turns when he looks up at you. just like he expected your eyes are narrowed, your brow raised slightly like you’re waiting for him to continue. so he does.

“the photo shoots, the commercials, the brand deals… it all just feels fake,” he sighs, and art turns back to the spread of potential covers laid out on the coffee table. “i-it’s all staged, and why is anyone supposed to care that i’m trying to win the open again when the article’s focused on what cologne i wear—”

“it’s a personality piece,” you supply easily, running the towel in your hands over your hair to dry off while your robe hangs loose around your frame. “letting the people in on who you are, who we are. that we’re not just out-of-touch celebrities who haven’t been human since 2006.”

he scoffs. “it’s ridiculous.”

“you’re ridiculous.” you shake your head before stepping towards the hotel suite’s closet to find pajamas to change into. “i don’t know why you’re so upset about this.”

art stands from the desk, following you towards the closet while his stomach continues to ache. “because i shouldn’t have to prove that i’m a real person to the world by telling them my cheat meal between dieting and training— i’m a real person because i fucking exist.”

(it’s a happy meal: cheeseburger. fries. substitute apple slices for extra fries. extra-small coke if he’s feeling especially risky, milk if not. no toy unless it’s something lily would like. but that’s besides the point.)

“you can’t tell me that you like this,” he sighs, clearly exasperated as you drop the robe and move to pull one one of his shirts. if his eyes flit elsewhere instead of the bare stretch of your back, he doesn’t say. “it just feels like we’re pretending to be people we’re not, all for the sake of money. attention. bullshit.”

you fix his shirt over your shoulders while you spare him a glance. “it’s a part of the job, art.”

shaking his head, art moves around the edge of the california king and goes to unbuckle his watch from his wrist. “yeah— well i didn’t sign up for this.”

“art.”

“i’m going to bed,” he replies, somewhat thankful that he’d showered and changed earlier when you both got back to the room. it’d be more awkward for him to be all pissy like this, then have to walk past you to go into the en-suite.

“art.” the mattress sinks behind him, and this time he doesn’t flinch when your hand falls on his shoulder.

and this time, he doesn’t snap as he turns around to face you. “what?”

your lips purse when his eyes meet yours, and the pit in his stomach is back. “… we need to let them know what cover we want them to use.” a pause. “did you have a preference?”

his pinched expression mirrors yours. art knows you don’t really mean it— the magazine execs really did a response sooner rather than later— but the synergy’s off and he’s just ready to leave today in the past. no more pretending.

“… i don’t care,” he sighs, hand meeting your thigh as his fingers dig slightly into your skin, “just pick your favorite, babe.”

he doesn’t let you respond as his lips meet yours, but the kiss is more fleeting than they normally are. less hungry, less needy… less art. and even though he’s reluctant to let go of you and turn onto his side, he does.

he wish he didn’t. mottled blue eyes meet the ultramarine, painted-on irises of ken on his nightstand and his stomach starts to ache again.

“goodnight.”

silence. then the mattress shift again as you go to look over the tests covers. art wonders if you recognize just how plastic he looks in the photos (and whether or not you still see it as his eyes shut).

It’s not like him to drink when he’s working, but it’s not really his fault. Not when you’re over on the other side of the bar with a pool cue in your hands, playing it up for a group of greasy looking guys with too much money to spend and overbearing confidence. He can already tell you’re working them for all the money they’ll give you, playing the innocent kid card; with that brightness on your cheeks and the pretty look in your eyes, Sam already knows you’ll fool them quickly. They think you’ve never played before, fairly confident that your first win was beginner’s luck. Sam fell for that one years ago when you hustled him out of fifty bucks and a kiss. He knows how you play. By the time the men over there realize they’re being hustled, it’ll be too late, and you’ll saunter back over to him with a wad of cash in your hands and kiss his cheek so sweetly.

It’s not really your fault either, Sam reasons with himself. It’s the fault of the guys who decided you’d be an easy target, who keep egging you further and further on, who keep eyeing you up and down with their gazes lingering on your ass. You’re not even wearing anything revealing, just one of his flannels over a t-shirt and jeans that fit you well. Not hugging to your shape, because it would be impossible to hunt the way you do with those, but something that hides what you don’t want visible and shows off what you can handle the world seeing. The jeans are nice on you, and if Sam’s being honest, they’re probably his favourite pair of yours. He looks away quick before he distracts himself any further with pictures of you in his mind that have no business looking the way they do.

The sip of whiskey goes down sharp, catching on the sore parts of his throat with teeth that bite into his skin and rub it raw. The second sip is easier, a warm feeling flooding all through his veins and making him shiver slightly as he warms up. Shaking his head back and forth, hair flopping like the ears of a rather large dog, he catches you sending a quick glance in his direction, bright smile shining just for him for all of two seconds before your attention is pulled back to the game by the men who’ve placed their bets in cash on the edge of the table. Someone’s wallet clip is around the bills, folding them into a mass of green that Sam’s eyes blend with the bar lights until they’re some strange lump the same colour as the table. A wave of raucous laughter crawls up his spine from the table, and Sam forces himself to look away lest his heart become overrun with jealousy.

One of the men calls out that they’re playing solids, after what Sam can infer is the thud of a ball into the top right cup. He would guess that it was the purple 4 ball, because that’s what he likes to go for if he can, but he’s also smart enough to know not to bet on which ball gets sunk first. His eyes are back trained on the newspaper again, but his ears are perked and listening for the sounds of you moving and talking; a quick innocent question to one of the men, the sound of your thighs brushing together as you walk to your new spot, the soft tap of your cue against the top of your hand as you line up your shot. You miss the first one intentionally, but the men at the table don’t know that. A chorus of slurred reassurances crop up, and he knows you’re putting on your best disappointed face right now, egging them on and drawing them in so you can spit them out.

The pattern continues for a few minutes, one of the men even offering to team up with you. Your pretty voice carries across the room, politely declining as you murmur something about losing fair and square. What you mean to say, Sam can tell by the tone of your voice, is to stop asking stupid questions because it’s not a good look. At some point when he’d guess about half of the solid balls have been sunken and maybe a few strays of yours, you clear your throat and rub the sandy blue chalk over the end of your cue. Sam allows himself a tiny grin, because he knows the guys standing around the table with hands in their pockets and smug grins on their faces have no idea what’s coming for them. Your quiet voice nudges one of the men over, and as he politely sidesteps, you line up your shot and sink two stripes in the same hit.

Sam whistles low under his breath, because he’s never even seen you pull that before in a game. He’s maybe seen it once or twice by accident when you grab a cue and mess around at the tables with Dean for an hour or so to destress from a hunt, but he’s never seen you do it in a real game with real cash on the line. You squeal something fake and joyful, the man to your left looking thoroughly impressed at your ‘beginners’ luck’. A second shot follows with another ball sunk, and you purposely miss the third so as not to draw suspicion. Sam knows how you play from here on out, and every move he plays for you in his head, you enact on the table before his very eyes, which have now spent so little time staring at the newspaper he might as well just fold it up and forget about it. He tucks it into his messenger bag, the pen going in with it, fingers fidgeting on the edge of his glass as he watches you play.

“Pretty good,” the man with the eyebrow piercing says, coming over to Sam once more.

Sam nods in agreement, waving him off when he offers to refill Sam’s glass.

“You know ‘em?” the man asks.

Sam shrugs, smiling. “Yeah, sort of.”

“The guys, or-.”

“Not the guys.”

The man looks between you and Sam, back and forth until he nods, clearly satisfied.

“Hope those guys get their asses kicked. They’ve been buggin’ me all damn night for crap I can’t give ‘em.”

Sam takes another sip of whiskey, making a sympathetic hum. “Oh, the guys’ll lose. Don’t worry.”

The man walks back to the bar, retying the strings on his apron as he goes. Sam’s eyes return to you, fixating on your figure as you walk along the edge of the table, already mentally calculating your next moves. You let the game wind down to one solid left besides the eight-ball, and Sam can see the moment you go on the offence when you exhale a sharp breath and lean down to line up a shot. Over and over, you sink striped balls, and with each one, Sam’s heart kicks up a notch when he sees the pride on your face beside the crestfallen looks on the men’s. When you sink the eight-ball, you earn yourself a quiet handover of the cash and grumbled congratulations while you put your cue away and fish out the balls from the top corners.

Sam drains the rest of his drink, rolling up the sleeves on his shirt until they uncover half his forearms. There’s a thin scar roping across one of them, dipping toward his wrist and curling up toward his shoulder on the other side, like a ribbon from an unwrapped present on his skin. He traces it absentmindedly, standing from his seat and slinging his bag over his shoulder, tightening the strap until he knows it won’t go anywhere. Your jacket winds up draped over the bag itself, trapped between the material and his hip, and thoroughly secured. He’s glad the bar is loud enough to hide the soft whine he makes when he reaches his arms up and stretches out his back, and he can feel your eyes staring him down when his shirt rides up over the hem of his jeans.

He’s quite content to sit back at the table and wait patiently for you to join him and head back. Dean’s out god knows where, in a sketchy dive across the town because he’d insisted it had better chicks. Not that Sam cares, because there’s nobody else he’s looking at besides you, especially when he knows he can have you whenever he wants. He’s almost back in his chair when he hears one of the men, in a voice much too loud, make an off-handed comment about your ass in those jeans. It’s an innocent sounding comment, something about how the jeans make you look good, but something vile and twisted fills Sam’s core, spreading outward in ugly tendrils that burn harsher than the whiskey did. You’re not for them to look at, not for them to make comments on, much less about your ass in his favourite jeans. He’s about to let it go because he knows you have it handled when one of the men reaches out a hand and cups your ass with it.

Sam’s on his feet before your hand can smack backward and take the offending touch away. He watches warily for a moment as the man makes another attempt, this one a little less subtle; sliding over toward you and reaching for your back pocket like it’s his right to place his hand there. That pocket is for nobody but Sam. His hand is the only one that belongs there, because nobody touches you like that except for him. You spit out a curse that gets laughter in reply and a stinging comment about how you’ve got some sass to you. And even though Sam knows you’re perfectly capable of handling yourself with creepy men in bars, he’s still compelled to take long strides across the floor, boots thudding on the wood and kicking up dust in their wake.

Whatever sparked inside him was nasty and vile in its origin, a green, ugly mess that Sam labels immediately as jealousy. He knows it well, because he sported its colour for months before he finally made his move on you. He’s become more of a stranger to the feeling now that you’re together, but on nights like tonight when he’s had just enough to drink to loosen up and you’re looking this beautiful, he’s no stranger to letting the feeling welcome him back with open arms when you’re flirted with by creeps. Each step closer to you quells the jealousy bit by bit as he draws himself to his full height, but ignites something hotter, deeper, something more consuming and possessive that lights up his nerve endings and makes him hyper aware of every part of him. Like, for example, the way he’s glad the bar lights are low that nobody but you will notice the way his jeans have tightened on his hips.

“Ready to go?” he murmurs low when he reaches you.

“Mhm,” you reply, lazy.

Sam’s hand flutters possessively to the small of your back, the other man’s hand having left as soon as Sam took two steps in your direction. The group backs slow, making a horrible mess of being casual about being caught chasing after someone who’s taken. You lean into him, easing yourself across the broad expanses of his chest as his hand dips into the pocket of your jeans, squeezing you in the way that the other man never should’ve.

“You okay?” he whispers into the skin of your neck, leaving a hot kiss in his wake.

“Yeah.”

“Promise?”

You sling your arms around his neck and kiss him on the mouth, tasting the whiskey on his tongue as he slips it past your lips.

“Promise.”

You take your jacket from his bag, and he helps you slide the material over your arms, ensuring it doesn’t get caught on the sleeves of the flannel. Green, like the edges of Sam’s eyes, a flannel you’d stolen from his closet a few weeks back and never worn until right now. It still smells like him, but your soap is starting to infiltrate the threads, and the thought of that alone forces Sam to restrain the low growl that’s brewing in his throat.

He turns, leading you to the door. He lets you get a few paces ahead, turning back to the crowd of men still standing awkwardly around the table.

“Don’t touch.”

His voice is flat, eyes sharp with the jealousy in his bones and simmering with something protective that threatens to boil over. The short man who’s hand had been in your pocket flushes deep red all the way to the tips of his ears, stumbling over himself as he backs away nodding, stammering an apology Sam doesn’t bother sticking around to hear. He just follows you out the door into the cool night air, keeping a hand on your back somewhere, needing the warmth to prove to himself that you didn’t ditch him for a random man in a bar in the middle of nowhere.

“That was hot,” you state when you stop at the Impala.

“That- what?”

You shrug, gesturing at Sam, then back at the bar.

“That whole thing.”

Sam blushes furiously red. “Don’t.”

You giggle, kissing his stubbled cheek. “Oh, I already will. You were jealous.”

He sighs, running his free hand through his tangled hair. “Yeah. I was. So what?”

“Ooh, defensive. I like it.”

Sam gently smacks your shoulder when you laugh something clear and real.

“We’re going to the motel, and we’re going to bed, okay? For sleep. Nothing else.”

You grin devilishly, opening the door and sliding yourself in. Sam waits for you to get situated before moving to close it. Your hand stops him, and he crouches down to see you properly inside the car.

“We’ll see about that,” you remark, gesturing in the general direction of Sam’s hips.

“Oh, will we now?”

"C'mon Sammy, I know you," you say with a lighthearted sigh. “You’re going to make sure of it.”

Sam closes your door harsher than usual, taking a minute at the back of the car to settle himself down. If he wasn’t hard before, he sure is now. And he hates it. God damn you and your stupid jeans and the stupid men at the stupid bar. What kind of man is he, getting turned on like this over jealousy, of all things? It frustrates him to no end that he’s in this current predicament, because really, he should have more control over himself. He’s an adult, not some horny teenager with attachment issues and a carnal need to prove himself as desirable.

He’s in for a late night. And he’s never been more ready for it.