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​Hawkins had somehow made it to another New Year, a thought that left a sour taste in Steve's mouth after everything the previous one had dumped on them. Loss. Arguments. Things so strange they belonged in a Dungeons & Dragons campaign, not here in bleak, boring reality. And yet, somehow, they had all survived it.

​Steve had started taking every extra shift available at Scoops Ahoy. The job was mind-numbingly simple: a perfect, mundane distraction. Every scoop of pistachio, every ring of the cash register, was a small, manageable task that kept the monsters and the memories at bay. It was a calculated escape from the chaos—a way to ignore his past relationship with Nancy and focus entirely on his new relationship with you.

​He thought about the day he dragged you into the center of the mess, the blood and the screaming and the sheer impossible scale of it all. He hated himself for having endangered you. And yet, you didn't hate him. You had been surprisingly, frustratingly, Hawkins-level resilient, and that quiet forgiveness was the only thing keeping him from cracking entirely.

​The constant, low-level hum of dread was getting to him, the persistent threat of what they were all running from, what they were all fighting. The thought of how many more people he could lose—kids, friends, you. A flash of a gaping wound, the smell of burnt flesh, the memory of Billy's empty stare, and Steve involuntarily tightened his grip on the ice cream scoop he was polishing.

​It didn't help that rumors of a New Year's party, hosted by some oblivious senior at Hawkins High, were circulating. Even worse, Robin was practically begging him to go with her, using your attendance as leverage.

​He would rather have been anywhere else. He would rather have been at home in bed, the sheets pulled up to his chin, with you wrapped tight in his arms and your face pressed innocently against his chest. Maybe you had brought over the B-rated horror movie you'd been ranting about—probably Friday The 13th: The Final Chapter, your absolute favorite in the series. He could picture it: the faint, comforting weight of your body, your fingers tracing lazy, familiar patterns on his ribs while you quoted the cheesy dialogue. That was normalcy. That was safety.

​He wasn't aware he was staring off into the distance, eyes glazed over as he pictured the way the late afternoon light looked filtering through your hair, not until Robin threw a crumpled-up towel—still damp from wiping down a sticky counter—at his head.

​"Earth to Steve," she waved her hands in front of his face. "You okay? You look like absolute shit."

​Steve let out a low sigh, leaning against the counter near the cash register, the cool metal a pleasant contrast to his overheated skin. "Yeah," he shrugged, running a hand through his hair. "Just tired."

​Robin crossed her arms over her chest, her head tilted in disbelief. "No party then?"

​Steve rolled his eyes, a genuine smile attempting to surface but failing. "No party.”

The drive back to Steve's silent house was quiet, save for the tinny, overly cheerful Christmas music playing over the radio on a station he was too unbothered to change. The repetitive jingle of sleigh bells was just another layer of white noise insulating him from the world. When he finally pulled the BMW into his long, empty driveway, he had one thing on his mind, and it wasn't the lingering scent of mint chip on his fingers. It was a warm, scalding shower, knowing that his parents, blessedly, weren't home to launch into another passive-aggressive discussion about his future.

​The bathroom fogged immediately, turning the marble tile into a damp, hazy chamber. Steve stripped quickly, tossing his soaked apron and uniform into the hamper. Stepping under the stream, the water felt like a physical weight against his skin, running over the muscles in his shoulders and back that had been tight and rigid all day. He let out a long, shuddering exhale, allowing his head to tilt back so the hot spray pounded his face, washing away the lingering stickiness of the ice cream parlor and the grime of the world.

​He stood there for a long time, the only sound the rhythmic shhh of the shower head. His thoughts, now freed from the necessity of customer service, drifted to the previous night. He saw, again, the pale gleam of the moon through the lab window, and the shadow—the thing—that had darted across the periphery. It was a cycle: panic, then fighting, then the crushing exhaustion. He was tired of having a brain that never truly shut off, tired of the phantom ache in his knuckles. He pressed his palms flat against the tiled wall, leaning his weight against it. The exhaustion was so profound it felt heavy, dragging him down. For a moment, his eyelids fluttered shut, and he was half-asleep on his feet, lost in the heat and the steam, hoping that when he opened his eyes, the worst of it would have been just a bizarre, vivid nightmare. The thought of you was the only thing that yanked him back—the simple, grounding reality of your name. He had a promise to keep, and that was enough to make him turn the handle, cutting the luxurious heat and stepping out onto the cold bathmat.

Meanwhile, Robin had been on her own mission. She stopped by your place, or, more accurately, threw a handful of small pebbles at your second-story window until you cautiously opened it, rubbing sleep from your eyes.

​“Harrington’s a wash,” she announced in a loud stage whisper, her hands cupped around her mouth despite being only ten feet away. “Party’s in an hour. Get dressed, I’ll drive. We can at least pretend to be normal for one night.”

​You shook your head immediately. “Nah, I told him I was coming over. We have a date with a B-movie and bad pizza.”

​Robin rolled her eyes dramatically. “Seriously? The guy just spent eight hours scooping mint chocolate chip, and you’re choosing him over an open bar? You’re both so gross. You know he won’t even want a New Year’s kiss if he’s asleep by 11:30.”

​“He promised me,” you stated, already closing the window. You wouldn’t be damned if he missed out, and you certainly wouldn't let him retreat into his shell entirely.

​Ignoring Robin’s muttered, unheard remark about how sickening the two of you were, you swiftly grabbed your backpack. You tossed in your worn copy of the Friday the 13th VHS tape, a bottle of cheap vodka you kept stashed behind some books in your room away from your parents, and your toothbrush. You changed quickly into a thick, comforting hoodie you stole from Steve ages ago—it smelled faintly of a familiar, sweet cologne—and a warm pair of sweats. Wallet, keys, and down the stairs you flew, managing to avoid your mother, who merely called out a vague, echoing question about where you were going.

​You grabbed your bike from the side of the house. The air was frigid, the ground slick with patches of black ice and mounds of gray, melting snow. You cycled the five blocks to Steve’s, the cold stinging your cheeks, focusing intently on avoiding a slip that would send you sprawling. Every turn of the pedal was driven by the single, clear goal: getting to the one place in Hawkins that felt truly safe.

​You practically slumped your bike onto the front lawn, steering it toward the deep shadow of a spruce tree where its bulky silhouette would be hidden, should Steve’s parents suddenly return. A heavy, satisfying sigh escaped your lungs, turning to fog in the icy air. The usual protocol: scaling the side of the house via the thick, gnarled limbs of the old oak tree that grew right up to the eaves—a technique you’d perfected long before you two were even an item.

​The climb was effortless, and the rush of cold air felt sharp against your face. You landed silently on the thin ledge just outside his bedroom window. Peeking through the glass, you noted the faint, colorful glow coming through the vertical blinds, a chaotic mix of red and green cast by the ridiculous string lights you and Robin had snuck in here weeks ago, defying the usual sterile elegance. You heard the distinct creak of his bedroom door opening and closing, followed a short pause later by the muffled sound of his mattress springs protesting as he finally collapsed onto the bed.

​You rapped three short, distinct taps on the windowpane.

​It slid open seconds later, and Steve, wearing an old gray Hawkins High Athletics t-shirt and sweats, was there, pulling you through the opening with a powerful, practiced grip. You tumbled inward, the transition from biting cold to the room’s stale warmth hitting you immediately.

​“You’re freezing, and you were just sitting out there?” Steve huffed, his voice low, his expression a mix of concern and exasperation. He gently brushed a few melting snowflakes and stray oak leaves from the shoulder of the oversized hoodie. The smell of damp hair and his cologne—clean, warm—immediately filled your senses.

​“Well,” you hummed, leaning into his warmth and letting your teeth chatter dramatically. “Now you get to warm me up.” You quickly set your heavy backpack near the foot of his king-sized bed, peeling out the VHS, the questionable vodka, and your toothbrush, setting them aside like required survival gear.

​You straightened up, offering him a light, easy smile. “Besides, we already said if you bailed on the party, I was coming over here. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

​Steve’s expression instantly crumpled, the exhaustion in his face deepening as a fresh wave of anxiety washed over him. With the frantic rush of shifts at Scoops and the lingering paranoia of Vecna’s return, the simple plans you two had made had honestly vanished from his mind. He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, leaving the strands pointing in different directions.

​“Shit. I—I totally forgot.” His voice was a flat murmur of self-reproach. “I’m sorry, man. With everything else… it just completely slipped my mind.”

​You reached up, gently gripping the back of his neck, your thumb resting lightly against the damp skin just beneath his hairline. “Hey. It’s fine. Seriously,” you reassured him, your tone softening instantly. You knew that look. “I wouldn’t have crashed the window if I wasn’t sure you needed the company.”

​He let out a shaky breath, leaning his forehead down to rest against yours for a moment, absorbing your steady presence. “Yeah. I probably do.”

With a relieved groan, you kicked off your sneakers near the wall, not bothering with the laces, and, with a running start, you all but threw yourself onto Steve’s massive bed. The mattress swallowed you in soft relief. Your body subconsciously flopped into a dramatic pose—the one Rose had struck while Jack drew her naked in that boat movie—only you were a guy, fully dressed, and you were pretty sure the only artistic bone Steve had in his body was his knack for curating the perfect song.

​He watched you, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through the anxious cloud on his face. He sank back against the pillows next to you, his eyes immediately catching the worn VHS tape and the bottle of cheap vodka you’d set on the nightstand.

​“Seriously? The Final Chapter?” he chuckled, the sound deep in his chest. “I thought we agreed that Jason’s mother drama was prime viewing, not this… this bunk.”

​You shrugged, adjusting the pillow beneath your head. “What can I say? It’s always been my dream to have a New Year’s Kiss while Jason kills horny teenagers on TV.” You winked. The statement was sarcasm, mostly, but the second you mentioned a New Year’s Kiss, that familiar, self-reproachful shadow immediately fell over Steve’s face. He stiffened slightly, sinking further back into the pillows as if trying to disappear.

​“God, I’m sorry.” The mumbled apology was heavy with guilt. “I forgot about that, too. That’s probably the most important thing, and I—"

​You cut him off before he could spiral. With a sigh that carried the weight of the last year, you moved, shifting quickly so you were straddling his waist. Your hands settled lightly on his chest, right over his pounding heart, which instantly sped up beneath your touch.

​“Stop being sorry, Steve. Seriously,” you commanded, your voice firm but gentle. “Look at us. We’ve literally survived horrors only the minds of Wes Craven, John Carpenter, Tom Savini, and depressed queer kids can come up with. It’s easy to forget mundane things, especially a silly promise about kissing when a clock hits midnight.”

​You leaned down, your face close to his. “Your brain is exhausted. It’s been running a mile a minute since… forever. The promise is still good. The promise is right here,” you finished, tracing the line of his jaw with your thumb. “You just need to actually be present for it.”

​He searched your eyes for a long moment, the tension slowly draining from his shoulders. A slow nod replaced the self-pity. “Okay,” he whispered, the sound thick with relief. “Yeah. Present. Got it.”

​Steve leaned in, his gaze fixed on your mouth, and his lips brushed yours—a fleeting, soft promise of the kiss to come—before you gently pulled back, a mischievous grin playing on your face.

​“Not yet, Harrington. Movie first.”

​He let out a quiet, frustrated laugh—a genuine sound, totally devoid of the anxiety that had been clinging to him moments before. He turned his head to watch as you slid off him, grabbed the worn Final Chapter VHS, and shuffled over to the bulky VCR tucked beneath the television. You fumbled dramatically with the tape, trying to align the grooves in the dim, colorful light of his room. The machine made a loud, satisfying whirring sound as it swallowed the cassette.

​His eyes drifted to the digital clock on the bedside table. 9:15 PM. It wasn’t even close to midnight—three whole hours. Three hours of schlocky, B-rated horror, and three hours of you tucked into his side, doing a breathless play-by-play analysis of the rubber masks and the questionable special effects they used. The thought brought an immense, simple relief.

​“So, what you’re telling me is,” he hummed, his voice laced with mock-aggravation, watching as you turned off the main lamp and came back toward the bed, the screen now bathing the room in blue light, “you’re going to make me wait three whole hours for that kiss?” He patted the spot beside him impatiently.

​You climbed back onto the bed, burrowing under the heavy comforter and immediately tucking yourself into the warm curve of his side, your head settling perfectly against his shoulder. The crisp smell of his damp hair was comforting.

​You rolled your eyes, but the movement was hidden against his shirt. “Oh my God, you’re like a touch-starved golden retriever. Relax, dude. I’ve been cycling through ice and dodging my mother to get here. You’ll get your kiss. Now shut up, or you’ll miss the opening credits.”

​Steve immediately wrapped his arm around you, pulling you impossibly closer until the cool air hitting the back of your neck was cut off entirely. He pressed a soft kiss into your hair, breathing in the cold-weather scent of Eddie's borrowed hoodie.

​“Fine,” he murmured, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your ear. “Three hours. But you owe me at least three thousand forehead kisses between now and then, just to keep me awake.”

​The movie title—Friday The 13th: The Final Chapter—flickered on the screen, accompanied by a blast of dramatic, cheap synth music. You settled deeper into his embrace, already feeling the pervasive tension finally starting to melt away from Steve's body.

​“Deal,” you whispered, your focus already drifting to the grainy picture. “But if you fall asleep, you still owe me the midnight kiss.”

As the grainy images of teenagers making terrible decisions flashed across the screen, the room settled into a warm, quiet darkness. The soft, multi-colored glow from the festive lights you and Robin had strung up earlier washed over the bed, bathing the scene in a comforting, slightly surreal haze.

​Steve was true to his word: completely present. His left hand had wandered up, now lightly carding through your hair, the long strands tangling between his fingers. He pulled a few forward, examining the length. “You know, you haven’t cut this since… well, since before all the shit hit the fan,” he murmured, his voice a low, rumbling vibration against your cheek. “But I like it longer. It looks good on you.”

​You mumbled something unintelligible in response, half-word, half-sigh of contentment. You were too focused on the film, even though you’d seen this specific Jason Voorhees installment close to a hundred times since its release the year prior. You could tell him exactly when the next jump scare was coming, or how the rubber head looked when it was split by the axe, but right now, all your concentration was on the sheer escapism of the fake horror.

​At some point, Steve had set his gaze entirely on you, his thumb gently smoothing the skin behind your ear. The way the colored lights caught the lines of your profile, the relaxed set of your jaw, and the way you bit your lip in concentration over a staged scare—it was a better view than anything happening on the television.

​He cleared his throat quietly, the sound making you twitch. He glanced past you to the digital clock on his bedside table. 10:45 PM. Only an hour and a half had passed, but Steve, as you had pointed out, was a touch-starved golden retriever who hated waiting.

​He shifted, bringing your attention back to him. “So, here’s my argument,” he began, a mischievous glint in his eye. “If I were currently covered in blood, defending you from a supernatural killer—which, you know, isn’t at all far from our actual reality—don’t you think I’d earn the kiss a little early for the effort?”

​He grinned, the joke landing with a chilling accuracy that was unique to the two of you.

​You pushed yourself up slightly, bracing your elbow against his chest so you could look him in the eye, unable to hold back a genuine, barking laugh.

​“Are you serious right now? You are unbelievable, Harrington!” you scoffed, shaking your head. “First off, you wouldn’t be covered in my blood. Second, if we’re being realistic, I’d be the one protecting you in that scenario.”

​You gave him a playful shove. “I mean, come on. Who had the bottle of vodka and the quick escape route planned out? Who’s more capable of climbing a goddamn tree in the freezing cold? I’m the practical one, Steve. You’re just the decoy.”

​He looked genuinely amused, a sound chuckle escaping him as he grabbed your hand, bringing it up to his mouth for a quick, warm kiss on your knuckles.

​“Ouch. Harsh, but fair.” He pulled you back down, settling your head onto his chest. “Alright, alright. I’ll wait for my reward. But the moment that countdown hits zero, I’m claiming that kiss for saving my butt from myself.”

​The sound of the movie—a poorly executed chase sequence—filled the comfortable silence again. You nestled deeper into him, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your ear, the real comfort miles away from the fake terror on the screen.

Eventually, it was you who got restless. The B-movie horror had devolved into tedious filler, and the warmth of the comforter, combined with Steve’s steady heartbeat, was starting to feel less like comfort and more like a comfortable trap. You pulled your head from his shoulder, your gaze immediately shifting from the grainy violence on the screen over towards the digital clock. 11:05 PM. At most, only a little less than an hour had passed since your last teasing conversation. You realized that at some point in your relaxed state, you’d subconsciously reached for the remote and restarted the film, probably missing a critical plot point.

​You let out a low, drawn-out groan of impatience, pushing yourself up. You shifted, pulling your leg over his hip until you were once again straddling Steve’s waist, the soft fabric of your sweats sliding against his. The room felt suddenly charged, the television's flickering light barely illuminating your face.

​His hands instantly came up, not to push you away, but to rest on your hips, steadying you. A small, knowing smirk stretched across his mouth, the kind that reminded you he’d figured you out years ago.

​“What’s up, speed racer? Couldn’t wait, huh?” he hummed, his fingers gently tightening their grip.

​You rolled your eyes, a nervous laugh escaping you. You leaned down, bringing your face close so your lips were ghosting over his, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

​“You’ve got a lot of nerve talking about waiting,” you huffed, your voice a playful whisper. “Mr. Touch-Starved Golden Retriever had to be physically restrained from kissing me forty-five minutes ago.” You pressed your forehead against his, a smile finally breaking through. “Besides, this movie is a total trainwreck, and I'm bored. You think we can kill fifty-five minutes with something better than cheap special effects?”

​Steve’s eyes darkened immediately, the exhaustion vanishing as he focused entirely on the small space between your lips. “I think we absolutely can,” he murmured, his voice low and serious, no trace of the earlier anxiety remaining. “But I’m still not letting you cheat the New Year’s Kiss. That one’s for the record books.”

​He tilted his head, giving you a firm, promising, almost-kiss that left you breathless and impatient.

​The lingering tension was too much. You let out a decisive sigh, cutting off all further debate, and fully pressed your lips against Steve’s. It was a firm, impatient kiss, not caring at all to wait until the ball dropped. It wasn't like the two of you hadn't made out in the back seat of his car several times within the confines of a single week—a New Year's countdown seemed entirely too formal for your reality.

​Steve responded instantly, a low, satisfied groan vibrating deep in his throat. He pulled back, not to protest the early kiss, but to shift positions, using the opportunity to push you gently down onto the pillows and follow you, climbing on top.

​The kiss deepened immediately. His lips were urgent and warm, his tongue immediately searching for yours. His hands tangled in your hair, holding your head still as the world outside the bedroom—the fake screams on the TV, the freezing Indiana night—faded into a distant, unimportant hum. You shifted beneath his weight, your fingers digging into the firm muscles of his back, pulling the thin cotton of his t-shirt tighter. The air was thick and hot, scented with residual steam from his shower and the subtle, intoxicating sweetness of your borrowed hoodie.

​You broke apart quickly, both of you gasping for air. You grinned, catching your breath as your eyes locked on his flushed, eager face.

​“See? Who’s the touch-starved one now, Harrington? You couldn’t last five more minutes!” you teased, your voice ragged.

​Steve merely smiled, a genuinely happy, carefree smile that melted the last of your annoyance. He didn't answer with words. Instead, he leaned down, pressing a soft, tender kiss to your lips—a complete contrast to the hungry urgency of the moment before. One hand cupped your cheek, his thumb gently smoothing the skin, and the other slipped under the hem of your sweatshirt, his warm palm settling firmly on your hip.

​He pulled away from your mouth, but his lips didn't stray far, tracing a slow, careful path across your jawline, lingering on the sensitive hollow of your neck.

​“I love you,” he whispered against your skin, the phrase quiet, heavy, and utterly sincere.

​You froze. The world, which had been spinning fast just seconds before, ground to a complete halt. He’d never actually said that before. You’d been together for maybe four months, four months jammed full of monsters and chaos, but still, hearing those three words spoken out loud by him felt brand new, terrifying, and perfect all at once.

​You swallowed hard, your own racing heart echoing in your ears. You lifted your hand from his back, bringing it up to rest along the side of his neck, pulling his face gently closer until your noses brushed.

​“I love you too, Steve,” you whispered back, the sincerity matching his own.

​A wide, blinding smile spread across his face, one that reached his eyes and made the festive lights behind him sparkle. He glanced past your shoulder toward the digital clock. 11:59 PM.

​He waited, the second hand seeming to crawl. The cheesy soundtrack of the horror movie provided a ridiculous background to the most important moment of your relationship.

​As the clock flipped precisely to 12:00 AM, Steve leaned down, pressing a soft, deep, and impossibly tender kiss right onto your lips. He didn’t pull away immediately, allowing the gentle connection to linger until the new year had properly begun.

​When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed.

You looked him over, and any sense of disappointment faded away from you. The exciting touch was gone, but it let you see Clark as he was. He still had his glasses on, but just as you looked at him, he pulled them off and set them on the counter. The crisp blazer draped over his figure went next, and he slipped it onto the coatrack. 

He did little things like that when waiting for an answer, almost too scared to hear the answer itself because despite the many times that you’ve done this song and dance with him, he feels convinced that you secretly hate it to some capacity. That one day, you will just say that this boundary he never knew you had will have been pushed beyond its limit. That there was always a line, but he stepped over it. And that’s why you love him—it’s why you first fell in love with him. He is, without fail, beyond considerate of you. Even when you fall into a groove, because he thinks that the mutual understanding you have will change one day. And that’s why you hate him as a reporter; he takes a stranger’s words at face value until it’s yours that he has to go off of. If he’s even slightly unsure about introducing a new thing into your relationship—like stopping to get matcha before work, he was so nervous to have you try it after he found out that he liked it as if it were a burden to ask to stop before work—then it becomes an immediate no on his things to ask of you. And he tried to keep that list short.

At least he told you about the matcha. “Clark, you’re acting like I didn’t have to find it in your search history at work.” 

“Which is exactly why I can’t ask you to do this. Not for me.” He starts tugging at his tie, the confrontation making him feel claustrophobic in his own skin. He wants this, but he’s too nervous to put his foot down and embrace it. His fingers almost tremble when he wraps them around the knot in his tie, the tone in your voice sounding like the next thing you’ll tell him in no. Clark secretly hopes for it to be the next thing off your lips, that way he doesn’t have to feel like he’s burdening you. But you don’t give him what he wants so easily. 

“I want it, Clark.”

His voice is shaky, “Say the safe-word. I need to know that you know this can end if you feel uncomfortable.”

“Clark,” you say softly, “I know you. It’ll end if I even blink wrong.” 

“Just say it, please.”

You don’t hesitate to say it. “Rhubarb.”

His next move isn’t towards the bedroom to grab the collar tucked in his nightstand, but instead, he comes closer to you again. His tie swings loosely as he hadn’t finished pulling it off yet. Clark reclaims you with his hands now on your face, pulling you in for a kiss before letting one trail down your neck. He tugged at your collar—the wrong collar. All day he had to look at this dress shirt curl around your neck, the same one he begrudgingly watched you put on in the bathroom this morning, instead of a true collar. But Clark would never make you wear it out in public. He barely made you wear it at home; you almost had to ask him every time for the actual thing.

It’s like a switch when you reassure him. When you tell him not to feel bad, to not worry so much about pleasing you. This is his time—your time, to phrase it better, because you like it too. The kiss is broken, and his soft, quiet voice returns to the edge of his lips with one command: “Down, boy.”

Knowing that it will turn off by morning, you listen to his commands. The last few times, Clark got a kick out of you not fully listening to him—not at first, at least. You kneel, now level with his crotch. His bulge is visible through his pants, and you take a second to look at it before looking up at him, and he speaks again, more stern. “All the way.” 

In the small foyer of his apartment, you found yourself on all fours. This new perspective of his apartment never got old; the cabinets felt like they were staring at you. Once reachable, you would have to ask Clark to get something for you while in this new puppy-mode. That applied to most things, as you had already discussed what your puppy behavior should be like. It included no phones, no television—unless it was something Clark was watching that you could also watch—and no words. The last one was a hard sell because at least the others were pretty normal expectations for whenever you were having sex with him. He didn’t want you scrolling on social media and liking #Supershit posts or watching a show while getting fucked by him. He had been taught by his parents that sex was special, something to enjoy with the other or else why are you having sex with them and not some random hookup? The closest that second rule had ever been broken was when he turned the news on to get an idea of what work would be like the next day, but that was about it. But the last rule, no actual words were allowed to come out of your mouth—except for the safe word, of course. He hated it because he loved your voice in person and on paper, and to not have it at all made him impossibly hard but also too powerful.

You rested there, waiting for a command from your handler. Clark took a second to think about what direction he wanted to take this, his hands naturally picking up the unfinished business of pulling off his tie. Then, he got an idea. He knew exactly where to take you and how. When the ends of his tie finally separated and he tugged on one end, it traveled back around the bend of his neck and through his folded collar. It came out the other side, and he wasted no time in putting it under your neck and tying it as if it were both a collar and a leash. He was careful not to make it too tight, but tight enough that it wouldn’t travel up your neck when he took a step forward and tugged on the other end of the tie. That end was much longer, but it didn’t give him much distance to work with. 

“With me, boy.” He says, and you know to follow. 

That was another thing: going over the commands beforehand. You and Clark sat in bed after you confronted him about it, your laptop halfway sitting between the two of you as you read articles, discussion posts, and guides for how to master puppy play. Clark knew more about it than you did, so he showed you some of the videos and images that first convinced him that he wanted to do this with you. You started by having a few simple commands: Fetch, Heel, Calm. The commands have becomes more refined with each session, mostly to find out and narrow down what exactly Clark likes telling you to do.

You entered into the bigger, more expansive living room. It’s open, the furniture orbiting around an empty space for the two of you to dance in occasionally. Now, Clark is striding past it all with you at his side, making a straight line through it to head for the chair by the tall windows. He drops the end of the makeshift leash that was in his hand, and it starts dragging on the floor as you crawl in the same direction. 

Clark is faster on his two legs than you are on your four, so he reaches the chair first. He’s only turned away from you for a second before turning back towards you as he falls into the chair. He slumps down, jutting his hips out and spreading his legs.

“Here.” He calls, and your knees scoot along the floor while your hands make a plapping sound against the dark marble. You look at the floor, then look up at him again. From the angle you’re at, his eyes are just a bit higher than his bulge. It looks even bigger than it did when you were by the door, and Clark is needier because he’s patting his bulge for you to come closer.

You crawl further between his legs and immediately press your nose into his crotch. Your breaths become short, similar to how a dog would pant and sniff. It smells like the detergent used over the weekend, like the one on your clothes. But you inhale deeper, slower, and hints of musk and sweat permeate through. The kind that would come from his dick and balls being confined in non-breathable underwear and from being stuck in an office all day. You stick your tongue out and lick his bulge through his pants, tasting nothing but fabric on your tongue, but it makes Clark shiver.

When Clark wants to move forward, he gives another command. 

“Calm.” And you move to sit back on your hind legs. Your hands reach out to unbutton his pants, but he beats you to it.

“Let me get this for you, puppy.” His words stop your movement, and his hands get there first. It was amazing how, even in a position of power, Clark could never commit fully to it. He needed to help even when you were supposed to be the one helping him. He did finally reach the headspace you wanted him to be in, though, as he was able to tease you. “Ready for your treat?”

You made a noise of agreement, somewhere between a bark and a whine. You were still finding that range of what sounded natural and what sounded like you were embracing this new identity as a pup. Clark understood it, though.

“I know, I need it too, boy.” He undoes the zipper next, moving too slowly for your liking. But this was him taking it out of your control. Dogs are supposed to wait for their owners to come home, like good boys. Puppies are supposed to wait to get their treat. When he reached the end, the zipper feeling like it stretched for miles, Clark parted the flaps of his pants and shimmied them down. You could see a bit more of his pale, bare thighs now between the separation of his dark pants and the white briefs he wore under them. The opposing color made his bulge look more defined, and you could see that he was beading at the tip. His cock was tucked off to one side, making it look more girthy than if he had pitched a tent in his pants.

Clark was no stranger to being a tease. He lifted his shirt up and dug his thumbs into the band of his briefs, watching your face light up with excitement as he started to push it down. More of his skin was visible, like his V-line growing closer together. His cock was so close, though. 

“One more thing, boy.” Your face drops as he undoes all of his progress, taking his hands out of his briefs and sitting up straight. “I need your leash.”

He leans forward and reaches for the end that’s still dragging on the ground. He balled it in his hand so that you had to be closer to him, and then he continued on with where he was. He pulled his dick out a lot faster this time, and despite how many times you’ve seen and felt it, the size of it has never failed to make you wince. It stood tall, hard, and growing tense in the air of his apartment. Clark cupped his balls and pulled them out, too, making for an even bigger-looking dick anytime it bobbed, never going down to its lowest as it had his big balls to rest on.

“Lick, boy. Don’t tell me you’re scared now.” Clark uses the leash’s shortened length to pull you towards his dick, shoving it right in your face. Your mouth doesn’t open at first, and it glides over your skin and smears precum over your lips and the side of your cheek. “Come on, be a good boy.”

He reached down with his other hand to grab his cock, and used the other to pull your face away. When they were separated enough, he aimed his cock straight and started pulling you closer again. “Open.”

This time, you listen. The previously failed attempt was a way at getting back at him for teasing you, and Clark knew this. He was just going along with the role-play, and tried not to think of it as you hating this. He kept reminding himself that you didn’t say the safe-word yet, so there was nothing to worry about. Though, all of those thoughts faded away when your mouth made contact with the head of his dick. 

“Fuck,” he moans, then your name slips out of his mouth and he forgets to call you ‘boy.’ But it feels too good for him, and the grip on your leash tightens. He could pull your head, but you feel the tugging on your neck making you take more of him into your mouth until you’re slammed down to the base of his cock. In the moment that he holds you there with the help of your leash, and he finds himself again as your handler. “Stay, boy. Stay just like that—fuck!” 

Clark breaks his own command as he jerks his hips up, making you suck him as deep as you have been, but there’s a bit of inconsistency due to his movements. It’s like a jackhammer as he thrusts up and lifts his hips out of the chair, slipping out of your mouth and then back in for a few seconds. He does his best to use your leash as a way to keep you down, but it only makes him more desperate.

You look up at him and that undoes him even more. He doesn’t want to let you reel back. Just using your throat and feeling your tongue move as much as it can under his cock is enough for him. You can see that he’s breathing hard and trying to find a way to calm himself. Clark was never good at handling himself with blowjobs, and he’s even worse as your handler in this moment. Wordlessly, your gaze managed to convince him. “You’re right, boy. I… need to stop.”

He pulls you off with a deep, unsatisfactory sigh. You pawed at his thigh for support, a little nudge into him that says I’m here. 

“Sorry for swearing, puppy boy.” His big hand did a quick run over your head, starting at your forehead and gliding back until he had his fingers entwined with the hair on the crown of your head. He stopped, tightening his hold. “Aw heck! After this, I promise, I’m going to make you feel as good as you make me feel. Just make me feel really good first.”

He takes his wet dick into his other hand, directing his cock to your lips again. It’s like a magnet finding the charge it’s attracted to, and Clark feels another spark sizzle through him when he can command you. “Suck.”

It continues as normal at first. You only go down his length about halfway and bob your head back and forth across the distance, his arm passively moves as you do all the lifting. It became another weight on you that almost felt like a sign. He didn’t want to force you to go further down than you were comfortable with—in truth, he actually did want to, but his niceness returned in waves—but it was there as a reminder that he could start fucking your face at any time. Clark can only take so much before he needs to satisfy himself, and he has to fight to keep himself seated. 

The desire to thrust up into your muzzle and make you take all of his girth at once, using the hand on the back of your head to hold you down and just grind and pummel like he had done before was too strong. His arm flexed and he pushed you down, but you were ready to take it this time. You sucked his cock down and that feeling of suction and pressure along his cock—combined with the wet warmth coating him—nearly sent him over the edge.

“Oh—mm—off. Off.” Clark pulled you off before you could get a chance to pull back. His dick came out with a wet pop. He huffed, “What are we going to do with you, puppy?”

Still buried between his legs, only inches from his cock, Clark takes the opportunity to slap it across your face a couple of times. That was what did him in.

You looked up, watching him freeze with his cock in hand. His face visibly dropped, and he mouthed the words, “Oh, no…”

Clark knew he should’ve waited—he should have let his pasty Kryptonian cock, red at the tip with a fuming desire, remain untouched. It was pulsing when he pulled it out of your mouth, and he was so close to cumming. But that was just it, he was close. Not there yet, but now, his smallest bit of greed—which Clark must admit, it did feel amatory and worth it—cost him an extended night of fun with his fledgling kink.

He squirmed, trying to deny himself the release. But Clark’s mouth opened, and he shuddered as the tension in his gut wound tighter and tighter. In seconds, spurts of hot, sticky white cum splashed over your face.

And, like every time he came, Clark would become overwhelmed. It felt so good to him, and he couldn’t help but erupt into a bit of laughter—a kind that’s deep from within his soul, like he’s reliving the first time he ever felt an emotion so human—between his moans. Well, he would moan, but it was more like a heavy breath as his feelings got stuck in his throat and all the air traveled around them. Just recently, he could only look you in the eyes during sex, only because he couldn’t believe that this was real. That progress was shattered when you started this new dynamic, and he suddenly found himself back in his old ways.

He would avert your gaze and look down, but that’s where you were, much to Clark’s chagrin. So, he turned and looked out the window with an unaimed gaze. His cheeks puffed and his lips sputtered when he exhaled the air in his mouth. But his body felt jittery, he couldn’t stay in place. He couldn’t neglect you. Clark’s head swiveled back just as fast as it had turned away, and he could only speak in broken sentences when his eyes landed on your cum-crossed face. 

“Oh… wow…” He never failed to surprise himself with how far he could go. Your face looked melted, Clark’s cum rolling over your features. It had painted your forehead at first, then hit your cheeks as his ropes of cum grew shorter. The last bit of it dribbled out from his head and, like your face, ran down the side of his cock and over his hand.

Clark seemed to be in his own world for a second, so you leaned forward to catch the cum about to run onto the chair. The liquid had managed to travel down the underside of his cock, over his fingers, and was about to drip off his balls. 

Clark watched you stick your tongue out, making the quick assessment that you were about to clean him up. He intervened with a hasty yet quiet, “You don’t have to.”

But his words fell on deaf ears, and you were already licking his balls. Just a few laps over his musky skin, which evoked a flavor of saltiness and a spice foreign to this Earth on your tongue, coaxed out a few more drops of cum from Clark’s tip. All of which you happily licked up despite the cum on your face growing dry.

Coming down from his high, Clark worked fast to make you his equal again. He pulled up his pants and placed his intimates back into confinement. This allowed him to lean forward and undo the tie around your neck, extending a hand to help you get up while he rose to his feet. Seeing how messy he made you, before you could even strip off your work clothes, it doesn’t make him feel good now that he is back to considering your needs. The urgency to make up for something starts buzzing through his mind, like adrenaline as he drags you by the hand across his apartment on your two feet. While he doesn’t know what that thing is, he knows that it’s not that bad, and he knows you agreed to doing all of this. 

No matter how many times you go through this with him, he can’t help it. He loves you, not the boy he’s been commanding all night. Clark wants to lift you into the air and kiss you and apologize for everything, but he can hear your voice without you having to speak. “There’s nothing to apologize for, honey.”

The retorts already started forming in his mind. He was ready to stutter out a myriad of reasons as to why he’s never going to indulge in his own fantasies again. He didn’t get a chance to make you feel like how he promised, noticing that you looked a little disappointed with getting neglected out of an orgasm—or was he imagining things? He would even accept the criticism that he cum’s too much, if there is such a thing as too much between either of you about anything.

The flick of the light switch in the bathroom illuminated how messy he really made you look. It looked better than how it felt, and before you could start running the water in the sink, Clark was by your side with a dry rag in hand. He lightly nudged you away and started getting the rag wet with lukewarm water, going as far as to stick his hand under the tap to check the temperature before dousing your rag.

“Clark, I can do it.” You told him, but he just turned and smiled.

“Let me get it, you cleaned me up.” He gave you the tone he knew best; you weren’t going to be able to stop him from doing good. Not after anything.

Clark turned both handles for the sink and the water shut off, and then you heard the collision of a thousand drops against the porcelain when he squeezed his fist once and wrung out the water. 

“Look at me,” he says. You follow his command, and the two of you are pressed together, slightly leaning apart so he can fit his arm between your upper-bodies to clean you. Clark held you by the shoulder, his hand snaking around your back to hold you close, and he started wiping the cum off your face. He started with your forehead—where most of it had become a splash zone for his big load. When he reached your eyes, he was gentle. He told you to close them, and his hands delicately flicked away anything that had sprayed on them or flowed over them. 

It was when he got to your chin, though, that he became even more considerate. Clark stuck out two fingers—his index and his middle finger, which had previously been balled into the rag in his hand—and he lifted your chin to get a better view of your neck. There was a light bit of chaffing from using his tie as a leash, and he immediately leaned in to kiss the red skin. Between every kiss to your neck, he muttered the words, “I’m sorry.”

“Clark, it’s fine.” He pulled away with narrow, nearly puffy eyes. He looked like he was holding back tears. You tacked on an extra bit of reassurance, “Really. I wouldn’t do it if I wasn’t okay with it.”

He stayed silent, only moving closer to wrap you in his arms. His head rested on your shoulder. You tried to rub his back, but not only was Clark strong, he was also pinning your arms down to your sides with his hug. 

You gave him a moment to process everything and to just hold each other before you spoke up. “Hey, why don’t we get in the shower?”

Clark pulled away, sniffling. “Why? So you don’t have to see me crying?”

He laughed at the end of it, but you could see his eyes turn glossy.

“No, I just have some in my hair, I think, and it’s late. We should shower now so that we don’t have to get up early tomorrow.” Logic never failed to work with Clark, because there was always a net good to be found in planning and being organized. In being smart.

“That’s smart.” He said, still a little shaken.

Your arms traveled up his back and pressed into his wide shoulders to bring him closer. You planted a kiss on his quivering lips. “And hey, you can make it up to me in there.”