SUMMARY: you've been giving your TO a hard time after having enough of his rude demeanour, it's time he puts you in your place.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: i've finally awakened from my 4 year coma so sorry if my writing is a bit rusty xoxo. been binging the rookie like there's no tomorrow and h2g it was love at first sight with tim. there isn't enough tim bradford smut on here so i took it upon myself to feed you all. also highly inspired by tate mcrae's new song '2 hands' ( obvi ) so definitely give that a listen while you read this. let me know how i went! this is literally such filthy, dirty smut so please enjoy <3 please.
WORDS: 6.5K+
To say you were exhausted would be a fair statement. Working this type of job wasn't for everyone, however, despite the disapproval from your parents, it was exactly what you wanted to. There was an unconditional passion rooted within your heart to serve and protect the community and the people around you. Your need to care, to help and to lead with grace and strength is how you found yourself landing the job at the LAPD as their newest 'rookie'.
And there was nothing more humbling than that. You hated being at the bottom of the food chain, and even worse, you hated your training officer.
Tim Bradford.
Mind the fact that his biceps looked like they could crush your head, or his height towered over your frame- he was an asshole. The past days on the job have been full of nothing but 'Tim Tests'. From yelling at you in front of a scene of drug dealers and other police officers because you held your coffee cup in your gun hand, to demanding you jump in every garbage bin there was in LA's alleyways and search for someone's stolen handbag that a robber cockily insisted on not telling which bin he dumped it in after you'd caught him. The bastard wouldn't even let you choose where to eat for lunch- and made you pay for it!
You understood that niceties often had to take a backseat during shifts requiring authority and order, but you respected your badge and the power it came with. You couldn't help it- you were a really caring person.
But Tim's hard-headed demeanour was threatening against your kind nature. His lingering and glaring stares burned into your skull, he ignored you half the time you even try to bring anything happy up, he forbade calling you by your first name, rolled his eyes more at every opportunity, clenched his jaw whenever you opened you spoke, and he degraded you relentlessly- he talked down on you like you were his little pet he never asked for.
Well newsflash, he did ask for it when he assigned his role as a TO and you were most certainly not an animal.
But, when pushed too far, you were a brat.
By now, this so-called partnership had worn your patience thin. You were frustrated, angry and exhausted- your forehead doubled the wrinkles on it from frowning so much and your chirpy and sweet attitude had been sapped away, leaving hostility and irritation.
When you woke up that morning, you were ready to bite back at Tim.
So when you arrived at work, the sight of your baked goods delighted everyone in the office. Youâd passed out gooey chocolate chip cookies - still warm from your early morning baking session - before roll call. I mean, who could resist? The welcoming sweetness brought smiles to every face, and you relished the lighthearted start to the day.
From his sit, Tim noticed the pleasure you took in spreading cheer, along with the officersâ enthusiastic reactions to your cookies. His curiosity - or maybe hunger - eventually led him to approach you at your rookie desk. But just as he reached for the container, you snapped the lid shut, cutting him off.
He frowned, looking from the closed contained to you, "Can I not have one?"
"No," You replied bluntly, "There's only two left, and I would hate to not save one for Sarg."
He scoffed, "I'm your TO, boot, I think I deserve it. What about the other one? Can't I have that?"
You shrugged, doing your best to hide the laughter bubbling up as you noticed how ridiculously offended he looked, "Also no. This one's for me." And, just to drive the point home, you picked up the cookie and ever so slowly bit into it, dragging out a moan without breaking eye contact.
Timâs expression darkened, his distaste evident- but so was something else. He stared, lips parted slightly, as you licked your lips and fluttered your eyelashes. Then, to top it off, you hummed- a small, satisfied sound that made his cock twitch in his pants.
He shuddered, alarmed by his reaction. No, you were far too young for him, too gentle, too kind. And he was your TO for fuck sake's, he had no business thinking about you like this.
Before he could do anything he regretted, he broke eye contact and stormed back to his desk just in time as Sergeant Grey walked in.
Sergeant beamed at the last cookie on your desk, "Officer Y/L/N, is that for me?"
"Of course, Sir," You replied rather sweetly, giving Tim one last daring look over your shoulder, "I saved it just for you."
Oh, Tim was pissed. But now he was pissed and aroused.
You couldn't deny it, you were having way too much fun messing with Tim like this. Who knew giving him a taste of his own medicine could be so rewarding to watch?
Ever since you two set the shop up for the day, you'd kept your lips tight and thin, stickly stricly to business. No personal chatter, just responses to the police radio and discussing plans when you were on scene.
Tim glanced over at you, his voice low as he drove, "Don't think you've ever been this quiet before."
You kept your eyes trained on the front view of the shop, scanning for any anomalies that appeared in your vision. You were aware of him starting a conversation, but clearly didn't care enough to respond. To go against your persona was harder than you thought, but your rebellious streak only showed itself when you were pushed to the limit. And, well, Tim had definitely done that.
Your blatant ignorance seethed your TO as his voice sliced through the air, "Boot, you ignoring me?"
You couldn't help yourself as your rolled your eyes and sighed dramatically, turning to glare back at him, "No, sissy, just doing my job looking for criminals. Did you not want me to?"
Sissy.
He slammed the shop to a screeching halt, his body radiating heat as his anger surged. He spun towards you and shoved a finger to your face, "One- that's Sir to you. And two, you roll your eyes at me again and I'll give you a reason to. I don't know where the fuck this attitude has come from and you should be damn grateful I haven't written you up by saying that. Your shitty behaviour ends after this shift. Do you understand?"
His intimation was not to be fucked with- you were smart to know that. Stone cold gaze, clenched jaw, knitted eyebrows, and his heavy breath warmed your lungs. You let out a shaky breath with how close his face was to yours, your heart wrote a million love letters per millisecond with how much it thumped in your chest.
For a moment, you flickered your eyes to his lips, hoping you might feel how soft they are in this lifetime.
Before you could speak, the Police radio cut through the tension, "7-Adam-19, welfare check?"
Tim didn't dare to drop his gaze at you as he picked up the radio, his voice steady, "7-Adam-19, we're clear." And as he put the radio back down he leaned back into his seat, "Right, boot? Are we clear?"
You bit your lip, irritation rising at the mockery in his voice, "Yes, Sir."
However, despite getting under his skin you had no hesitation to stop.
Sergeant Grey offered overtime for you and Tim to keep patrol on the outer borders of a massive drug deal happening in a quiet, family-oriented neighbourhood. Border Patrol meant long, late hours of surveillance, ensuring no one slipped through the cracks. For you, it meant hours in the cramped patrol car with Tim- hours of silence that felt like an eternity.
Camouflaged within the bushes and hidden off the road, you impatiently twiddled with your hands as you did your best to stay alert.
The thick air illuminated an immense tension between you and the man who hadn't moved ever since he parked the shop. The weight of the situation only heightened your adrenaline, and while nothing happened it was only a matter of time, and that electrified every nerve in your body.
You were shaking, and while it wasn't that cold, there was an obvious feeling that overwhelmed your body. I mean, this man, he was a force to be reckoned with. Regardless of all the mischievous moves you had put against him, it was like you were the one getting a reaction of it the most. You couldn't help it, Tim was bossy and you squirmed at the previous events today that proved just how much power he had over you.
Truth was, you weren't the only one feeling this way.
Despite Tim's steady manner, his brain was a storm that he had no control over. He was confused. Tim had only ever seen you as an angel who was too sweet for the job. You were gentle, and divine. You were young and pure- a good girl as he would put it. He assumed you were too delicate for the job and he honestly didn't think you'd last this long with how much you were exposed to.
However today, you showed him a side he didn't even think existed. You were testing him, biting back, really getting on his level. Your disobedience rather interested him, turned him on. His pants were tightened all day from how hard he had been fighting a semi just from the bold looks you gave him- the ignition in your eyes daring him to make a move, the way you moaned, your ragged breathing. How dare you sit next to him with your clothes on?
Tim gritted his teeth, the anticipation was loud and his resistance to put a stop to whatever you two had was fading away.
His eyes flickered toward you, catching you tapping your fingers, your leg bouncing in agitation. But you kept your gaze straight ahead.
Tim sparked up, "Quit it. You're not making the shift go by any faster." However, he became distracted as he scanned the tools in front of him before he cursed under his breath, "Shit, the binoculars are in the trunk of the car. Go grab them for me, boot."
You furrowed your eyebrows as you turned your head slightly to look at him. If it was any other day you would have bowed your head and gotten it for him within seconds. However, today was different. And you felt the rush of defiance surge in you, "Why donât you just grab them yourself?"
In the midst of fiddling through the equipment to look for it or a spare, Tim halted. And ever so slowly, he lifted his head with a stern gaze at you, "I wasn't asking, that was an order. Get the binoculars. Now."
You leaned back into your seat, arms crossed, refusing to move as you couldn't help but feel you were tempted to push further, "Make me."
Make me. Make me. Make me.
And with that, all of Tim's walls built to constrain any tempted thoughts about you collapsed just by those two words.
His eyes darkened right at you as he took a deep breath, âGet out of the car.â
âWhat-â
âI didnât fucking stutter, you brat, get out.â And you didnât know whether his comment scared you or excited you. What you did know was that something was going to happen.
Reluctantly, and with one last look into Timâs black eyes, you opened the door and stepped outside. What should be a refreshing breath of air in the dark night ultimately deepened your anxiety and excitement. You noticed from afar the grey clouds coming close to your area heavy with rain as the wind blew gently as a warning.Â
You were grasping onto the fear of the unknown where no moon nor stars could offer any sign of the future to come after this very moment. After tonight, nothing would ever be the same.
After noticing your obedience as you nervously placed yourself outside, obviously putting your back against him, Tim took one last exhale.
Was he already regretting what he was about to do? No. Was it wrong? Very.Â
But his heart and throbbing cock gave his head no other choice, so he stepped foot out of his door and began to walk over to your side where his stern face met your surprised one, âOpen the back door.â Tim looked down at you, his luminous figure overshadowing your small one to physically belittle you between the shop and him.
Time felt like it had slowed to a crawl, every second charged with anticipation, every single movement deliberate.
With one last look up at his calm physique, you swallowed, turning to face the car as you fumbled for the handle.
Itâs crazy how your loss of vision can heighten your other senses because even though you factually knew Tim was behind you, a gasp still escaped your mouth when his warm body temperature tickled the skin at the back of your neck. His controlled breath was steady by your ear- close enough that he could probably hear your erratic one and the imbalanced heartbeat that followed.
âFrom now on, you will call me Sir. You will not make a single noise that could get us caught in this neighbourhood, and you will listen to my orders. If you do so much as speak without my permission, you will be punished. Do you understand me, boot?â Timâs voice was barely audible, but it had an edge to it that sent a shiver down your spine.
The tension between you both was suffocating, but you couldnât pull away. This was your moment of choice, to assert your boundaries, but for some reason, you couldnât stop yourself from whispering, âYes, Sir.â
Timâs hand rested on your shoulder, steady but firm. âGood,â he hummed, before his gaze swept around the area to make sure there werenât any wandering eyes before he turned you around.
You looked so gorgeous like this- wide eyes luring up at him and for a split second Tim almost forgot that you weren't a fun fling where kissing was deemed acceptable; you were his rookie who needed a punishment. Which meant you had to earn to feel his lips and with all that you'd done today, you had a lot to prove, âI want you to get on your knees so I can shut that loud mouth of yours with my cock. Got it?â
Fuck, this is really happening.
âYes, Sir.â Your thoughts raced at the same time the blood in your veins pumped as you slowly lowered yourself to the floor, grounding your hands within the grass to remind yourself that the reality you were imagining was the reality you were currently living in.
You were here on your knees at the mercy of your TO.Â
And to think you felt small standing next to him.
Despite the vulnerability of the situation, you were grateful for the shopâs side door being left open, as it shielded you just enough from view. If anything, Tim was the more exposed one, his head peeking out from above the doorframe, exposed to any curious eyes. You knew the risks all too well- if anyone were to see what was happening behind this door, both of your careers would be on the line.
However, your intimidation was overshadowed by your small sense of pride at the sight of his hard lengthened cock exposing itself beneath his pants. Good, he was enjoying this just as much as you.
Your large exhale became your cue to lift your hands to his big belt. You unbuckled it with shaky fingers as you then reached to the button of his pants. You quickly glanced up at Tim, searching for any uncertainty from him. However, when you found his dark expression staring back at you, you proceeded to remove layer by layer until you found yourself gaping at what you could only imagine Timâs bodily way of pleading for a release. You held his cock in your hands as you watched it leak pre-cum from his irritated pink tip, the veins bulging from underneath and fuck, he was massive.
Being so intrigued blocked your awareness of how long you were taking until you felt a large hand carefully cascade down your head, Timâs fingers wrapped around the base of your ponytail before he roughly deepened his cock into your mouth. While you stayed like that for a few seconds, your shock woke your reflexes up and so you couldnât stop yourself from the gag that escaped. From above, you swore you heard Tim hitch his breath, and then soothe out his exhale like he had held himself back from making noise.Â
He couldn't help it- you were magical. The wet gliding of your tongue against his frenulum and veins were sending shudders through his body, and your warm mouth that coated his cock made him want to keep you there forever.
Tim guided your head back out only to then tighten his grip in your hair and push you back to his cock so you were deep-throating him. With a few pumps, Tim was able to find a rhythm as he began to fuck your face, ultimately deepening his cock so far your nose was pressed against his skin.
Of course, he was a well groomed man. You couldnât imagine the man above you not looking after his physique.
Despite the harsh movements where your mascara dampened against your cheeks and tears brimmed your eyes, saliva dribbling down your chin, your hair a mess and cheeks rosy, you were enjoying yourself. No oneâs ever played with you like this, any intimacy you had ever received was too gentle, too caring.Â
Not Tim. God, no.Â
Tim was dominant, clearly proving that to you the first day you met him as your TO and sure, you hated the guy, but the important part was that you didnât now. In fact, you really, really liked what he was doing to you. And so you couldnât help but to hum around him as you battered your wet eyelashes up at him.
Tim abruptly held you on his cock again with a firm grip on your hair and he thew his head back as you moaned again, exhaling out a quiet fuck to the gloomy night sky. Using all his might to not let his control slip and just fuck you right here, right now, he glanced down at your teary, pretty face, âFucking hell, youâre not supposed to be enjoying a punishment, you brat.â
You pulled your mouth away, âGive me something worse then, this punishment is boring.â
It felt as though Mother Nature herself responded to Timâs fury, a crack of thunder rumbling through the neighbourhood as he glared down at you, his eyes burning with intensity.
"Get up," He commanded.
âGladly,â You mumbled under your breath.
He snapped his gaze at you and lifted an eyebrow as he tucked his throbbing cock back into his pants, âWhat did you say?â
You dusted the grass off your legs, âNothing, Sir.â
âBetter have been nothing,â He knew damn well what you said, âbend over on the seat.â
Despite giving you orders, Tim took it upon himself to yank both of your wrists and hold them behind your back, and he pushed you down so your face and chest were planted on the leather seat. With this position, you gave Tim a perfect view of your ass which he was most definitely going to utilise not long after he got you into the metal handcuffs clanking against the wind.
Rain began to drip above you two as Timâs fingers glided to the front of your waist where he began to unbuckle your belt, blindly. He released a frustrated groan as he struggled to pull your pants down.
You couldnât help but snicker, âHaving some troubl- Ow!â You gasped at the feel of his rough hand against your bare ass.
âI told you if you spoke without permission, you were gonna be punished,â His raspy voice almost fading into the rain, âYouâre getting ten on each side. Count.â
And so for each smack, the rain grew heavier along with Timâs pressure, causing the wetness of the water against your soft skin to cause ever worse friction. Yet, with shaky legs and gritted teeth you still counted.Â
Lucky for you two, the hard rain silenced the smacks that couldâve easily echoed throughout the neighbourhood. After each smack, Tim could hear each whimper you cried out and he couldn't help a small part of him that would soothe the irritated skin with his hand lightly to lessen the sting.
Tim didnât want to care. But he'd never admit it in that moment that he actually did.Â
But while you have a gorgeous ass and pretty skin, he sadistically couldnât help the moan that slipped pass his lips at the stinging red hand marks brightening on your cheeks.
âTwenty,â You puffed out, your tears wetting the seat under you as Tim dragged you back up to stand again, turning you around so you faced him.Â
As he began to unlock you from the handcuffs, he hummed, âNow was that a better punishment?â He fought to suppress the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips from how you were glaring at him and your tears blotching your face.
âYes, Sir.â You muttered and sniffled, rubbing your stinging wrists and refusing to look up at him nor the rain that was just finishing up as it only now produced a light shower to your overheated body. Sure, you were okay to be angry at him for belittling you like that and physically marking you as his, especially because your pants were still down. But you both knew that you were asking for it.Â
And whoâs to say you didnât like it?
Tim took control, his large hand gripping your chin to force your gaze to meet his. He was soaked to the bone, but the sight of him was undeniably handsome- his hair darker from the water, his lashes clinging wet. If it werenât for the jacket he wore, you mightâve been given the privilege of seeing his broad chest and biceps flexing beneath his shirt, âGood, bend over again for me, boot. â
Wasting no time, you turned back around and bent down again where now that your hands were free, you laid your arms underneath your chin, resting your head there. However, the silence behind you unsettled your nerves again and you wished the rain would come back again to fill that void. Expecting the worse like another round of twenty, you clenched your fists and shut your eyes tight.
Tim thought about it, but as he stood there he couldnât help but let his eyes wander down to your vulnerable wet pussy glistening against the moonlightâs shine, and just the sight of it made his cock twitch and he suppressed a groan.Â
So while you were impatiently waiting for the punishment to further on, you gasped as Tim lightly traced his finger from your hole to your clit. He elicited this a few times, exciting you to get wetter with every second of his touch on you.
âI think after taking that punishment so well you deserve a little reward. Donât you think, boot?â When he opened his mouth to speak, you didnât notice how close he was to you until his hot breath fanned over your ear.
You fluttered your eyes shut as your TO began to trace again, teasing your clit a little more as he circled it, âI agree, Sir.â
âLook at me.â
You bit down on your lip to hide your moan when he wouldnât stop tracing your clit, slowly turning your head so you could just see him.
His eyes darkened further as he looked down at you, his jaw tight and his breathing heavy, yet measured, âBoot, who does this pussy belong to?â
Right, of course he wanted you to look at him as you answered. After all, he was an egotistical bastard willing to degrade you at any given chance- he was constantly reminding you who was in charge here.
With his finger just hovering over your hole, your throat tightened and you could feel the blush crawling up your neck, burning your skin, âYours, Sir.â
His gaze locked with yours and he smirked, âGood girl. Let me know when youâre close.â And he pushed a finger in.
You couldnât stop the mewl that slipped out of your lips as you broke contact to rest your forehead down against your arms. Timâs long finger penetrating your delicate area was refreshing after everything you just went through.
Tim couldnât help but quietly chuckle at the noises you were trying your hardest to keep quiet from him, âYou should see how pretty you look, boot. Fuck, youâre coating my fingers,â He murmured as he continued to finger you with just one digit, admiring the way your walls fluttered against him and how you wriggled around him as if you were yearning for more, for something bigger.Â
Of course you were, but that was for later.Â
âJust for you, Sir.â You breathed out, and it was only when Tim added an extra finger and used his other hand to circle your clit did you really struggle to hold back your moans and neediness. A familiar tingle in your abdomen formed as you bit down on your arm to quit your noises.
The area was quiet except for the sound of yours and his breathing, the light rain just a pitter-patter as both of your emotions hung in between you two. Despite the lack of eye contact, you didn't need to see to know Tim was watching you with heavy eyes. His fingers moved with precision as they slipped between your folds and your pulse quickened at the steady pace he created, hitting just the right places.
Sweat formed on your face. You were way too hot. You felt his presence all around yourself- his warmth, his breath, his touch. But you gave into the heat, into him and you couldn't move away. You refused to, not when you were so close.
Remembering Tim's orders, you waited until you were seconds away from orgasming as you quietly panted, "Fuck, I'm coming."
So just when you nearly felt yourself climaxing, Tim pulled his fingers away.
And just like that, any build up you concentrated gathering dissolved before your shut eyes. You quickly opened them and you whipped your head around, your shocked expression meeting his apathetic one, "W-What? Why did you stop?"
"Because you can wait," His response cold as he pushed your head back down into the seat.
Asshole.
Your mind was running you dizzy. You were frustrated, sexually frustrated and needy. You wanted more, and Tim found pleasure watching you squirm for more. However, you stopped your racing thoughts when you heard Tim's zipper from behind and a shiver trembled within your bones when you felt the tip of his cock hover just gently at your hole.
"Youâve been testing me all day,â Your TO said finally, his voice low and rough as he drew circles into your waist, âYou think I havenât noticed? Think I donât know exactly what youâre doing?â
You suppressed your whimper when his cock toyed at your entrance, "Fuck, Sir I-" But what could you even say? He was right. Youâd pushed him, knowing full well the risk. And now, you were paying for it.
The heat of his body was overwhelming, his scent-earthy, masculine, and something darker filling your senses. It was intoxicating, and you hated how much you wanted to drown in it.
âI should make you apologise,â he murmured as he pushed in and shit, he hadn't even filled you up yet and you felt the overwhelming stretch already fogging your brain, âFor your attitude. For your disobedience.â
Your wetness engulfed his cock so well, taking him in like you belonged to him. Your gasps grew louder the more Tim pushed in and it was only then when he came to a halt and his cock was deeply buried within you did the both of you moan.
Tim kept himself there, "But I donât think thatâs what you want, is it?â His free hand moved then, fingers brushing lightly against your jaw, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze. His touch was firm, commanding, but there was a softness there too. After all, you both couldn't help the connection that was forming throughout this whole night, âYou didnât want easy. You're a brat. You wanted me to put you in your place.â
And that's when he pulled himself out, and pushed all the way back in. With your eyes interlocked with his, he revelled in the way you gasped loudly and so he did it again. Another retreat and then moved all the way back in, earning a mewl from your red tinted lips, your eyes struggling to not roll to the back of your head. Fuck, you were beautiful like this.
The rain began to pick up again, but Tim's voice was clear as he pulled out of you, "Tell me I'm wrong, boot. Tell me."
You let out a frustrated groan at the loss of traction. You could tell he was playing with you- in order to get his cock he wanted your answers. And so as his thumb gently traced over your bottom lip you gazed up at him shamelessly, "You're not wrong, Sir." A small confession that barely left your mouth was all Tim needed to know you wanted this just as much as he did.
"Atta girl," He hummed before covering your mouth with his rough hand, your scent from when he touched you still lingering on his fingers, "Now shut up, you're being too loud."
What followed next was unforgettable when he picked up a pace. He fucked you senselessly, his cock deepening in you even more with every pump and thank God the rainfall grey heavier and that he had covered your mouth- your chorus of noises could've been heard had they not been swallowed by his hand.
Tim's lips were just parted as his breaths were heavy, his control unraveling with every second that his cock got inside your sweet, wet warmth.
However, the storm was not letting down and he'd hate to catch a cold being drenched once again. So he pulled out one last time before helping you stand up, "Get inside,"
Your legs felt like jelly as you climbed into the shop in the back, the confines of the car suddenly feeling much smaller, much warmer. The loud patter on the roof a stark contrast to the pounding in your chest.
Tim followed, shutting the door behind him with an ominous click. His broad frame took up far more space than you were prepared for, making the already-cramped backseat feel impossibly small. He patted his thighs and you wasted no time immediately crawling onto his lap, both of your pants at your ankles without a care as you straddled him.
Your TO raised his hands up as he unzipped your jacket, teasingly taking his time shrugging it off you. Your trembles were apparent at his soft touch and you couldn't stop your squirming on his lap, wanting more.
"Someone getting impatient?" He tilted his head as he examined your face while he began to take his jacket off.
You nodded eagerly, "Very much, Sir."
"Good," He threw his jacket away, "Me too." And he lifted you up, planting you back onto his pulsating dick.
You moaned and you squeezed your hands onto his shoulders as you got used to his size again. You never left his gaze- hungry, intense, and making you feel completely exposed, even if you weren't completely unclothed.
Tim growled, "Fuck, you take me so well." And he didnât waste a second. His hands moved with purpose, one sliding down to grip your waist while the other tangled itself into your hair, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. And as you began to bounce up and down, he met your rhythm by grinding up into you.
Your breath hitched at the overwhelming sensations. No one had ever made you feel so full, so needy, so greedy for more. You yearned to be closer than you already were. It didn't matter that your chests were flushed against one another, a crave itched your lips to meet his. The way they softly parted when he panted or cussed, they were so luring and daring, you were drawn.
You knew he would kiss good, he would kiss you so well.
Tim caught on, "Why are you looking at me like that?"
You hadn't realised you were staring at his lips until you flickered your eyes back at his dilated ones and slowed your movements, "Like what?"
He tilted his head as he studied your face, also easing off while he warmed his cock inside you, "Like you want to kiss me."
"Because I do, Sir," You muttered and you moved your hands to either side of his neck, just tickling the back of his wet hair. You leaned closer, your breath fanning his face as his did to yours and you whispered lowly, "I really, really want to, Sir. Have I not proven myself?"
His gaze met yours, dark and unreadable, but the way he wasn't pushing you away told you he was considering it.
"Fuck it," He mumbled and in an instant his lips were on yours- hot, demanding, and utterly consuming. His kiss wasnât gentle, wasnât tentative. It was everything youâd been waiting for, everything youâd been craving, and more.
You both began to move again and you gripped the fabric of his uniform as if it were the only thing anchoring you to reality and, really, to bring you two even closer. Tim tightened his hand in your ponytail just enough to make you gasp, and he used the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue claiming yours with a dominance that left you dizzy.
When he finally broke the kiss, you were grasping for air, your lips swollen and tingling from the intensity. He didnât pull back far, just enough to look at you as you both worked together to create a relentless pace.
Tim skimmed down to watch your pussy engulf his cock, drawing a groan when he looked back up at you, "Oh, baby, you were made just for me, weren't you?" And you couldn't agree more. The way you fluttered around him, coating him as he filled you was a feeling you dreamed about. He was driving you insane, and he was losing his control over you.
You were getting close, feeling that bubble beginning to form again the more you rode him. You didn't care how tired you were, you feared you may never get this again. All you wanted was to capture the feel of his two hands that explored your body.
Tim's lips ghosted over your jawline and you accepted his touch by opening the side of your neck for him. His mouth began trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, and you couldn't stop the moans from falling off your tongue.
"Sir, I'm so close I-" A whimper cut you off when his lips found the sensitive spot just below your ear. Your hands clutched onto the back of his head, "Please, please, let me cum."
"Wait for me." He mumbled into your skin, clearly getting closer too by how his thrusts were getting faster, chasing his climax that was just as big as yours.
The storm outside grew louder, mirroring the storm inside the car. The world outside didnât matter anymore. Not the job, not the patrol, not the danger. There was only you two in this very moment.
So when you cried out, "Fuck, Tim, I'm cumming." He dragged your face back down to yours, capturing you into another deep, passionate kiss as you both struggled to breathe. His arms wrapped around you in a tight embrace as you fell apart. Then, Tim drew out a rumbling groan into your mouth and you shuddered at the feeling of his cum spurting into you- filling you completely.
You both slowed down your movements, his cock softening inside you as your walls fluttered to a halt.
For a moment there you two were still, just holding each other in one another's arms as you worked to steady both of your heartbeats and breaths. Despite the stickiness from the rain and sweat or the absolute mess you made of each other, you closed your eyes as you held onto Tim's comfort as his hands never left your back and he buried his head into the crease of your shoulder.
You stayed like that, neither one of you wanting to be the first to pull away.
Your adrenaline was wearing off just as the storm outside began to die a little. Both you and Tim were back in the front seats of the shop where you pulled your jacket back onto your shoulders as he adjusted his belt. His steady and unwavering demeanour was back to normal, but his jaw was tightened as if he was replaying back everything that just happened.
The crackle of the radio shattered the silence, a voice cutting in, "Scene is Code 4. Suspects in custody."
Meaning, the shift was over.
"Perfect timing," You muttered, suppressing a small smile as you flattened the stray hairs that had escape from your ponytail. I guess you didn't hate him anymore, but, the only problem now was that you couldn't ignore the pit in your stomach of what tomorrow might bring between you and Tim.
Tim didn't reply immediately, but when he did, his voice was low, "Not a word about this, boot. Got it? This doesn't leave the shop."
You rested your back against your seat and sighed, a sly grin resting on your face, "Yeah, yeah. I wouldnât dream of ruining your reputation."
His sharp eyes darted to you, âI mean it, Boot.â
You glanced back at him with a shrug in your shoulders, âRelax, Sir. I can keep a secret.â
When he turned the key, the engine roared to life, filling the space with a steady hum. You captured his continuous side-eyes at you as he gripped the wheel, his knuckles white, like he was willing himself to let it all go as he stayed put.
You couldnât resist one last jab.
âFor the record, though,â you started, barely loud enough to be heard, âI think you liked it more than youâre letting on.â
His hand froze on the gearshift for half a second before he cleared his throat, âJust put your seatbelt on.â
You smirked to yourself, the tension crackling between you as he pulled onto the road. While neither of you spoke about your comment, the twitch at the corner of his mouth told you that you weren't wrong.
Requested: Again Sorta??? Lol I've been seeing all the love it's been getting and had to continue. Plus I love this story.
Type: Angst/ Fluff
Summary: The final moments leading up the 75th Hunger Games.
Part 1: Here
Part 2: Here
I'm not going to lie, this was the most fun I had writing, and I'm lowkey very proud of this. Let me know if you wanna read her her being in the games.
A.N: I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader. Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)
***************
Your nerves hit like a wave the second you stepped into the waiting room.
The air was tenseâheavy with the kind of silence that only comes when everyone is pretending not to be afraid. The tributes were scattered around the room, each lost in their own thoughts, their own strategies, their own quiet dread.
You felt your stomach twist.
Last time you were in this position, you scored a seven. Clean, precise knife throws. It wasnât spectacular, but it got the job doneâjust enough to earn some sponsors without making you a threat. It kept you safe.
But this wasnât like last time.
This time, you were older. Sharper. Tired in a way you didnât know how to explain. And despite all of it, you had no idea what you were going to do in there. No plan, no performance. You hadnât let yourself think too hard about it, because thinking meant caringâand caring meant fear. And you were so tired of being afraid.
The Capitol had already taken everything. Your home. Your peace. Your sense of self. And now they were back for what little was left.
Your gaze drifted across the room and landed on the District 12 pair, sitting quietly in the far corner. They werenât speaking, just watching. Watching you. Their expressions were unreadableâsomewhere between wary and curious. You offered them a small nod and the faintest smile. They didnât return it, but they didnât look away either. That felt like enough.
Then, you saw himâMason, cutting through the room with that quiet steadiness he always carried.
He slid into the seat beside you without a word, his presence warm and familiar.
âHey,â he said gently, his voice low. âYou ready?â
You nodded automatically, but your fingers betrayed youâtapping anxiously on your leg, tense and restless. Mason noticed. He always noticed.
Without saying anything more, he reached over and placed his hand on top of yours. It was steady. Grounding. You immediately stilled.
âYouâre going to be alright,â he said, soft but certain. âWe both are.â
You looked at himâand just like that, something inside you loosened.
Those eyes. You remembered them. The same ones you met when you were sixteen, standing awkwardly at your Victorâs party, trying not to be seen. He hadnât mentored your Games, but he found you anyway. Quiet, lost, and not ready for any of it. Heâd seen you for what you wereâanother broken kid trying to survive something you werenât built for.
He knew that look. Heâd worn it once, too.
And from that night on, Mason became something steady in your life. Maybe even something safe. He couldnât stop the Capitol from throwing you into another nightmare, but if you had to go back in, you were glad it was with him.
âItâs going to be fine,â you murmured, offering a small, tired smile. And for a moment, you let yourself believe it. Mason would follow you anywhere. You didnât have to question it. His loyalty wasnât loud or showyâit was just there. Unshakable.
âY/N. Mason.â
You turned at the sound of your names and saw Cashmere and Gloss approaching, their movements smooth and practiced like they were walking a red carpet instead of waiting to face death again. Behind them, Enobaria and Brutus stood from their seats, joining the group.
Cashmere slipped her arm around your shoulders like it was second nature. âYou ready to make some jaws drop?â she asked with that signature smirk. Confident. Stunning. But under it, you could see the flicker of something else. That same tension that lived in all of you now.
âAlways,â you said, letting the corners of your mouth lift. âI think Iâm just gonna wing it. Do whatever feels right.â
Cashmere raised an eyebrow. âThatâs either brilliant or reckless.â
âMaybe both,â you replied.
âAs long as you scare them a little, youâll land at least a nine,â Enobaria said, cracking her knuckles and flashing her sharpened teeth. âIâm thinking of stabbing a dummy and barring my teeth at the Gamemakers.â
Brutus rolled his eyes. âYeah, and theyâll send you straight to the Capitol psych ward.â
Enobaria grinned wider. âSounds like a vacation compared to whatâs coming.â
You huffed out a quiet laugh before turning to the siblings.
âWhat about you two?â
Gloss shrugged, arms crossed over his chest. âSpear work. Something fast and cleanâshow them I havenât slowed down. Iâm not there to impress them. Just remind them what I can do.â
Cashmere spun a knife lazily between her fingers. âKnives, obviously. Hit the vitals, maybe throw in a flip or two if I feel like showing off. Nothing too wildâweâre aiming for tens, not twelves.â
She looked at Mason, nudging his leg with her foot. âWhat about you?â
Mason tilted his head, thoughtful. âNot much I can do solo. Might ask to use the moving targetsâsimulate a real fight. OrâŠâ he glanced sideways at you, smiling faintly, âmaybe someone hereâs brave enough to volunteer.â
You rolled your eyes, smirking. âKeep dreaming.â
But before anyone could say anything else, a sharp voice echoed through the room:
âDistrict One, Gloss Tanner. Report for individual assessment.â
Silence fell instantly. All eyes shifted to Gloss.
He stood slowly, rolling his shoulders once, then turned to his sister. Cashmere reached out and touched his arm, her expression softening.
Gloss gave her a quick squeeze on the shoulder and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Then he looked at the rest of you, smiled like it was nothing, and said, âSee you on the other side.â
And then he was gone.
No hesitation. No second glance.
The moment lingered in the air. Thick. Heavy. Real.
Enobaria was the first to break the silence. âWeâll head back to our seats,â she said, giving each of you a quick hug like she didnât want to think too hard about it. Brutus did the sameâno words, just a quiet presenceâand then they were gone.
âWe should, too,â Mason murmured, giving Cashmereâs shoulder a squeeze.
You turned to her and wrapped your arms around her tightly.
âHeâs going to do great,â you whispered. âAnd so will you. Okay?â
Cashmere gave you a watery smile, blinking fast. âGood luck, Y/N.â
âYou too.â
She held you for a second longer, then let go and sat down, folding her hands in her lap, eyes fixed on the door Gloss had disappeared through.
Before heading back to your seat, you squat down in front of Finnick and Mags. Grinning, you greet them with a playful, âHello, my fishies.â
Finnick rolls his eyes dramatically, but there's a smile tugging at his lips. Mags, ever the nurturing figure, pats you on the head as if you were a child, her touch gentle and warm.
âI swear, before I die, Iâm going to need a new nickname,â Finnick jokes, sounding far more serious than he probably intends. âI canât die with âFishyâ on my tombstone.â
You nudge his knee playfully. âOh, donât worry, Finnick. I wouldnât do that to you. But I would say, âBest Swimmer in the Mighty Seas,ââ you add with a wink, your tone light.
Mags laughs softly, her eyes crinkling with kindness. You turn toward her. âReady to blow them away with your rope-tying skills?â You canât help but tease, excited for the elderly woman you admire so much.
Mags gives you a thumbs up, her smile all the answer you need. Then she points to Finnick, mimicking the movement of a trident with her hands.
âOh, yes. Finnick and his big fork,â you tease, ruffling his hair affectionately. You and Finnick had always been closeâalmost like siblings, really. You won your Games right after him, and to say you leaned on each other would be an understatement. There was an unspoken understanding between you two, born from the shared experience of surviving this hell.
You hear Cashmereâs name being called, and as she rises, she shoots you a reassuring smile before heading toward the door.
Turning back to Finnick and Mags, you see the stress hanging heavy on their shoulders. Without thinking, you rise to your feet and give them both tight hugs. âItâs going to be fine,â you say, your voice firm but kind. âIâve never seen anyone handle a trident as well as you, Finnick. And no oneâno oneâcan tie a knot as tight as you, Mags.â
Both of them smile up at you, their faces softening. They know exactly what youâre doingâtrying to ease their tension, give them a little comfort. Thatâs why they love having you around.
âIâll catch up with you two after, okay?â You give them both a final squeeze. âGood luck out there.â
They nod, their smiles a little more relaxed now. You return to your seat next to Mason, feeling a brief moment of relief as you settle beside him.
âYouâre being a great motivator. Iâm feeling inspired,â Mason says with a half-smile, his tone teasing as he nudges you lightly.
You canât help but scoff, shaking your head. âThese are our friends. And weâre supposed to kill them like itâs nothing?â You laugh softly, but itâs a bitter sound.
Masonâs smirk fades, and he turns to face you more seriously. âWe all know how this is going to play out,â he says quietly, his voice laced with a mix of resignation and practicality. âAnd we promised we werenât going to take it to heart. Quick and painless, remember?â
You exhale slowly, your chest heavy. âDoesnât mean itâs not going to happen. And letâs say⊠in the off chance that we both make it to the end. Then what?â You meet his gaze, both of you silently acknowledging the truth between you. Neither of you would be able to kill the other. Not after everything.
Masonâs eyes soften, but his voice is firm as he shakes his head. âThatâs never going to happen. You know that,â he says, his tone heavy with certainty. âItâll be someone else, or⊠itâll be me.â
You canât argue with that. Itâs the cruel reality youâre both facing, one that feels too dark to even consider. You drop your head into your hands, the weight of it all pushing down on you.
Mason doesnât have any comforting wordsâhe knows they wonât help. He just reaches over, ruffling your hair lightly before pulling you into his side. His presence, solid and steady, is the only thing thatâs keeping you from shattering in that moment.
You watch the District Three pair go, followed by Finnick, and then Mags. Each one of them stepping into their fate, and each one leaving a piece of their heart in the room.
Time passes slowly. Your own thoughts are heavy, weighed down by the same unspoken question everyone in this room is carrying.
And then, you hear it.
âDistrict Five, Mason Cover. Report for individual assessment.â
Your body freezes. Your heart skips a beat.
Mason feels it, too. The weight of the arena, the uncertainty of whatâs to come, the fearâitâs all there, hanging between you two.
âDarling, itâs going to be fine,â he whispers in your ear, his voice calm, steady. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, the warmth of his lips a small comfort in the sea of tension.
You try to return the reassurance, offering him a soft smile. âGood luck,â you murmur, even though youâre not sure if either of you believe it.
He meets your gaze, his smile small but sincere. âYou too,â he says, his voice softer now. He ruffles your hair one more time before standing up. âSee you on the other side.â His words are light, basically mimicking Gloss. But you still teared up.
You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat as you watch him leave. He glances back once, offering you a final wave, and then heâs gone, heading toward the door with that same quiet confidence he always carries.
Now, the fear was real. The anxiety had a tight grip on you, and no matter how hard you tried to steady your breathing, it was a struggle. Your chest felt heavy, each breath an effort.
You closed your eyes, trying to center yourself. Ten minutes. Thatâs all you had. Ten minutes to somehow find a way to push past the panic, to focus, to prepare yourself.
You were so far inside your head that you didnât even notice someone sitting down next to you until you heard a soft voice.
âAre you ready for your assessment?â
You jumped, startled, and turned to see Peeta sitting where Mason had just been. He gave you a small, sheepish smile. âStupid question, I know. Iâm sure youâve been asked by everyone else. Shouldâve said something else.â
It wasnât what you expectedâPeeta of all people sitting next to you. You glanced over at Katniss. She was watching you closely from a distance, eyes trained on both you and Peeta, her protective instincts sharp.
You turned back to Peeta, trying to shake off the unease. âIâm ready enough to just get it over with,â you replied, your voice steady, but you could feel the tension coiled deep inside you. âAre you?â
He nodded, though his smile was a little strained. âYeah, itâs kind of crazy, you know? I was doing this exact thing a year ago. Not much has changed.â
You shook your head slightly. âEverythingâs changed, Peeta. Youâre a Victor now. That means something.â
Peeta met your eyes, his gaze serious. âWe both know I wasnât supposed to be one.â
âI could say that about all of us,â you said, your voice soft but firm. âNone of us were supposed to be Victors, but here we are. And itâs important, Peeta, that you start believing that. Itâs the only way youâre going to make it out of the arena.â
He didnât speak for a moment, just looking at you like he was weighing your words. Finally, he broke the silence, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve. âHaymitch says we should team up. I know enough to sense how important you are to him.â
You raised an eyebrow. âYouâre trying to recruit me?â you asked, teasing but also a little touched by his honesty. You could tell he wasnât exactly sure where this conversation was heading, but he was trying to find his footing.
He looked uncomfortable but pushed on, âIâm not saying we should be best friends or anything, but youâre important to Haymitch. I think youâre important to Katniss, too, even if she doesnât show it.â His voice softened. âIâm just doing what I can. You know, trying to look out for her⊠and for us.â
Peeta let out a small, dry chuckle. âAnd I donât think your partner would be thrilled, either, but here we are.â
That made you smirk. He had a way with words, even when he was hesitant. âIâve always been on your team, Peeta. I just need you to accept that youâre on mine, too.â Your voice was quieter now, more earnest. You met his gaze, not backing down. âIâm behind you a hundred percent. And I know Mason will be, too. But you have to trust us. Just like you want to protect Katniss, I do too. Iâll do whatever it takes to see her come out of this alive.â
You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. âIf you donât trust my words, trust Haymitchâs. Iâm on your side.â
Before Peeta could respond, the loudspeaker crackled, cutting through the tension.
âDistrict Five, Y/N L/N. Report for individual assessment.â
You tensed, your heart skipping a beat, but you tried to keep your breathing steady. This was it. You stood up slowly, then turned to Peeta. With a light touch, you patted his leg.
âIâll see you later, Peeta. Good luck to you both,â you said, your voice more confident than you felt.
Peeta watched you as you turned to leave, his eyes following you until you reached the door.
Once you were out of sight, Peeta made his way back to Katniss, who was still watching him closely, waiting for him to speak. He sat down beside her, his expression thoughtful.
âI think we should team up with District Five,â he said, his voice low but sure.
Katniss looked at him, skepticism written across her face. âAre you sure about this?â
Peeta met her gaze, his eyes steady. âTrust me.â
After a long moment of silence, Katniss finally nodded, her resolve firming. âOkay,â she said quietly.
************
You stared at yourself in the mirror, your reflection a ghost of someone you used to be. The makeup was heavy, transforming your features, and for a moment, you looked like you did nine years agoâbefore the Games, before all of this.
Tomorrow, you would be thrown back into the arena. Tomorrow, youâd have to fight your friends, leave your husband behind, and maybe die. And the weight of it made everything seem so much heavier.
You were scared during your first Games, but this fearâit was different. It was paralyzing. It settled deep in your chest, like something solid and cold, and you couldnât breathe.
The sound of cheers rang out as Caesar Flickerman strutted onto the stage, his perfect, rehearsed smile beaming across the crowd. Your pulse quickened.
"There, absolutely perfection," your stylist said, patting her face to dry the tears you hadn't realized had begun to fall.
"Thank you," you whispered, blinking the haze from your eyes. You stepped onto the line between Mags and Mason, trying to steady your breath, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.
"Breathe," Mason whispered, his voice low but steady. "You look beautiful."
A small, trembling smile pulled at your lips. "Thanks," you murmured, looking at Mags. "You look pretty," you added, hoping it would ease the tension in the air. Mags smiled, a soft, knowing look on her face. She pointed to your dress. "Thank you," you said. "Itâs supposed to mimic my first Games."
You swallowed, looking around at the others, trying to block out the tightness in your chest. Nervous energy swirled around you. The others could feel it, too, but everyone was doing their best to keep it together.
You saw Gloss take his turn, then Cash, and then Brutus. One after another, they walked past you, their faces filled with the same mix of dread and determination.
"I canât believe tomorrow is the day," Mason said, jumping up slightly, the nerves evident in his voice.
"You're telling me," Finnick said, giving a smirk that didnât quite reach his eyes. "Iâm about to perform my best acting yetâpretend Iâm not already dead insideâand then Iâm gonna die. Sounds like a real blast."
Mags shot him a disapproving look, but you could see the faintest hint of a smile tug at her lips.
"We just have to get through tonight. Tomorrowâs a whole other day," you said, trying to sound reassuring, though the words felt hollow even as you spoke them. "Weâll figure it out then."
The others fell silent at your words, each one lost in their own thoughts, the realization of what was coming settling in.
Finnick went next, followed by Mags. Then Mason.
"Wish me luck," Mason said, winking at you before stepping onto the stage, the Capitol audience erupting in applause.
"Good luck," you said, smirking, watching him stride out with the swagger only Mason could pull off.
"Itâs annoying how charming that guy is," you muttered, half to yourself.
Johanna let out a short, dry laugh. "Do you think, before I die, heâll grant me a death-wish kiss?" she joked, her usual biting humor still intact.
You nudged her with a grin. "Hey, I think the probability of that is extremely high."
Masonâs interview went off without a hitch. He played the âIâm about to die, and I never loved anyoneâ card, and the Capitol ate it up. The single women in the crowd swooned as he strutted off the stage, bowing to his fellow tributes.
"And now, for one of the Capitolâs favorite girls, letâs hear it for Y/N L/N!" The announcement was loud, and the crowd roared in excitement.
You took a deep breath, forcing a smile as you walked onto the stage, the eyes of Panem on you. You knew how to work a crowd, how to present yourself as the confident, charming Victor everyone adored. But tonight, it felt like more of a mask than ever before.
Caesar Flickermanâs smile was as dazzling as always, his voice smooth as silk. "Oh, my dear girl, how are you?" He leaned in for air kisses, his theatrics just a little too perfect.
"Well, Iâve had better days," you said, a soft smile curling at the corner of your lips.
"Today is so emotional and hard for all of us, isnât it?" Caesar continued, his tone dripping with faux sympathy. "But youâgood news for youâyou scored an eleven! Absolutely amazing!"
"Thank you," you replied, trying to keep the flatness from your voice. "Since Iâm probably going to die tomorrow, I wanted to go out with a bang, I guess."
You saw Caesarâs smile falter for a moment, unsure how to handle your bluntness. But he recovered quickly, ever the professional.
"Well, a bang you did," he said, voice still upbeat. "Now, my dear, weâve heard so much about those waiting for you back at home. Whoâs there for you? Anyone special?"
You forced your gaze to drift across the audience, your eyes scanning the sea of faces before finding the one that anchored youâHaymitch. His eyes were locked onto you, steady and unwavering, like a lifeline in the chaos.
"I have my parents back at home, taking care of my younger brother," you said, your voice a little softer now. "It was definitely a surprise when these Games were announced."
"Iâm sure theyâre watching you now and cheering for you back in District 5," Caesar smiled warmly, his eyes glistening with false compassion.
You swallowed hard, your throat tightening. "I doubt they will. They promised me they wonât watch. Who would want to see their child get slaughtered?" The words left your lips, cold and harsh, but they were the truth. The crowd grew silent, and Caesar struggled to regain his composure.
"UhâŠ" He coughed awkwardly, glancing toward the camera. "Well, thatâs unfortunate, Iâm sure theyâll be missing a good game. Is there anyone else waiting for you? Maybe a man? A little boy toy?"
You didnât even need to think. The words felt right, even as they left your lips. Your fingers moved instinctively to the necklace around your neck, slipping it off with a deliberate motion, and you looked back at Haymitch. His eyes widened as your fingers found the ring youâd been wearing around your neck. The same one youâd both always kept secret.
"I do, actually," you whispered, barely above the noise of the crowd. A ripple of surprise ran through the room. "I have someone waiting for me."
You slowly slid the ring onto your finger, letting it shine under the Capitol lights. For a moment, the crowd was dead silent. The world seemed to hold its breath. And then, the cheers exploded.
You could see Haymitch in the crowd, his expression unreadable at first. But then, something in his eyes softened. He didnât hide his emotions, even if you couldnât hear his voice. It was in the way his hand shook as he reached for his flask, eyes never leaving you.
"Youâre married?" Caesarâs voice was full of excitement now, a gleam in his eyes. "What a surprise! Tell us, who is this lucky man?"
You met his gaze again, locking your eyes with Haymitch's. "Iâm afraid Iâm keeping that information to myself," you replied, your voice calm but firm. "Just in case I die tomorrow, I want him to move on, to find happiness. Obviously, without all the cameras and media .Thatâs all Iâve ever wanted for him."
You glanced down at the ring, your fingers brushing over it gently as you spoke. "My death will not be the end of him. He will mourn, but he will live. Live for me. Live for us. Live for the world. My death wonât erase our love. Our love will live on. These Games may take everything from me, but our love? Thatâs something that will last forever." You blinked rapidly, tears beginning to blur your vision. "Iâve loved and been loved in these few years more than some do in a lifetime," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly. "Iâm one of the lucky ones."
The audience was silent for a moment before an overwhelming wave of applause broke through the air. You could see the tears welling in Caesar's eyes, his voice shaking with emotion. "That⊠that was beautiful," he said, his tone sincere. "Iâm sure he knows how deeply you love him. And heâs lucky to have someone like you."
"Thank you," you said softly, your heart pounding.
The audience cheered again, but you only had eyes for Haymitch now. You blew him a kiss, a simple gesture, but one that felt like it carried everything you couldnât say aloud.
"That was amazing," Mason said, wrapping you in a tight hug the second you stepped off the stage.
You cried in his arms, the weight of everything threatening to swallow you whole. "Itâs going to be okay, darling girl," Mason whispered, his voice warm and comforting. "He knows you love him, and you know he loves you."
Johanna was next to you, rubbing your back. "You really did a good job. I think all of Panemâs crying right now."
You stopped crying, and only the sound of the following interview filled the room until Johanna spoke again, her voice annoyed.
"Really? A wedding dress?" She raised an eyebrow at Katnissâs dress, which looked suspiciously like a wedding gown.
"Snow made me wear it," Katniss said, her tone flat, not caring much for Johanna, but glanced at you. Haymitch trusted you, and so did Peeta.
"Make him pay for it," Johanna smirked, causing Katniss to smile faintly.
"Come on, letâs get you cleaned up," Mason said, wrapping an arm around you, guiding you away. But then Katniss reached for your wrist, stopping you.
Mason tensed but you turned towards her.
"You did good," Katniss said quietly, nodding at your ring. "I know he appreciates it."
"Thank you," you smiled at her, though it was strained.
"Plus, Iâm sure you made Peeta cry," Katniss added with a rare smile.
You laughed softly, your heart lighter despite everything. "Good luck," you said, offering her a smile before following Mason out.
"So, weâre really teaming up with District 12, huh?" Mason said, rolling his eyes.
You nudged him, a small smile playing at your lips. "Yup."
*********
You found yourself staring out the window of the living area in your suite, the stars twinkling distantly in the night sky. Mason was sitting across from you, nose buried in a book, but you couldn't tear your eyes away from the vast darkness outside.
After the interviews, you all held hands, the gesture simple but filled with power, as if, for a brief moment, the Games could be stopped. But an hour ago, Abigail had come in and crushed that fragile hope, informing you that the Games would go on as planned.
You sighed, the weight of the news heavy in your chest.
"I know you're not reading," you said, breaking the silence as you turned to Mason. "You've been on the same page for the last six minutes. It usually takes you three."
He looked up at you, a sly smirk tugging at his lips before he closed the book, setting it down on the table with a soft thud. "True," he said, the humor gone from his eyes. "But it's hard to focus on anything when death is looming over us."
You didnât respond. Instead, you stood and moved to the window, resting your hands on the cool glass. He followed you, his footsteps soft on the carpet.
"Did Cash seem fine when you told her we weren't joining the pack?" he asked, trying to shift the conversation.
Your shoulders tensed slightly, "She wasnât happy, but she knew," You said with a nod. "They all knew we were going with District 12. Expected it, even." Then you turned to him, your heart pounding slightly. "Are you mad at me?"
Mason shook his head instantly, his expression softening. "No. Never." He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "I just⊠I just hope we're not making a mistake. Thatâs all."
You hesitated, then spoke the words that had been in your head. "You could always go with the Careers, you know."
The words barely left your mouth when Mason shot you a glare, his eyes darkening. "Shut up," he said, his voice sharp but filled with the raw edge of care. "I've been saying the whole timeâit's you and me, always. If you want to team up with the newbies, we do it. If you want to team up with the Careers, we do it. Hell, if you want us to be on our own, weâll do that too. Iâm with you, partner, okay? You can't get rid of me that easily." He paused, a small, teasing smile creeping onto his lips. "Iâve been taking care of your ass for almost a decade. Iâm not about to stop now."
A lump formed in your throat at his words, and you smiled, fighting back the emotions. "You're my best friend," you whispered, and he chuckled.
"Donât let Cash hear that or sheâll make it her mission to have my head tomorrow." His voice was light, but there was something deeply affectionate in it.
"Iâm serious, Mase," you nudged him, a little more forceful now, your voice cracking. "Youâre my best friend. And this⊠this fucking sucks."
Without another word, Mason wrapped his arms around you tightly, his grip firm and warm. "Darling," he murmured into your hair, "no matter what happens tomorrow, know that you're my best friend. Youâve always been. And, I canât really be mad at you. They're an alright team. The girl is good with those damn arrows. Plus, we get Finnick and Beetee. It could be worse."
You stayed like that for a long while, holding onto each other, the silent comfort of a friendship that had weathered more storms than anyone should ever have to. Then you heard a soft cough from the doorway, and you reluctantly pulled away.
You turned to see Haymitch standing there, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. "Am I interrupting something?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Mason rolled his eyes dramatically, his tone mockingly offended. "Dude," he said with a grin, "I just got told Iâm her best friend, and you couldnât wait five minutes to swoop in? Thatâs crazy."
Haymitch raised his hands in surrender, still grinning. "Ouch, I thought that was me." He turned to you with a feigned look of hurt on his face. "Sweetheart, you wound me."
You shot them both a tired, amused look. "Quiet, both of you." You turned to Mason, giving him a small, pleading glance. "Mase, can you leave us, please?"
He groaned, but there was affection in the sound. "Fiiiiiinnnneeeee." He dragged out the word in a mock pout, but then he wrapped his arms around you one more time, pulling you close. "Iâll see you tomorrow, okay? Iâll find you." He kissed your forehead softly, the gesture comforting despite the weight of everything.
He pulled back, moving toward Haymitch. Before he left, Haymitch stopped and whispered, "Take care of her in there, and Iâll take care of you both out here."
Mason nodded, just slightly, so you wouldnât notice, before giving Haymitch a firm hug. He stepped back, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he turned to leave. "Good luck, Mason," Haymitch said softly, patting his shoulder as he went.
Mason gave a small nod, trying to keep the tension from showing, and then he left the room.
The door closed behind him, and for a brief moment, the room was silent.
Haymitch walked toward you, his steps slower than usual, more weighted. You didnât need him to say anything. You already knew.
This was goodbye.
Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly like he was trying to memorize the way you fit against him. You buried your face into his chest, inhaling the scent of himâwhiskey, pine, and something softer, something that always felt like home.
You wouldnât see him tomorrow. As soon as you woke, the Peacekeepers would be thereâno time for goodbyes, no time for holding each other like this. Theyâd tear you away from your bed, from this room, from him.
So this⊠this was it.
The two of you settled onto the couch in silence, your body curled into his, your face tucked into the crook of his neck, and his arms wrapped around you like armor. His hand moved up and down your back in a slow rhythm, steady and calming, though his heart beat loud and uneven against your cheek.
You could die like this, you thought.
God, you wished you would die like this.
"You know what I was thinking?" you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
Haymitch hummed in response, low and thoughtful, his fingers gently threading through your hair.
"I think we were meant to be with each other. In every universe. It's always you and I,â you breathed. âAnd I know... I know in another universe, we got to have a beautiful, long life together."
His lips twitched into a smile, pained but sincere. "You think so?"
"Oh, I know so," you said, the corner of your mouth lifting. âWe have three kids. Two girls and one boy. They're perfectâjust like we always dreamed. We live in this beautiful home with a white picket fence, big porch swing. You finally grow tomatoes that donât taste like dirt. We grow old together. We see our kids have kids. We'd be cool grandparents."
"The best grandparents," he said quietly, still stroking your hair, his voice strained and cracked with longing. âIs it weird that I'm jealous of that us?â
"No... because so am I." You closed your eyes, the fantasy a cruel comfort. It felt so real. It should have been real.
Your voice broke as the grief crashed over you like a wave. âThis isnât fair.â The words came out as a sob, and you shoved your face deeper into his neck, clinging to him like he was the last safe thing in the world.
"I know, sweetheart. I know," he murmured, holding you tighter. His hand moved slowly over your back, as if he could rub the pain away, ease the break in your heart. "But I'm going to help you. You and Mase. It's going to be alright.â
He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes, his own gaze sharp and urgent. âI just need you to stay with Katniss. No matter whatâstay with her.â
You blinked, confused for a moment, but nodded. There was something in his tone, something just beneath the surface. You didn't know the full story, but you trusted him. You always had.
"I promise, Haymitch. Iâll try to protect them... for as long as I breathe."
He stilled. Completely.
His jaw clenched, and his grip on you tightened again.
He hadnât meant for it to come across like that. God, no. He never wanted you to think you owed him thatâyour life for theirs. That wasnât what this was.
"I just need you to breathe," he said, his voice rough and trembling. âThatâs all I need, okay? Just breathe. Protect yourself. Iâll take care of the kids. I promise. But youâyou look after you. No playing hero. No playing mama bear.â
You lifted your head to meet his eyes, your heart thudding. âYou care for those kids, Haymitch Abernathy,â you said, voice firm. âIâm going to protect them as much as I can. Nothingâs happening to those kids if Iâm there.â
He stared at you, the pain behind his eyes shining like glass ready to crack.
"And I care about you, Y/N Abernathy." His voice hitched. âSo you're going to make sure you survive.â
Your bottom lip trembled. You looked at himâat the man you loved more than anythingâand whispered, âOnly one comes out alive, Mitch.â
Your voice cracked like a brittle bone.
âIâm not even in the top five of who should win.â
Tears welled in your eyes again, hot and burning, and his face crumpled just slightly as he pulled you back into him, his breath stuttering.
You could see it. The way he was unraveling. The storm brewing behind his eyes. He had been holding something in, and it was clawing its way out of him, ripping him apart from the inside.
Youâd been accepting your fate quietly, trying not to make it harder for him. But he needed more from you now.
He needed you to fight.
He needed you to live.
He needed to say the thing that had been killing him since the moment he knew. There was this plan. A plan to get Katniss and all the other victors out of there. A plan that could save your life. And he wishes he could tell you scream it out.
But Plutarch didnât want you to involved because of your close relationship with the careers. He said it could compromise the whole mission. But he needed to tell you. He needed to guarantee your safety. Plutarch be dammed. Youâre his wife. Youâre the only thing that matters.
"Iâ" he started, voice hoarse, his hands twitching at his sides. Just spit it out he thought to himself.
You turned to face him fully, one brow raised. He was spinning in his own mind, fighting every instinct. You could tell he wanted to say it, to scream it but there was something holding him back.
"There's thiâwell, there's this... this plan... Plutarchâ" Why couldnât he just say it? His heart was screaming at him to spit it out.
You stepped in before he could finish, your heart stalling. You knew that look, the flickering indecision, the desperation caught behind his teeth.
"You're not supposed to tell me, right?" you asked gently, already knowing the answer.
He faltered, looking at you like youâd read the last page of a book he hadnât finished. He wanted to tell you. So badly. And thatâs what terrified you.
"There's this planâ"
"Stop." You raised your hand, voice quiet but firm. A small, tired smile tugged at your lips. "Donât tell me."
He stared at you in disbelief, his brows furrowed like youâd just spoken in a language he didnât understand. "What...?"
"There's a reason why you canât tell me, right?"
He hesitated⊠and nodded.
"Then itâs probably a good reason.â
"It can save your life," he whispered, and that was when the first tear slipped from his eye. He was screaming at himself to tell you to save you. Why the hell isnât he saying anything?
Your chest tightened, but you held your voice steady. "But it jeopardizes Katniss, doesnât it?"
He didnât answer. He didnât have to. The silence was loud enough.
"Then donât tell me."
"Sweetheart..."
"Don't tell me, Haymitch." You stepped closer, looking up at him with as much reassurance as you could muster. "Iâm telling you not to tell me. You were going toâand now Iâm saying no. So if anything happens, itâs on me. Not you. Never you."
You could already see it in his eyesâthe guilt building like floodwater behind a dam. You couldnât let it break him.
"You need to protect Katniss," you said softly.
His expression cracked as tears finally spilled freely, his voice breaking under the weight of his helplessness. "I need to protect you."
And that nearly broke you.
You had to look away, just for a second. "Youâre putting her first," you said, your voice catching. "And thatâs okay. You need to put her first. Always. You and I both know that. Itâs for the greater causeâsomething bigger than just you and me."
He clenched his jaw. You both knew it was true. If the rebellion was going to work, it had to be Katniss. It had to be the Mockingjay.
"I need you safe," he said again, like if he repeated it enough, the universe would listen.
"And we need her alive." You were already shifting, already planning. Your voice quickened, desperate to be useful, to give him something to hold on to. "Both of them. Without Peeta, Katniss wonât want to do anything for the rebellion. Okay, Iâll look after Katniss and Mase can look after Peeta. Well of course Iâll also look after Peeta, butâ"
You rambled, words spilling from you as your mind raced, building walls to keep the fear from crashing in. And he just looked at you.
God, he looked at youâlike you were made of light and heartbreak and everything he could never deserve.
Then suddenly his hands were on your face, steadying you, grounding you. He needed to tell you. It was eating him alive.
You froze under his touch, your voice softening to a murmur. "Donât tell me, Haymitch. Iâm not mad. I wonât be mad. Iâll never make you choose between them or me. I care about them too."
He pulled you close, resting his forehead against yours, his breath trembling.
"Itâs always been you," he choked, tears falling freely now. "Itâs always going to be you."
You closed your eyes. If you could bottle this momentâthis closeness, this certaintyâyou would have. Youâd carry it into the arena like armor.
"This is more than just us, Mitch," you whispered. "If she survives⊠the districts' hope still lives."
He let out a bitter, shaking breath. "Damn it, woman, I want to tell you. I need to tell you."
You touched his cheek gently, tears stinging your eyes. "But you're holding back for her. And I'm telling you itâs okay."
You swallowed the lump in your throat and straightened your shoulders. "I told you since the beginningâIâm getting her out of that arena. Now you need to promise me you will too. Over Mags. Over Beetee. Over me."
Your voice didnât shake this time. Not when it mattered most.
You looked into his eyes and saw the war in themâsaw him silently screaming I canât lose you.
But he knew you were right.
"I promise," he whispered, barely getting it out.
"It's going to be okay. We're going to be okay," you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears as you pulled back, giving him a smile that trembled with hope and heartbreak. "And then one morning, youâll wake up back in District 12⊠and youâre going to look out at the sky and feel it. Feel the peace. The Games will be gone. The children will be able to be children again. Itâs what weâve always wanted."
You smiled as you spoke, but he could see itâyou werenât just comforting him.
You were saying goodbye.
And Haymitch felt it. In the hollowness in his chest. In the way your voice cracked just slightly when you talked about a future you didnât believe youâd see. You were accepting your death. Quietly. Gracefully. Willingly.
Even when the cause didnât trust you enough to let you in.
And yet, here you were, dreaming about a life beyond the warâknowing you wouldnât be part of it.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides.
âI feel like Iâm making a mistake,â he said, voice raw, like it scraped his throat on the way out. Damn the cause. Damn Plutarch. Damn those District 12 kids. Damn this plan.
âYouâre not,â you said gently. âYouâre a mentor. We give our lives for those children. If I couldâve saved my tributes, I wouldâve.â
You smiled through your tears, and it wrecked him.
âYouâre the best mentor known to man. And an even better husband.â
That was the final blow.
âI love you,â he whispered like a confession, like a prayer. âSo, so much. More than the moon loves the stars. More than the sun loves the ocean. I love you, Y/N.â
You cupped his face like he was fragile, precious. Like he wasnât the broken man the world always thought him to be.
âAnd I love you, Haymitch,â you murmured. You nestled yourself back into his chest, fitting there like you were made for him. And maybe you were.
You both stared out the window as silence wrapped around you. Not a single word for an hourâjust hearts beating in sync, like this moment could stretch forever.
But it couldnât.
Eventually, you sat up slowly, blinking back the heaviness in your eyes. âYou have to go check on the kids. The elevator locks soon⊠and I doubt you want to walk up seven flights of stairs.â
He clung to you a little tighter. âIâll be fine. Come back here.â
You gave him that look. The one that always shut down every argument. Soft, patient, immovable.
He sighed. He knew. You were doing it for the kids. For him. If the Peacekeepers found you both here, alone, asleepâit would be over for him. Youâd never let that happen.
âFine. Fine.â
You walked him toward the elevator slowly, each step a thousand pounds heavier than the last.
Then you paused.
âTell Effie I say that I love her⊠and that she needs to take care of you. No more than three whiskey bottles a week.â
He didnât laugh.
He didnât even smile.
He just pulled you into his arms like he was afraid youâd disappear the second he let go.
âIâm sorry,â he whispered, and he meant it for everythingâfor the plan, for the Capitol, for the years wasted, for the future he couldnât give you.
âIâm not,â you said softly, holding his face like a lifeline. âI lived a beautiful life⊠with amazing friends and a perfect husband. I meant what I said. I felt more love in the years with you than most people ever feel in a lifetime. You made me happy. You make me proud. After everything youâve been through, weâre finally going to be at peace.â
He was breaking. He didnât care how pathetic it looked.
âI need you,â he choked, like the words themselves were ripping something loose in his chest.
âAnd you have me,â you whispered, âforever.â
You kissed his cheek, pulled him close again, memorized the shape of his body, the weight of him in your arms.
âIâll be fine,â you lied. âRemember your promise.â
You stepped back, slowly pushing him toward the elevator. Your hands were shaking, but your face was steady. Because if you falteredâif you gave inâhe would stay. And that was too dangerous.
The doors slid open.
And he didnât move.
He couldnât.
But you gave him a little push.
Because you had to.
He stepped inside. And as the doors started to close, you saw the panic take over his features.
"I love you," he said, the words tearing from his chest like a final breath. His heart physically ached. Like it was collapsing in on itself. Like maybe, just maybe, a person could die from a broken heart.
"And I love you too," you replied, the softest smile breaking through your tears. How could you smile when you were walking into your death?
Haymitch didnât know.
But you always found light, even at the end of the world.
âIâll see you in the next lifetime,â you said, and your voice cracked on the final word.
The doors slid shut.
And as the elevator descended, the last thing he heard was the sound of you sobbing.
And that was it.
That was the sound that shattered him.
This felt extremely long lol anyways thank y'all for reading! I also live for your comments they actually make my day.
Let me know what you want to see!!!!
Previous Chapter
Taglist (If I'm missing you I'm sorry still new at this)
omfg that ending. gna be sobbing for the next few hours now
This time, you were older. Sharper. Tired in a way you didnât know how to explain. And despite all of it, you had no idea what you were going to do in there. No plan, no performance. You hadnât let yourself think too hard about it, because thinking meant caringâand caring meant fear. And you were so tired of being afraid.
and the writing is just stunning truly
"I need you safe," he said again, like if he repeated it enough, the universe would listen.
God, he looked at youâlike you were made of light and heartbreak and everything he could never deserve.
so emotional and beautiful and perfectly gutwrenching fuckj
hi! is there any way you can write a pt 2 of a pawn once more? maybe turn it into a series? i just read it and LOVED it, your writing is beautiful!
Ask and you shall receive!!!!!
A Pawn Once More (2)
Character: Haymitch Abernathy
Requested: Sorta??? Lol I've been seeing all the love it's been getting.
Type: Angst/ Fluff
Summary: You're trying to figure out if you should listen to your heart or follow your head.
Part 1: Here
Part 3: Here
A.N: I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader. Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)
I honestly wasnât expecting this to get so much love â thank you all so much! I've seen a lot of people asking for it to become a series, and the truth is, I actually started this one-shot right in the middle of everything. Thereâs so much more I can write â backstory, missing context, and I could even take it all the way through Mockingjay Part 2 and beyond.
Let me know what you want to see, and Iâll gladly make it happen!
My inbox is always open and y'all I love your comments! Soooo please comment!!!!!!
You couldnât breathe.
It wasnât just the bodysuitâthough it clung too tightly to your ribsâbut the panic.
The cold, creeping panic of being back. The fear you thought you'd buried, the ghosts you thought you'd left behindâthey were all clawing their way back to the surface.
How unlucky were you, really? To be given a second round of memories. A cruel encore.
"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe." The words barely made it past your lips, more breath than voice, a desperate mantra as you stepped into the Chariot Staging Area.
You just needed to find Haymitch.
If you could hear his voice, meet his eyes, feel his presenceâmaybe then the terror would loosen its grip. Maybe then you could breathe.
âYou look stunning!â your stylist chirped, smoothing your hair and flicking back a few stubborn flyaways. Her hands were quick, practiced, and utterly unaware of the storm brewing inside you.
You were dressed in a sleek black bodysuit, tailored like a second skin. Woven into the fabric were delicate fiber-optic threads that pulsed in slow, elegant waves, mimicking lightning bolts across your body. A walking storm.
âThis beautiful number responds to movement,â she said proudly. âThe lights will shift and pulse with every gesture. Iâll be operating the pattern controlsâyou just need to wave and look pretty.â
You nodded absently, your attention already drifting, eyes scanning the room like sonar.
You needed to find him.
âLittle bird looking for me?â You turned, and there he wasâGloss, standing with that signature smirk, arms crossed like he owned the room.
âYou look breathtaking,â he said, eyeing the suit with an appreciative nod. âI swear, youâve got enough power in you to light up all of Panem.â
A genuine laugh escaped you, small but real, and you stepped forward to pull him into a hug. âFlattery will get you nowhere,â you said, voice lighter. âBut itâs good to see you, Glossy. Whereâs Cash?â
âHere I am!â a familiar voice called.
You turned to see Cash striding over, flanked by Enobaria and Brutus. A wave of warmth surged through your chest. You moved quickly, gathering them all into a hug.
These werenât just allies. These were your people. Friends who understood the weight behind your eyes. The ache in your chest. The blood on your hands. Because they were the exact same way. As broken as you were.
Once, when you were young, it seemed impossible to be asked to kill strangers. And now? Now you were being asked to kill your friends.
âHow are you all?â you asked, voice soft. âIâm sorry I missed the last hangout. I had food poisoning. And Iâm even sorrier that this is how weâre seeing each other again.â
You gave them a sad smile. The kind that meant more than words ever could.
âThis was definitely a turn of events,â Enobaria muttered, rolling her eyes.
âNever thought Iâd have to set foot back here as a tribute,â Cash added, shaking her head.
Everyone nodded grimly. You all had the same unspoken thought: peace was promised. And then peace was stolen.
Brutus looked across the room, tipping his chin toward the group. âSo? Should we expect you and Mason to join us?â You raised an eyebrow. He went on.âI doubt weâll offer that to District 4. I love Mags, but this isnât about friendship. Itâs about survival. Or are you planning to side with the newbies for your husbandâs sake?â
You met his gaze, firm and unflinching. âYou already know the answer to that, Brutus. Those kids? Theyâre basically his. Which means⊠theyâre mine, too.â
Enobaria let out a slow sigh, stepping closer. âJust donât put their lives above your own. And donât forget about Mason. You have to think about him. Plust those kidsâŠâ Her next words hit harder than you were ready for. â--theyâre the reason weâre here. If just one of them had died... we wouldnât be back in this arena and we all know it. And look at us weâre stuck here once again and now we have to kill each other.â
The silence was immediate and suffocating.
No one spoke.
Because she wasnât wrong.
It was the truth everyone avoided speaking out loudâbut now that it hung in the air, you all had to face it.
Bitterness curled in your stomach, uninvited but undeniable. You hated feeling it. Hated that it made sense.
âHey,â Cash cut in sharply, eyes narrowing at Enobaria. âStop. Whatever happens, happens. We keep it fast. We keep it painless. Right?â
Everyone nodded. Even Enobaria.
Then Cash turned to you, her voice lowering.
âI would really love for District 5 to join us,â she said. âWe love you. And we love Mason. But I get it. Youâre looking out for your husband. Thatâs not cowardiceâthatâs loyalty. Itâs love. Just⊠if anything changes, youâre always welcome here.â
She gave you a tight hug and stepped away. Gloss winked and followed. Enobaria gave you a rare side hug. Brutus patted your shoulder, rough and sincere, before the group slipped into the crowd.
And then you were alone again. Not alone in the roomâbut alone in the way that mattered.
Your eyes scanned once more, heart pounding harder now.
For him.
And then you saw herâKatniss. Standing with Peeta. Not speaking. Not blinking. Just... watching.
You hadnât spoken yet. You and Haymitch had always kept your relationship quiet, tucked away where the Capitol couldn't twist it. Mentors by day. Lovers by night. The other victors knew. Your families knew. But to the Capitol?
It had to stay hidden.
Some things were too sacred to put on display.
Last night had nearly shattered that wall. Youâd broken down behind a closed door, only to feel their eyes on you through the crackâKatniss, Peeta, and even Effie.
But Haymitch had pulled you away, shielding you from their stares. From their pity.
And now, Katniss was watching again.
You met her gaze, steady and calm, and offered a soft smile. A small nod.
She mattered. They both did.
You needed her to trust you.
Because Haymitch did. And you saw itâhow he cared for them. The soft way he spoke to them. The cracks in his armor, carefully hidden but real. He was letting himself feel again.
He was learning to love. Openly. Fiercely. Just like you had always wished he would. And because of that, you would do whatever it took to protect them. By your life⊠or by your death.
Katniss gave you the smallest of nods. Then turned away.
You exhaledâslowly, shakily.
A small victory.
Maybe the only kind left.
A warm hand caught your arm. Mason.
âYou ready for this?â he asked, helping you up into the carriage.
You nodded. âSmile and wave,â you said softly.
The chariots began to roll and the sound hit like thunder. A roar of applause, cheers, screams. Your lungs tightened. The noise pressed in from every side. Your hands trembled. Sweat gathered along your brow. You felt like you were drowning in the sound.
Masonâs grip on your hand tightened. He could feel your fear. But he wasnât the one you needed.
You needed Haymitch.
His voice. His eyes. His strength.
You scanned the audience, heart hammering wildly. Too many faces. Too much light. Too much noise.
And thenâthere.
You found him.
He stood behind the others, half-hidden, quiet as always. But his eyes were on you.
Only you.
You felt your shoulders drop. Your breath returned. You smiled softly
And he winked.
Just like that, the panic loosened. The thunder of the Capitol became background noise. The trembling in your fingers eased.
You could do this.
You could finish the parade.
Because he saw you. Because he was there.
And that was enough.
*******
You hated looking at yourself in the mirror.
You always had.
Especially after the Games.
Back then, at sixteen, youâd stare at your reflection and search for somethingâsomeoneâyou recognized. But all you ever saw were the eyes of the people you killed, their final moments etched behind your own.Â
You didnât see a girl. You didnât see a victor. You saw a murderer.
And now, nearly a decade later, here you wereâtwenty-five years old, staring into the same damn mirror, in the same damn room, waiting to face the same horrors.
Except this time, you werenât naĂŻve enough to believe youâd make it out.
You knew the moment you volunteered.
This was your end.
A knock at the door snapped you out of your thoughts. âDarling, we need to go,â Masonâs voice called gently from the hall. âWe need all the training we can get.â
You looked at yourself one last time.
A murderer.
A lunatic.
A dead man walking.
You blinked away the tears, jaw tightening. Then you tied your ponytail higherâtighterâlike it might hold you together a little longer.
You stepped out to meet Mason.
âYou okay?â he asked, his voice laced with that familiar worry. He always worried. Especially about you. You were the little sister he never hadâand now the two of you were walking into hell all over again.
âWell enough,â you replied, offering him a small smile that didnât reach your eyes. âBut itâs fine.â
He didnât believe you. But he nodded.
You were grateful, at least, that youâd never really stopped training after your Games. You were constantly on edge, and staying active had become your only way to keep the nightmares at bay. The gym had always felt more familiar than your own home.
The Training Center was exactly how you remembered it: the scent of metal, sweat, and Capitol sterilization. Clean and gleaming, like death dressed up in a ballgown. Everything here looked expensive. Perfect. Soulless.
You and Mason stood shoulder to shoulder on the rising platform. The doors opened, revealing the training floorâwide, cold, and humming with tension.
Tributes filled the space, moving like restless ghosts. Silent, watchful, already assessing one another like it was the arena.
You tensed immediately. The smell. The sound. The weight in the air. It all pulled you backward, to the first time. The fear. The blood. The moment everything changed.
You scanned the floor, searching for him. For Haymitch.
But he wasnât here.
Mason nudged you gently. âHeâs probably hungover. Heâll be down in a minute.â
You nodded, but your mind was still spinning. You didnât want to be here. Not really. You didnât want to spar or strategize or throw knives at holograms. You wanted to find Haymitch. You wanted to hold his hand and talk about nothing. You wanted to remember what it felt like to be alive before the arena took everything again.
But the odds were never in your favor.
âI say we stick with the Careers,â Mason murmured, arms crossed over his chest as he nodded toward the familiar pack from Districts 1, 2, and 4. âTheyâve got numbers. Theyâre predictable. We know how they move, how they think. We get in, stay close, bail when it gets ugly. And heyâif we do die, at least it'll be quick and painless.â
You didnât respond immediately.
Your eyes drifted across the floor, landing on Katniss and Peeta as they entered the room. Their posture was stiff. Guarded. Haymitch still nowhere in sight.
You sighed. âWe canât.â
Masonâs brow furrowed. âWe canât what?â
âWe canât team up with the Careers.â
You turned to him fully, voice steady, even as your heart pounded. âWe need to stick with District 12. With them.â
He stared at you like youâd lost your mind. âAre you serious? Y/N, come on. Theyâre kids. They won out of dumb luck.â
You met his stare. âWe all won out of luck.â
âYou know what I mean.â He stepped closer, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. âEveryone here won. Theyâre strong. Dangerous. But you want to team up with the wide-eyed girl and her boy toy? Compared to the Careers? Darling, please.â
âIâm not asking you,â you said quietly. The edge in your voice cut sharper than you meant it to. âIâm telling you. Iâm staying with them. You can make your own call.â
There was a pause. Not angerâjust tension. Thick with history. With grief.
Masonâs jaw clenched. âThis isnât like last time, Y/N. This isnât your Games. This isnât about heart or honor orâwhatever the hell you and Haymitch have going on now. This is survival.â
You looked him straight in the eye. âExactly. And itâs their survival Iâm fighting for.â
His voice dropped. âAnd what about you?â
You hesitated, but he caught it. Your silence was louder than any answer.
âLook,â you began, softer now, âIâm not asking you to follow meââ
But he cut you off, stepping closer.
âYou donât have to! Weâre partners. Iâm sticking by you. I always have.â His voice cracked, just slightly. âI just want you to think. Really think, before you throw yourself into a losing bet. Thereâs a smarter play here. You know that.â
âI do,â you said. âBut sometimes the smart play isnât the right one.â
He exhaled harshly and scrubbed a hand over his face. âYou want to help Haymitch. I get that. I do. But we both know it was luck that those two made it out. Pure, stupid luck. But you. You can win. You can make it back to your family. Iâll help you get there.â
You were about to say something to Masonâsomething half-formed and already losing shape in your mouthâwhen you heard his voice.
âY/N! Mason!â
Your head turned faster than your heart could catch up. And there he was.
Your husband.
That familiar flutter of your heart. Like it always did. You hadnât seen him in a day? But even now, with him just a few feet away, it felt like a lifetime had passed. You missed him deeply.
Trailing behind him were Katniss and Peeta.
âI want to formally introduce you to my victors,â Haymitch said, stopping in front of you. âKatniss and Peeta. Guys, this is Y/N and Mason. District 5.â
âHey,â Mason said, flashing that strained, too-polished smile he always wore around new people. He gave your shoulder a quick pat. âIâm gonna go see what Gloss and Brutus are up to. Grab me when youâre done.â
Then he leaned in, low enough for only you to hear. âPlease⊠think about what I said.â
You nodded, not trusting your voice. He gave you a lookâworried, conflictedâand walked off.
You turned back to the trio.âSorry about him,â you said with a soft exhale. âHeâs⊠under pressureâŠbut arenât we all?â
Your gaze lingered on Haymitch for half a second longer than it shouldâve. You didnât need to explain more. He already knew.
Then you looked at Katniss and Peeta, offered a small smile, and reached out your hand. âIâm Y/N. Iâve heard a lot about you both. What you didâhow you handled everythingâit was impressive.â
Peeta was the first to move. His handshake was firm, warm. His eyes kind. âItâs good to meet you. We, uh⊠we watched your Games last night.â He hesitated, then smiled a little. âYou were incredible. And also⊠slightly terrifying.â
You actually laughed. âDonât worry,â you said. âIf things go well, you wonât have to be scared of me.â
Haymitch cleared his throat, arms crossed, already watching the storm gather in Katnissâs face. âI was telling them you and Mason would be good allies. They seemed open to it.â
Katniss turned sharply toward him. âNo, we didnât.â
You blinked, trying to keep your expression neutral, but her words stung.
She folded her arms, looking you up and down like she was trying to see beneath your skin. âHow are we supposed to trust you if youâre still with him? He clearly wants nothing to do with us.â
Your voice was quiet but steady. âI can handle Mason. Heâll follow my lead. He wonât be a threat.â
âYeah, well,â she said, turning away, âI donât trust you either.â And just like that, she was gone. Peeta followed, his face apologetic but silent.
You stood there for a beat too long, your hand still halfway raised before you let it fall.
Haymitch ran a hand down his face. âSheâs scared,â he muttered. âSheâs trying to protect him. Sheâs paranoidâon edge.â
You shook your head, arms wrapping around your chest like armor. âI get it. I really do. But if she wonât trust me, Masonâs going to dig in even harder. Heâs already eyeing the Careers, and they really want us. Theyâre not taking District 4.â
Haymitch glanced toward where Mason was sparring with Brutus, the clang of metal echoing through the air like thunder. He winced.
âYou thinking of going with them?â
You turned back to him slowly, locking eyes. âYou really asking me that?â
Silence.
âIâm here,â you said. âWith Twelve. With you. Thatâs not changing.â
He nodded, but you could see itâthe guilt. The weight of what he was asking from you. Of what he couldnât promise in return.
âIâll talk to her,â he said finally. âIâll get her to see reason. But youâve gotta keep Mason from jumping ship. We donât win this if he flips.â
You followed his gaze. Mason was grinning now, laughing at something Brutus said. âHe can go if he wants,â you said quietly. âI told him. But my alliance is here. I made that choice.â
For you. You didnât say it out loud. But Haymitch knew.
The noise of training continued around youâgrunts, shouts, weapons clashingâbut for a second, it all felt muffled. The pressure building behind your ribs was harder to ignore by the minute.
You looked at Haymitch again and tried not to let the fear show. But he saw it. He always saw it.
And that was part of what made this so unbearable.
âHow are you feeling?â Â He asks the question softly, like itâs the only one that matters. You know his eyes are tracing the lines of your face, trying to read the answer that youâre not saying out loud. The panic attack youâd had with him still lingers in his mind â a tightness in his chest he canât shake. Heâs scared, just like you are. The separation, even this small distance between you, feels like a raw wound. Every second without you feels like itâs eating at him from the inside out.
You shrug, doing your best to sound nonchalant. âIâm fine enough. Havenât had another panic attack... yet. But it gets close sometimes.â You try to offer a half-smile, but itâs hollow. You can feel it â the weight of everything about to happen. And itâs suffocating.
His fingers twitch, almost as if heâs reaching for you before realizing he canât. The frustration is written all over him. He needs to touch you. Needs to hold you, but everything feels like itâs out of his reach.
âYouâve only got a few days left untilââ He doesnât finish. He doesnât need to. You both know whatâs coming. The suffocating fear. The arena. The uncertainty. But for a second, you donât want to hear it. Not from him.
âI walk into my death?â You let out a shaky laugh, trying to break the tension with humor that doesnât quite land. âI promise to make it as epic as possible.â
You turn to look at him, but his eyes are hard, like heâs trying to hold it all together, and he doesnât like what youâre saying.
âWhat?â you ask, but you already know.
âDonât say that.â His voice is low, urgent. His brow furrows as he steps closer, his gaze sharp. âNever say that.â
Your heart stutters in your chest, a dull pain spreading through you. âIâm sorry.â The words fall out before you can stop them, but it feels too late to take them back.
âI need you out of that arena.â His voice is raw, like itâs the one thing he can cling to. âI donât know what Iâd do if you donât.â
You know thatâs the truth. You can see it in his eyes, that quiet desperation. Heâs already lost so much. He canât lose you too. But youâre not sure how to make him understand that youâve already made peace with the reality.
You turn your body toward him, not daring to reach out because of the eyes on you both. But this â this moment â this conversation, itâs just between the two of you. You need him to see you, to know youâre still there, even when it feels like everything is about to come crashing down.
âHaymitch,â your voice is softer now, the lump in your throat growing. âWeâre going to be fine. No matter what happens, okay? In sickness and in health. In better or for worse. Death wonât do us part.â Your breath hitches, and you try to hold back the tears, but they spill anyway. âI love you more than youâll ever know.â
Thereâs a tremor in his eyes, like heâs holding something back. But itâs his voice that cracks this time, just a little. âAnd I love you,â he says, his words lingering between you both. âWhich is why I donât like that you sound so defeated.â His voice is a whisper now, almost lost in the space between you.
Itâs true. Heâs only seen you three times. And all those times, youâve looked at him like youâve already accepted your fate. And thatâs the part he canât handle. The part that tears at him in a way heâll never be able to explain.
âItâs not defeat.â Your voice is stronger now, though it still trembles. âIâve accepted it. I wonât be as lucky as I was the first time around. And honestly, I donât think I want to be. Not with them.â You gesture to the others around you â the tributes who would be in the arena with you. âAnd definitely not if itâs against your kids.â
He bristles at the mention of them, his expression hardening in that way youâve come to know well. âTheyâre not my kids.â His tone is sharp, defensive.
You roll your eyes, though the sadness creeps back in. âYouâre letting them into your heart, and thatâs all Iâve ever wanted for you.â You smile, but itâs bittersweet. âItâs such an honor seeing the light shine back into your eyes.â
His gaze softens, but his voice drops, rough and honest. âIâve had light from the moment we kissed. You are my light. And thatâs why I need you to stop talking like youâve already lost.â He steps closer, his hand hovering like he wants to touch you but is afraid to. His breath is ragged. âThe Abernathyâs donât give up.â Heâs trying, trying so hard to convince you both. But the truth is, youâve already decided.
âThey donât.â You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. âAnd thatâs why, whatever happens, Iâm going to need you to remember that.â
How could you still try to take care of him when you were the one who needed the comfort? You were supposed to be the one being held, not the other way around. But he was still trying to do it â trying to take care of you in whatever broken way he could.
âIâll figure something out,â he says, his eyes burning with determination. âTrust me, okay? Iâll figure something out. And both you and the kids... youâll be okay. Iâll make sure of it.â He reaches for your hand quickly, squeezing it tight. You can feel the heat of his palm, the raw, frantic pulse beneath his skin. His eyes meet yours for just a second, and he gives you a wink, a shaky attempt at something like normal. âNow, I have to go find where that girl ran off to. I swear, sheâs becoming more of a pain in my ass this time around. And Peetaâs following her like a lost puppy.â
You chuckle softly, the sound breaking the tension between you both. âBut you love them.â You smile up at him.
He shakes his head, his smile small but real. âBut I love you more.â
And in that moment, you know he means it. Even if youâre both standing on the edge of an abyss. Even if you donât know how youâll survive the next few days, or if youâll survive at all. Haymitchâs love is the only thing in this world that feels like it might be enough to hold you together.
But you canât say that. You canât say anything. Because the truth is, youâre terrified.
And youâre not sure you can be brave enough for both of you.
summary when the eldest donner volunteers for the fiftieth hunger games in place of her sister, survival is the last thing she expects. trapped in an arena designed to punish rebellion, she is forced to confront loss, violence, and the boy she always hated: haymitch abernathy. as the games twist toward an unprecedented ending, she learns that some special things endure even when the capitol tries to erase them
warnings 22k+ word count, little use of y/n, angst, mentions of death + violence, heavy spoilers for sunrise on the reaping w/ a somewhat altered plot â request
the tributes
i donât feel the cold until the door slams shut behind me.
the justice building always felt too big from the outside, but from in hereâfrom the backseat of the black car that smells like leather and polished brassâit feels even bigger. like the walls are swallowing the sound of everything i didnât get to say.
my hands are still trembling. not the dramatic kind of tremblingâno shaking shoulders, no sobbing, no broken breaths. just this quiet, constant vibration under my skin, like my body hasnât realized the reaping is over yet.
like it hasnât realized that i volunteered as tribute.
the window beside me fogs with my breath. i stare at the blurred shape of the justice building as we pull away, the faint gold lettering smearing into nothingness.
maysileeâs voice still rings in my earsâyou shouldnât have done thatâshe said it twice. once angry, once muffled by sobs. the first time, she sounded like a sister. the second, she sounded like someone losing one.
merilee said nothing at all. she just held my hands so tightly her knuckles went white, her forehead resting against mine like she was trying to memorize the shape of me. my motherâs sobs felt muffled, like i was underwater watching someone elseâs life play out. my father had to pull her away when the peacekeepers stepped in.
i didnât cry. i think something in me wanted to, but the shock was thicker. like grief was settling into my bones before i even left district twelve.
across from me, wyatt callow sits with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like the numbers are running behind his eyes. louella mccoy is beside him, tiny and pale, wringing the hem of her dress in her fists. she looks thirteen in the worst wayâtoo young to understand everything, but just old enough to understand enough.
haymitch abernathy sits in the farthest corner of the carriage, wedged against the window, arms crossed so tightly it looks painful. he hasnât bothered wiping the soot off his face from the mines. it streaks across his cheekbone, sharp like war paint. he glares out the window like he wants to punch it until the glass shatters.
my heart tugs at the thought of him and the undoubtedly horrible thoughts that swim through his head. haymitch wasn't reaped, not really. i watched with a slack jaw as woodbine chance, who had just had his name announced, was shot seven times after his attempted escape. it was all a blur after that; haymitch's friend, lenore, trying to comfort woodbine's mother, the peacekeepers trying to hurt lenore, haymitch trying to protect lenore.
he was then designated the second male tribute; a punishment for his kind but rebellious regards.
i donât look at him. i canât. not with how brittle i feel. not with the way his eyes cut through everything.
drusilla sickle and her flaming orange bob sit nearest the front, legs crossed neatly, her makeup cakey, a smile painted on like sheâs hosting a garden party and not escorting four children to their televised execution. âsuch bravery today,â she chirps, as if bravery is what happened in the square. as if volunteering to die is noble.
no one answers her. not even haymitch, who never misses an opportunity to snarl at the capitol.
previous victors, mags flanagan from district four and wiress from district three, are on the bench with the driver, murmuring softly, preparing rooms, food, schedules. they are kindâtoo kind. the worst kind. the kind that makes you realize how doomed you are.
my fingers curl into the fabric of my skirt. the carriage bumps over uneven stone as we cross out of the merchant district. the roads change texture when we hit the seamârougher, colder, biting at the wheels.
i feel it before i look: haymitchâs eyes shifting away from the window. the weight of his attention lands on me like a stone. i keep staring straight ahead, jaw tight, breath steady, pretending i donât notice him watching me. pretending i donât feel his resentment curdling the air like smoke.
heâs hated me for years. "spoiled princess" he had called me that night. iâd thrown it right back at him, calling him a charity case myself, unknowingly two days after his father passsd in a mine explosion. i regret that now, iâve regretted it for years. but neither of us ever apologized.
the distance between us in the carriage feels like a punishment.
louella sniffles quietly. wyatt rests a hand on her shoulder, awkward but earnest. i should reach out tooâi want toâbut my body feels like someone elseâs. like itâs stuck between wanting to crumble and refusing to be the weak one in front of haymitch abernathy.
the carriage slows as we near the station. steam billows from the massive engine waiting on the tracks. the tribute train gleams silver under the fading lightâtoo clean, too beautiful, too bright for district twelve.
the peacekeeper outside calls, âdoors!â
drusilla beams. âoff we go, my dears.â her voice is sugar but this situation is acid.
the door swings open. cold air rushes in, sharp and metallic. i shiver.
haymitch doesnât move at first. he watches me stand, watches me wipe my palms on my skirt, watches my shoulders stiffen as i prepare to step out of the life i knew and into whatever waits for me on the other side of that platform. his jaw clenchesâone sharp line. i donât know what it means.
i take the first step out of the carriage. the station lights flare white-hot, almost blinding. the platform smells like coal and oil and something sweet drifting from the trainâs open doorsâdeath dressed in velvet.
i hear maysileeâmy sweet younger sister, my best friendâin my head again, voice cracking: âplease come back. promise me youâll try.â i didnât promise her anything. i couldnât.
my throat locks. i stare at the train, at the polished steps leading into the car, at the curtain of warm air brushing my face like an invitation i never asked for. i am not ready. i am not the brave volunteer they think i am. but i walk toward the train anyway. because maysilee is safe. merilee is safe. and i will bear the consequences of loving them more than myself.
haymitch passes me on the steps and mutters, low enough only i can hear: âfigures you volunteered." the words sting sharper than they should. i donât answer. i donât trust what cruel words that i don't truly mean might come out of my mouth.
the seven of us step inside one-by-one, the door sealing shut behind us with a soft click. and just like thatâdistrict twelve is gone. the warmth of the car hits me first, wrapping around me the second i let myself deeper into the tribute train. it smells faintly of lavender steam and something sweet simmering in copper pots far ahead.
i blink hard, letting my eyes adjust. everything inside gleams. gold fixtures polished within an inch of their life. soft carpets that swallow my footsteps. walls paneled in dark wood that looks expensive enough to feed my family of five for a year.
louella hesitates at the doorway like sheâs afraid to step on anything. wyatt gently nudges her in. haymitch stomps past all of us down the aisle, boots still covered in seam dust, tracking it onto marble tile in a carelessness that makes me wince.
drusilla gestures down the corridor. âdining car first! refreshments, introductions, announcementsâoh, itâs all so exciting, isnât it?â no one answers. again.
the corridor smells too clean, too warm, too alive. it makes my stomach churn. district twelve fades behind us through the narrow train windows, shrinking to a blur of gray and smoke. i swallow hard at the sight.
the dining car opens before me like something out of a dreamâvelvet seats, crystal bowls full of vibrant fruit, a shining chandelier overhead. the table is already set. wiress sits at the far end, fingers tapping lightly against a silver fork, eyes drifting between details no one else notices. mags is beside her, small and steady, hands folded over one another.
drusilla flutters in behind us. âtake a seat, darlings! anywhere youâd like!â
haymitch doesnât sit. he leans against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched. daring someone to tell him what to do.
scoffing, i move toward an empty seat across from mags, trying not to stare at the plates in front of us: pastries glazed with honey, sliced pears, shimmering cubes of pink meat. food meant to tempt tributes into forgetting theyâre sacrificial lambs.
louella climbs into the chair beside me, her legs barely reaching the edge. she looks up at me like sheâs asking permission. something in my chest twists; she reminds me of my sisters.
âgo ahead,â i murmur. âsit. youâre okay.â
her shoulders relax by a fraction.
haymitch scoffs quietly from behind, like the idea of me comforting anyone is laughable. i ignore it.
wyatt sits next to louella, already analyzing the table like heâs tallying odds on which dish is poisoned. when mags gestures for us to eat, he waits a full ten seconds before picking anything up.
iâm not hungry. i donât think iâll ever be hungry again.
drusilla, however, is starving. âchildren!â she claps her hands. âintroductions! enthusiasm! letâs get to know one another, shall we?â
haymitch mutters something under his breath. it sounds like, âgo choke.â drusilla ignores him.
âweâll start with our dear, sweet lou-anneââ
âlouella." wyatt corrects gently.
the correction makes louella perk up just a little, like the gesture was made of gold.
âlouella,â drusilla repeats with strained delight. âisnât she precious? protected by our own, personal calculator, wyatt callow. nowââ her attention snaps to me. âand you, miss donner. our bold volunteer. our heroine.â
my stomach drops. heroine. what a grotesque word.
i feel haymitchâs stare before i see itâsharp, slicing, waiting for me to bask in the praise like some merchant princess who loves attention. i keep my expression empty. âthereâs nothing heroic about it,â i say quietly. âi did what i had to.â
louella looks at me. wyatt looks at his hands. wiress looks through me, into something deeper. and haymitchâhis expression shifts. not softening, not sympatheticâjust something like surprise flickering behind the resentment. like he expected me to smile. or boast. instead, iâm just hollow.
drusilla moves on quickly, eager to regain her performance energy. âand last, but certainly not least: haymitch abernathy!â
haymitch lifts one hand in the laziest parody of a greeting iâve ever seen. âthrilledâ" he deadpans, âto be here.â
drusilla stiffens.
mags speaks up gently, âyou all must be exhausted.â
louella nods hard enough to wobble. wyattâs jaw tightens. haymitch scoffs. i inhale, the smell of honey pastries sickeningly sweet in my throat.
âyour rooms are ready,â mags continues. âafter you rest, weâll begin discussing strategy.â
haymitch pushes off the wall. âi donât need a strategy,â he says. âi wonât last long enough for it to matter.â
louellaâs eyes widen, terrified. wyatt shoots haymitch a look like he wants to punch him. i feel something hot rise in meâanger, sharp and sudden. âdonât say things like that in front of her,â i snap before i can stop myself.
haymitchâs head whips toward me. oh no. âdonât tell me what to say, princess.â
the old insult lands between us like a blade. my heartbeat stutters. merchants donât fight. donners donât cause scenes. tributes are supposed to save their energy. but i donât care. not now. not today.
âsheâs thirteen, haymitch,â i say quietly. âshe doesnât need to hear about your death wish.â
his nostrils flare. âshe needs to hear the truth.â
âshe needs hope.â
âhope?â he laughs, bitter and sharp. âyou think hope saves anyone in the arena?â
âmaybe not,â i whisper, leaning forward. âbut cruelty wonât either.â
his jaw tightens. for a momentâfor one breathâhis eyes flicker. not anger, not hate, but hurt. he looks away first.
drusilla clears her throat quickly, desperate to patch the cracks forming in her perfect tributes. âwell!â she says too brightly. ârest up! tomorrow is all too busy with your makeovers, parade, and the beginning of training!"
i stand too quickly, almost dizzy. haymitch steps aside for me, but the space between us is razor-thinâclose enough to feel the heat off his skin. close enough that i catch the faint scent of coal smoke and sweat clinging to him.
i donât sleep much that night. the bed on the train is too soft, the sheets too clean, the pillow too quiet. every time i close my eyes, i see maysileeâs face in the crowd, wet with tears she tried too hard to blink away. merileeâs hands clutching her necklace. my motherâs knees buckling. my fatherâs jaw set in that way that means heâs about to break but refuses to do it where anyone can see.
when i do drift off, itâs in piecesâthirty seconds here, a minute there. flashes of louellaâs wide eyes, of wyattâs hollow stare, of haymitchâs voice saying i wonât last long enough for it to matter.
i wake to sunlight i donât recognize. it pours in through the narrow window of my compartment, pale gold and too clean, nothing like the sickly gray that seeps over district twelve in the mornings. the train hums underneath me, smoother now, like the tracks themselves are made of polished glass.
someone knocks once on my door, brisk. âup, up, up!â drusillaâs voice trills from the hallway. âweâre nearly there, little doves!â little doves. like weâre pretty things in a cage, meant to sing until our throats give out.
i sit up slowly. my body feels heavy, like grief settled in overnight and crystallized behind my ribs. i swing my legs over the side of the bed, toes curling into the plush carpet. it feels wrong. all of this does.
thereâs a uniform laid out on the chair by the door: simple, soft, too white. capitol-issued. i change into it, my fingers clumsy with sleep deprivation, and tie my hair back out of habit, like iâm getting ready for a normal dayâthere will never be a normal day again. i know that.
when i step into the corridor, louella is already there, swallowed in fabric that doesnât quite fit her, hair mussed from sleep and eyes red-rimmed. she gives me a small nod, like sheâs not sure sheâs allowed to say good morning.
âhey,â i say quietly. âare you okay?â itâs a stupid question. of course sheâs not.
she shrugs one shoulder, lip wobbling just a little. âi dreamed about my mom.â
âme too,â wyatt mutters behind her, running a hand through his hair. he looks like he didnât sleep at all, dark circles bruised under his eyes. he catches my gaze. thereâs something like truce there.
haymitch appears from the opposite direction, stepping out of his compartment like heâs already halfway through a fight. his curls are a bit flatter from the pillow, shirt twisted at the collar, eyes bloodshot but hard.
he looks at me once. just once. thereâs no snide comment this time. no princess. no sneer. for some reason, that makes my stomach twist worse.
âgather, gather!â drusilla flaps her hands, her wig slightly askew like she slept in it. âweâre pulling into the station. first impressions are everything in the capitol. shoulders back, heads high, donât throw up.â
mags and wiress are waiting in the small lounge at the end of the car. mags gives us a soft smile that almost undoes me completely. wiress is watching the window, eyes tracking something outside only she can see.
âwe are almost there,â mags says gently. âremember to breathe.â
i move to the window. the world outside is nothing i recognize: towering buildings of glass and metal claw at the sky, throwing back the morning sun in shards of color. streets crisscross below like a living map, teeming with people in clothes that look more like plumage than fabricâbright, shimmering, impossible. fountains spray water that glitters pink and blue. even the sky looks different here. too blue. too open. like itâs laughing.
the train begins to slow. my heart picks up.
haymitch comes to stand beside me. so close that our shoulders almost touch, but not quite. his jaw works, like heâs grinding his teeth. âlook at them,â he mutters under his breath, so quiet i almost miss it. âlike this is a show they paid for.â
my eyes flick to the crowds lining the tracks. theyâre already pressing forward, waving, cheering, some holding up holographic signs that read sayings you'd see at a sporting event. my stomach lurches at the sight. weâre entertainment. thatâs all weâll ever be to them.
âremember,â drusilla says, voice suddenly sharp, âsmile when the doors open. the capitol adores bravery. and tragedy. and teeth.â she bares hers in demonstration.
wiress finally speaks, still staring at the world outside, âthey built all of this on bones,â she says, voice distant. âlayer after layer. they forget whatâs underneath if it shines enough.â mags touches her arm softly, like sheâs heard this before.
the train shudders to a full stop. for a heartbeat, no one moves. then the platform erupts in sound. cheers. shrieks. music blasting from unseen speakers. flashes of cameras. the train doors hiss as they unlock, and drusilla clasps her hands together like itâs wintermas morning.
âtime to meet your adoring public.â
the doors slide open and air floods inâwarmer than twelve, scented with something floral and sharp, like crushed petals and electricity. the noise slams into me a second later.
i take a breath that doesnât quite make it all the way down. my legs feel wooden as we move forward in a small cluster: wyatt, louella, haymitch, me. mags and wiress behind. drusilla leading the way, beaming.
the platform is a sea of color. capitol citizens press against barriers, reaching out, straining for a touch. some hold those ridiculous, large signs. others have styled their hair in bright yellow plumes âin honor of the quarter quell.â a few have already painted 12 on their cheeks.
louellaâs hand brushes mine. i donât realize sheâs reaching for me until her fingers hook tentatively around two of mine. i squeeze back.
haymitch notices. his eyes flick down at our joined hands, then up to my face, his expression unreadable. for a second, i think heâs going to say something cutting. he doesnât.
a man with gold tattoos etched into his cheeks and a hovering camera at his shoulder shouts, âlook this way! yes, perfectâdistrict twelve, give us a smile!â i donât but he takes the shot anyway.
âkeep moving,â drusilla sings. âweâre off to the remake center! your teams are just dying to get their hands on you.â
weâre fun new dolls for them to dress. for a handful of days, weâll be the cityâs latest obsession. and then weâll all die, and theyâll find someone else.
the station floors are slick and spotless beneath my flats as weâre shepherded toward a set of glass doors. the sunlight catches my reflection brieflyâpale, wide-eyed, jaw tight. i hardly recognize myself.
behind me, haymitch mutters, âdonât let them see you scared.â
i almost laugh. âiâm not scared of them,â i say under my breath.
he cuts me a sideways look, skeptical. âso what are you scared of then, princess?â
i ignore his snarky comment and think about the answer of his in-genuine question. turning into someone i hate.
ânothing that concerns you,â i decide.
âgood,â he replies. âkeep it that way.â
we step through the glass doors into a gleaming white lobby so bright it makes my eyes water. capitol staff are already lined upâattendants in bizarre outfits, stylists with insane cosmetic surgery done, all smiling too wide.
a woman with teal hair and gemstones glued along her eyelids clasps her hands when she sees us. âoh, theyâre perfect,â she sighs. âso tragic. so fixable.â
drusilla claps once, delighted. âwelcome to the capitol, my darlings. next stop: the remake center. after thatââ she spreads her arms like sheâs unveiling a new product. âyour grand entrance in the tribute parade.â
my stomach flips. the parade. the training. the private sessions. the interviews. and then the arena. an entire week ahead of me, pretending iâm not already dead.
i glance sideways at haymitch. heâs staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, eyes burningânot with awe, not with fear. with fury. with something feral and stubborn and alive.
for the first time, it hits me: if anyone is going to claw their way through this, it will be him.
if i want to live even just a little longer than expected, iâm going to have to survive beside someone iâve spent years despising and heâs going to have to survive beside me. the thought should terrify me. instead, it just makes everything feel sharper. louder.
âkeep up, miss donner,â drusilla trills from ahead. âcanât have our volunteer falling behind.â i take another breath of strange, perfumed air and force my feet to move.
the training
the remake center smells like chemicals and rubbing alcohol. it hits me the second the glass doors slide shut behind usâsharp and sweet and sterile all at once, like something thatâs been scrubbed so clean it forgot what it was before. the lobby is cavernous and white, floors gleaming, ceilings impossibly high. everything echoes. footsteps. laughter. the soft hum of machines somewhere deeper inside the building.
i feel small. not physically, but emotionally. like if i stood still long enough, this place would sand me down until i fit whatever mold they wanted.
capitol stylists descend on us immediately. they move fast, circling, murmuring to each other, fingers hovering just shy of touching like weâre art pieces in a gallery theyâve been dying to curate. one woman with metallic green lipstick tilts my chin up without asking, studying my face like sheâs calculating how much of me she can change before i stop looking like myself.
âbone structureâs excellent,â she says to no one in particular. âstrong jaw. eyes will photograph beautifully when angry.â
i donât know how to feel about angry being my defining trait.
louella is whisked away first. two stylists crouched in front of her, voices syrupy and soft, promising no pain, no mistakes, no cuts. she looks back at me once, eyes wide, and i force myself to nod. to smile. to act like this is fine.
wyatt follows, already resigned, shoulders squared like heâs bracing for impact.
haymitch resists longer. âdonât touch me,â he snaps when someone with a zebra skin reaches for his arm.
thereâs a pauseâthick, dangerous. capitol people donât like being told no. drusilla laughs too loudly. âoh, darling, they have to. itâs tradition.â
haymitchâs jaw tightens. for a moment, i think he might actually swing at someone. then mags steps forward, resting a hand on his arm affectionately. âjust let them,â she tells him quietly. âweâll still see you underneath.â something in haymitch flickers. not obedience. not acceptance. just exhaustion. he lets them take him.
when they come for me, i donât fight. i let them guide me down a bright hallway into a private styling room that looks more like an operating room. mirrors line the walls. too many angles. too many versions of me staring back.
i strip out of my clothes and sit in the chair they point to, spine straight, hands folded in my lap like my mother taught me. i feel humiliated, exposed, sitting completely naked in a room full of three strangers. my heart is beating too fast, but my face stays still. if they want a volunteer who looks composed, i can give them that much.
âweâre going to clean you up first,â the green-lipped woman says cheerfully. âthen weâll talk concept.â
warm water runs over my hair in a basin that cradles my neck. fingers comb through the strands, careful and practiced. i close my eyes. this should feel nice. it doesnât. it feels like erasure.
i think of my family's sweet shopâflour dust in the air, sugar under my nails, my sistersâ laughter echoing down the stairs. i think of maysileeâs braid, always just a little messy, and merileeâs quiet hum when she concentrates. i hold onto those images like anchors.
âyou have such a striking intensity,â someone says behind me. âweâll keep that. maybe sharpen it.â
my hair is dried and styled, smoother and glossier than iâve ever seen it. my skin is scrubbed, treated, brushed with something that smells faintly of citrus. they remove the faint scar on my wrist without asking. i watch it disappear in the mirror. a part of me aches.
then comes the clothes. they dress me in something simple but sharpâtailored lines, deep charcoal coated fabric that hugs my shoulders and cinches at my waist. i'm handed a coal-mining hat and a faux pickaxe. for just a sliver of a second, i think of haymitch's dad. more specifically, his fate. i cross the room to meet my own reflection and barely recognize her. she almost looks like someone who might survive, if you ignore the accessories.
âperfect,â the stylist murmurs. âvery quarter quell.â
they leave me alone for a moment, and the silence rushes in. my hands shake when i unclench them. i press my palms flat against my thighs, grounding myself in the feel of fabric, the weight of my body in the chair. i breathe slowly. deliberately. i will not cry here.
when i step back into the main hall, the others are already waiting. louella looks like a porcelain dollâhair brushed and braided until it shines, her cheeks softly flushed. sheâs gripping wyattâs sleeve like itâs the only real thing left in the room. wyatt himself looks sharper, cleaner, his merchant-side polish turned up to something almost regal.
haymitch looks furious. they didnât soften him at all. if anything, they sharpened him too. his curls are tamed just enough to look intentional, his face scrubbed clean of soot but not his defiance. they dressed him in dark fabrics that emphasize his shoulders, his height, the coiled tension in his frame. weâve both been carved into something for them.
drusilla claps her hands, delighted. âlook at you all! absolutely radiant. the capitol is going to adore you.â
i donât care what the capitol adores. i care that louella is trembling. i care that wyattâs jaw is set too tight. i care that haymitchâs hands are clenched like heâs holding himself together with sheer will.
i move without thinking, stepping closer to louella, placing myself just a little in front of her. itâs a small thing. maybe meaningless. but itâs mine. haymitch noticesâhe almost always does. his eyes flick to where i stand, then back to louella. his expression shiftsânot soft, not kindâbut less sharp around the edges.
the parade is explained next. chariots, costumes, presentation, crowds. the list makes my stomach twist.
âdistrict twelveâs look will emphasize resilience,â a designer says brightly. âcoal tones, flame accents, something symbolic.â
symbolic of what? our inevitable deaths? i donât ask. instead i listen, i memorize. this is survival nowânot just in the arena, but here. learning when to speak, when to stay silent, when to bend without breaking.
drusilla calls us forward again. weâre ushered deeper into the building, toward fittings and rehearsals and cameras. every step feels heavier than the last. somewhere in the distance, i can hear music starting upârehearsal for the parade, no doubt. bright and triumphant and cruel.
i straighten my shoulders. i volunteered for this. for maysilee. for merilee. for the girl trembling behind me and the boy calculating before me and the other boy snarling beside me and the life i refuse to lose without a fight.
the capitol can dress me up, sure, but it doesnât get to decide who i become.
the parade staging area feels like standing inside the mouth of a beast. everything vibratesâmusic pounding from unseen speakers, the clatter of hooves against polished stone, the hiss of fire cannons being tested overhead. the air smells like oil and artificial smoke, sharp enough to sting the back of my throat. stylists dart in and out, making last-minute adjustments, brushing invisible dust from shoulders, tugging fabric into place.
wyatt and i stand beside our chariot, dressed in coal-dark fabric threaded with veins of glowing ember. heat coils beneath the material, not enough to burn, just enough to remind us what the capitol thinks district twelve is made of: fire and fuel.
across the wide staging floor, i spot the other chariot in which haymitch and louella will ride. louella looks impossibly small standing beside the horses, swallowed by her costumeâcoal-black silk with flickers of flame stitched along the hem. her hands are clenched so tightly at her sides her knuckles are white. haymitch stands just behind her, one hand hovering near her back, not touching but close enough to catch her if she tips.
my chest tightens at the view. i catch haymitchâs eye for half a second across the chaos. he looks wired, restless, jaw locked tight like heâs bracing for impact. when louella flinches at a sudden crack of sound overhead, his hand finally lands on her shoulder. she leans into him without hesitation. that sight hits me even harder.
âdistrict twelve!â someone shouts. our part of the parade is starting.
wyatt and i climb onto our chariot first. the metal is warm beneath my palms as i steady myself, the horses snorting softly, muscles rippling beneath glossy hides. the crowd noise swells as weâre guided forward.
when we roll out into the avenue, the sound is immediate and overwhelmingâcheering, screaming, laughter. thousands upon thousands of capitol citizens line the streets, waving, throwing glittering confetti into the air. camera drones buzz past my face, red lights blinking as they capture every angle, every expression. i school my features into something sharp and steady. not smiling, not scowling, but something in between.
wyatt lifts his chin, regal, composed. he looks like someone who belongs in this spectacle. i feel like prey dressed as a queen.
i bask in the unfortunate fame as people shout absurd praises at me. telling me i'm beautiful, brave. asking me to survive the games purely for them. i scoff at that comment.
that's when i hear it: a sharp, concussive crackâtoo loud, too close. a firework detonates overhead, showering sparks dangerously low. the horses behind us scream. i twist around just in time to see haymitchâs chariot. the horses rear violently, eyes rolling white, hooves striking sparks against the stone. handlers shout, scrambling. louellaâs face goes slack with terror.
âlouella!â haymitch shouts.
the chariot lurches. the wheels clip another chariotâs side. metal shrieks. the harness snaps. and then theyâre airborne. haymitchâs body collides with louellaâs as theyâre thrown forward, his arm wrapping around her instinctively, like he can shield her from the ground itself.
they hit the pavement hard. haymitch rolls, slamming shoulder-first, breath knocked clean from his lungs. louella doesnât move. her head strikes the stone with a sound i will hear for the rest of my lifeâa wet, hollow crack.
the crowd gaspsâthen cheers, confused, thinking itâs part of the spectacle. i scream. the sound rips out of me before i can stop it, raw and sharp and entirely unfit for capitol television. wyatt grabs my arm, hard. âdonât,â he hisses. âdonâtââ
peacekeepers swarm the scene instantly, blocking the cameras, shouting orders. fireworks explode again overheadâtoo loud, too bright, deliberately distracting.
haymitch pulls at my heart, crawling to where louella landed. i see his hands, shaking and frantic, as he cradles her head. thereâs blood. he looks up, face twisted with something feral and broken, and for one horrible second, his eyes meet mine across the avenue.
the parade continues. our chariot, and the twenty-two others in front of us, are ushered forward faster, the crowd roaring louder, the music swelling to drown out what just happened. wyatt doesnât let go of my arm until my nails dig into his sleeve, undoubtedly leaving indents in his olive skin.
my vision blurs. the avenue stretches endlessly ahead. i donât remember the rest of it. not the cheers. not the end. i only remember the sound. that crack.
the training center a half hour later is silent by comparison. too silent. weâre escorted through gleaming halls, ushered into elevators that whisper as they rise. the doors open onto the twelfth floor and everything is glass and light and wrong.
âyour quarters,â drusilla announces brightly, like she didnât just watch a child nearly die. âsettle in. dinner in one hour.â
i turn to her, swallowing hard. "whereâs louella?â she doesnât look at me.
âwhereâs haymitch?â wyatt adds.
we receive no answer. magsâ mouth is pressed into a thin line. wiress is staring at the floor, fingers tapping erratically against her leg.
âgo get ready,â drusilla says sharply. âyouâll be late otherwise.â
the rooms are obscene. my bedroom looks like something out of a dreamâwalls that shift color when i touch them, a bed that hums softly beneath my weight, a bathroom with mirrors that light up at my approach. i stand there, frozen, hands limp at my sides.
louella should be here already. she should be crying on the other side of the wall, asking if dinner is poison, asking if we can hold hands again.
i sit on the edge of the mattress and stare at the door. when the knock comes, i nearly jump out of my skin. dinner.
they arrive late. haymitch walks in first and something is visibly wrong. he looks empty. hollowed out. like whatever was holding him upright has been scooped clean from his chest. his eyes donât focus right away, his hands hang useless at his sides. beside of him is louella. the relief that hits me is so sharp it almost hurtsâlike my body had been holding its breath since the crash and only now remembered how to inhale.
louella's smile is wide, her posture stiff. her eyes are glassy, unfocused, like sheâs looking through us instead of at us. i tell myself itâs shock. i tell myself sheâs been drugged for pain. i tell myself a hundred reasonable possibilities for her uncharacteristic behavior. my breath catches painfully in my throat.
haymitch doesnât take a seat at the table. he remains standing behind louella's chair, fingers digging into the backrest so hard his knuckles blanch.
we eat in silence. i watch louellaâi canât stop. every movement feels slightly wrong, like the accident has stripped her of her heart and soul. the way she holds her fork, the way she doesnât fidget, the way she doesnât glance at me once. louella always looks at me.
my hands start to shake. i press them under the table and force my fingers still. force my face still. force my mind to stop reaching for the worst conclusion like itâs a bruise i canât stop poking.
after dinner, when wyatt and louella are distracted by drusilla, i step closer to haymitch who is still pressed against louella's empty dining chair. "what happened?â i whisper, "after the crash."
he doesnât answer at first. his jaw flexes like heâs chewing through iron. then, very quietly, like each word costs him something: âthey killed her.â
my stomach drops so hard it feels like my insides shift. âwhat do you meanââ my voice cracks. i clear my throat and try again. âhaymitch, sheâs right there.â
his eyes flick to the girl across the room. thereâs nothing in his expression. not confusion. not doubt. just this dead, furious certainty. âshe died,â he says, voice flat. âon the pavement. and theyâ" his throat works like heâs swallowing glass. âthey covered it up. wiped the footage. swapped her out for a girl from district eleven.â
i stare at him. my brain refuses to take the words in all at once, like if i fully understand them iâll collapse. i look back at louellaâreally look nowâand suddenly all the things i was trying not to notice slam into place. the stiffness. the too-bright smile. the emptiness behind her eyes. my chest caves in. thatâs why it felt wrong. because it is. because it isnât her.
haymitchâs voice goes lower. âthey told me to forget.â his fingers tighten on the chair so tight i worry he might snap it in half. âso i didnât.â
my throat closes around a sound. i canât tell if itâs a sob or a laugh or something feral. i glance at the girl againâat the way she mirrors louellaâs posture like she learned it from a scriptâand something cold crawls up my spine.
maysilee has a canary. its name is lou lou. the thought comes out of nowhere, bright and stupid and painfully tender. but suddenly i need to say it. i need to make a small thing true in a room full of lies. âweâll call her lou lou,â i suggest without thinking, my voice shaking. âmy sister has a songbird. that was its name.â
haymitch stares at me, like that is the stupidest idea he's ever had, but then something in his expression breaks. just a little. not enough to fix himâjust enough to prove heâs still human under all that hurt. âlou lou,â he repeats. a small, almost-smile appearing on his pale face.
i quickly discover that the training center doesnât sleep.
i doâbarelyâbut itâs the kind of sleep that feels like drowning slowly. every time i close my eyes, iâm back on the avenue. the crack of louellaâs skull against stone echoes through my head like a fault line splitting open. i wake with my heart already racing, breath caught somewhere between my chest and my throat.
the room hums softly around me. the walls glow faintly blue, reacting to my movement like theyâre alive. i sit up, drag my hands over my face, and press my palms to my eyes until the pressure turns the darkness red.
this is real. i am here. tomorrow we train. that thought doesnât scare me the way it should. what scares me is how quickly my mind slides into preparation; exits, angles, advantages, how many bodies could fill a room this size, how long it would take to cross the floor if someone charged me from the doorway. i hate that it comes so easily.
muffled movement drifts through the hall. footsteps. a voice too low to make out. someone pacing. i swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad quietly to the door, pressing my ear to the cool surface. i know without checking that itâs him.
haymitch must not be able to sleep either. some part of me wants to open the door. some part of me wants to pretend i donât hear him falling apart just a wall away. i do neither. i stand there, forehead resting against the door, breathing slowly until the pacing stops.
when i finally crawl back into bed, lou louâs too-bright smile flashes behind my eyelids and i have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
morning comes too fast. the alarm blares at dawn, loud and merciless. iâm already awake.
breakfast is quick and quiet. lou lou sits between wyatt and mags, smiling when prompted, nodding when spoken to. if i didnât know better, iâd almost believe sheâs okay. i donât let myself linger on it. i donât trust my hands not to shake if i do.
the only words that were truly said during the entire meal were wiress'. she had briefly asked us our combative skills, if we had any at all. she then urged us not to go to that station in training, to save that skill for the private showcase to the gamemakers. with the way she said it, this plan seemed like the most important thing she'd ever tell us.
the training center opens up like a cathedral built for violence. weapons gleam under harsh white lights. stations stretch in every directionâknives, spears, swords, axes, archery, snares, climbing, camouflage. tributes flood in from every district, voices overlapping, bodies jostling, alliances already forming in the way people cluster without meaning to.
careers move like they own the place: district one laughs too loudly, district two sizes everyone up like livestock, and district four pretends not to watch while watching everything.
wyatt drifts toward a numbers-based station with tributes from six and nine almost immediately, drawn like a magnet to people who think in patterns. lou lou is gently guided away by a trainer with pastel hair and a smile too wide, ushered toward basic survival drills.
that leaves just me and haymitch. we stand shoulder to shoulder near the edge of the knot tying station, not touching, not speaking. the air between us feels tight, stretched thin as wire.
âdonât follow me,â he mutters without looking.
âwasnât planning on it,â i reply.
a trainer slams a basket of worn ropes down in front of us anyway. âpair up,â she says briskly.
haymitch exhales through his nose like the universe is personally mocking him.
i step forward first. the frayed rope feel familiar in my hands. my late grandfather taught where to place my fingers, how to fold the material perfectly and quickly, how precision saves effort.
i knot it when prompted, making it tight and enduring. i tie anotherâa bowlineâand then another. both clean and efficient. no flourish. the trainer hums approvingly. âmerchant kid,â she notes. âsteady hands.â
haymitch watches despite himself. i feel itâhis attention pressing against my back like heat. he steps up next, grabbing a slack rope with an unwavering clench. his knot is quick and perfect too, not budging as the trainer tugs on it.
âeffective,â she comments carefully, haymitch's creation still in her hands.
we rotate the non-combative stations together, not because we want to, but because the room keeps folding us back into each other; climbing, camouflage, traps. itâs the last station that changes something. they give us wire, weights, and hooks.
âbuild something,â the trainer instructs. âsomething that stops someone bigger than you.â
my pulse picks up. i kneel, hands already moving, mind mapping space; tension points, leverage. haymitch hovers behind me, arms crossed, skeptical.
âyouâre overthinking,â he says.
âyouâre underestimating,â i shoot back.
i finish in silence. when the trainer triggers the snare, it snaps tight around a weighted dummyâs leg and slams it flat. haymitch goes still.
âagain,â the trainer says.
i rebuild it faster. something shifts thenânot trust. not forgiveness. just respect grinding its way into the space where hatred used to sit comfortably.
by the end of the day, my arms ache and my head pounds, but my mind is sharper than itâs ever been. as we file out, haymitch falls into step beside me. âyouâre better than i thought,â he mutters, like it pains him to say it.
i donât smile. âso are you,â i reply. it isnât kindness. it isnât peace. but itâs the first crack in something thatâs been locked shut for years.
the next two days of training are the same. haymitch and i are grouped in pairs before we have a chance to protest, we move through the calmest stations together all whilst observing the other tributes. we spend our evenings with wiress and mags, learning our combative skills in private. i'm beyond handy with a knife, thanks to my father, and it turns out haymitch is too. we learn how to use a multitude of weapons in many different fashions. lou lou and wyatt pick up enough information and skill during these evenings that it almost gives me a small hope for their survival. but fact is still fact, and it's evident that if anyone from district twelve survives these games, it will be haymitch.
as the third day of training comes to a close, we are ushered to lunch where one by one each tribute is taken out of the cafeteria and to the showcase room. we each have five minutes to prove that we are worthy of a twelve, that we are worthy of sponsors, that we are worthy of living.
after over three hours, louella is finally called. then wyatt. then me. i leave the cafeteria without sparing haymitch a second glance.
the gamemakers sit high above the floor, beyond bored already. drinks in hand. laughter drifting down like static. i step into the circle and feel something cold settle in my spine. i donât bow. i donât smile. i just make a beeline for my knives and fist them in my shaky left hand.
i move fastâfaster than in the gym. not flashy, not theatrical. controlled throws. tight arcs. blades embedding where i want them, when i want them. i adjust mid-motion, compensating for distance, for wind i canât feel but know is there. it's one knife after another. no wasted movement.
when iâm done, the room is quiet. then someone claps. slowly and deliberately. i donât look up to see who. i set the knives down, take a slow bow, and walk out without waiting for dismissal.
haymitch goes in after me. i instantly hear the snap of his voice, muffled but furious. i think he calls the gamemakers murderers. there's never a whip of a crossbow or the slash of a knife, haymitch only ever showcases his anger. when he comes back out mere minutes later, his eyes are bright with something dangerous and alive.
âtheyâll hate that,â i say.
he grins, sharp and humorless. âgood.â
by the time the day ends, exhaustion sits on my shoulders like a weight i canât shrug off. my hands ache. my head throbs.
when haymitch falls into step beside me again, thereâs still no insult waiting on his tongue. just that same quiet understanding. weâre not friends, weâre still not allies, but weâre no longer pretending the other is the enemy.
that night, the seven of us sit crowded around the sitting room, watching the hologram of the tribute's training scores play before us. there's not many perfect ten's. in fact, there's not many scores above a six.
haymitch included, whose rebellion in the showcase, earned him a one. wyatt received a six exactly and louella only received a three. i swallow my inhumane pride as the number ten displays itself underneath my name and picture.
it doesn't take long for me to realize that the interviews are worse than the training. training hurts your body but the interviews aim for something softer and more dangerous.
weâre woken before dawn again, ushered through showers and clothes and stylists who chatter like birds pecking at carrion. the preparation room smells like hairspray and heated metal and sugarâeverything sweet layered over panic. my dress waits on a mannequin when i step inside, deep coal-gray silk that shifts silver under the lights, cut sharp at the shoulders and clean down my spine.
âstrong,â one stylist murmurs. âdefiant. very you.â i donât remember ever telling the capitol who i am but they sit me in the chair anyway. brushes skim my cheeks. powder dulls the dark circles under my eyes. my hair is styled back from my face.
âremember,â drusilla says from behind me, crouching to meet my eyes in the mirror. âthey donât want fear. they want a story. give them something to fall in love with.â i swallow hard.
lou lou is dressed beside me in pale gold, all innocent and light. she smiles at her reflection. it twists something in my chest until i have to look away.
haymitch is across the room, half-turned from the mirror, fingers flexing like he wants to break something. theyâve dressed him in black with faint copper threading at the cuffs. he looks unrepentant.
the stage is blinding. lights crash over me the second i step out, heat pressing against my skin like a second sun. the crowd roarsâthousands of voices crashing together into something monstrous and thrilled. my heartbeat stutters, then steadies. i lift my chin and walk like i belong here.
caesar flickerman beams from his chair, all bright suit and eager eyes. he looks younger than i expected. âdistrict twelveâs volunteer!â he announces, voice booming. âgive it up for y/n donner!â
applause slams into me. i sit, folding my hands in my lap, my posture impossibly straight.
ânow,â caesar says, leaning forward, âyou surprised everyone when you volunteered. tell usâwhy?â
the question lands like a trapâi could lie, i could perform, i could cry. i think of maysileeâs braid slipping loose in the wind; merileeâs hands clutching mine. âbecause my sisterâs name was called,â i say simply.
the crowd quiets around me.
âjust like that?â caesar prompts gently.
âjust like that,â i repeat. âsome things donât need more explanation.â
thereâs a beatâthen applause again, louder this time. i donât smile. i let them clap for the truth.
âyou impressed the gamemakers with your outstanding eleven,â caesar continues. âknives, they say?â
i nod. âi grew up learning to be careful with my hands.â
âcareful,â he echoes, amused. âyet here you are.â
i meet his gaze. âcareful doesnât mean afraid.â the crowd loves that. i can feel itâfeel the shift, the interest sharpening. i tuck the sensation away, uncomfortable with how easily it happens.
âlast question,â caesar says. âdid you know your fellow tributes before the reaping?â
âup on the stage was the first time i met lou lâlouella,â i catch myself, forcing a smile brighter than i feel. "they're both two years younger than me but i know wyatt and haymitch from school."
"were you close?" cesar pushes instantly, before the syllables have truly left my breath.
i raise an eyebrow softly at his question, seeing through his intent. "we were not, no. i knew of them, rather than knowing them!"
"what a shame, you won't be able to get to know them now," he jokes, with a tight, toothy smile. the joke never lands though, it feels bitter and upsets me instantly. i don't let it show.
when i stand to leave, the lights dim slightlyâmy cue. i walk offstage without looking back.
haymitch goes out two interviews later, after lou lou and wyatt. he's the final interview of the forty-eight. the crowd is already buzzing when he steps into the light, tension crackling like electricity. he doesnât wave, doesnât bow, he just sits, one ankle crossed over his knee, daring them to try him.
âhaymitch abernathy,â caesar grins, appearing a little nervous now. âyouâve been memorable this week.â
haymitch smirks. âi have that effect.â
laughter ripples through the audience at his comment. he sounds briefly like the haymitch i knew of from the seamâlike the haymitch that cat-called me princess in the most venomous ways possible for three long years.
âtell us,â caesar says, leaning in close, âwhatâs your strategy?â
haymitch tilts his head, eyes glinting. âto survive longer than they expect.â
âand who do you expect to help you do that?â caesar presses.
haymitchâs gaze flicks, just once, toward the wing of the stageâtoward me. âi donât trust easy,â he says slowly. âbut i trust people who donât lie when it matters.â
the crowd erupts. my stomach drops.
caesarâs eyes light up. âah,â he says delightedly. âsounds like an alliance forming.â
haymitch shrugs. âmaybe.â
the cameras eat it up. i can almost hear the capitol spinning it alreadyâfire and steel, merchant and seam, enemies forced together.
by the time the interviews end, my head is pounding. backstage, drusilla is radiant. âdid you hear them?â she gushes. âthey adored you. all four of you!â
mags squeezes my hand. wiress murmurs something about patterns aligning. haymitch catches my arm as we move toward the exit, his grip brief but grounding.
âyou did good,â he says quietly.
i meet his eyes. âyea, you too.â
the capitol never really lets you rest. after the interviews, they herd us back to the twelfth floor like glass figurines that have survived a fall and need to be locked away before we chip. the hallways feel narrower than they did this morning, the lights a little harsher, the quiet louder. adrenaline drains out of me all at once, leaving something heavy and shaky behind.
lou lou is the first to break. the moment the door slides shut behind us, she sagsâjust a fractionâand mags is there immediately, guiding her to the couch with a hand at her back. wyatt hovers, unsure what to do with his hands, eyes darting between all of us like heâs waiting for the odds to rearrange themselves into something kinder.
âyou did beautifully,â mags tells lou lou, voice low and steady. âyou were very brave.â lou lou nods on cue, smile snapping into place a half-second too late. it makes my chest ache.
wiress paces the room, muttering to herself. âimages are set. narratives are locked. sponsors respond to contrast, fire and restraint; opposites draw attention.â she glances at me, then at haymitch. âyou two are loud without being loud.â
haymitch scoffs lowly. âis that supposed to be a compliment?â
wiress considers. âyes.â
drusilla claps her hands together. âall right! now that the public adores youââ she grins widest at haymitch, who does not look adored ââwe need to talk practicalities. arena gear, supplies, what you can reasonably carry without tripping over your own feet.â
we gather around the table as a projection flickers to life above it, displaying rotating images of standard arena packs: water purifiers, rope, dried rations, knives, flint. the basics. the lies they tell you so youâll believe preparation makes this fair.
âyou wonât know the environment until launch,â mags says gently. âso you plan for flexibility. layers. nothing that slows you down.â
âweapons?â wyatt asks.
âwhatever you can reach first,â haymitch replies before anyone more experienced else can. his voice is flat, tired. âdonât get attached to anything.â
my gaze flicks to him. thereâs something brittle in the way he says it, like he learned that lesson early.
for the next few hours, time blurs. we talk through scenariosâwhat to grab, what to leave, how to read the opening seconds of the bloodbath. wiress sketches strange little diagrams on a pad, lines and angles and symbols that make my head spin but seem to calm her. mags listens more than she speaks, but when she does, everyone quiets.
lou lou drifts in and out, answering when asked, nodding when prompted. i keep an eye on her without meaning to, tracking the slight delays in her reactions, the way she mirrors wyattâs posture when sheâs unsure what to do with her own body.
mags and wiress have private conversations with each of us, just a minute or two long a piece. they tell us our strengths and how we can and should use that when we're out there.
they expect a lot from me. they think i am braver than i have ever considered myself even dreaming of being. i'm told to brave the cornucopia, to risk grabbing a knife and anything else i can safely manage.
when drusilla finally dismisses us, itâs late. too late. back in district twelve, the shop will have already been closed for hours now. i assume maysilee and merilee still lie awake though.
my room greets me with a soft yellow light and silence that feels almost kind after the noise of the day. i peel off the training uniform and change into the plain sleepwear laid out for me, my movements slow and automated. my reflection looks calmer than i feel. my eyes give me away.
i sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, hands resting uselessly in my lap. this is the last night before the arena. the thought lands without drama. no spike of fear. just a dull, heavy certainty. tomorrow is movement and noise and blood. tomorrow, something in me will have to harden whether i want it to or not.
i lie down and stare at the ceiling, listening. the training center hums. vents whisper. somewhere down the hall, a door opens and closes. there's a pad of footsteps. then silence.
iâm almost asleep when the knock comes. itâs quiet and hesitant. like the person on the other side isnât sure theyâre allowed to be here. my heart kicks hard against my ribs.
i slip out of bed and cross the room, opening the door just enough to see haymitch standing there in the dim hallway light. he looks wrecked, worn down to something raw. his shoulders are slumped, frizzy curls falling into his eyes, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he doesnât know what to do with them.
âsorry,â he murmurs immediately. âiâi shouldnât haveââ
âitâs fine,â i cut in softly, stepping back to let him in. he hesitates, then crosses the threshold quickly. i close the door behind him. the room feels smaller with him in it. warmer, heavier.
we stand there for a moment, neither of us moving.
âare you okay?â i finally ask.
he huffs out a quiet laugh that holds no humor. âno.â he's honest, startlingly so. he rubs a hand over his face, dragging it down until his fingers catch at his jaw. âi canât sleep. every time i close my eyes, i hear it again.â
i donât ask what, i donât need to.
âi almost knocked two nights ago,â he adds, eyes fixed on the floor. âi stood outside your door like an idiot forâ i donât know how long.â
my breath catches, remembering the shuffling in the hallway. "why didnât you?â i ask.
he shrugs, a sharp, defensive motion. âi didnât think youâd want me here.â
something tightens in my chest. âyou couldâve,â i say. âyou still can.â
the silence that follows is thick and fragile. slowly, he steps closer, like heâs afraid of breaking something if he moves too fast. he doesnât touch me at all at first. he just stops in front of me, close enough that i can feel the warmth of him, the uneven rhythm of his breathing.
âi donât know how to do this,â he says quietly. âwhatever this is.â
âme neither,â i quietly admit, my voice cracking on my last syllable.
haymitch leans forward, his hand resting lightly against my shoulder, sliding down my chest just a sliver. the contact is gentle, almost tentative, like heâs checking that i wonât pull awayâi donât.
after an excruciatingly long moment, his arms come around meânot tight, not possessive. just there. i slide mine around his back almost immediately, pressing my cheek against his chest, breathing him in. he smells like soap and metal and something unmistakably human. his body trembles once. it's barely noticeable, like a shiver he didnât mean to show.
we stay like that in the dark, holding each other silently in a painfully unfamiliar fashion.
eventually, he straightens and steps back before i can say anything, hands dropping to his sides like heâs putting his armor back on. âthanks,â he says, voice rough. âfor not asking for more.â
i shake my head. âyou donât owe me anything.â
his mouth twitches, almost a smile. almost. then he turns and leaves without another word. the door clicks shut softly behind him. i stand there long after heâs gone, arms still wrapped around empty air, heart aching in a way that feels strangely steady.
the day of the games arrives without ceremony. no countdown. no dramatic knock. just a soft shift in the lights, a low hum in the walls, and the sudden understanding that there are no more rehearsals left.
i wake an hour before the alarm. my body feels strangely calm, like it has finally accepted what my mind has been circling for days. i shower quickly, mechanically, the water warm and scentless. when i dry off, the clothes are already laid out on the bed: my arena uniform.
i recognize it instantlyârough, practical, deceptively simple. fitted pants the color of pale stone, a black undershirt, a sleeveless vest with too many pockets and not enough padding. there's nothing ornamental about it; nothing kind. this is the kind of outfit that tells you survival is your own responsibility.
i pull it on piece by piece. the fabric is heavier than it looks. when i fasten the vest, it sits snug against my ribs, grounding me. i flex my fingers, steadying myself in the weight of my new clothes.
i stand in front of the mirror and let my hair fall loose down my back. it feels wrong to leave it untouchedâtoo wild, too vulnerableâso i reach up and braid a thin strand on the left side, quick and practiced. maysileeâs braid. my throat tightens, but i finish it anyway, fingers moving with muscle memory. i tuck the end behind my ear and look at myself again.
this is who goes into the arena. not the older sister above the sweet shop. not the witty girl who argued in classrooms. not the volunteer everyone keeps calling brave. it's just me.
i was given the option to bring a keepsake with me into the arena. a necklace, a pin, a braceletâanything small and important to me. i chose against it, maysilee's braid is enough of a reminder for me.
when i step into the common area, the others are already there. wyatt stands near the window, adjusting the straps on his vest. his face is pale but set, jaw tight in that familiar wayâlike heâs calculating something that refuses to give him good odds. lou lou sits on the couch beside mags, hands folded neatly in her lap. she looks composed, almost serene, like sheâs been told exactly how to be and is determined not to mess it up. something in my chest aches when she smiles at me.
haymitch leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes shadowed. his outfit, though identical to mine, looks like it was made for him. his curls are damp, pushed back from his face, and for a moment i have the irrational thought that he looks younger like this. more like sixteen than the hardened version the capitol wants.
his gaze flicks to my hair, to the braid. he doesnât say anything but his jaw tightens, and then loosens again, like he swallowed a thought.
it appears that out of the four of us, haymitch is the only one to adorn something special to him: a c-shaped metal charm, with a snake and a bird on either side, that sits on a chain around his neck. i quickly wonder the story behind it.
drusilla claps her hands together, peeling me from my thoughts, the sound too bright for the moment. âall right, my darlings. this is it. final checks.â
wiress circles us slowly, eyes darting, fingers twitching like sheâs listening to something only she can hear. âremember patterns,â she murmurs. âthe arena lies. trust movement, not beauty.â
we all nod. i notice tears welling at the edges of lou lou's eyes.
wiress lands in front of me, putting her left hand firmly on my shoulder, "do not be afraid of the cornucopia, get your knife and goâthat is important. food if you can, but hunger is easier than fear."
my breath catches in my swelling throat at her words. i don't respond, i just nod again.
mags steps forward next. she takes each of our hands in turn, squeezing gently, firmly. when she reaches me, her grip lingers just a second longer. âbe clever,â she says softly. âand be kind when you can. even if it costs you.â
then weâre moving again, ushered through corridors iâve never seen before, down into the heart of the building. the air grows cooler, heavier. doors open and close behind us with final-sounding clicks.
the courtyard waits below. the transport ship squats in the center of it like some mechanical animal, sleek and black and humming with restrained power. one by one, weâre called forward.
lou lou is guided in first. she goes without hesitation, hands folded, posture perfect, like sheâs been taught exactly how to walk toward her own fear. wyatt follows, his jaw tight, eyes scanning the floor like heâs memorizing every bolt and seam.
then itâs my turn. i pause at the edge of the ship, the wind tugging at my hair, the smell of fuel sharp in my nose. i look back onceâat mags, at wiress, at drusillaâs fixed smileâand then, without letting myself hesitate, i step aboard.
the interior is cold and metallic. a medic waits inside, her face blank, her slender hands gloved. âleft arm,â she says emotionless.
i donât flinch as the tracker is injected just beneath my skin. the needle slides in clean and fast, sharp enough to bite. it burns briefly, then settles into a dull ache, like a reminder etched into my flesh.
haymitch boards last and the doors immediately seal behind him. for a sliver of a second, our eyes meet across the narrow space. he nods once, the outer corner of his eyes crinkle softly. i nod back and tear my eyes away from the sight.
the games
the ship lifts, smooth and silent, the ground dropping away beneath us. no one speaks. thereâs nothing left to say.
when the transport finally slows, itâs not the arena that greets us, itâs a grand building. low, angular, made of smooth gray stone that blends too well with the surrounding landscape. it sits just outside the arenaâs perimeter like a control nodeâclose enough to feel, far enough to keep us from seeing anything that matters.
the four of us disembark with no goodbyes, no last looks. peacekeepers separate us immediately, guiding each tribute down identical white corridors that branch away from one another like veins. i donât see haymitch again. i donât hear wyattâs voice. lou lou disappears behind a closing door without a sound.
my launch room is smaller than i would have thought, circular and bare with its smooth walls and bright lights. there's a single opening in the floor where the metal launch tube waits, sealed and silent. the platform sits at the center, perfectly still, ringed with faint markings that tell me exactly where to stand.
i step onto it. the floor beneath my boots vibrates faintly as it activates, recognizing my weight, my tracker, my pulse. cool air rises from below, carrying the scent of grass and something sweet that makes my stomach tighten.
a voice crackles overhead, emotionless. âtribute, stand still.â i listen.
the tube seals around me, walls sliding up until the world narrows to polished metal and artificial light. i canât see anyone else, canât hear anything but my own breathing.
i shut my eyes so tight they start to hurt.
this is it.
the platform hums louder beneath me.
day one
when i open my eyes again, the ceiling begins to slide away and a bright white light floods in and fades outârevealing a blue sky, a green meadow, flowers that are too bright to trust.
the cornucopia gleams at the center of it all, surrounded by a ring of other pedestalsâforty-seven other tributes, forty-seven other lives about to shatter.
i lower my chin and breathe once, deep and steady. my platform locks into place and the countdown beginsâten. nine. eightâi spot haymitch across the circle. heâs already crouched slightly, coiled like a spring, eyes fixed on the metal pile at the centerâseven. six. fiveâmy fingers flexâfour. three. twoâi think of maysileeâs braid. of sugar-dusted mornings. of a boy pacing outside my door who didnât know how to ask for comfort.
one.
the horn sounds like the world cracking open. for a split second, everything freezesâforty-eight bodies held in the same breath, the meadow so beautiful it almost convinces you this isnât a slaughter. the flowers gleam like spilled paint. the air smells sweet, clean, wrong.
then the sound finishes echoing and the spell snaps. i run. not a careful run, not a smart one. i launch myself straight off the pedestal, boots tearing into grass slick with dew, lungs burning as the distance between me and the cornucopia collapses in a blur of color and screaming. i donât look left. i donât look right. i donât look for haymitch.
if i stop, i die.
the cornucopia looms larger with every strideâmetal teeth flaring upward, its shadow pooling dark and cold beneath it. bodies slam into each other around me. someone trips. someone else goes down. a career laughs, bright and thrilled, like this is exactly what theyâve been waiting for.
i hit the metal pile and donât slow, wiress' instructions echoing through my brain. my hand closes around a set of knivesâlight, balanced, wrapped tight in leather. my other arm scoops a small satchel without even glancing inside. my instinct screams go, and i obey.
i barely get two steps in before a boy i recognize from district five stumbles into my path, eyes wide, mouth already openingâmaybe to warn me, maybe to beg. i skid to a stop so hard my knees scream.
then a knife punches through his chest from behind. the blade erupts out the front of him, red and wet. his body jerks onceâhard, puppet-sharpâbefore sagging. his weight collapses forward, almost into me.
i scream and shove him away at the same time, hands slipping on blood. i donât wait to see who took his life, i donât want to. i turn and sprint.
the first cannon booms. it's sound is enormous, concussive, shaking the air itself. it echoes off the meadow and slams straight into my bones. my stomach flips, bile clawing up my throat.
that's one.
i donât stop running until the grass gives way to shadow and the forest swallows me whole. my lungs burn like theyâre tearing themselves apart, but i keep going until the screams fade into something distant and unreal. only then do i skid to a stop at the tree line, chest heaving, hands shaking so badly i have to brace them against a trunk.
the meadow is still chaos when i turn back. the careers move like predators, cutting down anything slower than them, anything stupid enough to freeze in awe of the arenaâs beauty. panache barker is unmistakable even from here, tall and brutal, leading the pack like he was born for this.
cannons keep sounding. two. three. four.
i scan frantically for familiar faces. for curls. for a stance i recognize. but i see no haymitch. panic spikes sharp and fast in my body.
then i see wyatt. heâs near the edge of the cornucopia now, already bleeding, already outmatched. lou lou is just behind him, frozen in place like her feet have grown roots. panacheâs blade flashes toward herâwyatt steps in front of her without hesitation. the final strike lands. hard.
wyatt crumples, shielding her even as he falls, his body collapsing between lou lou and the blade meant for her. the cannon fires almost immediately. that's five. the sound tears a hole straight through me.
lou lou screams. a raw, broken sound that doesnât belong in her throat. a pair of hands drag her away by the arm and she disappears into the chaos, still alive, still screaming. i donât stay to see more. i know that if i do, i wonât leave.
i turn and run deeper into the forest, branches tearing at my uniform, tears blinding me as i sprint blindly until my legs give out and i slam to my knees behind a fallen log.
the meadow is gone now. the screams are muffled. but the cannons keep coming. six. seven. eight. i curl forward, pressing my forehead into the dirt, knife clutched so tight my fingers ache. i donât cryânot really. itâs more like something inside me is screaming with no sound.
eighteen cannons ring out before the sun even shifts. eighteen lives erased in minutes.
when night finally falls, it does so all at once. the forest goes still, like itâs holding its breath. the anthem of panem rises. it pours out of the sky and the holograms flicker to life above the trees. faces bloom one by one, ghostly and bright.
wyatt callow, district twelve.
my chest caves in. i press my hand over my mouth to keep from making a sound as louella mccoyâs name does not appear. as haymitch abernathyâs does not either. they're both alive. i'm alive. for now.
the anthem ends. the faces fade. the forest exhales. i sit there in the dark, shaking, knives heavy in my lap, the satchel still unopened at my side; tears streaming down my face.
the forest doesnât feel like shelter. it feels like a mouth that closed around me. i donât stop crying, until the screams and cannons are nothing but echoes stitched into my ribs. i have wedged myself beneath a fallen tree tangled with vines and moss, the earth damp and cold beneath my palms. only then do i let myself breathe. only then do i open the satchel.
my hands still shake so badly i almost spill everything into the dirt. there's three bottles of waterâtwo full, one empty. i press my forehead briefly against the plastic of one, grounding myself in its coolness. two mre packets, sealed tight. antiseptic, small but intact. there's nothing else. no flint. no rope. no luxuries. it's enough to keep me alive but not enough for me to get comfortable.
i slide the knife set inside the satchel and cinch it closed, tucking the strap across my chest like an anchor. then i crawl deeper beneath the log, curling onto my side, back pressed to bark, knees drawn in tight.
i donât light a fire. i donât eat. i donât drink. i just sit there in the dark, eyes wide, listening. every snap of a branch sounds like footsteps. every rustle feels like breath on my neck. my body stays coiled, knife already in my hand, even as exhaustion drags at my bones.
the thought of wyatt keeps me upright through the night. i donât sleep. i just survive the dark.
day two
morning arrives quietly. there's no alarms, no peachy announcements from drusilla, just light filtering through leaves, turning dew into glass. the forest looks almost kind in the daylightâgreen and soft and deceptively peaceful.
i ration immediately. taking a long sip of my water, half a bottle. nothing else. my stomach knots in protest, but i ignore it. hunger is easier than fear, wiress had said.
i move slow today. careful. every step deliberate. i mark my path with small, subtle signs only i would noticeâa bent fern, a scuffed stone. i donât stray far from cover. i donât touch the berries, even when they look perfect and ripe and sweet. especially not then.
i hear things. footsteps, onceâtoo heavy to be prey. laughter, distant and wrong. something screaming far enough away that i can pretend it isnât real. i never do see anyone.
by midday, i find a better hiding spot: a shallow hollow formed by intertwined roots, partially hidden by low brush. itâs defensible, sheltered. invisible unless you know where to look. i tuck myself inside and let my muscles loosen for the first time since the horn.
thatâs when the shaking starts. it comes out of nowhereâviolent, bone-deep. adrenaline leaving my system like it was pulled out by force. i press my teeth into my sleeve to keep from crying out, breathing through it until it passes.
i eat half an mre. it tastes like cardboard and salt.
when night falls again, the anthem comes softer this time. the sky lights up; a boy from district six, a boy and both girls from district ten.
then louella mccoy. district twelve.
the world around me goes quiet. i donât scream. i donât cry. i just stare until the light fades, until her pale face and long raven braids dissolve into stars and nothing.
my heart aches for lou lou. for the real louella. for the both of their clueless families.
i stay curled in the roots long after the anthem ends, knife pressed flat to my chest, wondering how many names are left before mine appears.
day three
the morning is calm again.
my body feels heavy when i move, limbs sluggish from hunger and stress. i sip water sparingly and force myself upright. i canât stay hidden forever. sponsors wonât bet on a ghost.
i follow the forest edge, careful not to break into open meadow, watching the ground as much as the trees. thatâs when i see them: holly berries. bright red. perfect. glossy as candy.
i stop instantly. something about them feels wrongânot poisonous-wrong, not obvious-danger, but staged. deliberate. my skin prickles.
the berries move in half a second. they split apart with a wet, clicking sound. ladybugs crawl free from its shell. dozens. then hundreds.
they surge toward me in a living wave. i scream. it rips out of me before i can stop itâraw, panicked, animal. they swarm my legs, my arms, my neck. pain explodes everywhere at onceâsharp, burning. i claw at the bugs, sobbing, slapping, my vision blurring as weakness floods my limbs.
âhelpââ my voice breaks into nothing. i keep slapping at my body, digging my nails into my skin carelessly in rushed attempts to rid of the muttations. i yelp as one crawls into a loose flap on skin. that's when a pair of calloused hands slam over my mouth. hard.
âquiet,â snarls in my ear. haymitch. heâs there suddenlyâsolid, realâhauling me backward, crushing my face against his chest as he runs. i feel him swatting at the mutts with brutal efficiency, i feel his breath hot and fast against my hair. âdo you want them to hear you?â he hisses. âstay quiet.â
i canât fight him. i can barely stay conscious.
he doesnât stop running until the forest thickens again, until the air feels safer. he lowers me to the ground, immediately stealing my satchel and dumping the contents out, his hands moving fast, practiced.
âyouâre bleeding,â he mutters. i look up at him. there's three red marks scattered on the left side of his pale face. they're shiny, blistering. i try to raise a finger up, to warn him of his small ladybug-berry injuries but my arm is limp.
i feel completely and utterly useless as he pours my water over my skin, scrubbing the bugs away, pressing antiseptic into the bites while i gasp and shake, pain and relief tangling together.
i look up at him through hot tears. this is the first time iâve seen him since the horn. he's alive. his hands donât stop shaking even after the last of the insects are gone.
the antiseptic stings like fire, but the pain is sharp and clean now, not the hollow draining ache from before. my skin burns, throbbing in angry patches, but i can feel my fingers again. my legs respond when i flex them, weak but obedient. it's just temporary. i cling to that fact like a lifeline.
haymitch presses a wad of cloth against the worst of it, jaw clenched so tight i can see the muscle jump. he doesnât look at my face. he doesnât say anything comforting. he just worksâefficient, focusedâlike if he stops moving, something inside him will crack open.
then there's voices. close. too close. haymitch freezes beside me. his hand comes up instantly, firm against my shoulder, guiding me backward into the shadow of a fallen tree. he pulls me in tight, positioning my body flush against his chest, one arm wrapped across my shoulders, the other braced against the ground like a barrier. i donât resist. i donât even breathe.
boots crunch through leaves not even ten feet away. âthought i heard something,â a boy saysâlazy, amused. a career. district two, maybe.
âprobably mutts,â another replies. âthis place is crawling with them.â there's laughter. low. confident.
i feel haymitchâs breath warm against the crown of my head. i feel the slow, deliberate rise and fall of his chest as he forces himself calm. his chin dips, almost resting in my hair, like weâre just another tangle of roots and bark and shadow. his grip tightensânot painful, but grounding. stay still, his body tells me. my heart slams so hard iâm terrified theyâll hear it.
âweâll sweep the meadow later,â someone else adds. panache barkerâs voice. i recognize it from the bloodbathâtoo smooth, too pleased.
footsteps move on. branches snap farther away. only when the forest swallows their voices completely does haymitch loosen his holdânot all at once, but slowly. like heâs making sure theyâre really gone.
in one swift motion he completely pulls away. the space between us feels cold immediately. he doesnât meet my eyes, doesnât ask if iâm okay, just pushes the satchel back into my hands and nods toward it once.
âyouâll be sore,â he says quietly. âdrink, only water from your bottles. eat something. donât touch anything red again.â
i swallow. my throat burns. âthank you haymitch.â he stiffens before me. for a moment, i think he might say somethingâanythingâbut he just shakes his head once, sharp and final.
âstay hidden,â he adds. âtheyâll come back.â and then heâs gone. no goodbye. no explanation. just the sound of him melting back into the trees like he was never here at all.
i sit there long after, fingers curled tight around the satchel strap, skin aching, heart still racing. somewhere deep in this forest, a boy iâve spent years hating just saved my life and disappeared without claiming it.
that night, the anthem plays again. four more faces rise into the skyâampert latier was unfortunately one of themâleaving twenty-one of us.
i stare at nothing in front of me, letting the involuntary tears fall from my swelling eyes, saying a silent prayer that haymitch comes back to me.
day four
pale light bleeds through the trees, thin and cautious the next morning, like the arena itself is holding its breath. i wake slowly, every muscle stiff, every bite from yesterday still tender but dulled. the antiseptic did its job. haymitch did his job.
i drink someâonly from what's left of my water bottle like haymitch instructed. i eat some. i move quick.
i donât know why i walk in the direction i do. instinct, maybe. or the fact that i havenât stopped thinking about the way haymitch vanished into the trees without a word. about how close the careers were. about how his hands shook while he saved me.
i keep to the forestâs edge, circling the meadow without stepping into it. the open space feels wrong nowâtoo watched. too exposed. i donât want to go to the cornucopia again. i donât want the ghosts still clinging to it.
the forest edge narrows where the trees press closer to the meadow, roots snarling beneath the soil like theyâre trying to trip me on purpose. i move slow, eyes up, knife already loose in my grip.
i hear her before i see her. a breath. sharp. panicked. close. i stop instantly, lowering my center of gravity, every sense tightening. the sound comes againâsomeone clearly trying not to cry.
âplease,â a voice whispers. female. young. âi donât want toââ she stumbles into view from behind a cluster of ferns, nearly colliding with me. district eight. i recognize the fabric scraps woven into her sleeve, the thinness of her frame, the way her eyes dart everywhere but my face. we both freeze. sheâs holding a short blade, but her grip is wrongâtoo tight, knuckles white, elbow locked. fear, not training. âdonât,â she says immediately, voice breaking. âdonât come closer.â
i donât move. my heart is pounding so loud it feels like a betrayal. âiâm not,â i say quietly. âi wonât.â
she swallows hard, tears tracking down her cheeks. âi canât do this,â she whispers. âi havenât eaten since the cornucopia. i thoughtâi thought if i followed the treesâŠâ her eyes flick to my satchel. then back to my face. shame floods her expression instantly. âi donât want your things,â she rushes. âi justâi just donât want to be alone when it happens.â
the words hit harder than any blade could. i take a careful step to the side, angling my body so iâm not blocking her path. âyou donât have to stay here,â i say. âyou can keep going.â
she shakes her head, frantic. âtheyâre everywhere. i hear them laughing at night.â careers. she takes a step toward me without realizing it. too close.
something in her eyes shifts thenânot aggression, not courageâjust desperation tipping into panic. her blade lifts and my heart sinks.
my body moves before my mind catches up. i step in. fast. close enough to smell her sweat, her fear. my knife finds her ribs because thereâs nowhere else to put it, because hesitation is how you die here.
the resistance is awful. she gasps, a sharp, startled sound, more surprise than pain. âiâm sorry,â i breathe, even as my hand keeps moving, even as i know apologizing doesnât undo anything.
her blade clatters to the grass. her knees buckle. i catch her instinctively, lowering her so she doesnât hit the earth too hard. her blood soaks into my sleeve, hot and slick.
her green eyes find mine. âthank you,â she whispers, so soft i almost miss it. then those eyes go empty.
i kneel there longer than i should, hands shaking, my knife still buried where i put it. the cannon sounds overheadâloud, finalâand i flinch like it hit me instead of the sky.
i pull the blade free and stumble back, bile burning my throat. i wipe my hands on the grass, on my pants, on anything that isnât her. this is real, i think numbly. this is what it costs.
i donât take anything from her. not her blade. not her pack. i turn away instead, moving fast, breath coming too shallow, my chest aching like something inside it cracked open. the forest doesnât care. it closes behind me like nothing happened.
my legs carry me forward on instinct alone. i walk a yard or two numb, not thinking, not strategizing, just moving my body one step at a time. i instinctively hike a leg over a fallen log, suppressing the pain that tugs at the still-blistering skin on my thighs.
that's when i see him. haymitch is crouched near a stand of trees i havenât explored yet, back half-turned to me, backpack resting against his knee while he studies the ground intently. he looks different out hereâleaner, sharper, carved down to survival and stubbornness. not bleeding, not frantic, just set. like someone whoâs already lost everything and refuses to lose anything else.
i freeze. for one horrible second, i consider turning around. disappearing again. pretending yesterday never happened. pretending he didnât save me, didnât hold me still while death passed us by, didnât walk away like it meant nothing.
then a branch snaps underneath my boot. his head comes up instantly. blue eyes lock on mine. no surprise, no relief. just recognition. âyouâre alive,â he says flatly. itâs not a question. itâs not even warm. itâs just fact.
âso are you,â i answer.
he nods once, like that settles something, then pushes himself to his feet. he doesnât tell me to leave. he doesnât invite me closer. he just turns and starts walking, deeper into the forest, like he expects me to follow. after a beat, i do.
we move side by side, not touching, not looking at each other. the silence between us is thick but not hostile anymore. itâs the kind of quiet that comes after screaming, when thereâs nothing left to say except the truth.
the walking almost distracts me from the girl from district eightâhow she was ready to die but also ready to kill, how blood spilled from her chest, how i vomitted all over her and her belongings.
after a while, i say it, what's been on my mind for two days: âlou lou died.â
the words fall flat between us, a statement shaped like a wound. haymitch doesnât stop walking when he opens his mouth. âi know.â
i swallow. my throat burns. âthey showed her face.â
"yeah," he exhales slowly through his nose. âthey do that.â
my steps falter just a little. âyou were with her.â itâs not a question. i know the answer from his uncharacteristically witty comment. i just need him to say it.
âsince the bloodbath,â he starts, âshe found me after. wouldnât stop following me. wouldnât stop apologizing for breathing too loud.â my chest tightens. "she kept asking if she was doing it wrong,â he continues, voice rough but steady. âsleeping. walking. surviving. like there was a rulebook she missed.â
i look at the ground so i donât have to look at his face and those red blisters on his face, his consequence for saving my life.
âshe was tired,â he says. âthey kept steering her. drugging her. every time she tried to sit down, sheâd get confused. scared. said the flowers were singing.â my fingers curl into fists. âby the second night,â he adds, quieter now, âshe couldnât walk anymore.â
we stop near the stump of a tree. he sets his axe down on top of it, staring at it like it might answer for him.
âi stayed,â he says. âi didnât let them take her right away.â my heart sinks for him. for lou lou. for louella. âi held her hand until she stopped shaking,â he finishes. âthen i made it stop.â
the arena feels too big around us suddenly. too open. too cruel. âiâm so sorry,â i whisper.
he snorts, sharp and bitter. âdonât.â
âi mean it.â
âi know you do,â he says. âthatâs the problem.â
we walk again. i almost tell him about the life i took but decide not to. i'm not sure i trust him not to do the same to me. that thought makes me want to vomit again.
after a while, the anger creeps in, quieter than before but heavier. âyou hated me,â i say suddenly. âbefore all this.â
he lets out a short laugh. humorless. âyeah.â
âwhy?"
he doesnât answer right away. when he does, itâs like pulling splinters from bone. âyou had a roof that didnât leak,â he says. âfood that didnât disappear. sisters that didnât look at you like you were already dead.â
i flinch. âthatâs notââ
âi know,â he cuts in. then softer, âi know. but i didnât then.â
i swallow. âyou called me a spoiled princess.â
âyou called me a charity case,â he fires back.
the words hang between us, ugly and old.
âi didnât know about your dad yet,â i say.
âi know,â he replies. âdoesnât make it hurt less.â
we stop again. this time, we face each other.
âi hated that you saw through me,â he admits. âthat you werenât afraid of me. that you looked at me like i was something.â
my heart stutters. âand i hated that you thought i was pretending,â i say. âthat everything i had meant i hadnât earned anything.â
he looks at me then. âstupid,â he mutters.
âyeah,â i agree. âreally stupid.â
something settles after that, an understanding pressing its weight down on both of us.
âyouâre not doing this alone anymore,â he says eventually.
"neither are you.â
he nods once. we turn and walk together, side by side, into an unfortunately beautiful part of the arena neither of us has seen yet.
he tells me about how he almost died of poisoned water thirty minutes into the games; about lou lou's flower bed; about his mutt portal mission with ampert, following my ladybug injuries; about ampert's death; about the three lives he's taken already.
i tell him i'm sorry again, despite how much he hates it.
day five
the forest smells different when i wakeâsharp, metallic, like rain that hasnât fallen yet. or maybe it's just the arena shifting its weight, reminding us it isnât done.
haymitch is already awake. heâs crouched a few feet away, back to a tree, axe across his knees while he sharpens the blade with slow, methodical strokes. the sound is steady. controlled. too calm for how close danger feels now.
eight more tributes lost their lives last night. leaving haymitch and i versus thirteen others. thirteen fighters.
i sit up quietly, stretching stiff legs, rolling my shoulders to work out the soreness that never quite leaves. the bites from the mutts still ache if i move too fast, but theyâre fading. temporary. everything here is temporary one way or another.
âyou hear that?â he asks without looking up. i pause, listening harder. at first thereâs nothingâjust birdsong and the soft breath of the treesâbut beneath it, something else. a distant rumble. low. constant.
âno,â i say. then, after a beat, âwait. yeah.â
he nods once. âmountain.â
my stomach tightens. we havenât gone near it yetânot really. itâs been looming in the distance since the games began, white-capped and harmless-looking, like it belongs on a postcard instead of in an arena built to kill us.
âit wasnât making noise yesterday,â i say.
ânope.â he finishes sharpening the axe and stands, testing the weight in his hand. his movements are efficient, practiced. like heâs already adjusted his expectations.
i sling my satchel over my shoulder, checking the strap automatically. âare we moving?â
âyeah,â he says. âbut not toward that.â he jerks his chin away from the mountain, deeper into the forest, angling north. toward terrain we havenât touched yet. something about the way he says it, decisive and final, sets my teeth on edge.
âwhy?â i ask.
âbecause whateverâs waking up over there,â he replies, âisnât something i want at our backs.â
our. the word lands heavier than it should. we start walking, side by side again, boots crunching softly over leaves and brittle twigs. the forest feels tighter today. less forgiving. branches snag at my clothes like hands that donât want to let go.
after a while, i notice the pattern. haymitch keeps drifting a half-step ahead of me. keeps taking the outside edge when the ground narrows. keeps positioning himself between me and every open sightline.
i let it go once. then twice. the third time, i stop. "hey.â
he takes another step before realizing iâm not with him. he quickly turns back, irritation already flashing across his face. âwhat?â
âstop doing that.â
âdoing what?â
âthat.â i gesture between us. âyouâre not a shield.â
his jaw tightens. âi didnât say i was.â
âyou donât have to.â
he scoffs quietly and turns away again. âwe donât have time for this.â
i follow, but my voice sharpens. âyou keep moving us away from food. from water. from visibility. you volunteered to scout last night. you took point again this morning.â
âsomeone has to.â
ânot like this.â
he stops abruptly, spinning on me. âlike what?â
âlike youâve already decided how this ends,â i snap. my words hang there, raw and dangerous. for a moment, i think heâs going to explode. instead, something in him goes still.
âwatch your step,â he says coldly.
âno,â i fire back. âyou donât get to shut me out now. not afterââ
âafter i saved your life?â he cuts in.
that hits. hard. i swallow, anger flaring bright enough to hurt. âafter you chose to stay.â
silence stretches between us, thick and brittle. the forest seems to lean in, listening. haymitch drags a hand through his hair, pacing once like a caged animal. âthis isnât about feelings,â he mutters. âthis is math.â
âdonât,â i warn. wyatt callow flashes in my brain at the word math.
âone of us makes it farther if the other draws attention,â he continues, voice roughening. âthatâs just how it works.â
my chest tightens painfully. âso youâre planning to be the distraction.â he doesnât answer and thatâs answer enough. i step closer, lowering my voice, each word precise. âdonât turn me into someone who survives by letting you die.â
he finally looks at me then. i see something crack through the angerâfear, sharp and unguarded. âyou think i donât know that?â he snaps. âyou think i donât wake up every morning counting how many ways this ends with your name in the sky?â my breath stutters. âyou still have a reason to live,â he adds. âdonât make me pretend i do.â
the words cut deep, because i know where they come from. âyouâre wrong,â i say quietly. âand you donât get to decide that for me. or for yourself.â
he shakes his head, bitter. âyou donât understand.â
âmaybe not,â i admit. âbut i understand this: if you disappear on me, i wonât forgive you. not in this arena. not ever.â
there's another long silence. the distant rumble rolls again, louder this time, vibrating faintly through the ground beneath our boots. ash drifts from somewhere unseen, dusting the leaves like gray snow.
haymitch exhales slowly, like heâs letting go of something heâs been gripping too tight. âwe move together,â he says at last. âno heroics.â
he turns and starts walking again, slower this time. matching my pace. the mountain growls loud behind us. its sound rolls through the arena like something ancient stretching its spine, deep and resonant and wrong. the ground beneath our boots shivers againânot enough to knock us off balance, just enough to make the hairs on my arms rise.
haymitch stops mid-step. his head tilts, listening. âthatâs not a warning,â he says quietly. ash drifts through the trees now, thin as dust at first, clinging to leaves and catching in my hair. it smells sharp and chemical, not like smoke from a fire, but something manufactured. something designed.
âthe forest,â i say.
âalready headed there,â he replies.
we donât run yet. running draws eyes. running makes noise. instead we move fast and deliberate, angling deeper into the woods as the light shifts from green-gold to sickly gray.
we're barely in the denser portions of the wood before the mountain cracks open. the sound is deafeningâa violent rupture that tears the sky in half. lava fountains upward in brilliant orange arcs, beautiful in a way that makes my stomach churn. heat washes over us even from this distance, the air growing heavy, oppressive.
âgo,â haymitch snaps. we break into a sprint. branches whip at my face, roots snag my boots. the ash thickens, clinging to my skin, coating my tongue with bitterness. i hear screamsâdistant, panicked, cut short far too quickly. cannons start firing in uneven succession, each one a punch to the chest. one. two. three. âdonât breathe it in,â haymitch shouts over his shoulder. âit burns.â
i pull my dirtied sleeve over my mouth just as the ash changes textureâno longer powdery, but slick, gel-like. it splatters against my arm and i hiss as my skin flares hot, chemical pain blooming instantly.
ârain,â haymitch says, almost to himself. âtheyâll send rain.â as if the arena heard him, the sky darkens. clouds roll in unnaturally fast, and then the downpour comes, heavy and sudden. the gel dissolves on contact, melting away like sugar, hissing softly as it breaks down.
we collapse beneath a dense stand of trees, gasping, soaked through. the rain cools my burns almost instantly, leaving behind angry red patches but nothing deeper. temporary. again. cannons echo onâseven by the time it slows. we donât speak while it happens. we just listen, each boom another life erased somewhere beyond these trees.
when the rain eases, the forest looks pristine again. leaves washed clean. air crisp. the mountain quiet once more, like it never tried to kill anyone at all.
âliars,â i mutter.
haymitch lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh scraped raw. âwelcome to panem.â
we move again once the ground steadies, circling wide around the mountainâs reach. itâs then we start noticing the patternâthe way the trees thin unnaturally near the northern edge. the way the ground slopes too cleanly, too evenly.
the hedge maze rises out of nowhere. dense, towering, clipped into sharp angles that donât belong in nature. it forms a wide v-shape, hedges so thick i canât see through them at all.
haymitch slows, eyes narrowing. âend of the world,â he mutters. i step closer, peering at the leaves. something glints faintlyâa small brass plaque nailed low into the hedge.
we follow the hedge line instead of trying to breach it, boots crunching over dry earth that feels wrong underfoot. we walk until the land just stops. a cliff yawns open ahead of us, sheer and brutal, jagged rocks far below. my stomach drops at the sight. âthatâs it,â i whisper. âthe edge.â
haymitch crouches, scooping up a stone. he tosses it forward. the rock flies maybe ten feet before it slams into nothingâricocheting violently back toward us. haymitch jerks me aside just in time as it whizzes past, skidding harmlessly into the dirt behind us. a force field.
we stare at each other. something dangerous lights in his eyes. âthey bounce,â he says slowly. âeverything bounces.â
i feel it thenâthe shift. the arena isnât just killing randomly anymore. itâs showing us its teeth. its rules. daring someone smart enough to use them.
the anthem sounds that night while weâre still tucked near the hedge, hidden in a pocket of shadow. faces bloom across the skyâmore than i want to count. none of them are us and that's all that matters.
we sit shoulder to shoulder, close enough that our arms brush. neither of us pulls away.
âwe're still here,â he mutters eventually.
day six
haymitch is on his feet early the next morning. heâs standing at the edge of our cover, staring toward the mountain with his head tilted, listening again. itâs quieter today. no groaning. no warning tremors. just silence stretched thin as wire.
my throat feels raw when i swallow. my skin is tight where the gel touched it, faintly tender but healed enough to move.
âitâs done for now,â he says.
weâre careful packing up. slower than before. there are fewer sounds in the arena nowâless movement, less panic. fewer people left to make noise. it makes everything feel closer. heavier.
six. that number sits between us like a third presence. âfour others,â i say quietly, like if i donât say it out loud it might ambush me later. âcareers.â
âyeah,â he replies. âand theyâre hunting.â
we move anyway. thereâs no choice but forward now. no more circling the edges. no more pretending we can wait this out. the arena has started tightening its grip, and we can feel the pull of it everywhereâin the way paths funnel, in the way the forest thins, in the way open space dares us to cross it.
we keep to the hedge line again, moving north, then west, then back south in a slow arc. haymitch keeps glancing at the cliff like itâs a thought he doesnât want to finish having.
eventually, i stop. âyouâre thinking about it.â
he doesnât ask what i mean. âyeah.â
âabout throwing something.â
âabout making them throw something,â he corrects.
my stomach flips. âthatâs dangerous.â
he finally looks at me. âeverything left is.â we walk in silence for a while after that, the kind that hums instead of rests. i keep replaying the ricochet in my head. the way the stone snapped back like the arena itself had teeth. âif it comes to it,â he says eventually, voice low, âyou run.â
i stop short. âno.â my stomach sinks, it's like he either forgot our almost-argument yesterday or he simply does not care.
âiâm serious.â
âso am i.â i step into his space, close enough that i have to tilt my head up to look at him. âwe already did this yesterday.â
his jaw tightens. âthis is different.â
âitâs not,â i say. âitâs just closer.â the thought of haymitch dying protecting me is somehow worse than the thought of one of us having to kill the other if we are the final two.
for a second, i think heâs going to argue again. instead, he exhales hard, like the fight drains out of him all at once. âi hate that you make sense,â he mutters. i almost smile. almost.
the afternoon stretches long and tense. we hear the others before we see themâdistant voices, laughter sharp with nerves, boots snapping twigs without care. panache's voice carries easily. he sounds confident. like he thinks the arena already belongs to him.
we drop lower, moving through undergrowth, careful not to leave signs. once, we flatten ourselves into a shallow ditch as footsteps pass close enough that i can smell sweat and metal. haymitchâs hand brushes mine in the dirtâbrief, instinctive. when theyâre gone, we donât speak about it. we just breathe, heavy and needed. i lean back against the hedge, exhaustion finally sinking its claws into me. haymitch sits beside me, knees drawn up, axe resting across his thighs.
âif we make it to morning,â i start softly.
âwe will,â he replies, too quick.
i glance at him, forgetting the end of my thought. âdonât lie to me.â
heâs quiet for a long moment. then, honest in a way that hurts, âi donât know how this ends.â thatâs the closest thing to fear iâve heard from him.
âneither do i,â i say. âbut i know how i donât want it to.â he nods, once. agreement without words.
the fire did more damage than we realized at first. entire stretches of forest are goneâcharred trunks, brittle ash underfoot, the air still faintly acrid. the nearest waterfall is visible now through the dead trees, white and tempting and completely useless with its poisoned contents.
we donât go near the cornucopia. not with four others still breathing. not after the volcano stripped the forest raw and left the open meadow feeling like a stage with too many sightlines. the metal pile glints in the distance like itâs mocking us, daring us to be stupid. we arenât.
haymitch watches the waterfall for a long time. then he looks away. ânot worth it,â he says, clutching his stomach.
âno,â i agree. my voice comes out hoarse. âitâd kill us slower than the others would.â
we sit with the thirst instead. let it settle. let it gnaw. my burns itch under my sleevesâangry, healing, still tender. the ladybug bites have faded to bruised constellations along my skin, but they ache when the heat rises. haymitch hasnât complained once about the blisters on his hands from the axe, or the burns on his forearms. he just keeps flexing his fingers like heâs reminding them they still belong to him.
the arena is quiet in that dangerous wayâno screams, no cannons, no obvious threat. just the sense of being watched and weighed.
the sky hums. we both look up at the same time. two silver parachutes bloom overhead, drifting down slow and deliberate, like the capitol wants us to savor it. haymitch is already on his feet, scanning the perimeter, axe loose in his grip. i stay still, eyes tracking the descent.
the boxes land a few yards apart with soft thuds. we wait a full ten seconds. then another. finally, haymitch approaches the closer one, crouching, checking for wires, triggers, anything that might turn generosity into a joke. he flips the lid.
water. two full bottles. clear. real. for a moment, he just stares. thereâs a folded slip of paper tucked beside them. he picks it up, hesitates, then opens it. his mouth twitches.
âwhat?â i ask.
he hands it to me without comment.
drink. think. donât die doing something stupid âm & w
itâs barely a note. barely handwriting. but my chest tightens anyway. the other box is closer to me. i kneel and open it carefully. antibiotic cream. one thick tube. more than i would have expected. much more than i deserve. another folded note waits underneath.
you were right to survive âm & w
thatâs it. no flourish. no advice. i blink hard and close the box before my eyes can do anything embarrassing.
haymitch hands me one of the water bottles without ceremony. our fingers brush brieflyâcalloused, warm, real. âtake small sips,â he says.
the water tastes like nothing and everything. it burns going down. i want to cry with relief. i donât.
we ration. we put the cream on one another's burns. we wait silently. the sun inches lower. and for the first time since the volcano, my skin stops screaming; for the first time since the ladybugs, my muscles unclench just a little.
the arena settles around us, pretending to sleep. somewhere out there, four tributes sharpen their weapons, thinking theyâre the last fighters standingâtheyâre wrong. weâre still here.
haymitch doesnât sleep. neither do i. we take turns keeping watch, backs to the hedge, eyes on the shadows. every sound feels intentional now; every pause too long.
day seven
the first cannon sounds sometime after midnight i presume. it cracks through the air sharp, rattling my ribs. i flinch before i can stop myself, fingers digging into the dirt. haymitch exhales slowly. âone,â he murmurs.
the forest settles again, deceptive in its quiet. minutes drag. maybe an hour. iâm starting to wonder if that was itâif the arenaâs done thinning the herd for the nightâthen the second cannon fires.
my heart slams hard enough it hurts. i press my hand to my chest, breathing shallow, listening for movement that doesnât come.
haymitch closes his eyes briefly. not in relief. not in mourning. just acknowledgment. âthat leaves four,â he says. the number lands heavy. four of us are left. me, him, and two others.
i stare up through the branches at the empty sky, trying to picture faces that arenât there yet. trying not to imagine weapons, trying not to imagine blood.
âcareers,â i whisper.
âyeah,â he says. âhas to be.â
i swallow. my mouth tastes like ash and adrenaline. âtheyâll come at first light.â
âprobably,â he agrees.
we donât say anything else after that. thereâs nothing left to plan tonight. no moves to make in the dark without tipping the balance the wrong way.
eventually, exhaustion wins in fragments. i drift in and out of shallow sleep, the ground cold beneath me, the hedge solid at my back. every time i wake, haymitch is still thereâsilent, coiled, watching the arena breathe.
morning comes thin and gray. the forest looks almost innocent again, washed clean by night dew. birds stir cautiously. light creeps through leaves like itâs unsure itâs welcome.
three names are left to fill the sky. my body shivers at the thought. i sit up slowly, muscles stiff, heart already racing. âwe donât know who they are,â i say.
haymitch shakes his head. ânot until they show themselves.â somewhere out there, two tributes are waking up too, sharpening their blades, thinking theyâre the last obstacle standing between themselves and victory.
i look at the hedge, at the cliff beyond it, at the invisible wall that bounced a stone back like a warning shot from the arena itself. whatever happens next wonât be subtle.
âstay close,â haymitch says. i nod.
we head south first. the forest thins that way, slopes gentler, less theatrical. i keep my eyes on the ground, my ears open, every sense stretched tight.
there's a disturbance in the air. it starts with heat. not the honest kind, not sun-on-skin warmth, but a sudden pressure change that makes my lungs feel too full. the air thickens. candy pink birds scatter all at once, exploding from the canopy like something spooked them from below.
haymitch stops dead in his tracks. âdonât,â he says, already turning. âdonât look back.â i donât need to. the smell hits nextâburning sap, chemical sharpness, smoke that doesnât belong to any natural fire. thereâs a roar behind us, fast and hungry, and when i risk a glance despite his warning, my stomach drops.
flames. not creeping, not cautious, but a wall of fire tearing through the forest like itâs being pulled by wires. trees ignite too cleanly, their leaves flashing bright before blackening, collapsing inward with sharp cracks.
âthey want us north,â i gasp.
haymitch grabs my wrist, hard. ârun.â
wind bites at my face, smoke burns my throat, heat licking at my back like teeth. the fire moves wrongâtoo fast, too purposeful, changing direction when we do. my lungs scream. my legs feel like lead.
donât become someone you hate, my brain whispers uselessly as panic claws up my spine.
the trees thin abruptly and light floods in: the meadow. we burst out of the forest together, stumbling into open space just as the fire roars to the edge of the tree line and unnaturally stops. flames rear and curl, frustrated, before dying back fast, leaving only scorched trunks and smoking earth.
i drop to my knees, coughing, my chest on fire. haymitch stays standing, axe raised, eyes sweeping the open field. the cornucopia gleams ahead of us, obscene and familiar, metal catching the sun like itâs proud of itself. the grass is trampled now, stained darker in places i donât let myself look at too closely.
voices carry across the meadow; laughter; slow clapping. âcome on, abernathy,â a boy calls, voice smooth and sharp-edged. âdonât tell me you ran all this way just to hide again.â
another voice joins in. âweâre bored.â
haymitchâs jaw tightens. i feel it even without touching him, like tension radiating off his body.
âtheyâre close,â i murmur.
âyeah,â he says. âthey want a show.â
a loud speaker crackles to life overhead, sound reverberating through the open space until it feels like itâs inside my skull.
âattention, tributes.â the voice is calm and practiced. my heart starts pounding hard and sputtered. âdue to the exceptional circumstances of this yearâs quarter quell, the capitol has authorized a final amendment.â i watch glossy-eyed as haymitchâs grip tightens around his axe, his knuckles turning white. âthere may be two victors, provided they are from the same district.â
the words hit like a physical force. for a heartbeat, the arena tilts. i stare straight ahead, pulse roaring in my ears. i donât look at haymitch. i canât. the thought is too fragile, too dangerous to touch directly. hope is a blade hereâsharp, tempting, ready to cut you open if you hold it wrong.
across the meadow, the laughter stops. âwell, iâll be damned,â the boy calls, delighted now. âhear that? looks like itâs personal, abernathy.â
the other voiceâfemale, low and taunting. âguess weâll have to break you and your little lover up.â
haymitch exhales slowly through his nose. when he finally looks at me, thereâs something different in his eyes now. not anger, not fear, but calculation. âthey want us desperate,â he says quietly. âthey want us to turn on each other.â
i nod once. âwe wonât.â
his mouth twitchesânot a smile, not quiteâbut something steadier. âgood.â
the grass ripples as a breeze cuts through the meadow, carrying the faint scent of smoke behind us and blood ahead of us. the arena feels smaller now. like itâs closing its fist.
we donât get time to plan. they move first.
silka sharp comes out of the tall grass like a nightmare pulled uprightâtoo tall, too solid, axe already swinging in a lazy, confident arc that whistles as it cuts the air in front of me. six feet of muscle and intent. she grins when she sees me, eyes flicking over my knives like sheâs already decided iâm manageable.
i dart forward instead of back. the first knife leaves my hand before my brain finishes the thought, spinning low and fast. silka jerks aside just in time; the blade slices fabric and skin along her ribs. she snarls, surprise flashing hot across her face.
âfeisty,â she laughs, adjusting her grip. âi like that.â i donât answer. i donât waste my breath. i circle, knees bent, weight light on my feet, knives flashing between my fingers like extensions of thought. the world narrows to distance and timing and the way her shoulders tense before she swings. sheâs strong, but sheâs slow.
i throw again. then again. one knife embeds in her thigh. another skims her forearm. blood beads bright against her skin, stark and shocking against all that confidence. she stumbles half a step, growl turning sharp and furious.
thatâs when silka gets visibly angry. she roars and charges, axe coming down hard enough to split bone. i roll, barely clearing it, dirt exploding where iâd been a second before. the shock rattles my teeth. i come up low, slicing, driving another knife into her calf. she howls this timeâreal pain, real shock.
i feel something fierce bloom in my chest. i can do this. i canâthere's pain. white-hot, blinding, catastrophic pain.
panache moves faster than i thought. his sword hacks backward in a brutal, careless motion, steel biting deep into my hip. the impact is like being struck by lightning and crushed at the same time. i screamâi canât stop itâas my body folds, legs giving out beneath me.
the pain isnât sharp anymore. itâs everything. it floods me, swallows me whole, radiating outward in sickening waves. my spine lights up, nerves screaming like theyâve been ripped open and set on fire. my spine goes numb instantly, dead weight dragging uselessly behind me. i taste blood. i canât tell if iâm biting my tongue or just breaking apart.
i hit the ground hard, breath tearing out of me in a sound that doesnât even feel human. i canât move. i canât feel half of myself. panic claws in next, cold and suffocating. i try to push upânothing. my hands slip in the grass. my vision blurs, tears spilling hot and helpless.
haymitch roars my name. the sound cuts through the pain like a hook. i see him only in flashesâhim slamming into panache, axe coming up hard, the flat of the blade cracking into panacheâs waist with a sickening thud. panache goes down, sword slipping from his hand, breath knocked clean out of him.
i wait for the sound of the cannon but it never comes. he's not dead, just knocked unconscious.
i want to scream at haymitch to finish it. to run. to win. to leave me. instead all that comes out is a broken sound, wet and shaking. he turns back to me for half a secondâjust long enough for our eyes to meet. i see it there. terror. fury. devotion so sharp it hurts to look at.
then silka is on him. sheâs bleeding badly now, limping, axe heavy in her handsâbut sheâs still standing. still dangerous. she swings with everything she has left, driving haymitch back step by step.
he has no choice but to fight defensively now. his axe is buried in panacheâs lower torso and he doesnât dare turn his back to retrieve it. he grabs my satchel instead, yanking it toward him with one hand while blocking silkaâs strikes with the other, movements tight and desperate.
i watch through tears, chest heaving, pain pulsing in nauseating waves that make the world tilt. every heartbeat sends another bolt through my spine. i feel like iâm coming undone at the seams.
i donât want to live like this. i donât want him to die because of me. please, i think wildly, stupidly. please let it be him.
a cannon boomsâpanacheâthe sound punches through the air, final and merciless. silka screams, raw and feral, grief and rage tangled together as she rips her axe free and hurls it with everything she has left. i see it spin end over end, gleaming, beautiful and terrible.
haymitch dodges it swiftly. clean, instinctiveâperfect. the axe sails past him and slams into the invisible wall behind. the force field, our discovery, hums as the weapon ricochets.
i see silkaâs eyes widen just before the axe buries itself in her chest, right where her heart should be. the impact lifts her off her feet. she collapses without another sound. the cannon fires again. silence crashes down, heavy and unreal.
my vision tunnels. the edges go dark. the pain is unbearable now, overwhelming, like my body is trying to eject me from itself. i sob openly, broken, gasping, half-aware of the anthem swelling overhead, triumphant and cruel.
i donât want to see my face in the sky. i want him to win.
haymitch is suddenly hereâknees in the grass, hands on my face, on my shoulders, everywhere at once. heâs shaking harder than i am, breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. âheyâheyâstay with me,â he begs, voice breaking. âdonât you dareâdonât you dareââ
i cling to him weakly, fingers fisting in his ruined shirt, pain and relief and terror blurring together until i canât tell where one ends and the other begins.
above us, the voice returns, colder now. edged with something like resentment. "the capitol hereby announces the victors of the fiftieth hunger games, the second quarter quell.â my hearing fades in and out. âfrom district twelveââ
haymitchâs forehead presses to mine. his breath is warm. he's real. he's alive.
ââhaymitch abernathy and y/n donner.â the anthem crescendos and the sky burns bright.
the last thing i feel is haymitch holding me like heâs afraid the world will take me if he lets go.
the victors
i wake up breathing. thatâs the first thing i notice. not pain, not panic, but the steady rise and fall of my chest, smooth and uninterrupted, like nothing ever went wrong.
the ceiling above me is white. not the harsh arena-white. not the fluorescent glare of the capitol hospital. this is softer, warmer. familiar in a way that makes my stomach twist; the training center.
my fingers twitch. they respond immediately. there's no delay, no tremor. i sit up too fast, heart slamming, waiting for the agony to hitâfor my hip to scream, for my body to remind me what it went through. nothing happens.
i look down at myself. iâm clean. spotless, really. my hands are manicured, nails painted a pale, shimmering color iâve never chosen for myself. my skin is smooth, unmarked. no burns, no bites, no blood or dirt beneath my nails.
i slide off the bed and nearly trip on fabric pooling at my feet. a dress. long, blue, elegant, capitol-perfect. the kind of thing designed to distract the eye, to erase history with silk and sparkle.
i stagger toward the mirror. the girl staring back at me looks nothing like me, she looks like a victor. my hair falls over my shoulders in soft curls, styled within an inch of its life. my makeup is already doneâdark lashes, shimmering lids, lips painted a deep rose.
i lift the hem of the dress with shaking fingers, breath caught painfully in my throat. my hip is flawless with no stitches, no bruising, no scar. there's not even a hint of discoloration where a sword should have ended me.
they cut me open while i slept; fixed me, perfected me, erased the proof that i bled for their entertainment.
the door opens quietly behind me. i spin, heart lurching. an avox dressed in crimson stands there, head bowed. it's a woman, much older than me. her eyes flick up brieflyâgentle, sadâbefore she gestures for me to follow. she doesnât speak. she canât. i donât either.
the hallway feels wrong under my feet. too quiet. too clean. like the building is holding its breath. every step echoes with memoryâtraining, laughter, shouting, fear. a week ago, i was here pretending i wasnât already dead.
the avox stops at the twelfth floor. the elevator door opens and she quickly steps aside.
haymitch is there.
for half a second, my brain refuses to process it. heâs clean. dressed in a tailored suit the same deep navy as my dress. his curls are clean and coiled. his face is unmarked, healed, whole. alive.
he crosses the room in three long strides and crashes into me, arms wrapping tight around my shoulders, my back, my waistâeverywhere at once. i slam into his chest, fingers fisting in the fabric of his suit like iâm afraid heâll disappear if i let go.
heâs shaking. so am i. we donât cry, not really. we press our faces into each otherâs shoulders and breathe, chests hitching, holding on like the world might tear us apart again if we loosen our grip even an inch. he smells like soap and something expensive and wrong, but underneath it all, itâs still him.
âyouâre here,â he murmurs, voice rough. âyouâreââ
âi know,â i whisper. âi know.â
the door opens again. drusilla sweeps in first, already dabbing at her eyes dramatically. mags follows, slower, steadier, her smile soft. wiress lingers near the door, watching us like sheâs memorizing the moment.
haymitch loosens his hold, just slightly, swallowed by the cluster of women suddenly surrounding us. hands on shoulders. murmured reassurances. relief layered over grief.
i hug mags. then wiress. drusilla presses a kiss to my cheek that smells like powder and perfume.
âmy darlings,â she says brightly, voice trembling despite herself. âyou did it. you did it.â i open my mouth to askâabout the arena, about my family, about what happens nowâbut drusilla cuts me off with a gentle clap. âno time, love. we mustnât be late. caesar is waiting.â
waiting. the word makes my stomach twist.
the stage is blinding. brighter than before. louder. everything amplified now that weâve survived. caesar flickerman beams at us like weâre his favorite miracle. everything around me is a blur of lights and applause and voices that feel too loud in my skull.
âpanem,â he announces, voice ringing, âplease welcome your victors of the fiftieth hunger games!â the following applause is deafening. it rolls over us in waves. i sit beside haymitch, knees close enough that our legs brush.
ânow,â caesar says, leaning forward eagerly, âyou gave us something truly unprecedented. two victors.â he smiles wider. âtell meâdid you believe it was possible?â
haymitch answers first. âno,â he says plainly. the crowd laughs, startled. âbut i believed we werenât done yet.â
caesar turns to me. âand you, y/n? when did you realize you might both make it out?â
i swallow. my voice comes steady anyway. âwhen i realized i trusted him more than the arena.â the applause swells again.
âbrave,â caesar sighs. âromantic, even.â i donât correct him.
i keep my eyes forward, focusing on a random woman in the large sea of people. she has neon pink skin. i stare at her so hard i worry holes might burn into her figure. i refuse to look at the screen behind us showing highlights of the games. i donât need to.
cesar asks about the final fight; about silka and panache; about the force field; about loyalty. "how did it feel,â he asks lightly, âto watch your final opponent fall?â
my chest tightens. âit didnât feel like winning,â i say. âit felt like surviving.â the room quiets.
next come the crowns. gold circlets, heavy and cold as theyâre placed on our heads. haymitch stiffens at the contact. i barely feel it at all.
my mind keeps slipping sidewaysâback to the girl from eight, to louellaâs face in the sky, to wyattâs body on the grass. to haymitchâs hands shaking as he held me together.
to the life i took. to the lives i couldnât save.
our hands are forced and raised together. cameras flash, lights explode. we smile because weâre told to, because everyone is watching.
we're pulled aside immediately after the crowningâhands adjusting our fancy clothes, angling our faces, directing us closer.
âcloser,â a voice insists. âarm around the waist. yes. smile.â haymitchâs hand settles at my lower back. his fingers flex once, like a warning, like reassurance.
there's a flash. it stings my eyes.
âlook at each other!â
i turn my head. our smiles donât reach our eyes. flash.
when itâs over, when the lights and cameras finally dim, i feel hollowed out. like something essential was taken and replaced with glitter.
the victory tour passes in fragments as well. districts blur togetherâfaces, names, speeches written for us and memorized like prayers. dinners where we sit at the head of tables we donât belong at, talking about courage and sacrifice while parents stare at us with hollow eyes. i say the names of the dead. i bow my head. i keep my voice steady.
haymitch stands beside me every time. solid. silent. a presence i anchor myself to. we save twelve for last; the capitol comes first.
snowâs mansion glows like something unrealâwhite and perfect and full of laughter that doesnât belong to us. the party is overwhelming. music, color, movement. hands grabbing, voices congratulating.
wine is pressed into my hand. i donât drink it. haymitch, however, downs half of his immediately. people congratulate us left and right like we won a game, not a massacre.
then president snow appears at my side. his smile is thin and politeâdeadly. âmiss donner,â he says softly. âhow extraordinary.â
âthank you, sir,â i reply automatically.
his eyes flick to haymitch. then back to me. âyou and abernathy,â he continues, âwere not the intended outcome.â my heart stutters. âsilka sharp and panache barker. they were meant to be the story. but,â snow adds, leaning closer, âstories can change.â his smile sharpens. âjust remember who edits the ending.â
he steps away like heâs said nothing at all.
at some pointâi donât remember howâhaymitch and i slip away to a secluded bedroom. enormous and quiet. the door clicks shut behind us and the silence rushes in like water. we donât speak at first. haymitch leans against the wall. i sit on the edge of the bed. the space between us hums with everything we havenât said yet.
âi donât know how to go home,â he says finally.
the words land softly. honestly. âme neither,â i admit, thinking of our new home back in twelve: the victor's village; nothing like the merchants area, nothing like the same.
"i donât know how to be a victor.â
âyou donât have to be anything,â i reply. ânot with me.â
his breath catches. âi was ready to die out there,â he admits. âi wasnât ready to come back.â he looks at me then, his eyes darker than iâve ever seen them. âtheyâre going to expect things from us. smiles. gratitude. mentorship.â
âwe donât owe them that,â i say.
his mouth twitches. âno. but theyâll take it anyway.â
something shifts in me then. a quiet, terrifying clarity. i realize i donât just care if haymitch survivesâi care if heâs alone. i care if he breaks. i care in a way that has nothing to do with the arena or an alliance, but everything to do with who he is when no oneâs watching.
âhaymitchââ i start.
he crosses the room in two steps. both of his hands come up to my face, warm and sure, thumbs brushing my jaw like heâs grounding himself. like he needs to feel something real. "please tell me to stop, princess,â he murmurs.
i donât.
when he kisses me, itâs desperate. hungry. years of fear and anger and restraint collapsing into one moment. his mouth is firm against mine, breath uneven, hands cradling my face like i might shatter.
i kiss him back with the same urgency, fingers sliding into his curls, pulling him closer, closer, closer. the world narrows to heat and breath and the way he presses into me like heâs afraid iâll disappear.
his hands slide down my back, anchoring me. my lips part. he groans softly, like itâs been locked in his chest for weeks.
for a few more minutes, nothing else exists, but then thereâs a knock. we break apart, breathless.
âyouâll want to see this,â drusilla callsâsofter than i've ever heard herâfrom the other side of the door.
the door swings open after a beat and a yell of assurance from haymitch; maysilee is there. merilee. my parents. willamae and sid abernathy.
they rush forward all at once, arms wrapping around me, around haymitch, around each other. itâs messy and overwhelming and perfect. i bury my face in my sisterâs hair and breathe her in. i feel sidâs arms around haymitchâs waist. i feel my motherâs hands on my back, solid and warm.
haymitchâs hand finds mine in our crowd of loved ones. our fingers lace together without a twitch.
for the first time since the reaping, something like peace settles in my chest. not happiness but gratitude. and love. and the knowledge that even after everythingâafter fire and blood and lossâsome things survived. so did we.
we move side by side, not touching, not looking at each other. the silence between us is thick but not hostile anymore. itâs the kind of quiet that comes after screaming, when thereâs nothing left to say except the truth.
every single bit of this is perfect. the description, the emotion, the action, the tension.. everything. your writing is truly just superb
id highlight my favourite lines from this but it was genuinely everything
Summary: your boyfriend begs you to have anal but knows jack shit about the act. Much to your surprise and pleasure, his dad steps up and teaches him. By example.
Tw: +18, mdni, smut, age gap, soft!Joel, consent king Joel, reader calls him Mr Miller bc sheâs respectful and bc itâs hotttt, size kink, competency kink, pussy/ass fingering (different fingers ofc), cuckolding, ass play, rimming, anal, lots of lube, f!masturbation, creampie, praise kink.
Word count: 5,4k
A/n: I think this is the porn-iest story Iâve ever written ahah Itâs very depraved but also sweet in some places. I had a blast working on it and I hope youâll like the resultâ„ïž Soft Joel kisses to @milla-frenchy for beta-ingđ Dividers by @/saradika-graphics đEnjoy, my lovely freaksđ
MASTERLIST
âNumber one rule of anal sex is âNo rushâ,â Mr Miller says to his son. The older man is sitting by your side, his hands gently kneading your naked asscheeks. You hold your breath when he spreads the globes of your flesh and exposes your pussy slit and butthole. Both entrances clench.
Youâve been going out with Jack Miller for almost a year and you know his dad Joel relatively well. Heâs single, works as a contractor, loves spending his free time playing the guitar, woodworking, watching old action movies and going to the bar with his brother Tommy. What you havenât known before tonight is how good his fingers feel when he pushes them into your asshole. But letâs not get ahead of ourselves.
It all started with an argument. Jack was getting on your nerves, begging you to have anal.
âCâmon, baby,â he said, clinging to you like an annoying lap dog. He had just fingered you as a foreplay so you were sweaty and sleepy, lying naked on his bed. As always it had taken him too long. He had trouble finding the right rhythm and the right angle like heâd never touched your pussy before. While he was fiddling with your lady parts, a slideshow of your favorite porno scenes was playing on a loop behind your tightly closed eyes until finally you reached an underwhelming orgasm.
Probably relying on endorphins clouding your judgement, Jack began his anal pitch. He was promising you heavenly pleasure and an unforgettable experience, mostly turning himself on - a pole was proudly tenting his sweatpants.
Despite the passion in his voice, you were adamant in your decision. Youâd never done it with anyone before and doubted that Jack was experienced enough to show you a wonderful world of anal.
âItâs not that simple, Jack! Jerking off to anal porn is not enough! What if you hurt me! You need to educate yourself first. You need to know⊠stuff.â You pulled the cover over your naked breasts and crossed your arms.
âWhat stuff?â Jack frowned.
âExactly!â
You stared at the ceiling, contemplating getting dressed and going home. You were sure he wouldnât let it go. And he didnât.
âIâll be careful, I promise. Just a tip first, you wonât even feel it. Iâll be super slow and then bam! Iâm inside.â
BAM! No one in the history of mankind wanted to hear Bam! and their ass in the same sentence. So you shook your head and gave Jack an alternative,
âWhy donât you fuck my pussy?â
Jack palmed his clothed boner with interest but then shook his head, doubling down.
âBaby, pleaseeeeee..â
Nothing extraordinary would have happened if Jack hadnât kept nagging and whining, pleading you to give him your butt. You kept saying ânoâ, he kept begging. It got so annoying that you decided to leave but before you sat up there was a loud knock on the bedroom door.
âDad,â Jack grumbled and got up. He adjusted his hard cock and you pulled the bed cover higher, covering your chest.
âWhatâs up, dad?â Jack said, annoyed by the interruption.
âCan I âŠ?â Mr Miller stepped into the bedroom. You swallowed loudly. It was weird to be completely naked under the sheet in front of your boyfriendâs father.
âSorry for intrudinâ, sweetheart,â he said, turning to you and then to his son. âJack, I canât listen to it no more! Donât you get what sheâs sayinâ?â
âDad, what the hell?â Jackâs cheeks grew red, he was shifting on his bare feet, throwing nervous glances at you. And you definitely shared his confusion.
âI wasnât eavesdroppinâ I swear. These fuckin walls are cardboard thin. You were whininâ like a little bitch, son. Sorry, sweetheart,â Mr Miller apologized to you again and then said the words that youâd never expected to hear from your boyfriendâs dad.
âLet me teach you anal.â
Jack was shocked and embarrassed. He was gawking at his dad with widened eyes while the older man was standing by the bed, towering over his son, feet planted firmly on the ground. He kept saying that he only wanted to help, gesturing with his big hands. To your surprise you immediately pictured those hands on your naked body.
You wondered how Mr Miller would teach you. Maybe heâd watch Jack and you, guiding you both, giving advice, or maybe heâd take matters (your ass) into his own hands. Those huge veiny hands. The thought made your core pucker and while Jack was asking his dad to leave, saying that he lost his mind, you pressed your thighs together under the cover, trying to alleviate the ache in your pussy.
âI couldnât hear the TV, Jack! Only your pathetic attempts to put it in her ass. Sorry, baby,â Mr Miller looked at you, his hands raised palms to you.
âDonât call her that,â Jack grumbled. He looked and sounded like a boy who didnât want to share his toy truck.
ââK,â his father nodded and turned at you. âJusâ wanna help.â
He dropped his hands by his sides, his sad puppy eyes moving from his son and to you and back. Your heart swelled. Your pussy throbbed.
âOk,â you said, surprising your boyfriend and yourself. Jack gawked at you.
âWhat do you mean âokâ?!â
âYou want to have anal, yeah? But you got no clue what to do, donât even lie, Jack! Let your dad teach us.â
Thatâs how you ended up in a position you couldnât imagine being in your wildest dreams â lying naked on your front, your legs spread, your boyfriend's dad playing with your butt.
âHelp âer relax,â Mr Miller says to his son, his voice soft and soothing, his tone casual as if heâs teaching Jack how to fix a lawn mower. Your boyfriend is seated in a gaming chair a foot away from the bed, his arms crossed, eyes narrowed. When his gaze meets yours, you quickly look away. He doesnât seem pleased, rather mortified. Whatever. You always thought that Mr Miller was hot, in a rugged and dilf-y way.
Once you had a dream about blowing him in their kitchen, your mouth full of his fat cock, his fingers tight in your hair, no Jack and his cuck gaming chair in sight.
âDraw âer a nice bath, give âer a massage, somethinâ like that,â Joel says as his calloused palm glides up and down the back of your thigh. Youâre one big goosebump, his touch is electrifying.
âNo harsh movements.â He carefully pushes on your inner thigh until you bend up your leg. Your hips open and slightly rise off the bed. âShe needs to be pliant, ready to take you in her most vulnerable place.â
Jack swallows hard. Your cheek is resting on the pillow, your head turned away from Mr Miller, but you are seeing him perfectly in the wardrobe mirror that stands lengthwise the bed. Heâs wearing his usual flannel, sleeves rolled up, and dark blue jeans. Itâs not his home clothes and you wonder if he dressed like this for you.
Mr Millerâs salt and pepper locks curl up at the nape, he needs a haircut, but you like his hair longer. You imagine running your fingers through his curls, tugging on them while heâs plowing your wet needy âŠ
âAre you comfortable, sweetie?â Joel interrupts your dirty daydream with a question, his voice soft and raspy. It could have lulled you to sleep if not for a finger that grazes your butthole, making you flinch.
âUh-huh.â You donât sound too sure.
âWeâll get there,â he says with a little smile and adds, âTogether.â
While youâre slowly melting into the bedsheets from his gentle tone, Mr Miller turns to Jack.
âAnother important thing is lubrication. You have some?â
It looks like Jackâs using all his energy to dissociate at the moment thus he misses the question.
âHuh?â
âLube? You have it or I need to go get mine?â
You widen your eyes, picturing Mr Miller squirt lube on some lucky lady in his master bedroom. And to think you considered him almost celibate!
Your boyfriend blinks a few times, then gets up. You hear him rummaging through a mess in his nightstand drawer, mumbling the word âcrazyâ before he throws a little bottle on the bed and returns to his chair.
âIt should be warm,â Joel says, rolling it between his wide palms.
âMay I?â His reflection points at your ass in the mirror and you nod with a quiet âyesâ. Mr Miller opens the lid with teeth and moves your left asscheek to the side for better access.
âOh!â You gasp when a slight cold glob of lube lands on your tight ring.
âBit more.â Joel adds another squirt and then starts spreading the liquid around your ring with a tip of his finger.
âAhhhh,â you whimper and bite your tongue immediately. Jackâs chair creaks.
âFeels good?â When Joel asks you the question you donât see a point in lying so you say âyeah.â Wet arousal pools in your core, itâs a matter of minutes before it slides out of your hole and reveals how insanely horny Mr Miller is making you.
âWeâre just startinâ and look at her response,â Joel says with pride in his velvet voice while his finger is slowly drawing circles over your asshole. âSheâs enjoyinâ it. Even if we stop now sheâll remember the act as something pleasant.â
âMaybe we should,â Jack mutters but neither Joel nor you pay it any attention. Hot flames are licking at your core, the ache in your pussy growing so fast, you roll your hips against the bed, searching for friction.
Adding gasoline to your horny fire is the sight in the mirror in front of you â Joelâs sexy hand moving rhythmically over your ass, his plush lips slightly parted, his dark eyes focused on your puckered hole.
Mr Miller lowers his voice and asks, âGrowinâ needy?â
Your eyes lock in the mirror. Fuck! A hot flash burns your lower belly when his black pupils meet yours. Sparks flying, gazes drawn to each other for a few long seconds, promising pleasure and trouble. The intense eye contact does something to you, drowns you in an ocean of lust, pulls you so deep you panic and hastily flick your eyes to your boyfriend who seems very pale.
âSweetheart,â Joel calls you as if hating to share your attention with his son. You hum but donât look at him.
âDo you give your permission for the next step? To open you up I need to eat your ass. Is that alright?â
âNo!â
âYes!â
Both you and Jack answer but you are the one calling the shots.
âYes!â You repeat louder and raise your brows at Jack. Your boyfriend lets out a defeated sigh and drops his head.
âGood,â Joel says and gives your butt a light pat before cupping both asscheeks and spreading them apart. Cold air laps at your holes and you shiver. Joel smiles, probably noticing goosebumps on your skin.
âWeâll start slow.â In the mirror you watch him unhinge his jaw, stick his tongue out and lower his head.
You gasp when Mr Miller slowly licks your tight butthole. âOh my God!â
Joel chuckles and repeats the depraved action. Soon heâs licking your asshole gingerly, his fingers digging into your flesh with passion. Youâre softly moaning, your eyes are rolling to the back of your head. Youâve never had your ass eaten and the sensation is incredible. You wish heâd get lower and take care of your leaking pussy but fuckkk you can come just from Mr Millerâs tongue dancing over your little butthole. So when he parts from your ass, your needy whine rings in the room.
âIâll be right back, sweetie.â
His wet lips are curled up at the corners, pride sparkling in his blown out eyes, Joel glances back at his son and announces,
âNow we gonna start openinâ her up with a tongue.â Your breathing hitches. You donât see Jackâs expression because you canât tear your eyes off Mr Miller in the mirror. âGently push the tip inside her just soâ â Joel leans down and his hot tongue prods at your ring, your mouth forms an O as you moan.
Joel mutters, âSlowly go in,â then his head begins moving up and down while his tongue slides into your ass deeper with every bop. Heâs salivating onto your crack, the wetness dripping down to your pussy, covering your folds with the warm spit.
You are losing your mind over how amazing it feels, meanwhile Joel alternates between licking your ring and tongue-fucking it for what seems like hours or so you wish. His lewd slurping fills the room and mixes with your soft noises. You apply all your willpower to stop yourself from moaning like a whore out of respect for your boyfriend who is now sitting with his legs crossed, probably hard but too shocked to accept it.
âHow you feelinâ, baby?â Joel asks, licking his spit-covered lips.
âSâso good, Mr Miller,â you stutter, staring at him in the mirror with your half lidded eyes.
âSee, sheâs already gapinâ a little,â Joel says, showing your asshole to Jack.
âHm-m,â Jack hums, his brows furrowed, his suspicious gaze trained on your ecstatic face.
âNow letâs add a finger.â
You squeak like a little mouse and your holes clench. Joel notices.
âHey, donât be scared, babygirl. Youâre open nicely now. And Iâm gonna be gentle, yeah?â
âOk,â you reply and hold your breath.
âNuh-uh. None of that. You should be breathinâ, sweetheart.â He puts his warm heavy palm on your back, between your shoulder blades and rubs it up and down, giving you a rhythm.
âInâ outâinâ out.â
You follow his direction and soon your muscles relax, your eyes flutter close, your jaws unclench. It seems like your body is seeping into the mattress.
âIâm puttinâ one finger in.â
His voice is so quiet you barely register his words, barely notice his finger going inside your ass, miss a slight burn of the stretch, thatâs how serene you are feeling.
When you finally open your eyes you see Mr Millerâs reflection thrusting his index finger in and out of your butthole, his eyes on your ring, his lip between his teeth.
âWow,â you mutter, in awe of the hot sight and the new sensation. All your holes clench again and again, your pussy pushing your generous slick out and you catch yourself wanting Joel to fuck you.
"Another finger? Is that alright, sweetie?" With your heart pounding in your ears, Joel's raspy voice seems both close and far. You nod and mumble a shaky 'yes' before he inserts a second digit into your lubed up asshole. You moan, Joel growls, both at the same time. Your boyfriend curses under his breath.
"Hooooooly hell," you exhale against the pillow, clenching bedsheets with your clammy palms while Joel's scissoring your tight ring open. "This ⊠it's amazing."
Joel pulls his fingers out of you and chuckles yet it comes out strained. You know it takes everything from him not to whip his cock out and fuck you right now. Jack seems to feel it, too.
"Dad, maybe that's enough?"
"No."
"No!"
Your yell drowns out Joel's reply. Your cheeks burning, lust clouding your mind and overtaking your body, you lift your head off the bed and glare at Jack.
"Mr Miller needs to... we need to learn what to do next. Right?"
Jack crosses his arms, his lower lip sticking out.
Completely disregarding his son's suggestion to stop, Joel nods at you and asks Jack as if it's some depraved sex ed class.
"She's nice and ready now. What's next?"
Jack blinks at his dad, a mixture of frustration and confusion plastered on his face. He shrugs. "I fuck her."
"Wrong!" Joel sits up straight and gives him a disappointed look. "Son, the most important thing about anal is consent."
You drop your head back on the pillow and nod with the 'obviously' expression meanwhile Joel continues.
"Even after you did all the necessary prep, you ask her again. And if she says 'no', you stop! Got it?"
You watch Joel in the mirror, his bushy brows furrowed, two obsidian eyes piercing Jack. He's not fucking around.
"Yeah."
"Huh?"
"Yes, sir," Jack mumbles. He looks so pitiful now you get scared of your pussy turning into the Sahara so you hastily move your eyes to the mirror with Joel's reflection in it.
You watch and feel your boyfriend's dad lean down to you. His hot breath fans your naked back, sending chills down your spine, as he asks,
"Can I fuck your ass now, baby?"
Your voice is wanton and needy, you're almost drooling onto the bed, as you reply,
"Yes, Mr Miller. But..?â
âYes, sweetie?â
âCan I be on my back?â
Joel kisses your shoulder and coos,
âSure thing.â
Your body buzzing with want, you slowly and awkwardly roll over. Your exposed tits jiggle as you get comfortable and Joel takes you inâ your puffy pussy, your heaving belly, your nipples hard as diamonds, desire plastered on your face.
Jack nervously clears his throat and leaves his cuck chair.
âYou ainât really doing it, right?â
Youâre not sure if heâs talking to you or his dad but Joel is the one who answers,
âIâm teachinâ you two. And this is the most crucial part. You wanna go in now and ruin all the progress?â
Jack closes and opens his mouth, but when you shake your head at his attempt to intervene, your boyfriend plops back in the chair, looking gobsmacked.
âThis is insane,â he murmurs and you have to agree. Youâre feeling insanely good.
With a nonchalant expression on his flushed face Joel grabs a pillow.
âRaise your hips for me, baby.â
You do what he asks and he quickly places it under your butt. When your hips are raised Joel hums in approval.
âGrab your knees for me, please.â
Like an obedient student you do it immediately.
âThatâs it. Good girl.â
His praise, his scent - manly and dizzying, his warm smile, his obsidian eyes set between your thighs â all of it makes your blooming pussy contract and a drop of clear slick beads at your entrance.
Joel smirks, his dark gaze darts to yours and then back to your leaky hole. He opens his mouth but words die on his lips.
Instead he takes a sharp breath and climbs on the bed, grunting. With your body trembling in anticipation you watch Mr Miller kneel by your propped up butt, unzip his jeans, his back now to his son.
Just for your hungry eyes, he pulls his cock out. Big, veiny, hard as steel fuck machine. Hnggg!
You clench your jaws, killing a moan that rises in your throat from the sight of his manhood. You see a drop of precum on the slit and your mouth waters.
âNeed more lube.â Joel squirts a generous amount on his hand and then strokes his cock spreading the liquid.
You squirm on the bed, fear and excitement coursing through your veins. He wants to stick that huge thing where?!
Joel seems to read the worry on your face. With one hand around the base of his stiff shaft, he brings the other to your knee and gives it a light squeeze.
âIf you want me to stop I will.â
You donât reply, just stare up at him, fear and desire playing tug-of-war in your heart.
âSee?â Joel gets his sonâs attention but doesnât look away from you. âThis sweet thing is unsure but sheâs beinâ brave and doesnât stop me.â
Jack sighs with relief from behind Joelâs broad body. He probably hopes that youâve changed your mind.
Then the older man addresses you.
âYou donât have to be brave for me or anyone else, ok?â You hum while warmth spreads in your belly, reaches your clit and makes it throb. You open your mouth but words donât come out. Joel gives you a knowing smile and offers,
âHow âbout I open you up again with my fingers? Two steps forward, one step back.â
Jackâs chair creaks unhappily when you breathe out, âYes, please.â
Joel gives you a curt nod and sits on his heels, his cock still hard and waiting. His strong hand circles around the back of your thigh as he keeps it steady for you.
Jackâs view is blocked by Joel so he doesnât see when his dad traces your pussy hole with his fingers and brings the wetness down to your ring. His eyes dart up to yours just for a second, you see lust and mischief there.
âAlright, here we go,â he mumbles to himself, easing two lubed up fingers inside you. This time you take them easily, dull pain of the stretch is present but also welcomed. You moan.
Mr Miller closely watches your face twisting with pleasure while his fingers are fucking your butt. You watch him back, suddenly swept by a feeling so strong, you forget how to breathe for a second. There's no one else in the room, in the whole world, only you and this big older man, giving you an unforgettable experience, filling the hole thatâs never been filled and you donât want it to end, hate for him to stop. Stop giving, taking, watching you melt for him.
Ahhhh! A scorching heat floods your belly and hits you like a tsunami. Your core walls clench once, twice, your head digs into the pillow underneath, your eyes close and a loud moan slips out of your mouth. Youâre shaking and crying ecstatic tears, your ass squeezing Joelâs thick digits, your pussy contracting around nothing.
âDâ did you just come? Jackâs cold tone brings you back to reality as if a bucket of icy water was thrown over your head. Still jerking with climax you snap your eyes open, your breathing heavy, and see Joelâs lopsided smile in front of you.
Fuck! Your cheeks and neck burn and you cover your face with your hands, embarrassed by unraveling in front of your boyfriendâs dad. With his fingers in your ass.
Joel comes to your rescue. He gently rubs your thigh with his paddle of a hand and coos,
âSheâs one of a kind, Jack. The anal stimulation isnât as pleasurable for women as it is for men. In the right hands though⊠you did wonderful, sweetie.â
You bite your lip, hiding a grin thatâs about to bloom on your face, and grip your knees tighter.
âWe can stop now ifâŠ,â Joel starts.
âNo!â You cut him off and push your knees to your chest. âI want to be ready. For the real thing.â
âIâll give you the real thing,â Joel whispers so quietly itâs barely audible but you hear. Your eyes lock as he plants his palm on the bed by your side and hovers over your lower half.
âReady, sweetheart?â
After you say âyesâ Mr Miller glances back in the direction of his son.
âJusâ the tip at first. Maybe only. Depends on how she takes it.â
He looks down at you with that soft but feral gaze of his and talks to Jack.
âWatch her face closely when you push inside.â
Joelâs hot leaky cockhead kisses your pussy hole and you gasp, your entrance winking at his manhood, inviting it to come in. Joel whispers,
âOnly teasinâ.â You smile and shake your head at the man. He gives you a wink and drags his tip down along the delicate skin between your pussy and asshole and then nudges your tight ring.
âIf she scrunches her pretty nose, stop. Means sheâs hurtinâ.â
Joel presses his crown against your asshole and applies pressure. Your mouth parts when he starts pushing it into your asshole, the stretch far bigger than with his fingers. You take a few deep breaths, not stopping him, craving to be fucked.
âYeah, breathe for me, baby. In and out. Like I taught ya.â
In! in! in! your pussy screams and throbs with the rhythm of your heartbeat, your body desperate to be ruined by your boyfriendâs dad.
Mr Miller pauses and closes his eyes, his forearm muscles tense with restraint, the veins of his hand thatâs wrapped around his shaft are bulging. He speaks, trying to keep his voice steady.
âThe most difficult thing nowâis to control yourself â all you wanna do â is shove your dick deep inside herâ to the hiltâ- she feels so fuckinâ good.â
His arousal and your desire merge together and form an electric cloud around you two, the scent of sex heavy in the air. Mr Miller moves another inch deeper and you whimper.
âBut you musnât,â he grunts to his son or to himself. âYou should be in controlâ think of her first and your pleasure second âYeahhh?â
The last word sounds like a moan and you smile dizzily, ecstatic to see how much bliss youâre giving him. Joel pushes in some more and then looks into your eyes. âWanna see?â
You nod eagerly and place another pillow under your head, propping it up to get a better view.
The sight before your eyes takes your breath away. Joelâs big hand wrapped around his girthy cock, the veins on his shaft thumping, glistening with lube. But the best thing is your stretched asshole, hugging Joelâs tip buried inside.
âWow,â you breathe out. Joel smirks, his smile lopsided and boyish. He drops his head to your butt and asks,
âWanna stop here? Done so good already.â
You crane your neck and glance at Jack, expecting him to scream âYes! Stop! Now!â but heâs hunched over in his cuck chair with a blank stare, chewing on the nail of his thumb.
You bring your gaze back up at Joel and purr,
âI want all of it.â
Joel nods and thrusts in.
Mr Millerâs fucking your ass like itâs been made solemnly for this purpose. His hands are gripping your spread thighs, leaving marks on your soft skin, his hips snapping against your asscheeks, drowning the room in the lewd Slap slap slap! Sounds.
By now youâve lost all the composure and your loud moans are flowing freely from your lips, mixing with Joelâs animalistic growls.
âYeahhhh.. good girlâŠsheâs a fast learner⊠takinâ me like a champ.â
âThanks, Mr Miller,â you mewl with your eyes rolling to the back of your head when you feel a second orgasm building. Hungry for it you lick your fingers, reach for your throbbing clit and start rubbing it while Joelâs steel shaft is massaging your insides.
âLemme⊠want some help?â Joel asks, consent king as always.
âYes, please.â
Not minding his son watching you two from the back, Joel brings his calloused thumb to your puffy clit and starts drawing infinities over it.
You arch your back, losing your mind over how amazing it feels. Your ass is full of Joelâs cock, but your neglected pussy hole is crying desperately. You look for your boyfriend behind Joelâs broad back. He still looks shell shocked, his widened eyes lowered, and you realize that heâs watching his dads heavy balls slap against his girlfriendâs asscheeks.
Opps.
âMr Miller,â you whisper, staring at the older man again, âCould you..?â
You lift your hand, stick two fingers out and move them up and down, fingering an invisible pussy.
Joel flashes you a knowing smile.
âGotcha, sweetie.â He glances back at his son and raises his voice, talking to you,
âYou strugglinâ, baby? Ok if I help you relax?â
You consent loudly so Jack could hear and the next second Mr Miller changes hands and his dry index and middle fingers easily enter your sopping pussy.
Yeahhhh! You whimper, so full of his fat cock and digits, it feels like youâre going to come apart at the seams.
Joelâs massaging your g-spot with two fingers, his thumb working your clit, his cock relentlessly rutting into your ass. Youâve never been fucked this good and you try to hold off your second climax, hating for the sex to end.
But Joelâs too hot, too experienced and soon you come with a wail, arching your sweaty back off the bed and clamping Joelâs hips with your thighs. Blinding ecstasy is coursing through your body, your cunt pulsing around Joelâs fingers, your asshole choking his cock so hard he stills.
âHereâ we gâgoooHnggggâŠ.â he roars, retreats his fingers out of your pussy and covers you with his huge frame. He pushes his face into your sweaty neck but holds his weight over your thrashing body.
âWhere?â He chokes, his chest rumbling with groans, and you wrap your arms around his broad back and press your naked tits to him, mumbling into his ear,
âInside my ass, Mr Miller. Please.â
His whole body tenses up over you and he begins squirting his hot cum deep inside your butt. The warmth of his load fills you more and more, every erratic thrust of his cock pushes the sticky spent back into you and you hold him tight, wishing to be stuffed to the brim. It doesnât take long with how much he comes and soon his jizz covers your asscheeks and his balls, sticking them together like glue. You feel filthy and sexy, with your boyfriendâs dad busting inside you, the former having a perfect view of your asshole sucking the older manâs cum in. Too abundant it rolls down your crack and onto Jackâs bed.
Both of you are panting when Joel carefully pulls his cock out of your asshole and falls on the bed next to you, still fully clothed except for the pulled down jeans and boxers.
âDad, put your dick away,â Jack grumbles.
âYeah yeah.â Joel tucks his cock back in, leaving his jeans open. He sounds exhausted. You cover yourself with a sheet suddenly remembering that youâre naked next to your boyfriendâs dad.
You turn your head to him resting next to you, his forearm covering his closed eyes, his chest rising and falling quickly, his leg dangling off the edge of the bed. Heâs so handsome you want to bite him. The man had a full day of work and then rocked your world. You find it incredibly hot but also feel guilty for exhausting him even more.
You watch Mr Miller for a few moments, warmth spreading in your belly and chest, until he takes a deep breath, opens his eyes and turns his head to you.
âDad?â Jack calls impatiently, hurrying the man to leave but Joel doesnât spare him a glance and asks you,
âHow you feelinâ, baby?â
He nods down at your pussy but you know heâs asking about your butt.
âIâm ok.â You squirm on the bed, trying to access your state. âA little sore but good.â
âGood,â Joel repeats with a warm smile. Youâre staring at each other silently, his gaze soft and warm, grinning like two fools. You want to kiss him but stop yourself. Itâs inappropriate.
Then you remember where his cock was just a few minutes ago and giggle.
âWhat is it?â Joel asks, his eyes dart between yours and then slide to your lips.
You shake your head, silence thick and loaded between you two.
Jack rips it apart as he clears his throat.
âThanks, dad. Fucking hell. You can go now.â
He gets up from the chair and crosses his arms, frowning at the two of you. You wonder if heâs going to break up with you after this. Whatever.
Joel sits up with a grunt and gets out of the bed. He sways a little and you smile proudly â you did it to him.
âThank you, Mr Miller.â You sit up, holding the sheet over your body. He zips up his jeans and winks,
âDonât mention it, baby.â
Jack scoffs. Joel heads to the door but as he passes his son he pauses.
âGet her a wet towel. And some water,â he commands. âSo .. if she took my cock, she wouldnât even notice yours. Youâre welcome.â
With that he pats his sonâs shoulder and leaves.
Who needs Jack, amirite? Maybe Joel can teach them something else?đ€ Thank you for reading! Please, leave a comment and reblog if you enjoyed the storyđ
sort of based on this prompt by the lovely đ anon! i hope you see this and as always, thank you for the inspo <3
summary: You don't understand Joel Miller's interest in preventing you going on patrols.
rating: 18+, MDNI
word count: 7.3k words, one-shot
tags: Implied Age Gap, Reader is AFAB with no overt descriptions except for having hair, Mentions of Sexism, Romance, Smut, Fingering, Kissing, Joel finishes in his pants because I said so, Jackson!Joel
a/n: been a rough couple of weeks (mental health wise lol) but inspiration hit for this one. title from 'Francesca' by Hozier. this isn't very edited b/c i just couldn't bring myself to re-read this all over again. hope you enjoy and as always, please let me know what you think! comments are so appreciated.
credit to @/saradika-graphics for the divider!
When you come to, you can feel the solid warmth of something against your weak frame. Your entire body is shaking from the cold and you can feel the chill right down to your bones. It's only then that you realize that you're being carried and even in your weakened state, you try put up a fight. You let out a weak groan and try elbow whoever it is that's carrying you. You don't want to be taken by someone who is clearly strong enough to lift you. You've spent long enough surviving on your own and you know how people have become, now that there's nothing good left in this world. Feebly, you kick your leg but you can't remember the last time you had something to eat that wasn't frozen snow and the meager crumbs of crackers you had found in an abandoned backpack a few days, or maybe weeks, ago. You can't tell how much time has passed.
"Shh," a low voice says. "It's alright, I've got you."
You try protest, you want to say no. You want to scream at whoever it is, tell them to let you go. You don't want to go with them. You don't want to be taken. But your throat feels dry, and your voice is lost to you. You try move but whoever it is that has you, tucks you closer to them. You can smell the faint trace of sawdust and something clean, almost like the detergent your parents used to buy, before the world had ended. But luxuries like that no longer exist. You try move your arm again but every part of your body feels as heavy as lead.
"You're safe," the voice says again, a soothing murmur. It's the last thing you hear before you lose consciousness.
It takes you sometime to adjust to life in Jackson. You haven't been around so many people in years â since you left your QZ really. You struggle at first, to make small talk with curious neighbours and to come across as well adjusted and forthcoming. You aren't used to the hustle of a town, of people laughing loudly at social gatherings. But slowly, you grow to enjoy it. You begin volunteering in the kitchens once you've regained most of your strength, around four weeks after you were first found. You like helping with peeling carrots and cutting up vegetables for hearty stews. It gives you a purpose and you've never been good at sitting still. But you had spent years on your own, and with that, you've become good at scouting and combat. So you give it some more time, make certain that your legs feel strong and that you can run without feeling a tug in your lungs and you broach the topic of joining patrols to Maria.
"I think we could arrange something," Maria says, smiling at you. "I'll talk to Tommy since he usually works on the schedules, see where we can fit you. We always need the extra manpower."
"Thanks Maria," you say, beaming. As scary as the outside world can be, you miss it. You miss seeing the smudge of green trees in the horizon and the melting snow sliding off icy branches.
"Tommy'll come by later today with an update," she says and you nod in thanks, before bidding her farewell. You take the long way back to your house, meandering through the streets and avoiding the piles of snow which are slowly beginning to melt as the spring sun begins to break through the cloud of frozen cold that has settled over Jackson. You're too busy avoiding the puddles of muddied water and slush, looking down at your ragged winter boots which is why you end up walking into what feels like a wall of muscle.
"Shit," you say, reaching up and holding onto whoever it is you've just rammed into. The other person grunts, more in surprise than anything. You look up and are met with Joel Miller's dark eyes. His cheeks are red from the cold, as is the tip of his strong nose.
"Alright?" Joel asks, steadying you. Even through the layers of clothes, you can feel the heat of his large hand against your bicep.
"Sorry, Joel," you say, standing up straight. You let go of his arm, taking a small step back so that you're no longer toe to toe. "Wasn't watching where I was going."
"I can tell," Joel says, but his voice isn't sharp. There's a teasing lilt to it. You give him a sheepish smile, shrugging. You've interacted with Joel quite a few times, mostly when Maria would invite you over for supper to her and Tommy's house. He had been quiet at first, almost aloof. But slowly, the two of you had built some sort of friendship, making small talk whenever you ran into each other in town or in the dining hall. Joel was surprisingly easy to talk to once he let his guard down, quick to tease you and crack jokes, which had surprised you at first but was now something that you looked forward to whenever you saw him. If you're being honest with yourself, you're nursing a small crush on him. But can anyone blame you? He's all gentle smiles and little jokes and the flannels and long sleeves he wears are always so tight around his biceps and you're only human.
"What's got you so distracted then?" he follows up and you grin, unable to hide your excitement.
"I'm going to start on patrols," you say. "Maria gave me the all clear and she said she'd talk to Tommy about fitting me into the schedule."
You expect Joel to smile and nod, maybe make some comment about how you're going to have to start waking up at the crack of dawn. Instead, his mouth pulls into a small pout, and his brows furrow. You watch as his jaw clenches and he looks past you for a moment before settling on you again. His gaze always feel weighted when it's on you but now, it feels even heavier.
"Right," he says. "You sure you wanna go on patrols?"
There's something in his voice â stern and serious. You haven't seen this side of Joel ever. It makes you bristle. Sure, you might not be as seasoned as him but you're still capable. You've been able to handle your own since you were thirteen and you won't have anyone doubt you. Not even someone as experienced as Joel.
"I'll be fine," you say, voice more serious now. "I can take care of myself plenty well."
Joel nods, but his eyes are focused and his jaw is still clenched, beneath the greyish brown of his beard.
"I gotta go," he says, sidestepping you. "I'll see you around."
It's abrupt and something is most definitely off but you're still annoyed by his insinuation. So you nod. You can feel his heavy footfalls become fainter and only when you're sure he won't see you do you turn around to catch him turn onto the main street and out of your sight.
A sharp knock on your door interrupts your cooking, if you can call it that. You've been making what you hope is stew for the last hour but there's an almost burnt smell to whats bubbling on your stove and you're fairly sure you've over salted the broth. You turn the stove off, not wanting to burn it any further before you wipe your hands on a terry cloth and head towards your front door. When you swing it open, Tommy Miller stands on the other side. His hair is tied away from his face and he looks flushed from the cold air. You usher him inside, not wanting the frigid weather to seep into your warm home.
"Hey there," Tommy greets. "Maria told me about your interest in startin' on patrols."
"Yeah," you say, voice pitching higher with excitement. "I think I'm good to go back out there. Been itching for it really. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love Jackson but I miss seeing the outdoors."
"Don't much like feelin' cooped up, huh?" Tommy asks and you shake your head.
"Not the biggest fan, no," you agree and he nods. You watch him shift on his feet, something nervous filling the air.
"Listen," Tommy begins. "It's been a bit tricky sortin' out schedules for patrols 'cause we've got so many new people now so I was thinkin' you could help out with construction for a bit. Just until I figure out how to organize the newcomers."
You can feel your brows furrowing. Maria's been talking about how badly they need more people on patrols, especially since a whole unit came back injured a few weeks ago. A couple of people had died at the hands of Clickers, a bloody ambush that had left tensions running high in Jackson.
"Construction?" you ask, sounding incredulous. You haven't built anything, ever, really. "I'm not sure I'd be much help with building things, Tommy."
Tommy chuckles, but he's avoiding your gaze. His shoulders are tense.
"I'm sure Joel will find somethin' for you," Tommy says and you pause. Joel? You think of earlier today and how Joel had reacted when you had told him about being put on patrols. And now, you're magically being reassigned to his team. You can feel your patience wearing thin, irritation slowly building up inside of you.
"Did he put you up to this?" you ask and Tommy rubs the back of his neck, meeting your gaze. He looks as if he'd rather be anywhere but here.
"My brother's a complicated man," Tommy says. "I think it'd be best if you spoke to him."
You scoff, rolling your eyes.
"That's not fair," you say. "How come what he says goes? He's not in charge of me. I'm perfectly capable of going on patrol, Tommy. And you know that. I don't really give a damn if Joel thinks I'm too young or weak or whatever."
Tommy shakes his head, a curl falling loose against his jaw. "It's nothin' like that â"
"Then what is it?" you interrupt. You had spent most of your life being second guessed by people in your QZ and those you had traveled with â people who thought you were too weak because you were a girl. People who viewed your empathy as a flaw, rather than a strength. People who second guessed your decisions, who had been arrogant men who thought they knew it all. And you had let them, because that's what survival meant. But now, you were safe in Jackson and you weren't going to allow Joel Miller of all people, to bully you into submission again.
"I think it's best if you speak with him," Tommy says. "I know you're tough and can handle patrols. So does Maria. Hell, so does Joel, alright? It's just complicated, I suppose. Talk to him."
You sigh, shoulders slumping.
"I just don't get why he has a say in this," you say and Tommy nods.
"He doesn't," Tommy says. "He justâŠasked me to keep you on construction for a bit and my brother can be damn frustratin' if he doesn't get his way and I don't have the time to argue with him today. M'sorry, this isn't a reflection of your abilities. I know you'd do great on patrol and so does Joel. He's just a fuckin' idiot sometimes. Plus, his crew really are short a couple. We had to put most people on patrol so other things have taken a backseat."
You still don't fully believe him but Tommy sounds desperately tired and you know he has a toddler to get home to so you acquiesce.
"Alright," you say. "But I'm gonna give him hell during my shift."
"I'd expect nothin' less from you," Tommy says, giving you a smile. "You're actually on duty tomorrow mornin'. Bright and early at seven a.m near the west gates. They need reinforcin'."
"I have no idea what that means," you say and Tommy chuckles, shaking his head.
"Get some rest tonight," Tommy says and you nod, waving in farewell.
Once you lock up, you make your way back to the kitchen and spoon some stew into a chipped bowl. It isn't terrible but you're definitely sticking not winning any awards for your culinary skills. You had traded for some fresh cheese earlier in the week so you cut a generous slab into your stew, hoping the creamy saltiness of the dairy might add some level of flavour. While you eat, you think of how you might confront Joel. You don't want to do it in front of the rest of the crew, knowing how quickly gossip spreads in a town as small as Jackson. So maybe you'll pull him aside at the end of the shift. And you'll be firm. You have to be. It doesn't matter if you sometimes think he has dreamy eyes or nice arms. He's making you feel less than, weak, and you won't allow it. Not from anyone.
"Right," Joel says, in a dark green flannel that you would admire on him if you weren't already annoyed with him sabotaging your patrols. He's looking at the crew which consists of you, a man named Landon who you've seen around but never really spoken to and Ellie, who looks like she'd rather be anywhere but here. At least Tommy hadn't been lying when he said they had been understaffed. Still, it doesn't explain why Joel's being such a dick about you going on patrols. Before you can work yourself up, he continues speaking.
"Today's goin' to be fairly simple. We need to move those logs of wood," he gestures to an almost perfect pyramid of wood with a gloved hand, "and place them on the marked areas. If we have time, we'll start reinforcin' with metal wirin' but let's focus on making sure the wood is exactly where it should be."
"Sounds riveting," Ellie says and you snort before you can stop yourself. Joel gives her a stern look but there's softness in his eyes, something fond even though his mouth is pulled into an unamused frown. His eyes then land on you, and now there's something else in his gaze. You don't back down, still frustrated that he had thwarted your opportunity to go on patrol. He's the first to look away, clearing his throat before he speaks once more.
"M'glad you think so," Joel answers and Ellie rolls her eyes. "Ellie, you and I can work together." He then looks to you and Landon. "You two pair up. Grab a pair o' gloves and start with shiftin' those logs and placin' them on the right end of the gap. Ellie and I'll work on the left. That way no one's gettin' confused."
You give Joel a short nod, before you slip on the thick pruning gloves. Landon follows and soon enough, you're slowly moving logs of wood that are deceptively heavy. You already know that your back's going to hate you tomorrow and you make a mental note to pick up some salve from the apothecary.
"You familiar with construction?" Landon asks as the two of you shift a log so that it aligns with the markings. It's maybe been twenty minutes since you started but somehow it feels like two hours.
"No," you sigh. "Can't say I am."
That's about all the small talk that he makes, and you don't make an effort either. You're still stewing in your annoyance. You're not one to stay angry but there's something about this. You had thought Joel was different. He treated you like an equal, never condescending the way most men were. And the truth is, you feel foolish for thinking so. You had developed a fondness for him, for his low drawl and poor attempts at humour. You had considered him a friend, albeit a one you were attracted to, but still. And now, he had questioned your capability just like most other men did.
You're unsure how long it's been when you move the last log in your pile but the position it needs to be laid in is awkward. The angle makes it so you have to hold it on one side, rather than at it's end, while Landon tries to push it into place.
"A bit to the left," you tell Landon and he moves to the right instead. "Your left Landon," you say, and it's at that exact moment that he sneezes. You watch his grip falter and suddenly, the entire log is being supported only by you. It's too sudden and too heavy and you buckle under the weight. You move your feet, trying to widen your stance but your left foot catches on something and your ankle twists. You yelp in pain, and the log falls right onto your newly injured foot.
"What happened?" Joel asks, voice loud and angry. He's looking at Landon who looks, frankly, sort of terrified. Joel's jaw tics and he glares at the log of wood, leaning down to push it off of you. Ellie helps you stand, and when you put pressure on your left foot, you wince. The pain is sharp and unpleasant. You don't think it's anything more than a light sprain, but you'll need to rest it for a few days, at least. Great.
"Here," Joel says, reaching towards you. "Let me."
You feel a flush of embarrassment. All that big talk about being ready for patrols and you've been taken down by a piece of wood. You shake your head, trying to stand up straighter.
"I'm fine," you say, but it's only as convincing as the tears of pain that cloud your vision.
"Your ankle bent in a pretty gnarly way, dude," Ellie says, nose crinkling. "It looked bad."
"Just a light sprain," you say, aiming for nonchalant. "Really. I'll be fine."
"You can't walk on that foot," Joel says, brows furrowed and mouth pulled into a frown. His grey brown hair falls against his forehead, messy from the morning of labour. "I'm goin' to take you home. We're done for the day."
"I'm so sorry," Landon says, eyes apologetic. He sounds genuinely upset.
"S'alright," you say. "It was an accident."
"The next time you feel a sneeze comin'," Joel says, still glaring at Landon. "Let your partner know. This was an easily avoidable injury."
Landon looks like he might cry and it grates on you â Joel acting like you're going to die from a sprained ankle.
"I'm fine," you snap at Joel. "It's a sprained ankle, and I've had much worse. It was an honest mistake, Joel. Let it go."
Joel's sharp gaze falls on you and he looks surprised at your reprimand. He opens his mouth as if to say something and then closes it. You watch his jaw tic and he looks away, his shoulders stiff. An uncomfortable tension settles in the air.
"Okaaaay," Ellie says. "Joel, you should take her back to her house. Me and Landon can wrap up and give Maria and update."
Finally, Joel nods. Ellie and Landon begin moving the fallen log of wood and Joel comes to stand next to you.
"Can you walk?" he asks, and you look up at him. You clear your throat, gently placing pressure on your left foot. It throbs with pain and you suck in a breath, shaking your head.
"Okay," Joel says. "I'm going to have to carry you back to yours. Shouldn't take long. S'that alright?"
You don't have any other options really, and on another day, you'd be glad to be carried by Joel in his strong arms, if you're being honest. So you nod. You feel him wrap an arm around your back, and one under your thighs and he lifts you up slowly. You startle and the sudden shift, wrapping your arms around his neck. You focus on his Adam's apple, not wanting to meet his gaze. All of this feels like too much. You can't remember the last time you've been this close to anyone else. You shift and Joel pulls you closer, adjusting his grip.
"It's alright, I've got you," he says, voice surprisingly gentle. Suddenly, you have the weirdest sense of deja vu. Maybe you dreamed about this or something.
Joel makes his way through the side streets, avoiding any of the main roads, which you're grateful for. You don't like seeming weak and being carried across town by one of the strongest men in Jackson would make you seem exactly that. The only drawback to Joel not using the main streets, is that it makes the journey longer. Long enough that you begin to think of what Tommy had said, how Joel had made it so you wouldn't be put on patrol. How Joel had reacted when you had told him about wanting to go on patrol. And so before you know it, you looking up at Joel and asking him what's been nagging you since yesterday evening.
"Why'd you tell Tommy to take me off of patrols?" you say. "And don't deny it, Joel. He told me himself. Not that he needed to with the way you reacted yesterday."
His dark gaze falls on you and you resist breaking the eye contact, holding your ground.
"I â" he starts before he stops. "I was worried for your safety."
"I can handle myself," you say immediately. "I survived out there, you know. I know I'm not you but I'm strong and capable, you know."
"I know," Joel says quickly. "I know you're tough as nails."
"Yet you still forced Tommy to take me off patrols," you say and Joel sighs.
"It's not like that," he says. His voice is gentler now, a low drawl that you can feel against the side of your head. You shift in his arms and he holds you tighter.
"Then explain it to me," you say, and your voice is softer now too. "Because right now it seems like you think I'm incapable of taking care of myself and others and I don't want to be undermined, Joel. Especially not by you. I thought we were friends."
"Alright," Joel says. "When we get to yours. I'll tell you then."
"Fine," you agree, leaning against his broad chest a bit more. The two of you manage to avoid any passers-by, and when Joel settles you on your old, worn couch, you sigh in relief. Gently, he begins undoing the laces of your boots. He pulls off your right boot and you flex your toes.
"This might hurt a little," he says, holding onto your left boot. You nod and he slowly begins to wiggle it off. You wince and he immediately stills.
"It's fine," you say. "Keep going."
Joel tugs your boot off fully, holding the heel of your foot in his large palm. Slowly, he rolls your sock down, revealing your injured ankle. It looks swollen and he presses his thumb gently into it, gauging your pain.
"How's that feel?" he asks, voice low. He looks up at you and it feels painfully tender. You can't remember the last time you experienced gentleness like this in your adult life.
"Hurts a bit," you say, doing your best to keep your voice even. He nods, standing up. His knees creak and something fond settles in you as you watch him walk towards your fridge. He brings back a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel, gently placing it on your ankle.
"I worry about you far too much," he says, as he adjusts the makeshift ice pack. "Been worryin' about you since I found you all those months ago."
It's an honest confession and you know it takes something out of him, to be so vulnerable. It's also news to you. You didn't know that Joel had been a part of the patrol team that had found you, had always assumed it had been Tommy that had taken you to safety because he had mentioned that he had been the one to come across you, hidden and dying under a frozen oak tree.
"You were the one that carried me back to Jackson," you say. "It's why you carrying me back home just now felt like deja vu."
Joel nods, mouth still pulled into a small frown.
"Never meant to be condescendin' or anythin' like that," he says. "I know I seem old school but I ain't like those men that think women are weak or incapable. Just wanted to keep you safe is all. Didn't go about it in the best way, I can admit that."
You can feel your heart begin to hammer against your chest and you feel warm all over. Joel is still kneeling between your legs, his large palm still holding your throbbing ankle. His eyes are intense as they stay focused on your face. You don't know what this is, where he's coming from, but you have some inclination. And god, you hope you're right.
"How come?" you ask. Joel's mouth twists in a wry smile.
"I like you," he says, voice steady. "I've liked you as long as I've known you. Didn't mean for it to happen and wasn't goin' to tell you at all but I reckon you deserve the truth. Don't want you thinkin' I think any less of your abilities. I know you're a strong woman."
"Oh," you say, shifting. Joel sits up straighter on his knees, so that he's almost eye to eye with you.
"This doesn't have to change anythin'," he says. "I'll talk to Tommy, make sure you get put on patrols once your ankle heals up and I'll stay out of you way. M'sorry about all this."
He goes to stand up but you reach out, settling a hand on his broad shoulders. Joel's eyebrows raise in surprise. It's quiet enough now that surely he can hear the thump thump thump of your pulse.
"Can I kiss you?" you ask, and watch in delight as the apples of his cheeks flush pink.
"Do you want to?" Joel asks, voice low. Up close, you can see the gentle lines of age around his eyes. You nod, moving closer. A hand comes up to cup your face, his calloused palm warm against the line of your jaw. When his mouth presses against yours, you feel hot all over. A flush of warmth consumes you as he gently nudges his nose against your own. You gasp when you feel his tongue against your mouth and open up to him. His tongue presses against your own, and you press yourself closer to him, your chest against his. You're ravenous for more, wanting to feel every point of his body pressed against your own. He presses a thumb at the hinge of your jaw, coaxing it to open more and tilts your head so he can kiss you with more fervour. You lean closer, your legs bracketing his waist, and his other hand is still holding your injured foot. You moan and tug at his grey-brown curls, and you feel him shudder against you. He pulls back, panting.
"Sweetheart," he says, leaning back as you lean forward to kiss him once more. He sounds so damn fond that you can't even bring yourself to be embarrassed at his rejection. "You should get some rest."
"M'fine," you say, voice breathy. "Really."
Joel gives you a gentle smile, rubbing a thumb across your cheekbone. You lean into the touch.
"I'd like to take you out," he says.
"Like a date?" you ask. You didn't think that happened anymore, not in this world. You've never actually been on a date, really.
Joel nods. "Only if you want."
"I just kissed you," you remind him. "Of course I want."
Joel grins now, his crows feet prominent. You smile too.
"Good," he says. "Get some rest. I'll talk to Tommy about puttin' you back on patrols. And I'll come by again, if that's okay. Just to check in."
You nod. You watch him lean forward, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth. He pulls back far too soon for your liking.
"I'll see you soon," you say and Joel nods. His knees creak as he stands up and affection blooms in your chest.
"Are you sure this is fine?" you ask Joel for what's probably the fifth time. You're in your nicest pair of jeans and a fitted long sleeve. Underneath, you're wearing the nicest bra and underwear you own, both black and with lace trimmings although they're not a set. It's been almost ten days since you hurt your ankle, and it's almost fully healed now.
"S'more than fine, you look beautiful," Joel says and you smile.
"You know, if you just tell me where we're going, I'll stop bothering you," you say and Joel shakes his head.
"I told you where we're goin': out," Joel says and you groan.
"Like out to The Tipsy Bison? Or to Lola's cafe? Or to the barn?" you ask and Joel shakes his head.
"Out as in put your boots on and let's go," Joel says but his voice is gentle. You do slip into your boots and grab a coat. Although it's spring in Jackson, the air still has a light chill to it. Joel opens the door, gesturing for you to go first. When you're outside, he steps up beside you. There's a backpack leaning against your porch which Joel slips on, the straps tight against his broad shoulders. He looks so handsome. His hair is combed and pushed back from his face, and he's wearing a dark green flannel and dark wash jeans. He smells like laundry detergent and something smoky.
"When was the last time you went on a date?" you ask Joel as he leads the way to your mystery location. You watch him think for a while before he speaks.
"I think it was the summer of 2003," Joel says. "Went to a bar with someone Tommy tried to set me up with."
"Was it nice?" you ask, genuinely curious. You know it isn't proper etiquette to ask your date about their other dates but it was twenty-two years ago now so you doubt it matters much.
"It was alright," Joel says. "She didn't like it much that I was a single father so we both knew it wouldn't go anywhere."
"Oh," you say. "Well lucky me, then."
You watch Joel's mouth tug in a smile.
"How about you?" he asks and you laugh.
"This would be my first," you say. "Was pretty young when the world went to shit and dating wasn't really a priority after that."
"Well I'd better make it good then," Joel says and you hum.
"Lotta pressure on you," you say, voice teasing.
"Reckon I can handle it," Joel says, eyes dark as they trace over your face. Your stomach flips and you can feel your ears growing warmer. You hadn't even realized until now that Joel's led you to a clearing, near the far edge of the walled part of Jackson. It's beautiful. There isn't anything around except the shade of trees and fresh grass. Wildflowers are beginning to bloom everywhere, along with bunches of lavender and daisies. The sun in warm and the sky is the bluest you've ever seen it. It's a perfect day, really.
"Is this what you meant by out?" you ask and Joel hums.
"You've been cooped up at home because of your foot and I know Tommy's put you on schedule for patrols soon but I thought you might like bein' outdoors for a while. Thought we might have a picnic here," Joel says, rubbing the back of his neck. He seems almost shy, now.
"It's lovely," you say, meaning it. "This is perfect Joel."
He seems pleased, giving you a small smile. You both set up a picnic blanket and Joel insists you take a seat so you do, and watch him lay out the spread. There's a basket of fresh blackberries and sandwiches made with fresh bread and thick slices of cheese. He even has a tumbler of freshly squeezed lemonade. And then he brings out generous slices of chocolate cake, the frosting thick and shiny. You can't remember the last time you had chocolate. Actually, you can. It had been in your QZ, almost a decade ago now. You had traded a pack of cigarettes for a dry bar of chocolate and cried as you ate in your cramped, makeshift bed.
"Joel," you say. "You should have told me. I could have helped, brought something too."
Joel shakes his head. "No need for all that," he says. He hands you a sandwich and then takes one for himself. In between bites of buttered bread and soft cheese, you ask each other questions. It feels like the two of you have been doing this for a long while. There's nothing uncomfortable or awkward about it.
"You're tellin' me your favourite movie was The Princess Bride?" Joel asks and you nod.
"It has everything! Action, romance, drama, humour. It's perfect," you argue and Joel shakes his head, a smile tugging at his mouth.
"That ain't no action movie, sweetheart," he says and the term of endearment settles warmly in your chest. "Now Curtis and Viper, on the other hand."
You laugh, shaking your head. "Absolutely not, Joel. I've never even heard of it."
"Well then I'll just have to show you some time," he says and the prospect of another date, of multiple of them, makes your heart flutter.
"Fine," you say. "Only if you rewatch The Princess Bride with me. You gotta give it another chance."
Joel sighs, but you know he's not being serious.
"Deal," he agrees, passing you the lemonade. You take a swig of it, handing it over to him. You watch him place is mouth right where yours was, taking a drink. You track the movement of his Adams apple, suddenly feeling hot. The two of you haven't kissed since that first time, and if you're being honest, you've been desperate for him ever since. Joel tracks your movement, and you can tell there's a shift in the air. Something tangible between the two of you that you want to reach out and feel.
"I got this cake from Lola's cafe," Joel says, putting a slice in front of you. "So you were sorta right."
You smile, taking a bite. The chocolate is rich and melts on your tongue, the sponge of the cake soft and moist. You can't help but make a noise of pleasure, and when you look up at Joel, his dark eyes are trained on you.
"You should try some," you say and Joel nods. Before he can reach out for his own fork, you spear a piece onto yours and bring it to his mouth. Your gaze stays on him as he takes the bite from your fork, as he chews and swallows, all the while still watching you. It feels shockingly intimate, even more so than your kiss.
"S'good," Joel agrees, nodding. You spend the next few minutes swapping bites of the cake and talking some more. Joel tells you about how he wanted to be a singer, how his favourite colour is dark grey, about how he likes the movie nights in Jackson because the popcorn reminds him of the overpriced kind at AMC. In turn, you tell him about how you tried to dye your hair on your own when you were younger and how you had to end up chopping a good portion of it off, how you don't know how to swim even though it's a necessary survival skill and he offers to teach you. By the time you're done with the slice, you know so much more about Joel and it still doesn't feel like enough. You want to know everything about him, really.
The two of you pack up quietly, something buzzing in the air. You help put the used utensils in his wicker basket, and take turns finishing up the lemonade. When there's no other reason to dawdle, you clear your throat.
"I had such a lovely time, Joel," you say. "You set a high bar for any future dates I go on."
He cracks a smile, taking a step closer to you. You look up, to maintain meeting his gaze.
"Hopefully it's a bar that only I have to meet," Joel says, eyes tender.
"I think that's a fair assumption," you say, voice quieter.
"Can I kiss you?" Joel asks and you're barely done nodding before his mouth is on yours. This kiss feels just as feverish as the first, but there's something else there. Something more tender. He grips the back of your neck, tilting your head upwards, and you grant him access to your mouth. You whimper when his tongue touches your own and he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. You slot your legs between his, the seam of your pants and his strong thigh providing a delightful pressure against your core. You can't resist moving your hips, needing more. Joel lets you, his hand going down to grip your hip and guide the movement. He pulls back, looking down to where you're rutting against him and swears.
"Fuck," he says. "I'm trying to be a gentleman."
"I know," you say, leaning your forehead against his chin. "I wish you weren't."
"You deserve a bed, sweetheart. Not me takin' you hear like some sort of animal."
"I don't mind," you say. "Really. Maybe we can do it again, on a bed. Multiple times even."
You feel more than hear him laugh, his chest shaking against your own. He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead before he maneuvers the two of you. You let him. He lays you down on the thick picnic blanket, hovering over you.
"I won't have you like this," Joel says, voice gruff. "You deserve more than that." You're about to protest, tell him you really don't care but before you can, he begins unbuttoning your jeans.
"But I'll give you somethin' to tide us over, hm?" he says, and you lift your hips so he can pull them down to your thighs. You watch his gaze darken when he sees your underwear. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your clothed mound, pressing his nose right to your clit and you shudder.
"Joel," you sigh and he presses another kiss to you. You can feel yourself throb, feel the wetness grow even more. Slowly, he pulls the gusset of your underwear to the side, running a finger against where you're desperate for him. He then presses a kiss to your cunt before he runs his tongue over your sopping folds. You moan, arching your back. His large arm comes to rest against your hips and he settles himself on his front.
"Okay, sweetheart?" he asks, looking up at you. His hair, which was previously pushed back and neat, is messy now with strands falling against his tan forehead. You nod, tilting your hips subconsciously against his arm and he grins before he goes back down. He eats you out like a man that's starving, his tongue moving against you in a rhythm so pleasurable that you think this might be one of the best moments of your life. He presses his nose to your clit and you shudder, moving desperately against him. Slowly, you feel something breach your hole, a thick finger that slowly prods at your entrance. You whimper as he curls his index finger into, finding that spot inside of you that you can never find yourself.
"Oh my god, Joel," you moan, as his tongue and his finger move in unison. He groans against you, his breath hot, and continues his ministrations. He slips a second finger in and pulls back to watch you.
"You're takin' it so good, sweetheart," he says, his mouth glistening in the sun. "Would you take the rest of me just like this?"
You nod, pushing your cunt against his fingers. You can feel the pressure building inside you, a rubber band waiting to snap.
"Joel, I can't, I'm gonna come," you say and he moves back, pressing his mouth to your clit. You can feel yourself dripping onto the blanket below you, so wet that you're thighs are smeared with it too. You whimper when your orgasm hits, hips lifting up off the ground despite Joel's arm holding you down.
"Attagirl," Joel says, lifting up and watching as you shudder. You cover your face with your hands as the waves of pleasure wash over you, your nipples stiff against the material of your long sleeve.
It takes you a few minutes but you come back to yourself. You move your hands from your face and rest your upper body on your elbows, lifting up to find Joel watching you reverently. He gives you a gentle smile, pressing a kiss to where your thigh meets your hips before he moves you underwear so it covers you again. Then, he presses another soft kiss to your sensitive clit through the cotton fabric of your panties and you shiver.
"Okay?" he asks, and you nod, sitting up.
"Better than," you say and he grins. "I want to do the same for you."
You watch his already pink cheeks flush even more as he shifts up so that he's no longer flat on the ground. He kneels between your open legs, and something like embarrassment plays on his face.
"I, uh," he starts. "I'm already taken care of."
It takes you a second to understand what he means. He came from eating you out. You feel a throb of want between your legs and before you know it, you're pulling him down, pressing your mouth to his in a desperate kiss. He tastes different now, something muskier coating his plush mouth. He groans when you push your tongue into his mouth, wanting to taste more. He angles your jaw, pushing at the hinge so your mouth widens and it's almost as if you're both trying to devour each other. You can feel your cunt throb once more. When he pulls back, his chest is moving with the deep breaths he's taking.
"You're gonna kill me," he says and you grin, pressing a kiss to his chin.
"Good thing I'll be on patrol sometimes," you say. "It'll help keep me distracted from you."
Joel hums, pressing another soft kiss to your mouth. You like the way his mustache tickles your skin. Slowly, the two of you part. He helps you button your jeans and slip on your coat. You run your hand through his hair, fixing the messed up strands so that they're no longer falling against his forehead. The two of you pack up slowly, sharing small smiles and warm glances. When you begin walking back to Jackson, Joel pulls you to him, his large arm draped over your shoulder. He tucks you into his side like you're something precious.
"I am sorry about how I went about it but I can't say I regret the outcome of me tryin' to keep you off of patrols, sweetheart," Joel says and you laugh.
"Me neither," you agree, and he presses a kiss to your forehead.
On your first day of patrol, Joel comes by early to give you a pair of soft, leather riding gloves.
"Stay safe," he says, as watches you slip them into your coat pocket. You nod, giving him a smile. You lean up and press your mouth against his own, a gentle kiss.
Iâd love to know what you thought, so please donât be shy and leave me a little comment. Hearing from you truly means so much to me .ââ°
The shower had been running long enough for you to read the same paragraph three times.
Joel had claimed the heat might help his hand, although the doctor had prescribed ice, elevation and several days without gripping anything. The X-ray had shown no fracture. Joel had treated that information like permission to ignore the rest, trying to open the truck door with his injured hand before you had even left urgent care. By dinner, the bruising had spread in deep violet shadows across his knuckles, and you had needed soap to ease his wedding band over the swelling.
That had bothered him more than the pain.
He had watched you work the ring slowly over his knuckle, his mouth set in a hard line, and when it finally slipped free into your palm, his thumb had rubbed once over the pale indentation it left behind.
âOnly for a few days, honey,â you had told him.
âI know, I know.â
But he continued staring at his empty finger until you placed the band on the bedside table beside your own things, safely within view.
You opened his painkillers, replaced his bandage and left him to shower while you climbed into bed with your book. But the water continued to run and you had retained nothing from the page before you.
You closed the book.
âJoel?â
No answer.
You glanced at the clock, set the book aside and crossed the bedroom.
Steam rolled through the bathroom when you opened the door. His discarded bandage lay damp beside the sink, his clothes gathered in a careless heap near the hamper. The mirror had fogged completely, but through the glass of the shower you could make out the broad, blurred shape of him standing beneath the water.
âJoel?â you called again.
No answer came, though beneath the steady rush you heard the faint scrape of skin against tile, followed by a low curse that was unmistakably his.
You undressed and stepped inside quietly, drawing a breath when the hot water struck your shoulder.
Joel stood with his back to you.
He had his head bowed and his right arm braced against the wall from elbow to wrist, protecting the swollen hand from bearing his weight. Even in the softened light, you could see the mottled bruising across his knuckles, his fingers held stiff and slightly apart. His left palm rested lower on the tile. His broad shoulders were drawn tight, every muscle along his back rigid beneath the water as it streamed through the silver beginning to thread the dark curls at the nape of his neck. It followed the shallow groove of his spine, split around the soft fullness above his hips and disappeared between his legs.
For several seconds, you simply watched him.
His left arm moved, but the motion lacked the steady, practiced rhythm you knew, his fist travelling over his cock with an awkwardness that seemed to frustrate him more each time. He adjusted his grip, tried again and shifted his hips forward, chasing a sensation his other hand could not quite give him. His shoulders tightened. A harsher curse slipped from him when his injured fingers flexed instinctively against the tile.
The sight sent heat through you with such sudden force that your breath caught.
Joel touching himself would always affect youâthe thick length of him flushed dark in his fist, water shining over the soft curve of his stomach and the wet hair beneath his navelâbut it was the vulnerability of the moment that drew you closer. This was the man who noticed when your shoulders hurt before you complained, who left water on your bedside table every night because you always woke thirsty, who could read the smallest change in your breathing beneath his hands and know whether you needed more, less, faster, slower. He had spent years learning every language your body spoke.
Yet he stood alone beneath the water, unable to give himself what he needed, too proud to call for you and too stubborn to stop trying.
You stepped closer without speaking.
He was so absorbed in the effort that he did not hear the shower door close behind you. He did not notice the water shift when your body interrupted its path or the quiet whisper of your bare feet against the tile. It was only when you placed your mouth between his shoulder blades, lips pressing softly to the center of his wet back, that his entire body jolted.
âJesus!â
His head turned sharply. Pain flashed across his face when his injured fingers contracted against the wall, and he forced them open again with a hiss.
âDidnât hear you, darlinâ.â
âI noticed, baby.â
Your lips moved over his back once more, slower this time. Water ran between your mouth and his skin, tasting faintly of soap. Up close, the heat of him felt different from the heat surrounding you, deeper and alive, held taut beneath skin that shivered when you kissed the raised ridge of an old scar near his shoulder.
âWhatâre you doinâ in here?â he asked.
âChecking on my handsome husband.â
You rested your chin against him and looked down the length of his body. His left hand had gone still, the grip around himself loosening now that he knew you were watching. Embarrassment was not something Joel wore easily; on him, it appeared as a stubborn tilt of his chin and a refusal to look directly at you.
âLooks like I was right to worry.â
âAinât anythinâ to worry about.â
âYouâve been in here twenty minutes.â
âLost track.â
âThat so?â
Your palms settled at his waist and moved around him, spreading over the curve of his belly. He had grown softer through the middle over the years, his body shaped by long workdays, evening beers and all the second helpings he accepted after insisting he was full. You loved the weight of him, the solid breadth of his chest, the coarse hair flattened beneath your fingers. You loved the familiar scars and the places age had begun touching him. You loved that you could stand behind him with your eyes closed and know precisely where your hands rested.
âSeems like youâre hurting yourself because youâd rather wrestle with the wrong hand than call your wife,â you murmured.
âWasnât hurtinâ myself, sweetheart.â
âNo?â
Your nails travelled upward through the hair on his stomach before descending again, leaving pale trails across his flushed skin. Joelâs breath changed when your fingertips passed beneath his navel.
âThat hand doesnât seem to be accomplishing much either.â
His jaw tightened, but his hips shifted subtly into his fist.
You closed the remaining distance between you and pressed your naked body to his back. The instant your breasts touched him, his breath caught. Your mouth found the side of his neck while one hand remained spread over his stomach and the other followed the dark line beneath his navel.
âCouldnât get it right?â you asked softly.
âLeft hand donât feel like mine.â
There was so much quiet frustration in the admission that your teasing softened.
âYou couldâve called me.â
âDidnât wanna bother you, baby.â
You lifted your head. âJoel Miller, I donât care if Iâm reading, sleeping or halfway through the best dream of my life. Asking me to touch you is never going to bother me.â
âAinât exactly somethinâ you should have toââ
âNo.â You kissed the back of his shoulder as your hand slipped lower, fingertips barely grazing the coarse hair at the base of his cock. âYou take care of me so often that half the time I donât notice youâre doing it until itâs already done. So let me have my turn.â
The rigid set of his shoulders loosened by a fraction.
His left hand opened around himself, although surrendering even that unsatisfying contact made his hips follow your hovering fingers.
âNeed a hand, donât you, cowboy?â you teased, catching the edge of his ear gently between your teeth.
A strained breath left him, somewhere between a groan and a protest.
âYou gonna help or keep makinâ fun of me?â
âI havenât decided yet.â You clicked your tongue. âYou do look awfully pretty struggling, baby.â
âChrist, woman.â
âAlthoughâŠâ Your hand settled over his left wrist and guided it away from his cock. He allowed you to place his palm on the tile, but his body remained tense, caught somewhere between wanting what you offered and resisting the act of receiving it. âI suppose I could lend my favorite cowboy a hand. If he asks nicely.â
Joel lowered his forehead to the wall.
Water slipped through the grey in his beard and fell from his jaw. Pride held him silent for another moment. You could almost feel the struggle taking place inside himâthe same man who would carry too many grocery bags rather than make a second trip, who would work through a fever and insist he was only tired, who treated being needed as though it were the simplest form of love but had never learned how to need someone without apology.
You spread your palm over his bare ring finger.
The touch made him look down.
His gaze rested on your hand covering his, your wedding band shining through the water while his finger remained pale and empty beneath it. His thumb moved once against the tile, reaching for yours before remembering the awkward angle.
Then his weight shifted back into you.
âNeed you,â he admitted quietly.
You waited with your lips resting against his shoulder, though the answer had already travelled through you. Joel asked for so little that sometimes you resented him for it. He would mention that his boots needed replacing only after the soles had begun admitting water, would say he was hungry once you had already placed a plate before him, would carry an ache for days until you noticed the careful way he avoided turning his neck. Even now, naked and hard between your arms, he had tried to make the request smaller than it was. Need you. Two words offered in place of everything his body had already confessed, as though wanting something from you was still harder than enduring without it.
His breath left him slowly. His empty ring finger shifted beneath your palm. When you still did not move, his hips pressed back against you before rolling forward, his cock brushing heavily against the hand you kept just beyond his reach.
âPlease,â he said, whatever remained of his pride finally yielding to the need roughening his voice. âPut your hand on my cock. Stroke me. Been tryinâ to come for so goddamn long, and I canâtâI need you to do it for me.â
Joel had trusted you with his home, his daughter, the parts of his past he still struggled to name. He had stood before everyone you loved and placed a ring on your finger with hands that had trembled more than his voice. Yet this small surrender seemed to cost him something too.
You kissed the pale place where his wedding band belonged.
âGood boy.â
Joel went utterly still.
His breathing stopped for one suspended second, his stomach turning rigid beneath your forearm and his left palm pressing flat against the tile. His cock pulsed before you had even closed your fingers around him.
Slowly, he looked back at you.
Steam had gathered in his lashes. His dark eyes found yours over his shoulder, surprise exposed there before he could conceal it, followed by a heat so immediate that your thighs drew together behind him. A flush travelled higher along his throat. He appeared almost offended by the force of his own reaction, as though his body had answered you before his pride could intervene.
âWhatâd you call me?â
âYou heard me, baby.â
His gaze dropped to your mouth. âSay it again.â
A smile touched your lips, but you did not laugh at him. There was something too open in his expression, too uncertain beneath the want.
âLater,â you promised. âFace the wall and lean back against me. Let your wife take care of you, big boy.â
Joel held your gaze for another moment before looking forward again. His forehead settled against the tile as his shoulders gradually loosened beneath your arms. He moved back until the curve of his ass pressed firmly against your lower stomach, giving you more of his weight than before.
You kissed the center of his back and slid your right hand down.
This time, you did not stop.
Your fingers curled around the base of his cock, and Joelâs entire body answered.
His abdomen contracted beneath your forearm. His left palm slipped before flattening against the wall again. A sound left himâlow, involuntary, pulled from somewhere beneath the frustration he had carried into the showerâand the thick length of him hardened further in your grip.
You held him without moving at first, letting him feel the fit of your hand around him although your fingers could not quite meet. Heat pulsed beneath the slick skin, his heartbeat fast and heavy against your palm. You adjusted the showerhead until the strongest part of the spray struck his back rather than your joined hands, then tightened your grip. Another broken breath warmed your cheek.
âThere,â you murmured. âBetter?â
âFuck, yesââ
âI thought so.â You stroked him slowly from base to tip, watching his stomach pull tight beneath your arm. âNext time you need my hand around your cock, come put it there.â
Joelâs hips followed your fist as it descended. âKnew youâd enjoy this.â
âYou knew correctly.â
Your thumb swept over the broad head before your fist travelled down again. At the base, you loosened your grip and slipped your free hand beneath him. Joel groaned when your palm cupped his balls, the swollen, heavy weight of them filling your hand while the other continued moving slowly along his cock.
âOh, baby...â You rolled them gently beneath your fingers, and his hips pressed forward as though even that small touch had reached somewhere deeper than he expected. âNo wonder you were getting so frustrated. These are awfully full.â
âDonât start.â
The words lacked any real warning. They came roughened by the careful twist of your wrist, Joelâs breath catching when you tightened your fist beneath the head. You smiled against his shoulder and gave him another long stroke, refusing the faster pace his body was beginning to seek.
âIâve already started.â Your lips followed a rivulet of water toward the sensitive place behind his ear. âYou shouldâve seen yourself, hiding in here with all of this aching for relief.â
âEnjoyinâ yourself?â
âVery much.â You squeezed the weight in your palm once more, tender enough to make his thighs tense. âIâve got my handsome husband naked in my arms, getting harder every time I tease him. I can feel how badly he needs to come, and heâs making the prettiest noises while I take my time giving him exactly what he asked for.â Your thumb gathered the slickness from the tip and spread it beneath the head. âWhatâs not to enjoy?â
âMean woman.â
The complaint dissolved into a groan when your fingers tightened around him. His hips followed your hand instinctively, cock sliding through your wet fist while you maintained the slow rhythm already wearing away his restraint.
âMm. And you love me.â
âYeah.â His answer came without hesitation, broken slightly by the next stroke. âMore than anythinâ.â
The words entered you with the familiar weight of truth. Joel could spend ten uninterrupted minutes complaining about traffic, Tommy or the price of lumber, but anything that mattered was pared down until only its simplest form remained. More than anythinâ was extravagance from a man like him, offered with his forehead resting against the shower wall, his injured hand held carefully before him and his body surrounded by yours.
You kissed him behind the ear and released the heavy weight beneath his cock, bringing your free arm around his middle. Your palm spread over his stomach as you drew him more securely against you.
âGood,â you murmured. âThen be sweet and let me take my time with you.â
You kept the first strokes long and measured, your fist gliding over every thick inch before closing more firmly on the descent. Joel attempted to follow you, but impatience made his hips arrive too early. You adjusted without comment, refusing to hurry; the next time he thrust forward, you slowed near the head and held him snugly in your palm until a strained breath escaped through his teeth.
Water ran over his shoulders and divided around your arms, gathering briefly in the dark hair beneath his navel before disappearing between your joined bodies. The shower could not conceal the low sounds he made whenever your grip changed or the unconscious contraction of his stomach beneath your palm. You understood what he wantedâthe shallow movement of his hips asking for more speed, his left hand spreading against the tile to brace for the pressure he preferredâbut kept him at that patient rhythm a little longer. By the time you tightened your fist, frustration no longer held his shoulders rigid. He was waiting for you, and his cock pulsed heavily against your palm.
âThatâs it,â you whispered, your mouth close to his ear. âYou can move with me now.â
Joel released a deep, uneven breath and rolled his hips forward. You met him, your fist descending as he pushed into it and closing more firmly when he reached the base. On his retreat, you stroked upward, letting the swollen head drag through the circle of your fingers before guiding him into the next movement. He followed more carefully this time, the rhythm hesitant only for the first few strokes before pleasure taught him what you wanted.
âThere you go, baby.â
âGodâfeels so damn good.â
You held him close and let the rhythm develop between you. Each thrust grew deeper, Joelâs ass pressing into your lower stomach when he drew back before he drove forward again. Your fist worked over him in time with the motion, no longer making him wait, though you retained enough control to keep his impatience from carrying him too quickly toward the edge.
The change reached his breathing first. Those deep, measured pulls of air began catching halfway into his lungs, his mouth opening against the tile to release the low sounds he had tried to suppress when you entered. Soon he no longer seemed aware of them. His attention had narrowed to your fingers around his cock, your palm against his stomach and the body supporting him from behind.
You kissed the wet slope of his shoulder.
Joel had touched you in darkness and sunlight, slowly and with desperate hunger, had learned your body so thoroughly that sometimes a single adjustment of his hand could make you fall apart. Yet this felt different from simply returning the pleasure he had given you over the years. Tonight, he could not reach back and distract you with your own need. He could not turn, gather you against him and assume the responsibility of taking care of both of you. All he could do was remain inside your embrace and trust that being wanted did not depend upon what he could offer in return.
Your grip tightened. Joel groaned and drove forward with enough force to push the air from your lungs. You widened your stance and continued meeting him as the movement grew rougher, each thrust dragging his cock rapidly through your closed fingers before your hand followed him back to the base. Wet skin moved against wet skin beneath the shower, punctuated by his heavier breathing and a broken curse whenever you changed the angle of your wrist.
You pressed your mouth beneath his ear.
âTake it, baby,â you murmured. âUse my hand exactly how you need.â
Joel stopped trying to follow each movement you gave him and began taking the friction for himself, thrusting through your fist with all the force he had been restraining. You let him, your hand closed and steady around him while your other arm held him against youâuntil his injured fingers curled instinctively against the tile. The hiss that left him cut through the pleasure. You caught his wrist at once and drew his arm away from the wall without slowing the motion between his legs.
âGive me this one.â
Joel allowed you to fold his arm across his chest. You tucked the bruised hand against his opposite shoulder and covered it with your own, your forearm securing it safely in place.
âAinât bad,â he managed.
âShh.â
You kissed the uninjured edge of his wrist. Your fist continued working steadily over his cock as though caring for one hurting part of him required no sacrifice from the rest.
Joelâs chest rose beneath your arm. His bruised fingers gradually relaxed against his shoulder, and his left hand left the tile to cover yours where it held him. His thumb searched through the water until it found the smooth band around your finger and rested there.
You turned your face and kissed his cheek.
Joel leaned into it for a fleeting second before the next stroke pulled a groan from him. His thumb remained pressed over your wedding band as he settled farther back, giving you more of his weight without looking to see whether you could hold it. You planted your feet, tightened your arm around his chest and did.
He was letting you have all of his need now: his injured hand held safely beneath yours, his balance entrusted to your body, his pleasure naked in every sound he could no longer contain. When your fist moved faster, his hips answered immediately. The rhythm that had belonged to both of you began to unravel as he pushed forward too soon and retreated only far enough to thrust again, each movement shorter and rougher than the last.
You adapted without breaking pace, concentrating the friction where his body responded most strongly. A rough curse left him when you repeated it, his cock almost painfully rigid within your fist, the pulse against your palm heavier and more insistent. His thighs began to tremble as the measured roll of his hips disappeared altogether. He was no longer fucking your hand with any discernible rhythm; he was chasing it, moving on instinct whenever your grip reached the sensitive head.
Your own breathing quickened against his back. Heat gathered low in your stomach as you watched the man who could reduce you to pleading with the smallest movement lose himself in your arms. You pressed your thighs together, but every sound he made travelled directly through you, every desperate thrust sending another pulse of want between your legs. None of it made you want to turn his attention toward you. Tonight, his pleasure was enough.
Your mouth found the place beneath his ear that always made his shoulders rise.
âLook at you,â you whispered, affection wrapped around the teasing words. âYou were so determined to handle this yourself, and now you can barely keep those legs steady.â
Joel tried to answer, but your fist tightened and the words collapsed into a hoarse moan. You smiled against his skin.
âNo clever answer for me?â
âHard toââ He broke off, thrusting roughly into your grip. âHard to fuckinâ think.â
âThatâs all right, baby. You donât need to.â
You increased the pace until the movement became relentless, your slick fist closing around him as quickly as his hips could push forward. Joelâs forehead pressed against the tile, shoulders drawing tight as pleasure gathered beyond his control. His breathing fractured into rough, shallow pulls, each ending in a sound he no longer attempted to swallow.
His left hand abandoned yours and flattened against the wall, fingers splayed wide for purchase. Your wedding ring remained warm beneath the place his thumb had pressed it. He drove into your fist once, twice, then faltered, the next thrust arriving shorter as his cock throbbed heavily in your palm. You felt the approaching release before he spokeâin the sudden rigidity of his stomach, the way his thighs locked as if bracing might delay what your hand was already pulling from him, the helpless twitch that travelled through his cock whenever your grip reached the head.
âBabyââ His voice cracked around the word.
You kissed his jaw. âI know.â
âCloseââ
The admission came through clenched teeth, barely louder than the water. You kept your fist moving at the same firm pace, refusing to startle his body with any sudden change.
âHow close?â
âReal fuckinââclose.â
Joel attempted another thrust, but the rhythm had abandoned him entirely. His hips jerked into your hand and stopped, leaving you to carry the movement while he trembled within your arms. His weight tipped backward. You accepted all of it, your forearm held securely across his chest and his injured hand protected beneath yours.
âPlease,â he rasped. âDonât slow downââ
âI wonât, baby.â
Your fist travelled over him in fast, complete strokes, drawing the tension tighter with each pass. His cock pulsed violently against your palm, so close now that every movement seemed to pull a broken sound from the deepest part of his chest.
You caught his earlobe gently between your teeth.
âEvery drop for me?â
âAll yours.â The answer came instantly, stripped of breath and pride. His head dropped as his hips gave one final, desperate drive through your fist. âEvery fuckinâ drop.â
A tender satisfaction spread beneath the heat in your chest. You tightened your embrace, lips brushing the shell of his ear while your hand gave him the exact rhythm his body had been seeking from the moment you entered the shower.
âThatâs my good boy,â you whispered. âGive it to me.â
The praise undid him.
Joel came with a sound so raw it seemed torn from the center of him.
His entire body locked in your arms. His cock jerked hard in your fist, the first hot pulse spilling over your fingers before the shower could carry it away. His hips punched forward with the next one, wrenching a broken groan from his throat as another thick streak struck the tile beneath him.
You kept your hand moving, drawing every stroke from base to tip while release continued to pulse from him. Each one seized a different part of his bodyâhis stomach clenching beneath your arm, his thighs jumping, his shoulders drawing taut beneath your mouth. You felt the force of it pass through him until there was nothing left with which he could hold himself upright.
His knees buckled.
You caught his full weight before either of you could fall.
Your chest pressed tightly to his back, your arm banded across his ribs and your palm protecting the swollen knuckles tucked against his shoulder. Joel trembled through every aftershock, forehead resting heavily against the wall. His cock gave one final, helpless pulse into your slowing hand.
âFuck,â he choked. âBabyââ
âEasy. Iâve got you.â
You continued moving until the last throb softened beneath your palm. Only then did you loosen your fingers, careful of the sensitivity that made his hips flinch when your thumb grazed the head. The water washed your hand clean, carrying the evidence of his release toward the drain.
Joel remained folded against the wall, his breathing coming in ragged pulls. You kept him gathered within your arms, lips moving over his shoulder and along the nape of his neck while the final tremors passed through him.
âTake your time, baby,â you murmured. âIâm not going anywhere.â
His left hand covered your forearm where it crossed his chest. His thumb rubbed slowly over your skin, Joel still searching for some way to touch you even while you bore most of his weight.
Eventually, he lifted his head.
âNeed to turn around.â
âYou steady?â
âWith you holdinâ me? Yeah.â
You helped him move carefully, keeping his injured hand against his chest until his back met the wall. The moment he faced you, his left arm came around your waist and pulled you against him.
Joel kissed you before you could speak.
The kiss held none of the frantic hunger that had taken him apart moments earlier. It was slow and open, his lips moving over yours with an exhausted tenderness that left you more exposed than anything he had said. His damp beard scraped gently across your chin as he kissed you again, lingering this time, breathing you in as though the release had stripped him down to the simplest things he knew.
Your hands settled against his chest.
He rested his forehead against yours.
âThank you,â he whispered.
âYou never have to thank me for touching you. Your needs are my needs too.â
âAinât only that.â
His hand moved slowly up your back, keeping you close.
âBeen meaninâ everything else.â
You traced the wet line of his jaw with your thumb. âJoelâŠâ
He watched you, something tired and unguarded in his eyes.
âYouâd do the same for me,â you said.
âIn a heartbeat.â
âThen quit acting like it only works one way, my love.â
The corner of his mouth lifted before he kissed you again. His hand travelled down your arm until his fingers found yours, and he raised your left hand between you. His thumb passed over your wedding band with quiet concentration.
âFeels strange not havinâ mine on.â
âI know.â
âKept reachinâ for it all night.â
âI noticed that too.â
You guided his injured hand closer and pressed your lips to the bare place where his ring belonged.
âStill all mine without it.â
His eyes softened. âAlways.â
You stayed beneath the water until his breathing settled, holding each other in the humid quiet. When you finally turned off the shower, Joel allowed you to dry him, although he complained when you knelt to run the towel down his legs.
âCan dry my own damn feet, darlinâ.â
âWith which hand?â
His mouth closed.
âThatâs what I thought.â
You wrapped the towel around his waist and guided him into the bedroom with your palm resting at the base of his spine.
The wedding band remained exactly where you had left it.
Joel looked at it while you sat him on the edge of the mattress and knelt between his knees with fresh gauze. You worked carefully around each bruised knuckle, smoothing the bandage without pulling it too tightly. He watched your hands throughout, quiet and heavy-limbed, his left palm resting warmly against the back of your neck.
When you finished, you raised his injured hand and kissed the pale indentation once more.
His gaze moved from his bare finger to the ring on the table.
Then he reached for it with his left hand.
âJoel, you canât put it back on yet.â
âI know, baby, but I was thinkinââŠâ He picked up the band and held it toward you. âYou still got that chain in your jewelry box? The one you donât wear?â
Your heart gave a small, painful pull.
âI do.â
You retrieved the thin chain and sat beside him. Joel placed the ring in your palm, trusting you with it as he had trusted you with everything else that night. You threaded the chain through the band before fastening it carefully around his neck.
The ring settled against the damp hair on his chest.
Joel looked down and touched it with two fingers. His thumb passed slowly over the familiar curve before he closed his hand around it, holding it against his sternum. The tension that had lingered in his face since you removed it finally eased; his shoulders dropped, and the breath he released sounded deeper than any he had taken since leaving urgent care.
âBetter?â you asked.
âYeah.â His eyes lifted to yours, tired and unmistakably relieved. He gave the ring another small squeeze but did not release it. âMuch better.â
You covered his closed hand with yours. âYou really hated having it off.â
Joel glanced down at the pale indentation around his finger. âKept feelinâ for it.â His thumb rubbed over the empty place as though demonstrating a habit his body had not yet learned to abandon. âEvery time I looked at my hand, somethinâ felt wrong. Like Iâd left part of myself sittinâ on that table.â
The quiet confession tightened your throat. It was only a circle of gold, small enough to disappear inside his broad palm, but Joel had worn it through years of work, sleep, arguments, dinners and mornings when neither of you had anything more important to say than asking who had finished the coffee. He had grown so accustomed to carrying the visible proof of your life together that its absence had left his hand feeling unfamiliar to him.
You curled your fingers around his, pressing the ring gently against his chest. âIt was never going anywhere.â
âKnow that.â His gaze returned to yours. âStill didnât like beinâ without it.â
You leaned forward and kissed the crease between his brows, lingering until it softened beneath your mouth.
âCome here,â you murmured, drawing back the covers. âLet me hold you, my love.â
He lay down without argument, his injured hand elevated safely on the pillow. When you settled beside him, Joel rested his head against your chest and curved his left arm around your waist. The ring lay cool between his skin and yours, warming slowly where your bodies met.
His thumb found your wedding band once more.
âMine safe, sweetheart?â he asked, already half asleep.
You covered the ring resting over his heart.
âRight here, baby.â
Joel released one final, tired breath against your skin. His entire body softened into the mattress, giving you its full and familiar weight.
This time, when you held him, he did not try to hold you up in return.
â summary:Â canât stop thinking about this tweet. so hereâs this!
â pairing:Â clark kent x reader
â warnings:Â 18+ mdni, smut, no plot just porn, p in v, praise kink, rough sex, squirting, breeding, overstimulation, inappropriate use of x-ray vision
â word count: 1.2k
You knew Clark was Superman from the start of your relationship, with his metahuman strength and his heart of gold. He was always so tender with you throughout everything, so when you both tiptoed around intimacy, he was ever the gentle giant youâd imagine heâd be. Always making sure you were okay, soft lingering touches, making sweet love to you. He made you feel on top of the world.
In no way were you not enjoying yourself, but sometimes you wanted nothing more than for him to push you into the bed and fuck you senseless. You wanted him to have you drooling in the bed, fucked out of your mind. A few times during sex, youâd ask him to go harder, to pull your hair, and he always obliged. Just too gentle for your liking. Heâd move heaven and earth for you, but he was so scared of hurting you. He didnât know his own strength, and heâd never forgive himself if he was too rough. The one time you asked him to smack your ass, he acted as if you had asked him to throw you through multiple concrete walls.Â
It was another night of making love, Clarkâs head nestled into your neck, your hands gripping his shoulders as he whispered sweet nothings into your ear. It felt amazing as usual, but you had an ache; you needed him to itch.Â
âHey, Clark.â You whimpered, pulling his head up to look at him. His thrusts slowed down, making sure you were okay.Â
âYeah, honey?â He hummed, his signature dimpled smile beaming at you.
âI need you to fuck me like you hate me.âÂ
As soon as the words left your mouth, his hips stilled inside you, his cock twitching inside of you. Betraying the concerned look lacing his features. âBut I donât hate you?âÂ
âYeah, honey. Obviously.â A laugh escaped your mouth, running your hands up and down his back. âI just want you to fuck me. I love making love. I love it. But I want it fast. Hard. I can feel you holding back, you wonât break me.âÂ
âI donât wanna hurt you.âÂ
You pressed a kiss to his cheek, âYouâre not gonna hurt me. I trust you with my life.â
âI donât think you know what youâre asking.â His eyes turned dark, staring down at you with a newfound desire swirling in them.Â
âI wanna feel you for days. Need you to fuck me silly, please, Clark.â You whined, clenching down on his cock. He was silent, reaching down to grip your thighs, wrapping them around his hips. He braced his hands on the headboard, gripping the wood. Without warning, he thrust up into you so hard all the air escaped from your lungs. It felt like he was in your throat, reaching places heâs never even been before. His hips are pistoning into yours so fast you couldnât even process it.Â
âF-fuck Clark, I canât-â A wanton moan escaped your chest, digging your nails into his skin of steel so hard it hurt your hands.Â
âOh, come on. This is what you wanted, right, baby?â He grunted, making you nod, drunk off the feeling. Nothing but the sounds of the bed creaking and the slick sounds of you creaming around his cock. The creaking sounds got louder, and suddenly there was a loud crash. The bedframe splintering underneath Clarkâs hands, the bed slowly falling apart around both of you. He shielded you from the debris, never once letting up his pace.Â
âThe bed- fuck-âÂ
âYou feel so good, honey. Letting me use you like this.â His eyes were dark, pressing hard kisses against your neck as the bed slowly slumped to the floor. He was so lost inside you, he barely noticed the splintered wood beneath his hands. And he was fucking you too good for you to care about it. Moving to grip your hips harshly, fucking up into your body as if you were nothing but a toy for him.Â
There was no way you were able to speak with how fast he was going, the only thing alluding to you cumming was your loud whimpers and your cunt squeezing his cock.Â
âIâm right here, baby,â Clark promised, moving your legs up, determined to fuck into your guts, âBeing so good for me, huh? Look at you coming on my cock.âÂ
His eyes didnât move away from where you both met, a white ring of release forming at the base of his cock. As soon as you were able to get some air into your lungs, you moaned his name over and over.Â
âC-Clark, I canât-â Your legs were trembling under his hold, every part of your body was on fire. So overstimulated in the best way. Clark shushed you, letting one of his hands travel down to thumb at your puffy clit.Â
âYes, you can,â He cooed, admiring the way you fluttered and shook around him. All you could do was take it, your body greedily sucking him in still. Your second orgasm coming fast, feeling different from before. He tried not to use his x-ray vision on you, but he couldnât help it. He could see your release growing, pushing against your walls, just begging to be let out.Â
âW-wait-â You stuttered out, moving your hands to try and slow him down. âI feel like Iâm g-gonna-âÂ
He had a mischievous glint in his eye, continuing to hit the spot inside you that had you screaming. Your eyes rolling into the back of your head let him know he achieved his goal, your cunt spurted around him. A deep pleasure rolling through your body, a new sensation that had you cursing, not asking him to do this sooner. The warmth of your release had Clarkâs hips stuttering, chasing his own high not far after yours.Â
He tried to keep his pace, stuttering over your trembling frame. Never once stopping his praises.âIsnât that good, baby? Knew you could do it.âÂ
âI love you. Love you so much.â You slurred, practically seeing stars.
âO-oh.â He whimpered, his cock twitching inside you. He was mumbling âI love yousâ as he watched his cum seep inside your womb, filling you up so much he could feel it leaking on the bed, mixing with where you soaked the sheets. Soon, he was gently flopping his body on top of yours, pressing small kisses to your sweat-lined skin. Both of you are catching your breaths, holding each other in the post orgasmic haze.Â
Clark felt it before he knew what was happening, his head rattling on your chest. When he looked up, he saw you stifling your giggles. Contagious, Clark was unable to stifle his own laughter, and soon both of you lost it in hysterics.Â
âOur bed is broken.â You wheezed, looking around to where the bed was now sitting on the floor in a pile of snapped wood. âSo fucking worth it though.âÂ
At this, Clark looked up at you, your skin glowing and your face blushing. âIâll buy you whatever bed you want. Iâll fly to Paris and get you one of those expensive ones. Or Iâll build you one with my own bare hands-â Cutting his romantic rambling off, you smiled down at him. âMaybe after round two? I mean the bedâs already broken..âÂ
The screen in the bullpen replayed the footage for the fourth time, and you were no closer to pretending you werenât staring at Supermanâs biceps than you had been the first three times.
âThatâs precision work,â Lois said from her desk, eyes narrowing as the feed froze on Superman bracing a slab of highway above his head. âSee the angle? He shifted just enough weight to keep the pressure from collapsing the other side.â
âOr,â you said, leaning forward on your elbows and squinting at the screen, âhe knew exactly what he was doing to my central nervous system.â
Loisâs sigh was audible, Cat gave a delicate snort, and Jimmy didnât even look up from his notes. They were all used to you by now.
The shot resumed, Superman lowering the cracked concrete as if it were cardboard. His cape flicked in the smoke-heavy wind, the kind of unbothered hero shot film directors would kill to get. Your brain unhelpfully whispered, Imagine those arms around your waist. You blinked it away before the thought could fully settle.
âItâs the third collapse in two weeks,â Jimmy muttered, tapping his pencil against his notepad. âFirst the bridge, then the construction site for that new government building, now this highway. Someoneâs orchestrating it. I just have toââ He cut himself off to scrawl another note. The poor guy hadnât slept, probably.
âDo you think he smells like smoke after something like that, or is he more of a,â you tapped your chin, âcologne that costs more than my rent kind of guy?â
Lois pinched the bridge of her nose. From the corner of your eye, you caught Clark. Heâd just taken a sip of coffee, and now he was very determinedly staring at his computer screen. The tips of his ears were pink.
âOh, come on, Clark,â you said, sing-song, swivelling slightly in your chair to face him. âDonât tell me this is weird for you because heâs your bestie.â
His head jerked up, glasses catching the light. âWhat? No, Iââ He stammered, then tried again. âIt doesnât weird me out. And weâre not best friends.â
âUh-huh,â you said, smug. âYou definitely donât look uncomfortable every time I mention his jawline.â
âThatâs notââ Clark rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks now matching his ears. âI just donât think the, uh, newsroom is the place forâŠâ He trailed off, apparently unable to finish the sentence without combusting.
You grinned. Clark made this too easy. âFor what, Clark? For me appreciating a local hero in the way God clearly intended?â
Lois barked a laugh without looking up from her screen. âCareful, Clark. Weâll never hear the end of this.â
âDonât remind me,â Clark muttered, but his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. For a split second, his eyes flicked to yours, warm and amused, before he ducked his head again. You caught the moment and dismissed it, chalking it up to friendly teasing.
Cat finally chimed in, reclining back in her chair. âIf you ask me, the man could use a fan club. Itâd do wonders for his image. Youâre just ahead of the curve.â
âSee?â you said, pointing at her in triumph. âVisionary thinking.â
Clark ducked his head further, but you caught the edge of his grin, hidden half behind his mug. Something about itâshy, crooked, almost like it was meant just for youâdid a strange thing to your stomach. But you brushed it off, too caught up in the replay of Superman on screen.
You leaned back in your chair and let your gaze drift back to the paused screen. Superman, larger than life, standing amidst wreckage. It was ridiculous, really, how one man could manage to look both divine and approachable at the same time. Like heâd save your life and then ask if youâd eaten lunch.
Your heart did its now-familiar lurch, the one youâd been trying to write off as mere professional admiration for months. Totally normal to want to interview Superman. Totally normal to wonder what his laugh sounded like up close. Totally normal to imagine how those lips would feel brushing yourâ
Okay, no, dangerous territory. You shook your head, blinking hard. Because the problem wasnât just his lips. It was how easily your imagination filled in the rest: his hands spanning your hips, your back pressed against some convenient wall, that cape falling heavy around both of you like a curtain. You swallowed, realising your coffee had gone cold in your hand.
Focus. Colleagues. Professional environment. Stop picturing the man of steel doing decidedly un-heroic things to you on top of your desk.
âOkay,â Jimmy said, still scribbling furiously, âif we trace the supply chain for the explosives used in the bridge collapse, we mightââ
âJimmy,â you cut in, âI support your heroic quest, but I do need to ask: how many hours of sleep have you had this week?â
âUhâŠâ He blinked. âEnough?â
âFour,â Lois corrected without looking up.
You chuckled, but your gaze wandered back to Clark. He was pretending to read his notes, but his pen hadnât moved in several minutes. When your eyes caught his, he looked away quickly, but you could swear the flush crept a little further down his neck.
And for one moment, you wondered why Clark Kent of all people looked like he had something to hide. When he shifted in his chair and you saw the way his broad shoulders strained against his shirt, your brain did the traitorous thing again: Superman would look like that under a button-down.
You pressed your lips together, willing the thought away, but it was no use. The images kept tumbling in. Superman loosened his tie after a long day, tugging it down with those big hands. Superman leaning over your desk to point at your notes, the heat of him close enough to make you forget how pens worked.Â
You caught yourself and dug your nails into your palm. Focus. Work. Journalism. Not turning your colleagueâs blush and your favourite heroâs shoulders into one disastrous fantasy cocktail.
Loisâs voice cut through your spiral, brisk and sharp. âI donât care how he does itâI need to call a source and find out where those explosives came from. If someoneâs targeting infrastructure, we need a lead before the next one goes down.â
Jimmy perked up, already rifling through his notes. âIf youâre calling sources, Iâll start pulling records on construction contracts. Somebody has to be benefiting from these collapses.â
Lois shot him a quick nod. Clark just looked down at his desk, hiding behind his glasses like the worldâs most suspicious Boy Scout.Â
You took another long sip of your cold coffee, trying not to think about how your crush on Superman was starting to feel a little less hypothetical than it should.
The train station was always quieter at night. A few tired commuters in suits, a cluster of teenagers sharing earbuds, a woman in scrubs leaning against a pillar with her eyes half-shut. You had your usual spot, halfway down the platform, where the overhead lights didnât flicker so badly.Â
You tugged your coat tighter around you and glanced at the clock. The train was due in two minutes. Just enough time to scroll aimlessly through your phone and pretend you werenât waiting for a metal box to ferry you back to your little apartment.
Then the floor shuddered.
At first, you thought it was just too much caffeine, not enough sleepâuntil the tremor rattled the railings and a hollow boom echoed from below, drawing startled murmurs from the crowd.
Your stomach dropped. The lights overhead flickered. One of the teenagers yelped. A crack zigzagged across the tiled wall behind you, spiderwebbing out with a groan of stone under strain. The entire platform trembled.
Someone shouted. A woman clutched her child. You backed away instinctively, heart hammering so hard you thought you might be sick.
The train headlights tore through the tunnel, but instead of the usual rhythmic glide, it burst forward at a terrifying tilt. Wheels screamed against metal. Sparks shot out in jagged bursts. The whole structure groaned, a sickening chorus of strained steel and cracking concrete.
You didnât have time to process before the world blurred red and blue. Superman shot into view, cape billowing, eyes set on the train. The first car teetered dangerously on its rails, but he braced himself in the centre of the tracks, caught the nose of the train with both hands, and pushed.
The train screamed against the tunnel walls, sparks spitting. Superman slowed it until, impossibly, he lifted the first car clear and set the whole train down on solid ground like a misplaced toy.
And then the platform gave way. The slab beneath your feet buckled with a roar, pitching you off balance as chunks of stone sheared away into the tracks below.
âGo, go, go!â you shouted, snapping into motion before your brain could catch up. You gently pushed the teenager nearest you toward the staircase. âThis way! Keep moving!â
People surged toward the exits, panicked but moving. You caught the eye of the woman with the child and gestured sharply. She nodded, clutching her kid and running. Cracks raced faster along the ceiling. The platform lurched, a violent tilt that knocked you off balance.
The floor started splitting beneath your feet. You were going to die. The thought carved itself into your mind in cold, perfect clarity. You gasped, shutting your eyes and bracing for the fall.
Except, suddenly you werenât falling.Â
Strong arms locked tight around your waist, solid as steel, lifting you as easily as if you were weightless. The air shifted in a rush as you were carried effortlessly through the haze of dust and chaos. Debris rained down behind you, but all you could register was the fact that there was no ground beneath your feet and you werenât dying.
Superman caught you mid-collapse, scooped you up as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His grip was secure, unyielding, like nothing on Earth could pry you from him. You clutched at the fabric at his shoulderâinstinct, panic, maybe something elseâand your fingers found the smooth fabric of his suit.
Superman carried you down in a controlled dive and set you gently on solid ground beside the others. Your knees wobbled, but his grip lingered for a beat, steadying you until you could breathe again. The station you were standing on moments ago had crumbled, but first responders were already on the scene.
All you could focus on was the man in front of you, his eyes sharp and intent, the smell of smoke clinging faintly to him. Your pulse hadnât caught up yet, and neither had your brain. One minute, youâd been waiting for the train like always. The next, you were pressed against the chest of the man youâd been daydreaming about for weeks, only this time he wasnât on a screen.
The station was a mess of coughing commuters and scattered debris, but Supermanâs voice carried through it with calm authority. âIs anyone hurt?â he called, scanning the crowd.
Around you, people coughed and steadied each other, shaken but safe.
Supermanâs shoulders eased. His cape, still settling from the landing, brushed lightly against the ground as he turned back to you. âAre you alright?â
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.
Superman stepped closer, lowering himself slightly so his gaze met yours directly. His eyes were the clearest blue youâd ever seen, bright even through the haze of dust. âYou need to breathe,â he said gently. âDeep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.â
You obeyed. Inhale. Exhale. Your pulse steadied, if only because Superman was watching you so intently, like you were the only person in the station. His voice was low but commanding, the kind of voice that made you want to obey before you even registered the words.
âThatâs it,â he said, encouraging, his mouth curving into a small smile. And just like that, the apocalypse backdrop melted into irrelevance. His smile wasnât dazzling in the flashy, toothpaste-commercial way. It was worse, soft and entirely real.
The sight of it pressed heat down your spine. He smelled faintly of scorched air and something clean, like fresh rain on concrete. Your fingers itched where they hovered near your sides; half a breath away from reaching out, from brushing against the impossible fabric stretched across his chest. God, the suit. The material clung like a second skin, sculpting every inch of broad muscle, and your treacherous brain immediately imagined peeling it back.Â
What would he feel like under your palms? What would his mouth taste like if you tilted forward just a little?
Internally, your brain was sprinting laps. Superman was right there. Superman was holding you steady. He was looking at you like you werenât just another face in the crowd. Your body hummed, a giddy mix of adrenaline and something far less noble.
Externally, you cleared your throat and managed, âIâm fine. Thank you.â Your voice was steadier than you expected.
Superman nodded, but didnât step back. His gaze lingered, checking for any flicker of pain you might be hiding. His proximity made it hard to think straight. Warmth radiated off him in waves, like he carried the sun under his skin. Your heartbeat went wild, thundering in your chest, and you knew he could hear it. Luckily, you could always blame it on what just happened.
When he was finally satisfied, he let out a small breath of relief. Which, of course, made you blurt out the dumbest possible thing.
âIâm a reporter for The Daily Planet?â Smooth. Very casual. Worded like a statement but lilting up at the end like a question.
Superman smiled, raising his brows. âAre you?â
âYes.â You straightened, trying desperately to salvage dignity. âAnd, if you ever had the time, Iâd love to sit down with you for something in-depth. Not about today specifically, but⊠more of a profile. Who you are, not just what you do.â
His smile tilted, amused, and Superman was even more devastating up close. A smile like that should come with a warning label. Your knees hummed with the urge to buckle. His jaw was sharper than it had any right to be, shadowed just enough that you wanted to feel it scrape down your neck.
You scrambled to fill the silence, trying for a playful tone. âUnless you already have some kind of exclusive deal with Clark, in which case I completely understand.â
Superman blinked, then laughed. It was a quiet, genuine sound that made your chest flutter. âNo,â he said, shaking his head, curl shifting faintly at his forehead. âNo exclusive deal with Clark.â
âGood,â you said, aiming for a professional tone. It came out a little too quick, a little too breathless.
Oh my God, he laughed. He has dimples. He has actual dimples. You needed to lie down on the floor immediately. Or kiss him. Or both. Preferably both.Â
âIâd be delighted,â Superman added, and something in the warmth of the word nearly unmoored you.
âGreat,â you exclaimed. âWonderful. You could, uh, come by the Planet whenever it fits your schedule.â
Superman nodded, thoughtful. âHow about a week from today? Next Thursday night?â
Your brain short-circuited. Eventually, you managed a brisk nod, like this was perfectly ordinary business. âNext Thursday night works.â
âGood,â he said, with the kind of certainty that could stop tectonic plates from shifting. Supermanâs gaze held yours a beat longer, steady and knowing, like maybe he could tell what was running through your mind.
Which was unfair. Kryptonian x-ray vision was one thing, but thirst-detection was cruel.
You finally tore your gaze away, blinking as if that would shake the image of his smile branded onto the inside of your eyelids. Around you, the chaos of the station hummed back into awarenessâsirens in the distance, EMTs rushing down the street, civilians muttering shakily about what had just happened.
But Superman didnât move. His presence, his eyes, and his impossible steadiness all lingered, anchoring you in place.Â
For one dizzying moment, you werenât just the reporter who made too many jokes about his biceps in the office bullpen. You were the person he couldnât tear his eyes away from.
The newsroom was buzzing the next morning, every desk alive with the sound of clattering keyboards and the smell of burnt coffee. You slipped through the doors with your bag slung over your shoulder, hair still faintly carrying the scent of smoke from last nightâs disaster.
âHoly shit,â Lois shot up from her chair the second she saw you. Her pen clattered against her desk. âYouâre alive.â
âBarely,â Jimmy added, already halfway across the bullpen. His camera bounced against his chest as he looked you over like youâd been through war. âThe police report had you listed as one of the last witnesses on the platform! Do you have any idea how freaked out we were?â
You blinked as Lois and Jimmy converged on you like an overprotective tag team. âUh⊠sorry?â you offered weakly. âI meant to text but my phone sort of didnât survive the whole crumbling-infrastructure thing.â
âYou think we care about your phone?â Lois demanded, gripping your shoulders. âWe care about you. You couldâve been crushed, you idiot.â
âLove you too, Lois,â you deadpanned, though your chest warmed at the concern.
Jimmy shook his head, relief etched in every line of his face. âSo what actually happened? The article said Superman caught the train, stabilised the structure, butââ
ââbut left out that he pulled me off a collapsing platform at the last second.â You shrugged, casual, like you werenât replaying it every three minutes in your head. âIt was very dramatic. Definitely gave me a couple new grey hairs. Oh, andâŠâ You cleared your throat, trying not to sound too smug. âI mightâve gotten an exclusive Superman interview out of it.â
That got their attention. Both jaws dropped in unison.
âYou what?â Lois demanded.
âHeâs coming by next Thursday night,â you said, as nonchalantly as if you were announcing a dentist appointment. âSo everyone better clear out by then.â
Lois groaned. âOf course you get a Superman exclusive. I nearly got trampled during an alien invasion last month, and all I got was a sprained ankle.â
Jimmy pressed a hand to his heart. âYouâre out here living the dream.â
Before you could respond, Cat breezed by, heels clicking against the tile. She didnât even pause to lower her voice. âWell, well, look who finally gets to meet their celebrity crush in person.â
Heat shot to your face. âThat is notââ You cut yourself off, then laughed, shaking your head. âFine. Maybe a little bit.â
Everyone laughed, the tension lifting, and eventually the newsroom settled back into its usual rhythm.
Clark appeared at your desk with a fresh cup of coffee. He set it down in front of you carefully. âThought you could use this,â he said softly.
You glanced up, and your chest squeezed instantly. Clarkâs tie was a little crooked, his hair rumpled like heâd rushed into work, and those glasses were sliding down his nose. One curl had slipped loose at his temple, dangerously close to endearing. It shouldnât have been a look, but somehow it was devastating.
Your pulse tripped over itself. The cup was warm in your palms, but not half as warm as the flush creeping up your neck. âThanks,â you murmured. âYou didnât have to.â
Clark gave a small smile. âI wanted to. You really scared us when we saw your name on the witness list.â His voice dropped, quiet enough that only you could hear. âIâve⊠seen a lot of situations where Superman had to step in. Itâs not easy, being right there when it happens.â
Your throat tightened. The way he said it, almost protectively, made your chest ache. âYeah,â you admitted. âIt was a lot. I was the last one on the platform. For a second, I really thought that was it for me.â
Clarkâs expression shifted, softening further. His brows drew together in concern, and you had to look away before you got lost in it. âIâm glad youâre still here,â he said, voice low but steady.
Something fluttered low in your stomach. You tried to play it off with humour. âMe too. Iâd hate to miss this coffee.â
His mouth twitched, but his gaze stayed steady on yours, searching. âYouâre really okay? Not just saying that?â
You took a sip of coffee to buy time. âIâm okay,â you said finally, quieter than you meant to. âA little shaken, maybe. Iâm just really grateful Superman was there.â
Clark was standing so close you could see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way the morning light caught in his hair, almost too ink-black to be real. You were noticing things you shouldnâtâlike how broad his shoulders looked even under the modest cut of his suit jacket, or how his fingers brushed lightly against the rim of your desk.
Your pulse wouldnât settle. Every time Clarkâs voice dipped low, something in you seemed to respond instinctively, a shiver at the base of your spine, the kind youâd blame on adrenaline if you were being honest.
âWell, if you ever need a near-death buddy to swap stories withâŠâ You said, aiming for lightness, though your voice was a little thinner than usual.
Clark chuckled, low and soft, and the sound wrapped around you like a blanket. âIâll keep that in mind.â
As he pushed off your desk, he gave your hand a gentle tap with his finger. It was barely a touch, just enough to make you jolt with awareness. Then Clark smiled again, that shy, crooked thing that somehow undid you just as much as Supermanâs blinding perfection.
It turned out that seven days could stretch into eternity if you were waiting for Superman. All week, the newsroom had been merciless.
âBig date Thursday,â Cat crooned whenever she passed your desk.
âItâs an interview,â you corrected, every time.
âUh-huh,â she said, nodding sagely as though she knew exactly how hard you were trying to keep from grinning.
Lois was subtler, though only barely. âYouâve got one shot,â she told you, smirking over the rim of her coffee mug. âDonât blow it by asking about his workout routine.â
âI wasnât going to!â you protested.
âSure,â she said. âBecause the first words out of your mouth when Superman sits across from you are definitely going to be Pulitzer material.â
You were counting down the days. You were rehearsing imaginary questions on your walk home, in the shower, brushing your teeth. You caught yourself doodling little Superman logos in the margins of your notes like you were twelve again, which Lois spotted once and nearly choked on her gum.
But the strangest shift had been Clark.
Since the train incident, youâd had found yourself more at ease with him. He wasnât different, exactly. Still the same polite, slightly awkward Midwestern farm boy. But you felt different around him.Â
It was like something in your body had quietly decided you could lean closer, joke softer, trust deeper. Clark lingered at your desk more, offering to help with sources or swapping stories about Perryâs legendary rants.
By the time the day actually arrived, your nerves were a live wire.
The newsroom emptied out slowly, staff peeling away with warm pats on the shoulder or smothered grins. Cat called, âGood luck, darling,â on her way out.
Lois added, âRemember. Profile, not thirst essay,â like she hadnât already marked up your interview questions in red ink and told you how great they were.
When Perry finally gathered his coat, he paused at your desk. âYouâll do fine, kid,â he said, his gravelly voice gentler than usual. âJust donât let him charm you into forgetting to take notes.â
Then it was just you.
The bullpen seemed unnaturally large once empty. Youâd dressed deliberately in the outfit you felt most confident in, using flattering colours that made you look your best. It was sharp enough to be professional, but fitted enough that you still felt good.
You perched on the edge of your desk, back straight, hands folded over your notebook. For a moment, all you could hear was the thud of your heartbeat in your ears. You reminded yourself that this was work. You were a professional. You had a list of thoughtful questions.
You were absolutely not going to melt into a puddle at the sight of Superman, no matter how gorgeous he was.
A soft rush, like the flap of something vast against the wind. Papers fluttered on the corner of a desk. You turned your head, and there was Superman. He stepped forward from the open window, cape settling around him, posture relaxed.
He was smiling, not the world-saving, photo-op grin youâd seen splashed across front pages, but something smaller, crooked at the corner. A sweet smile, soft-edged, as if heâd just helped a neighbour carry groceries inside.
âHope Iâm not late,â Superman said, voice warm, easy. âGot caught up with a little kid who lost his dog. Turns out he didnât actually have one yet, he just thought I might help him find a dog who needed him.â
A laugh escaped you, nervous and bright. âNo worries. Did you end up finding one for him?â
âFound his parents first, then gave them the address to a nearby shelter.â His grin widened, as if youâd just won him over by expressing your curiosity.
Your heart thumped painfully against your ribs. Up close, Superman was too much to catalogue at once. The sharp line of his jaw dusted, the impossible shade of blue in his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders that made even the high ceiling of the bullpen feel suddenly close.Â
âThank you for coming,â you managed, gesturing to the chair across from your desk. âPlease, have a seat. Do you mind if I record this?â
âNot at all,â Superman replied, his voice as rich and warm as velvet. He moved toward the chair opposite yours.
You clicked your recorder on, notebook open, pen ready. âLetâs start with some broad questions,â you said, clearing your throat. âWhat drives you to keep doing this? Day after day, when it would be easier and safer not to.â
Superman leaned back slightly, considering. You noticed the way his eyes flicked briefly upward, as though he was searching the sky beyond you for answers.
âBecause I can,â he said finally. âBecause I was given abilities most people donât have. And if I can stop someone from suffering, even for a moment, how could I choose not to?â
The way he said it wasnât self-righteous. It was gentle, like he believed it was the easiest truth in the world. You scribbled down details about his tone and cadence, even though you knew youâd never forget it.
âThat sounds⊠lonely,â you mused before you could stop yourself.
A flicker of surprise crossed Supermanâs features, then something quieter. âIt can be. But loneliness isnât an excuse to do nothing.â
You tapped the pen against your notebook. âIf you could teach a stranger one lesson, what would it be?â
âThat strength isnât about what you can do,â he said without hesitation. âItâs about what you choose to do even when things feel impossible.â
âYou sound like a philosopher,â you teased, hoping humour would loosen things up a little.
Superman laughed, low and warm and so thoroughly human. âIâm not sure anyoneâs ready to put me in that category. I just⊠spend a lot of time thinking, I suppose.â
âFlying above the city gives you plenty of time to ponder?â
He gave a half-shrug. âThereâs a lot of silence up there. A lot of space to reflect.â
You nodded, scribbling notes, though your handwriting was starting to slope dangerously toward the edge of the page. Supermanâs voice was steady, but every so often, his gaze lingered on you just a second longer than necessary.
It was silly, but you couldnât help feeling like he was studying you, too.
âDo you ever wish you could do something else?â you asked.
He tilted his head, considering. âNo. But sometimes I wish I could be better at ordinary things. Doing crafts, for instance.â
The idea of Superman trying to knit or crochet made you laugh out loud before you could stop it. His grin widened at the sound, the corners of his mouth tugging higher with pride.
âI can stop a runaway train,â he added wryly, âbut ask me to make anything creative and the best I can give you is a stick-figure drawing.â
âTragic,â you deadpanned, trying to scribble something discreet in your notebook so he wouldnât notice your smile. âThe city may never recover from this revelation.â
You hesitated because the next question felt personal. âDo you ever wish you didnât have to be Superman?â
Silence stretched long enough that you wondered if youâd crossed a line. But then he said, âNo. I wish I could balance it better sometimes. But wishing I wasnât Superman would be wishing I wasnât me.âÂ
You werenât supposed to notice how tense his forearms looked resting on his knees. Or the faint, distracting warmth of him leaning slightly forward. You nodded, throat tight. Yeah, totally calm.
âYouâre good at this,â Superman said suddenly, a glint of humour sparking in his eyes.
âAt my job?â
He shook his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. âAt making someone feel like they can be honest.â
Your stomach flipped. You tried to smile, keep it light. âIâll take that as a professional compliment.â
âOf course,â Superman said, and his gaze lingered just enough to make your heart speed, a quiet heat settling low in your chest.
You tapped your pen against the notebook again, grinning like a fool. âAlright,â you said, leaning back slightly. âTime for rapid-fire. Quick answers, gut instinct, no overthinking. Deal?â
Supermanâs brow quirked, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. âDeal,â he said, and the word carried a weight that made your chest skip anyway.
âFavourite pizza topping?â
âPepperoni,â he said instantly.
âDesert island snack?â
âApples.â
You laughed. âReally?â
âTheyâre versatile,â Superman said, chuckling lightly. âAnd nutritious. Hard to get sick of.â
âAlright. What does Superman do on his day off?â
âI watch baseball, read if I can, maybe just walk the city. Sometimes old movies,â Superman grinned, âthe really sappy ones.â
You smiled back. âWhatâs a movie that always makes you cry?â
âAnything with Gene Kelly,â he confessed.Â
You nodded, trying not to laugh at how sweet the mental image was. âWhatâs your guilty pleasure?â
Superman hesitated just a fraction, and you caught it. That brief flicker of vulnerability made your chest squeeze. âI⊠bake pies. Really obsessively, sometimes.â
You blinked, pen hovering mid-air. He smiled faintly, but there was a softness to it, the kind that made you want to lean closer, to hear more.
âMy motherâs pies are the greatest thing in the world. Truly, I was getting spoiled every day growing up. I miss them a lot.â Superman reached out just slightly, brushing an eyelash from your cheek with the pad of his thumb without thinking. Your pulse jumped. âSo when I moved out, I had to learn to make them myself.â
His eyes flicked to yours, warm and unguarded. The eye contact was unwavering, intense, and you felt a jolt each time your eyes met.Â
âThatâs kind of amazing,â you said, smiling widely. âI never pictured Superman in an apron.â
He chuckled, low and easy. âNeither did I, initially. But itâs comforting. Makes me feel connected to her and my hometown.â Superman shifted slightly, brushing his knee against yours casually, as if unaware, but you werenât about to move.
âI like baking too,â you admitted. âBut Iâve never made a pie. I usually stick to chocolate cake. I make a mean dark chocolate ganache.â
His eyes lit up. âThat sounds perfect,â Superman said quietly. The way his gaze held yours, steady but gentle, made your stomach flutter. He shifted again, almost mirroring you, hands resting just a fraction closer on the chair arms, shoulders angled toward yours.
The conversation slipped easily, naturally, like a door had opened that neither of you realised existed. âSo, pies,â you prompted, leaning forward. âWhatâs your favourite? Apple? Cherry? Something more adventurous?â
âApple. Classic, reminds me of my apple trees back home,â Superman declared happily. âBut I experiment sometimes, even when itâs beyond my skill set. I love pecan pie in the fall. The kitchen gets messy.â His laughter was soft, but the movement behind it made you acutely aware of the curve of his shoulders, the gentle tension in his forearms.
You bit your lip, imagining him in his kitchen. Rolling dough, flour dusting his hair, his sleeves rolled up. Your thoughts skidded forward unbidden, picturing other domestic scenarios that were far less innocent. You shook your head, trying to focus.
âI like things a little messy,â you teased.
Both of your eyes widened at your unintentional innuendo.
Superman blushed. He actually blushed. âThatâs good to know,â he said, and without thinking, his hand brushed your forearm. âDo you bake other things too?â
âOccasionally. Strawberry shortcake, sometimes brownies. But never pies, anything beyond cookie dough is too intimidating.â You laughed lightly.
He smiled, and it reached his eyes, softening them. âMaybe I could teach you. Not just the pie, but⊠how to enjoy the process. Even the mess.â
You felt your pulse jump. The casual offerâthe closeness, and the easy intimacy of itâwas impossible to ignore. âIâd really like that,â you admitted.
Supermanâs eyes lingered, and you caught a subtle tilt of his head, the barest exhale that brushed the air between you. You found yourself leaning slightly closer, almost imperceptibly, drawn by the warmth and steady intensity of his gaze. It made you wonder, suddenly, what he was like when he wasnât saving the world.Â
âDo you get homesick a lot?â you asked instead of acknowledging the growing tension between you, recalling how he mentioned his hometown earlier.
âYes. Every day,â he said quietly, voice carrying a hint of wistfulness. âMy parents kept me grounded. Theyâre amazing; taught me right from wrong, made me⊠human, I guess. And where I grew up is a huge part of that. Having a community like that made me realise how important it is to nurture relationships.âÂ
Superman reached out, lightly resting a hand near yours on the notebook edge, then pulled back almost immediately, as if startled by his own actions.
âI get that,â you murmured. âI mean, no matter how long you live in the city, nothing ever quite compares to that feeling of being home. Itâs not just a comfort, itâs a familiarity that you canât ever replace.â
For a few minutes, you just talked about childhood memories and the comfort of home. Your forearms brushed as you both leaned forward in sync; he adjusted slightly, shoulders angling toward you, while your eyes held his without wavering.
Each accidental touch was electric. Supermanâs gaze lingered just a fraction too long on your mouth, your eyes, your fingers as they flipped pages of your notebook.Â
By the time you looked up, the Daily Planet interview had completely dissolved. Notes were scribbled, pens tapped idly, and all that remained was the quiet intimacy of shared confessions, laughter, and mutual understanding. Both of you had unconsciously leaned closer, shoulders nearly touching, hands lingering a heartbeat too long near each other.
You lowered your pen, letting your hands rest on the notebook. The words you had written about pies and home felt personal in a way that made your chest tight.
âI donât have to print all that, about the pie and your parents and hometown,â you said, keeping your voice steady, despite the cartwheels inside your stomach.
Supermanâs blue eyes softened, unwavering. âYou should leave it in,â he said quietly, leaning slightly toward you, shoulders angled in a subtle invitation. âAs long as youâre not too specific. I donât want anyone figuring out who or where my family is.â
You nodded, pulse jumping. You felt a faint itch in your fingers, a desire to reach for Superman, to touch the solid strength of him even once.
âYou know,â he added, lips just curving, ânot a lot of reporters would offer to do that. Most would just run the story.â
You tilted your head, feeling heat coil low in your ribs. âI like to think that what we just did was not just a reporter talking to Superman,â you said, your voice catching a little. âIt was two people talking. And itâs not fun for me if I share anything too personal with the rest of the world.â
He blinked, then smiled widely, dimples on display. âI think youâre right,â Superman agreed. You felt the faint brush of his fingers against yours, and the contact made something swoop in your belly.
âI promise Iâll be careful with it,â you said, leaning forward slightly. âNot just your words, but your intentions.â
âI know you will,â he murmured, voice calm and warm. His eyes never left yours.Â
You let your gaze drift to his mouth for a moment too long. The curve of his lips was soft and compelling. Your fingers itched to brush against his jaw, to feel the strong shape beneath your touch.Â
âIâŠâ you said, and then the words faltered. Your chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts, the air warm in your lungs and tight in your ribs.
âYou what?â Superman asked patiently.
âI donât think Iâve ever connected like this with anyone before,â you admitted, exhaling shakily.Â
Youâd spent years admiring Superman from afar, and now, inches apart, this connection felt immediate and tangible. You were suddenly aware of every detail in his body. The breadth of his shoulders, the soft line of his collarbone, the slope of his nose, and the faint exhale he didnât realise he was holding.
For a few seconds, you just sat watching each other. Supermanâs hand moved imperceptibly closer to yours, and you could feel the heat of his breath against your cheek. Neither of you moved away. Every glance, every tilt of the head, every subtle shift of a shoulder felt like a conversation on its own.
Superman shifted slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. âJust double-checking that Iâm supposed to ask if something can be off the record before I say it?â he asked, eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your chest thrum.
You swallowed, breath catching. âThatâs right,â you said, voice breathless.
He tilted his head, gaze flicking down at your lips and back to your eyes, the movement smooth and deliberate. âGood,â he murmured. âBecause Iâd really like to kiss you. Preferably off the record.â
Your chest jumped, and a laugh burst from you before you could stop it. âI think itâs better that way,â you agreed.
That was all he needed. Slowly, deliberately, Superman closed the distance. Your breath hitched as his hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and your arms came up around his shoulders almost instinctively. You felt the warmth of him, the broad strength in his chest, and the way he moved with careful precision, as if making sure nothing about you felt unsafe.
Your lips met his, soft and tentative at first, a sweet, careful press. Your pulse was frantic, every nerve firing. He leaned into you a fraction, and the small sigh you let slip mirrored the quickening of his own breath.
Then the kiss deepened, becoming hungry, insistent. Your hands threaded through Supermanâs hair, tangling in the soft curls, and you felt the press of his body against yours. His lips parted yours, tongue teasing, and your knees nearly buckled at the sensation. You gasped, and he hummed into the kiss, a low vibration that made your stomach tighten and your chest ache in a delicious, unbearable way.
He pulled back just slightly, lips brushing yours, eyes searching yours. âI want to be careful,â Superman murmured against your mouth. âDonât want to hurt you.â
Then he gently lifted you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and your hands fisted lightly in his cape as he set you on your desk. The movement was careful, precise, but you felt the thrill of it, your heart racing in your ears.
You giggled breathlessly.Â
Superman smiled, leaning in closer, forehead brushing yours. âWhy are you giggling?â he asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.
âIâve had this fantasy before,â you confessed, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. âFor a long time.â
He raised an eyebrow, lips curving. âOh yeah?â
You nodded, heart hammering. âYeah.â
That was all it took. Superman kissed you again, letting you melt against him.Â
His hands roamed under your shirt, pulling you by your lower back to adjust your position, and yours explored the firm planes of his shoulders, the curve of his chest, the solid warmth of his muscled abdomen.
Every gasp, every low moan, every teasing bite of Supermanâs lips sent heat coiling through you. Your fingers grazed his jaw, tangled in his hair, and you could feel the barely restrained strength beneath his touch. He sighed softly into the kiss, lips and tongue moving with urgent tenderness, each motion deliberate.
You pressed your body closer, rocking lightly, feeling his hands anchor you to him. The desk beneath you shifted slightly, your notebook sliding to the floor with the movement, but neither of you cared. You bit gently at Supermanâs bottom lip, eliciting a deep, drawn-out groan from him that sent a shiver straight through your spine.
When Superman finally pulled back, just enough to catch his breath, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling. His hands lingered on your thighs, holding you firmly but with care.Â
You kissed him harder, frantic now, teeth grazing his bottom lip. Your body arched instinctively, searching, needing, until you could feel the solid, unyielding heat of him pressed against you.
The desk beneath you creaked and shifted, pens clattering to the floor. Supermanâs breath hitched, his head falling to the side as you kissed along his pulse, leaving a mark behind his ear.
The sharp smell of ink from the spilt pens, tangled with the faint, clean scent of him, offered you a moment of sudden clarity. The desk. The scattered papers and pens. The silence of the empty newsroom echoed around you.Â
You stilled first, breath ragged, and felt Superman freeze too, lips lingering against your skin before he lifted his head. His chest heaved as he looked at you, a trace of the earlier fire still smouldering in his gaze alongside something gentler. His hands loosened their grip on your thighs, slipping back to rest at your waist instead.
Your pulse thundered, but a shaky laugh escaped you. âWow,â you managed, half-breathless, half-disbelieving.
Superman smiled faintly, brushing his forehead against yours. âYeah,â he agreed softly, like it was all he could say without unravelling again.
You could see it in him. The quick rise and fall of his chest, the way his breath stuttered as if the air between you was too thick. But what you couldnât see was what it felt like from the inside. Clark could get addicted to it; the taste of your lips, the press of your body against him. Heâd kissed youâor, rather, Superman had kissed youâand it had been everything heâd dreamed of for so many years.
But now reality pressed in. The office. The interview. The not-so-small matter of you not knowing that Superman and Clark Kent were the same person. He wanted to tell you, but the words wouldnât come.
Superman swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. âI⊠should apologise,â he said, though the thought of it made his chest ache. âThis isnât exactly what you signed up for when you asked for an interview.â
Your lips curved, and you shook your head. âDonât you dare apologise. This was better than I hoped for.â
Clarkâs heart lurched. Your smile could knock the air from his lungs faster than any blow. He wanted more of it; all of it. So he let as much of the truth slip out as he could.Â
âIâd really like to see you again,â Superman said, voice low, tentative, but sincere. âNot as Superman in an interview. Just the person youâve been talking to tonight. Could I maybe walk you home?â
A grin spread across your face, brighter than anything Clark had ever seen before. âIâd love that,â you agreed, voice warm and sure.
The next morning, you tried to walk into the Daily Planet like it was any other day. Coffee in hand, bag slung over your shoulder, head high. Completely normal. Totally casual. Absolutely not the person who spent the previous evening melting against Supermanâs chest in your office chair.
It mightâve worked if Cat hadnât immediately pounced on you.
âThere you are,â Cat sing-songed, swivelling dramatically in her chair. âOur very own Clark 2.0. Tell me everything. What did he smell like? Donât say soap and sunshine unless you want me to scream.â
You nearly choked on your coffee. âGood morning to you too, Cat.â
âDonât deflect,â she warned, heels clicking against the floor as she crossed the room and leaned against your desk. âThere are already whispers on Twitter that he walked you home and stood outside your building for an extra twenty minutes afterwards. Staring at the windows. Probably your windows. So,â she leaned in conspiratorially, âDid he maintain eye contact the whole time? Did he lean in close? Did he keep reaching out to touch you?â
You blinked. âWhat are you talking about?â
âBody language,â Cat exclaimed with gravitas, as though youâd just admitted to not knowing what gravity was. âItâs what men do when theyâre attracted to you. He did it, didnât he?â
You opened your mouth to deny it, but Superman had done all the things Cat mentioned. Heâd kept eye contact like he couldnât bear to look away, brushed his fingertips across your wrist when you dropped your pen, the way heâd leaned a little too close when he smiled, his gaze lingering on your mouth beforeâoh God.Â
Cat smirked. âThatâs what I thought.â
Before you could dig yourself out, Lois dropped her bag onto her desk with a thud and said, in the most pointedly disinterested voice imaginable, âIf you two are done pretending this is Page Six and not the Planet, maybe we could talk about the actual work part?â
You shot her a look. âYouâre not fooling anyone.â
Her lips twitched. Just the tiniest crack in the façade. âFine. Iâm curious. Did he actually give you anything new for the interview, or was it the usual save-the-day PR stuff?â
Grateful for the lifeline, you fished the printed stack of recorder transcripts out of your bag and handed them to Lois. âSee for yourself. I printed this last night but havenât edited it yet.â
Lois took it, flipping through like she was barely interested. She didnât even skim the first pages; she went straight to the end. And then she snorted loudly.
You frowned. âWhat?â
She turned the transcript around so you could see: a string of gibberish letters, a line of nonsense that could only have been your recorder desperately trying to process the sounds of Superman kissing you like you were the last person on earth.
Lois raised an eyebrow. âSo, when exactly in the interview did it become⊠off the record?â
Cat let out an unholy shriek of laughter, clutching at her chest like Christmas had come early. âOh my God, you didnât!â
You buried your face in your hands. âI hate both of you.â
âLiar,â Lois said smoothly, flipping the transcript back over and skimming with a little smile tugging at her lips. âYou love us. Just maybe not as much as you love Supermanâs lips.â
For the rest of the morning, you did an excellent job pretending to be normal. Coffee in one hand, your transcript and notes stacked in front of you, and a serious expression plastered on your face as you typed furiously at your keyboard.
Just a totally professional reporter who definitely did not make out with Superman on their desk last night.
Clark walked in an hour after you got there, late as usual. Which meant no one looked twice. He shuffled to his desk with that lopsided gait, muttered a sheepish âmorninââ to Perry, and collapsed into his chair like the commute had been uphill both ways. Classic Clark.Â
Except then he bumped his knee under the desk and groaned.
Your hands froze on the keyboard.
Not just any groan. The groan. Specifically, the low, rough sound that had escaped Supermanâs throat last night when youâd bit his lower lip and heâd pressed you back against your desk like he was starving for you.
Your stomach dropped clean through the floor. You told yourself you were imagining it, because otherwiseâwell. Otherwise, youâd have to face the fact that your mild-mannered colleague-slash-office buddy was also the man whoâd kissed you like the world might end if he stopped.
When Clark leaned down to rub his knee, you saw a smudge of red, half-hidden by a curl behind his ear. A bruise, small but absolutely unmistakable. The kind of bruise one might get if, say, someone had gotten carried away kissing their way across his neck last night.
Your breath caught so loudly that Cat looked up from across the room, eyebrows climbing. You flapped a hand vaguely like youâd forgotten to pay your rent and snapped your attention back to your computer. Except, you couldnât type a single word because your brain was busy shrieking nope nope nope nope.
But it wasnât ânope,â exactly, but a horrifically thrilling âyes.â
Clark Kent was Superman. Superman was Clark Kent. Youâd made out with Superman, who was also Clark, and left physical evidence behind.
You stood up so quickly your chair squeaked. Before Clark could blink, you were at his desk, yanking him up by the sleeve of his jacket. âBreak room, now.â
âWhâ?â His glasses slid down his nose as he looked at you, bewildered.
âNo questions,â you hissed, dragging him across the newsroom. Jimmy didnât even glance up. Catâs mouth fell open in delighted scandal. Lois, the traitor, smirked into her coffee mug like sheâd been waiting for this day her whole life.
You didnât stop until youâd shoved Clark into the break room, slammed the door shut, and planted him firmly against it with both hands pressed to his chest.
You stared up at him, chest heaving, eyes flicking from his startled expression to the very obvious hickey by his ear. There was no talking yourself out of this anymore.
âClark,â you breathed, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. âOh my God.â
He blinked down at you, all wide eyes behind crooked glasses. âUh. Morning?â
âDonât you âmorningâ me.â You jabbed a finger at the hickey by his ear. âWhat is that?â
He flinched like youâd accused him of grand larceny, reaching up to cover it with a hand. âOh, uh, mustâveâran into a doorââ
âRan into a door?â you whisper-yelled. âClark, thatâs not a door bruise! Thatâs a hickey!â
Clarkâs ears went pink. His mouth opened, shut, opened again. âMaybe itâs justââ
âDonât even finish that sentence. I know what a hickey looks like, Clark. Especially one that I made!â You clutched your own hair, pacing a two-foot circle. âOh my God, itâs you. Superman kissed me, except Superman is you. Youâre him. Youâreââ You threw your hands in the air, searching for the right word. âClark Kent, but with, like, a cape!â
He winced. âI meant to tell you, I justââ
âYou meant to tell me?!â Your voice cracked, whisper hitting a glass-shattering pitch. âClark, weâve known each other for years. I copy-edit your work when youâre behind on your deadline. You steal my fries every time we order take out, and you owe me twenty dollars from that time you lost a bet and didnât have any cash on you. And you forgot to mention youâre also Superman?â
âI didnât exactly forgetââ
âOh my God.â You dropped your hands from your hair and grabbed the front of his shirt, glaring up at him. âSay it. Out loud. I want to hear you say it.â
Clark swallowed hard, Adamâs apple bobbing. Then, quietly: âIâm Superman.â
Your knees went weak. Sensing this, Clark reached out and grasped your hips carefully, preventing you from sliding straight onto the floor.
âYou kissed me last night,â you whispered. âA lot. There was heavy petting involved, it got kind of obscene towards the endââ
Blushing bright red, Clark cut you off: âI did.â His voice was soft now, steady with a vulnerability youâd never heard before. âLook, I understand if youâre disappointedââ
âDisappointed?!â you whisper-screeched. âClark, are you kidding me?! The guy Iâve been gushing over for years was in front of me the entire time? Heâs one of my closest friends? My celebrity crush just turned out to be the guy who brings me doughnuts on Fridays?!â
Clarkâs brows furrowed. âSo⊠thatâs a yes? Or a no? Iâm sorry, the yelling is kind of confusing me.â
Instead of answering, you surged up on your toes, grabbed him by the collar, and kissed him. The second his hands steadied you, warm and firm at your waist, and he kissed you back with that same starved intensity as last night, you forgot about everything else.
When you finally pulled back, breathless, you both stared at each other for a long, stunned beat.
Then you blurted, âWow. Iâve waxed poetic about your biceps right in front of you for years without knowing it.â
Clarkâs startled laugh rumbled against your chest, and before you could spiral, he bent down and kissed you again.
Your not-so-tiny two-year crush on Clark Kent is an open secret in the office, hopefully one that he still isn't privy to. However, the holidays have a way of bringing feelings to the surface, regardless of whether youâre ready or not.
âž PAIRING: Clark Kent x F!Reader
âž WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, hurt/comfort, fluff, slight miscommunication, holiday party alcohol, eating out against wall, penetration (with condom hurrah!), canonically big d*ck
âžÂ WORD COUNT: 15.8K
âž A/N: how i've missed you clark. one of my fave storylines from the movie but with a much happier, sexier ending. special shoutout to @pinksplace clark's irl gf. if you enjoy this, please like / reblog / comment, i truly appreciate every single one! each one makes my entire day <3
†holiday collection masterlist | main masterlist
The holiday season comes with its joys and woes. There is magic in the air as you walk down the crowded streets, jazzy Christmas tunes crooning in your ears, the delighted giggles of children chasing after each other in the winter wonderland, and the sheer number of tourists gleefully traipsing down the sidewalks with the kind of enthusiasm that you donât see from actual Metropolis residents.Â
While you are swayed by the decor and the uplifting atmosphere, you are also inevitably reminded of the fact that you are incredibly, indubitably, irrevocably single.Â
Itâs not for a lack of trying. Youâve been on the apps, swiping left and right until the system embarrassingly tells you that itâs time to call it a day. Youâve been to singles parties when you have time, meeting more weirdos than not and making a beeline for the exit ten minutes into the event. Youâve even had many of your friends set you up with their friends, but it all ends the same.Â
At some point, perhaps you have to admit that the problem lies with you.Â
âIt is with you. The problem, I mean,â Lois grumbles under her breath.Â
You frown at her, displeased that you have to take accountability for your current predicament. The two of you are trudging side by side, you trying to scooch past aggressive fast-walkers and Lois elbowing anyone who gets in her way.Â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âIt means the reason why you canât seem to be interested in any of these men you are seeing is because you keep comparing everyone to Clark.â
Oh dear. Embarrassed is an understatement for how you feel every time yet another new person outs you for your crush. While Lois is long-time in-the-know, catching wind of it the moment you turned your googly-eyes on him over two years ago, many others have been quick to point out your obsession with the journalist.Â
Itâs getting to the point where youâre convinced the entire office knows.
âThe entire office definitely knows,â Lois deadpans again. Are you saying all these things out loud? âYes, you are. You wear your heart â and clearly your thoughts â on your sleeve, itâs a wonder youâve been able to keep this from Clark for so long.â
Pressing your lips together, you shoulder your way through the rotating doors of The Daily Planet and grunt when it doesnât budge as fast. Lois gives it a good shove on the other side of the glass door so that you can stumble your way through.Â
âItâs not my fault,â you pout, âalso, it canât be the entire office that knows.â
Cue your conversation with Perry as he summons you straight into his office the moment you walk through the doors after a very nice lunch break. You give a little uh-oh to Lois who only shrugs, nudging you in that direction.Â
Perry rotates the Rubikâs Cube on his desk. It seems like he hasnât made much progress since you were last in here. He only toys around with it when he has a critical topic to discuss. You wonder if your benefits run to the end of the year if he fires you right before the holidays; maybe you can finally dub him the real-life Grinch.Â
âYouâre not firing me, are you?â You blurt out. âBecause I donât think I can handle being unemployed over Christmas. I still have to buy gifts for my little cousins, then I also have a couple of nieces and nephews. Gosh, not to mention my mom wants a new toaster oven forââ
âYouâre not getting fired,â Perry interrupts with a resigned huff. He presses his fingertips against the pulsing vein on his forehead and you clamp your lips shut. âI have two questions for you. Well, the first one comes with plenty of follow-ups.â
âShoot.â
Your name rolls off his tongue like a desperate plea. âHow long is it that youâve been working here?â
You do the mental math, counting backwards from this very day, this very minute. âTwo years, five months⊠six days⊠and, I donât know, like three hours? We started my first day pretty late because of the fire alarm, so itâs kind of hard to sayââ
Perryâs hand in the air silences you. Your lips seal closed again. âAnd how long have you been in love with Clark Kent, one of our very own?â
A squeak escapes you as you count the hours again in your head. âUm, two years, five months, six days, and an hour and thirty minutes.â
âThought so,â Perry says with yet another deep sigh. You swear heâs sprouted more white hair since you last saw him yesterday. The rate at which he is aging appears to correlate with the number of conversations he has with you.Â
âDo you think everybody knows?â
âYes.â No hesitation. The answer is quick.
âDo you think Clark knows?â
This one he pauses for, but he still responds, âYes.â
âWell,â you begin again with a sigh. âThis is quite troubling then, isnât it?â Perry only looks at you exasperated. âWhy are we discussing my love life â or lack thereof for that matter?â
âBecause I need you to get a grip on it. Because I need both you and Kent to work on the senatorâs stripper scandal. Draft by tonight. He has most of the research, but I trust you to be more delicate about the situation in the piece.â
You only manage to nod. Working with Clark. Working on a very important, very heavy piece for the Planet. Working until very late. Working just the two of you. You can do this. Sure, itâs not as if you havenât worked with him before. Itâs not as if you want to blurt out how much you love his crooked glasses or his curly hair or his big, beefy chest every time you see him. You just have to remind yourself to shut the hell up whenever that urge arises.Â
âAre you still breathing?â Perry prompts warily.
âBarely,â you wheeze.Â
âWell, you better start figuring that out soon. Better yet, invite that man out for a drink, he looks like he never lets loose. Since heâs the exclusive rep for Superman, he has been working nonstop. While youâre at it, you might as well tell him that you want to marry him and have lots of babies with him.â
Your jaw drops as you admonish Perry with heat crawling up your neck. âThis has got to be an HR violation on so many levels, Iâm going to have a talk with Mel about your nosiness.â
âYeah, then we can talk about that year-end bonus.â
That promptly shuts you up. Another HR violation! You should keep a notebook on everything Perryâs doing against your career at this point.Â
âDonât even think about doing whatever the hell youâre concocting up in that head of yours.âÂ
âHow do you know I want lots of babies?â
âYou donât want a lot of babies. You want a lot of babies with him.âÂ
All this time, have you laid all of your cards out on the table? Open for the world to see. It seems everyone has been reading you like a book today. You feel like a novel stripped bare of its cover, down to the spine.Â
Heâs not wrong per se. Itâs not like you have a particular fondness towards children; heaven knows you have enough nieces and nephews to drain your savings every year. But thinking about Clark and how soft he is and how gentle, how he could be so, so good with children, has you thinking about all sorts of circumstances in which you and he could raise a whole pen of children.Â
But first, you must create the child. In order to create the child, you must perform coitus. To perform coitus, your feelings must be reciprocated. Now, this is where it gets challenging â if you want your feelings reciprocated, you need to at least let him know of your feelings.Â
And thatâs something â after two years, five months, six days, and an hour and thirty-five minutes â you cannot even begin to imagine doing.Â
Luckily, before you can spiral into your bottomless pit of despair, Perry waves you out the door as he returns his attention to the article heâs redlining. âLet Clark know. I want that on my desk by tonight.â
âTonight? I thought you were joking,â you gasp, âthatâs soââ
âTomorrow is the holiday party, which means nobody will be productive in the office. I want that piece out in two days. Ergo, I need the first draft in my inbox by tonight. It doesnât matter what time.â
âCan you like just go to sleep, please?âÂ
Perry gives you another pointed look, reminding you that he is in fact a demon that does not need a wink of sleep. He flicks his fingers towards the door like heâs tired of your presence at this point. You have no other choice but to skulk back to your desk with a deep, deep sigh.Â
Apparently, itâs a deep enough sigh that Clark perks up from his desk and rolls out on his chair towards you. Clark doing this also attracts Lois and Jimmyâs attention. Great, now you have a full party.
While the latter two are only being nosy, wondering what on earth Perry wanted with you, Clark offers a look of genuine concern. The cute puckering of his brows, his ocean blue eyes tinged with a melancholy meant to sympathize with you, and a pout of his lips that makes you want to kiss him silly.Â
He is in his grey suit today, the one thatâs a little oversized even for him. You wonder if itâs a hand-me-down from his dad, because Clark would be the type to have a suit from his dad, even if he is adopted. He pushes his glasses up on his face as he looks at you in earnest.
When he stares at you like that, how are you supposed to not fall in love with him? How is it even possible to resist how adorable he looks when heâs so sweet andâ
âSo what did Perry want?â Loisâ voice drags you straight out of your dreamy haze, her eyes dancing with an obvious sort of mirth that indicates she knows exactly what you had been thinking about.Â
âUhm,â you begin, eyes flicking to Clark, âwe need a draft to Perry on the senate strippers by tonight.â
âIt was multiple strippers?â Jimmy asks.
âNo, it was one senator and two strippers, I think,â Lois corrects, stroking her chin.
âYouâre both wrong, it was a senator at the strip club with two and a half strippers,â Clark piles on. âBut tonight? Really? We have three hours of daylight left.âÂ
You groan, dropping your head onto the desk with a loud thud, almost missing Jimmyâs question of what the hell is half a stripper. Clark had moved fast in your periphery but not fast enough because you feel the sting of that petulant act on your temple. When you pick up your head again, heâs leaning closer now, having risen to his feet in concern.Â
His hands move around awkwardly, like he wants to reach out and check on you, but also refuses to cross any lines that could make you uncomfortable. Itâs endearing and you canât help but smile. You can hear Jimmy and Loisâ disgusted groans behind you, but itâs not the first time youâve ignored them.Â
âââWe should be fine. Weâll be fine,â Clark tries to reassure you, a soft smile on his face as he offers up a look of confidence. âItâll take some time because we need to properly build out the timeline and piece together the interviews, but we should be able to get it done tonight.â He winces, shooting you an apologetic look, âWe may need to stay a bit late to sort it all out, so I hope you donât have any plans tonight?â
Youâre about to respond that your calendar is free and open for the taking when it comes to him, the embarrassing words nearly spilling from your lips when Lois thankfully interrupts you. Though, jury is still out whether you should be grateful when she asks, âNo hot date tonight?â
Her sharp eyes glimmer as she singsongs the question, each syllable laced with humor that only Jimmy seems to understand. She knows exactly what sheâs doing. She knows you have no hot date tonight, nor have you had a hot date in a very long time, because your love life â currently missing, itâs been hiding from you since college â is in shambles. How can you have a hot date when the only hot date you want isnât even aware that he is the only man that you want to hot date?
Your own gaze flicks over to Clark briefly. A look crosses his keen blue eyes, one that slips in and out too quickly for you to catch. âNo, no hot date,â you say almost pitifully. Clarkâs face melts just a little bit; the only reason you see it is because you have a tendency to notice everything when it comes to him. Just like you, he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve.
âAnd you better hope Superman isnât needed tonight,â Lois notes as she pins Clark with a pointed look.
They share words without saying a thing. A conversation happening right before your eyes without a peep. Youâve always been a little jealous of their bond. They started this job before you did, locking in a couple of years of friendship under their belt before you even knew Clark Kent existed. Rumors say that they even gave the romance thing a go for a bit. It makes you envious that Lois has probably seen and experienced parts of Clark that arenât even present anymore, parts you wish you had been there to witness firsthand.
Clark pushes his glasses up again, clearing his throat. âIâm sure there are other heroes who can handle any emergencies that come up.â
This time, itâs you who chimes in. âHe has been quite busy, hasnât he? Which means you have also been chasing him all around town. I donât know how you manage to always catch him. Does Superman have a phone? If he doesnât, maybe a Nokia, something indestructible.â
A snort escapes his lips. âThatâs good advice. Iâll be sure to let him know next time I see him.â
Afterwards, the two of you hunker down at your desks for a while. You work off Clarkâs for a bit as you build the timeline together and frame the storyline before you even begin to chip away at the article. Heâs patient and gentle as you wring your fingers through your hair in frustration every time a piece doesnât immediately fall into place. He coaxes you through the stress, kindly offers up solutions without mansplaining anything. The temptation to drop down to one knee and propose to him is extremely strong today.
By the time the giant clock announces that itâs officially seven, the office is deserted. Nobody here gets paid overtime, which means nobody is sticking around past five this close to the holidays. Itâs only suckers like you and Clark who get roped into writing ground-breaking, media-stopping pieces a week before Christmas. When you look up from your screen, eyes a little blurry from staring too long at the screen, there is not a single soul left aside from you and Clark.
âThis is brutal,â you mutter under your breath. âIâm sorry you got stuck with me on this.â
With a shake of his head, he offers a comforting smile. âDonât be sorry. Plus, Iâm happy that itâs you here with me.â
If you hear that loud thud, thatâs the sound of your heart slipping past your insides to your feet. Now that simply isnât fair. How is it possible that he could say something so sweet so casually? How can he say such sweet nothings with a curl flopping down on his face, his glasses slipping on the bridge of his nose again, and his cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink?
Even worse, then he smiles and his dimples carve themselves into his cheeks and into your aching, bleeding heart on the ground.
âYouâre a sweetheart,â you sigh dreamily.
Clark blushes an even deeper red and turns away to look at his computer, feigning business to avoid looking directly into your eyes. âAre you hungry? Should we grab some food before we continue?â
The two of you end up trekking to a burger joint down the street. A couple of greasy sandwiches, some well-seasoned fries, and the extra dose of caffeine and sugar from your sodas, and youâre both back in business. Youâre a lot more peppy now that you have some food in you as you skip all the way back to the office. Clark trails behind you at a safe distance.
Metropolis a week away from Christmas is an absolute dream. Lights have been woven between the leaves and the branches, twinkling like stars within your reach. Storefronts are made festive with splashes of reds and greens with sprinklings of glitter and gold. Winter kisses your skin as you look up at the skyscrapers sparkling above you; the forlorn office workers stuck at their desks, the homebodies cozied up in bed, and all of those in between joined in the camaraderie of an evening days away from the greatest time of year.
These are the times that make you appreciate the city you live in. Barring the surprisingly frequent alien invasions and the occasional billionaireâs attempt to infiltrate foreign powers, the city is a wonderful place to be. It comes alive with its people, with everyone in high spirits, creating a community grounded in the spreading of holiday cheer.
Clarkâs long legs allow him to catch up to the cloud youâre drifting on. âYou seem much more chipper now,â he murmurs, unexpectedly close enough to your ear.
The proximity catches you off guard, your feet tripping over each other on the very flat sidewalk. Thankfully, Clark is there to save the day when his hand wraps around your bicep, swiftly steadying you. Itâs almost dizzying how easy that was for him. How strong he is. You try to ignore the tingling between your legs at that new bit of information.
When you look up to thank him, you realize how close his face is. He seems to register this too and immediately stumbles backwards a little bit to give you some space. His eyes are blown wide in surprise, showcasing more of those green flecks in his blue irises. With his cheeks reddened â partly from the cold and partly from you, he whispers a quick apology.
âYou saved me, why are you apologizing?â You poke his arm to show him how unserious you really are, despite the fact that your heartbeat has skyrocketed to astronomical levels. Your doctorâs going to want to have a serious conversation with you on your next annual about your blood pressure.
âI didnât mean to make you uncomfortable,â he says sweetly.
Just when you think youâre done falling more in love with him, he manages to prove you wrong. âYou could never make me uncomfortable,â you honestly respond and he seems encouraged by that. âAnd to answer what you were saying earlier about my mood. I was just thinking, what a time to be alive. We may be miserable right now while Perry is probably at home with his family drinking hot cocoa, while weâre chugging root beer to stay alive, but at least we are getting things done. In a city like this, where we want to believe the good in people, we can be the change we want to see. People put a lot of trust in journalism to bring justice to those who need it. So, in spite of our current suffering, weâre at least doing something good. Something worthwhile. These are nights where I question whether this is really what I want to do with the rest of my life, but times like these also remind me why this job is part of the reason why I get out of bed every morning.â
You look up at him again when he doesnât say anything for several beats and you find that heâs already looking at you, except his eyes have thawed into puddles of blue. Like a still lake amidst the chaos. Clark has always been beautiful, thereâs no doubt about it, but something about the look of awe on his face has your heart stuttering against your ribcage.
âYou have a lot of faith in the world, in people,â he says quietly. Itâs a statement that presents itself as a question. Why do you have a lot of faith in the world?
âWe have a lot of cynics around us, itâs nice to have some blissful ignorance around,â you smirk.
âNot ignorance, just⊠hopeful,â Clark corrects. âThe world is in a tough place enough as it is, so itâs nice that you still hold onto some of that positivity.â
âWell, some of us have to,â you grin, nudging him with your shoulder.
The next two hours are spent pulling all the puzzle pieces together, working side by side, elbows bumping when you draw a little too close, sharing shy glances before you keep moving. Once you glue all the parts together, itâs practically a perfect picture ready to be delivered to Perry. The last period you type has you finally slumping back in your chair, sighing at this document and that blasted blinking line.
When you finally hit that send button, it feels like Christmas is officially back on. Youâve been released from the shackles of capitalism and justice â at least for the remainder of the night.
âAlright, I donât want to spend another minute in this place. I think Iâm starting to hear voices and itâs Perryâs, which is not a voice I want to be hearing at ten.â The echo of your bossâ words in your ear has you shuddering.
âItâs quite late. How are you getting home?â Clark frowns at the clock then at you as he slips the strap of his bag over his shoulder.
âIâm not too far. A fifteen-minute walk from here so Iâll just do that. That burger really did a number on me so some fresh air will do me some good.â Groaning, you give your stomach a little apologetic pat. The indigestion is already kicking in; grease is never a good combination with a whole lot of sitting down.
Clarkâs forehead creases and you resist the urge to smooth it down with the pad of your thumb. âThatâs not very safe. I can walk you back.â
That has you shaking your head aggressively. âNo, no. Donât even worry about it. The city is safeââ he raises an eyebrow, ââwell, safer from your day-to-day crime. I canât predict extraterrestrial attacks but statistically speaking, they hit more often in the afternoon, which is the perfect time for us to be sent home for safety by the way. Then you donât have to worry about whether you should be coming back to the office. Whereas morning attacks are the worst! The least they can do is launch an invasion when Iâm still at home, that way I can stay in bed.â
Clark blinks at you and that is when it sinks in how crazy you sound. Humiliation sprawls fast through your entire being, like a disease that swallows you whole. Instead of addressing whatever nonsense you just spewed, you tuck your work bag to your side.
Clearing your throat, you continue, âAnyways, itâs a short walk. I do it all the time, even at night, so Iâll be perfectly fine. Pinky promise.â
He looks far from convinced but he doesnât say a word so you assume he relents. The two of you step out into the brisk outdoors, the wind whipping you straight in the face as you wave at him one last time and begin heading out in your direction.
It becomes apparent that Clark is not letting the matter go when he starts walking alongside you. Not behind you, not even trying to hide in plain sight. No, he is walking right next to you.
You stop on the side of the sidewalk and purse your lips. âClark Kent.â
That was a mistake because then Clark lets your full name roll off his tongue in the same tone, except his voice is deeper, sexier, and he has a ridiculously handsome smile on his face that you just want to smooch.
Your cheeks feel warm despite the cold. âPlease. I promise Iâll be fine. Iâll even message you when Iâm back.â
âYouâre not too far from where I live so weâre headed in the same direction.â
Narrowing your eyes at him, you shake your head. âFirst of all, youâre a horrible liar. Never try to lie again. Better yet, Iâm never telling you my secrets because youâd give them away in an instant. Second of all, how would you know where I live, stalker?â You tease, giving him a firm jab to his chest.
His very firm chest. His very firm chest that doesnât budge a bit even with the force of power you press into it.
You almost squeak out an oh no out loud, because you are in very big trouble with this new piece of evidence logged away into the Clark file in your head.
Clark steps forward, your finger turning into your palm flattening on his chest. Another oh no sits on the tip of your tongue when he smiles softly at you. His hand wraps around yours, the heat engulfing your cool skin.
âLet me do this for you,â he says and his voice is gentle, âitâs the least I could do.â
You hate to be an inconvenience but Clark isnât looking at you like one, isnât treating you like one. Itâs incredibly sweet of him. Itâs an incredibly Clark thing to do.
So you cave. Clark Kent isnât someone you say no to. âOnly if itâs not too much trouble then.â
âI donât think it could ever be troublesome to keep you safe,â he says right back, doe eyes and cheeks flushed. You wonder how he can say such sweet things with a straight face, but you suppose it comes naturally to him. As easy as breathing.
Heâs always the most helpful one around the office. Even when Steve is being a pain in the butt, he still helps him write his articles. Even when the mail room girls are only batting their eyelashes at Jimmy, he still helps them reach the highest shelves. Even when Lois is giving him â pardon your French â shit, he always takes it in stride.
The golden ray of sunshine in this otherwise very gloomy, very dreary office.
As you begin walking again, you try to keep him entertained, chattering away about all the nothing going on in your life. Clark doesnât seem to mind; in fact, he seems intrigued. He asks you detailed questions, laughs at your poor attempts at humor, and validates you before you even ask whether he wants to hear all this.
When a comfortable silence settles in between you, Clark clears his throat, which piques your interest.
âSo, uhm, are you still⊠dating?â He starts, the weight of awkwardness sitting on every word.
Your mouth dries. That was unexpected. Out of all the things you expect him to ask, your dating life certainly isnât top of the list. Youâre not entirely sure how you could even begin to formulate a response. On one hand, itâs worth stating that you are still dating to show some interest in him, hinting at the possibility if that is the direction he wants to take it in. On the other hand, the number of dates you have been on and failed to convert into a relationship is almost too embarrassing to say.
While youâre stuck in your mind on a simple yes or no question, Clark takes this as you being offended, so he quickly retracts. âSorry, I donât mean to pry. I know this is the sort of thing you probably talk about with Lois. You donât have to answer. I donât knowââ
âYes,â you blurt out, âI mean no. Yes, I am still dating. No, youâre not prying.â
âOh.â
âItâs justâ itâs complicated.â
Clark stares at you curiously. âYour relationship status is complicated?â
âNo, no. I am very much single.â Well, put your foot in your mouth, why donât you? What a sorry thing to say in that very moment. Itâs not that youâre embarrassed that youâre single, it just sounds like youâre throwing yourself a little pity party that Clark never signed up to attend. âI mean, I am⊠not seeing anyone seriously at the moment. But I am⊠looking, I suppose. It just hasnât been working out so well.â
âWhy do you say that?â
Because of you. Because every single person I date cannot even begin to compare to you. Because when I go on dates, I sometimes see you in the background, at the same place, like youâre reminding me that Iâm still in love with you, and Iâm wasting my time with all these other people. Because you make me think that I have a chance with you.
âI suppose Iâm a believer in love at first sight. Cheesy, I know. So when that doesnât happen or it doesnât work out, it can be discouraging.â
Clarkâs lips form a circle in surprise. âHave you ever fallen in love at first sight?â
Your lips twitch into a ghost of a smile. âYes, once.â
âHow did that go?â
âI havenât quite worked it out yet,â you respond vaguely, then quickly add, âand right now, I just havenât found anyone else my type.â
Clark looks even more engaged now, pressing closer. âWhatâs your type?â
You, you almost say. âHavenât found my type either,â you smoothly say.
âOh,â he deflates, âwell, I hope you find someone you like soon.â
You want to grab him and scream that you already have found him, and it is him. Instead, you say, âI donât even know how to start with that.â
âWell, maybe you donât have to look too far. Sometimes, what youâre looking for can be right in front of you.â
There is a ringing in your ears and you canât tell if itâs in your mind anymore. His words swirl in your head, words rearranging themselves as if youâre trying to interpret another meaning from the combination of letters. It almost sounds like heâsâ but it canât be, because how could it beâ thereâs no way, right? Right? You must be hearing things.
By the time you reach your tiny townhouse, your brain has fizzled out into ashes. The adrenaline from the day has worn off and this conversation has exerted the last bit of your energy. Clearly, you need to get your body, ears, and head checked if youâre starting to think Clark Kent could even be remotely interested in you.
âWell, this is me,â you say weakly. âI hope your travel back home isnât too far. I really hope I didnât inconvenience you too much.â
âNot an inconvenience, trust me. I liked walking you home,â Clark simply says, a small smile playing on his lips. âWe donât get to chat as much like this in the office. Just the two of us, I mean.â
Drat, thereâs that silly little thing again â hope. So you play it off with a smile. âThatâs because our colleagues are incredibly nosy and Perry would have our butts if he sees us slacking off for too long, probably threaten our year-end bonus,â you sigh with a shake of your head.
âAnd we barely make enough,â Clark huffs a laugh.
âTell me about it. Capitalism wins again,â you smile. âIâll see you tomorrow, Clark. Thanks again for walking me home.â
âThank you for the company. See you tomorrow.â
â
The great, big unfortunate thing about your teensy (read: massive) crush on Clark is that everyone knows. Everyone in the office is aware that you have heart eyes for the journalist across the room from you. It is apparent in the way the two of you always eat lunch together with everyone else. It is obvious in the way you choose to sit on his desk when youâre idling around and making conversation with everyone else.
Keeping that in mind, this crush of yours should be plain as day to the man of the hour himself. It can be debated, of course; perhaps Clark wouldnât be as immodest as to consider that one of his colleagues is absolutely head over heels for him. However, assuming that Clark is aware â as previously stated by your dear old boss â and given the fact that he has not indicated in any way whatsoever that he is interested in pursuing something with you, there can only be one conclusion.
Heâs just not that into you.
And thatâs fine. Your heart can break into millions of shards, but itâs fine. Rejection is a part of life and you just have to suck it up and move on.
If your attraction is not something that Clark plans to reciprocate, you simply have to deal with it. He is free to like whoever he likes, even if itâs not you. He is free to be nice to whoever he wants to be nice to, which is apparently everyone. Youâre not exactly remarkable for getting special treatment for Clark; if everyone gets special treatment, then is it really still special?
But thatâs the thing about hope. Even if you donât feed it, even if you donât nurture it or turn to it, the slightest bit of light is all it takes to keep it going.
Like yesterday, for example. Clarkâs words cling to your sleep-addled brain in the morning as you drift listlessly around your kitchen to prepare your first dose of caffeine. They stick with you even as you do your short journey into the office, passersby ramming into you in your befuddled state and you donât even have it in you to care.
By the time you reach the office, youâve fully convinced yourself that you were concocting the implication of his words. He was just being nice. He has never otherwise shown any interest in you, so why would he now?
The office is teeming with life. Thereâs a giddy buzzing in the air, like bees in a massive field of flowers. Even Lois is smiling â smiling! What a time to be alive. There are staff members beginning to put up decor on the walls, strips of garlands hanging from the ceilings, lights strung in patterns high above. While many newcomers were skeptical about hosting a holiday party where they work, more than a handful of you have seen the masterful craft of the event planners. They are experts in turning this dreary space into a holiday hurrah.
By the time it hits four, Perry is well aware that nobody is working anymore. Everyoneâs already fussing about what to wear, when to get here, whether to pregame (they shouldnât, itâs an open bar). You and Lois have agreed to go back to yours first to get ready, much to her vexation. She isnât interested in dressing up but you convinced her that itâs the one time she gets to actually dress up and have fun. When else in her life would she be able to have a nice, drunk, adult prom?
You tell her the same schtick every year. It works every year. It really is the open bar that does it for her. Also, the opportunity to see her colleagues do the most embarrassing things that she can then bring up year-round until the next party, where she will replace those stories with new material.
You wind your scarf around your neck as Lois leans towards your desk, asking if youâre ready to go. Jimmy is twiddling his thumbs, trying to avoid making direct eye contact with the mailroom girls who keep giggling at him. Clark perks up when he sees the two of you stand.
âAre you leaving already?â
âWeâre going to go get ready at mine,â you grin, âIâm going to put Lois in a dress.â
âYou will not,â she huffs. âI let her think she is so sheâll drop it.â
You harrumph. âBold of you to think you can resist my feminine wiles. I will get you in that dress.â
Clark chuckles softly at the two of you before shifting his gaze to you. âWhat will you be wearing?â
As you open your mouth, Lois wraps her arms around one of your own, which promptly shuts you up. âThat will be a surprise. But I will say that I have seen the dress and I know she will look ravishing.â
The compliment has you looking sheepishly away. âI should be flattered that you have that much faith in me, but honestly, Iâm too embarrassed to even look at you right now.â
âOh, come on, donât be shy. Clark, tell her.â
You see Clark jolt from the corner of your eye, his bright eyes shining in surprise. You can see more of the blue when his eyes open up like that. His lips fumble over the words as he tries to respond. âRight. Yes. Of course. Iâm sure you will. Look ravishing that is.â
Lois is the worst. How are you supposed to act normal when Clark calls you ravishing? Or at least expects you to look it. Now the pressure is on.
âAlright, letâs get going before you pop a blood vessel,â Lois smirks. âWeâll see you both later!â
Thankfully, Lois manages to drag your frozen self out of there. You feel rude for not responding to Clark, but at the same time, how can you even begin to form words with your mouth when your tongue feels like lead inside it? Lois pokes fun at you the entire fifteen-minute walk home, which reminds you that you also last did this walk in this direction with Clark the previous night.
âClark walked you home?â
You wince, âYes. I insisted he didnât have to but he was really thoughtful.â
âYep, thatâs Clark for you. Thoughtful. Completely selfless. Not a single bone in his body is doing things just because he really wants to do it for his own personal gain.â
âWhat are you on about?â
âNothing. Shall we?â
Because Lois absolutely hates your classic Top 40 pop songs, you put that exact playlist on loop on full blast the entire time youâre primping yourself. This is the one time every year you allow yourself to put in a bit more time on yourself. Work is work, and itâs hard to care about your appearance when youâre about to overdose on caffeine, jump over walls, chase down bad guys, all for the sake of a story. You opt for some professionalism but ultimately comfort.
Tonight? Tonight, you choose pain because beauty is pain.
The swipe of your red lipstick, the dusting of your eyeshadow with some glimmer, the sharp strike of your eyeliner, the thickening and curling of your lashes. You even do your hair, which usually sits in a nest all year. When you look at the clock, you realize that youâve perhaps spent a little too much time getting yourself ready.
âShit, Loisââ
âDonât worry, you know most people arrive fashionably late. Steve, less on the fashionable, more on the drunk.â
You groan as you eye your dress on the hanger. âOkay, let me just slip into this and we can get going.â
As youâre struggling to twist your arms at odd angles to figure out how to zip up your dress, Lois swoops in to save the day. Her fingers brush yours off as she drags the metal up until it reaches your lower back.
Itâs a bold dress. One you never thought you would wear but one that had you falling in love the moment you set your eyes on it. So maybe you lied to Clark â youâve fallen in love at first sight twice.
âIf Clark doesnât sweep you off your feet tonight, I can think of a dozen other people ready to do so,â Lois smiles, giving you the surge of confidence you need.
By the time you shove Lois into her own dress and spritz on your favorite perfume, the two of you are sufficiently an hour past the starting time. You hope Perry hasnât done his annual speech yet; he may really fire you if you miss out on it. The taxi pulls up outside The Daily Planet and the two of you slip and squeeze past the throngs of people to get to the front door.
The venue is a wonder the second you step in. The ceilings twinkle with a smattering of lights and silvery strands that shimmer under the lights. A disco ball hangs up high, speckling the dance floor with shifting spotlights. The DJ has the crowd going with upbeat melodies, throwbacks to a better time. The bar is expectedly where most people are concentrated still waiting on their drinks.Â
Your eyes immediately land on Clark who also finds you when you step through the doors. Your heart jumps to your throat at the sight of him. He looks devastatingly handsome with an actually fitted navy suit that brings out the blue in his eyes. Even from this distance, you can see those sapphire irises shine. His broad shoulders stretch out the velvet fabric and his fingers are delicate as he fixes his cuff links.
You thought the black suit last year was bad enough. You actually whimper with this one.
âAlright, before you turn into a pumpkin looking at Clark all night, letâs drop off our coats and go in.â Lois tugs you in the direction of coat check.
When the thick fabric slides off your shoulders, the cool air immediately engulfs your body. You give a little shiver as the air conditioning slides a breeze over your bare shoulders. Lois pulls you back towards the front and Clarkâs eyes land on you again.
Only this time, you can see the smile wipe off his face, his mouth opening, and the heat of his gaze traveling over you.
You look like youâve been poured into this stunning red dress. A ruby number that hugs your curves in all the right places. The sweetheart neckline emphasizes a delicious, yet still work-appropriate, amount of cleavage. While the dress falls all the way to your feet, nearly hiding your matching blood-red stilletos, you can feel the air kissing your spine where the dress is held together by thin strings going criss-cross over your exposed back.
Your heart is hammering against your chest as the two of you slip through the crowd to find Clark and Jimmy. When theyâre in sight, you realize that Clarkâs been staring at the two of you this entire time. His expression of pure shock has not moved; instead, it only deepens when you approach.
However, as you come near them, Cat steps in and wrangles the two of you into a hug. âOh my god, you ladies look amazing. Lois, you in a dress. Stellar as always. You â my god â look at this dress.â She even twirls you around which makes you giggle.
You swear you hear someone inhale sharply behind you and, when you finally go full circle and see Clark again, he looks like heâs been struck by lightning.
As Cat slinks back into the crowd, Lois elbows you gently, smirking.
Clark opens his mouth but, before he can utter a word, Jimmy is clamping his hands around Loisâ arm. âFuck, that girl â Jenny, Jessie â keeps following me around. Lois, come on. We need to escape to the dance floor before she comes back.â
âYouâre going to make me dance to this song of all things?â Lois gapes.
âLook, this is his new song. Heâs doing his best. In terms of modern rock legends Jakeââ Jimmyâs voice blends into the background as he drags Lois off.Â
Leaving you and Clark alone.Â
You laugh softly, gaze following after them. While Lois begins to dance, Jimmy is still throwing fearful looks over his shoulder. âYou know, for a man whoâs been chased down by ladies all his life, heâs still surprisingly inept at dealing with them,â you huff with a shake of your head.
Unfortunately, you donât hear a peep from Clark so you turn back to look at him. His pupils are blown wide, shrinking the blues in his eyes to a thin ring. He only hums when you turn to face him, lifting his eyes to meet yours. âHm, yeah.â
âYou okay? You seem a little out of it.â
âI was just thinking about how Lois is always right.â
You cock an eyebrow. âWhat do you mean?â
âYou do look ravishing.â
Your mouth suddenly feels like sandpaper. Your breath catches in your throat, constricting your lungs, as he appraises you gently; however, the heat in his eyes is anything but. You canât seem to find the words to respond to him. While Clark has always been kind, never has he ever complimented you so blatantly. Ravishing.
âIââ you stop, finding yourself at a loss for words, which is embarrassing for a writer, by the way. âThank you?â
Clark laughs, shoulders shaking as his dimples appear again. It feels like a threat against your life now. âYouâre very welcome.â Then he glances at the bar and at Jimmy and Lois again. âDid you want a drink?â
âUm, I think Iâm good for now.â Youâre already loose-lipped enough as it is, alcohol would not be beneficial when youâre both tongue-tied and rambling at Clark Kent. Who knows what you might say next? I love you, marry me, letâs have babies?
âDance then?â
His hand appears in your line of sight before you can formulate a response. When you tilt your face up at him, he looks at you with hope brimming in his eyes. He doesnât have to ask twice as you slide your hand into his, feeling his fingers wrap around yours. âLetâs.â
Once your initial tension melts away and your heart rate returns to normal, youâre able to enjoy yourself a little bit more in the crowd. Perry does his speech, slurring his words only slightly as he announces how proud he is of this team; gasps ripple around the room because Perry can be proud of us? Perhaps your job is secure as long as your boss gets his fix of wine. Jimmy continues to evade Jenny or Jessie â or both â by swooping in to dance with you and Lois and other people he deems to be safe from his supposed magnetic charm. Lois even begins enjoying herself when she has a few flutes of champagne, and a shot the bartender snuck her.
You and Clark â well, the two of you dance together in the beginning and it was a very nice dance. Clark has some old-school moves that he pulls out, ones that have you giggling. He smiles when he sees that. However, it doesnât take long before youâre getting scooped away by one of your other drunken colleagues. Clark looks panicked at first but you reassure him with a wink.
The hours begin to blur together. Wines and champagne float across the floor, the music gets increasingly louder as the overhead lights are dimmed to bring in the neon flashes across the floor. Youâre only a couple of glasses in, finding yourself sandwiched between Lois, who is now screaming about the patriarchy at Jimmy, and Steve who is talking your ear off about the NFL playoff predictions. You wince when he starts getting a little too excited about his favorite team and spit lands on your lap.
âSteve,â Clarkâs voice cuts through the noise and you look up to find him looking down at Steve with a polite smile. You note the tightness around his eyes. âPerry wants to see you, said something about the front page for the Sunday edition.â
Steve is on his feet in a blink of an eye, launching himself in the big bossâ direction. While heâs distracted, Clark takes that opportunity to extend his hand. With a grateful smile, you take it and let him whisk you away to the dance floor again.
Just in time for a slow song to start.Â
He seems as taken aback as you to hear the song selection. While there are still a few people who rock side to side leisurely, youâre not sure if you are in the stage of friendship with Clark to be platonically dancing to one of the most romantic songs ever written.Â
Surprisingly, Clark scratches his cheek and clears his throat. âWell, if you donât mindâŠâ He once again offers up his hand, and you once again are in no place to deny him.
One of his hands takes yours and the other settles comfortably on your hip. You let yours be swallowed up in his and the other rests on his broad shoulder. The music delicately guides your movements slow and steady across the floor. A soft, invisible force caressing and pushing you close together.
Clark smells of old books, where the pages are worn but well-loved. You catch a hint of spice and pine, a woodsy combination that gives you a sense of peace. You donât realize youâre actively sniffing him until you look up at him to say something and heâs already staring at you in amusement.
Crap. How embarrassing. âYou⊠smell nice.â Real smooth. Youâre a real Michael Jackson.
His laugh is genuine and deep. The corners of his eyes crinkle in such an endearing way that you canât help the way your lips stretch into a wide grin. Then he does something that nearly gives you whiplash. Clark ducks his head. Low. Low enough that his nose grazes the back of your ear, brushing past the loose tendrils of your hair.
You nearly choke with how quickly you gasp. Clark inhales deep, so close that you can feel his lips practically on your collarbones. Your mind spins from the proximity, from the whiff you get of his cologne, from the ghost of his breath on your skin. Itâs dizzying how much this man has an effect on you. A predicament and a cure all at once.
Then he pulls back but the remnants of the spell linger. Your mind is barely conscious when he shoots you with those dimples. âYou do too. That scentâs my favorite on you.â
âIt is?â You squeak.
This time, at least itâs his turn to be appalled by what he just confessed. He blinks rapidly and clears his throat, shifting his glance to the wall. âUhm, yes. I mean, you always smell good. You have different perfumes. But this one â itâs, uhm, very nice.â
âRight, thank you,â is all you manage to choke out.
âSorry, I didnât mean to make you uncomfortable. I realize itâsââ
âNo,â you quickly interject, âno, you didnât. I was just surprised that you noticed.â
âWhy?â
You lick your lips, drawing his eyes to them, as you tilt your head. âWhy am I surprised that you noticed?â He gives a short nod, eyes curious. âI guess, I justâ I donât know. Itâs not something I expected you to pay attention to.â
Clark seems to mull this over for a moment, quiet as he looks away to think. Then his gaze are back on you and itâs melted like molten lava. Warm and gooey. âI think I notice too much when it comes to you. More than you might think.â
Your heart nearly slips past your ribs at his words. You donât want to get your hopes up, but at the same time, how could you possibly hear it in any other way? If this is your delusional mind playing tricks, then maybe youâll give in just this time. One night to let yourself believe that maybe Clark Kent could feel the same way you do. One night to let yourself believe that maybe Clark Kent could be yours.
âDid you want to stay?â Clarkâs voice is barely above a whisper.
Thereâs a glimmer of hope in his eyes, or what you believe it to be, when he asks the question. Your heart skips a beat or two. You mightâve entirely gone into cardiac arrest but youâre still standing on your two feet, so that canât be.
âNo, did you?â
He shakes his head. âCan I walk you home?â
You smile and nod.
âIâll get your coat and we can get going. Iâll let you say goodbye to the others if you want.â
What a gentleman. You practically swoon at his words as you hand over your coat check ticket. He flashes you one last charming smile before disappearing into the crowd.
Youâre bidding your farewells to everyone who all groan and call you a party pooper for leaving so early and missing the after party. Only Lois seems to clock what youâre trying to say and sheâs immediately wiggling her eyebrows at you. âShe has her own after party to attend. Be smart! Be responsible! Be⊠you, basically!â She shouts out, wine sloshing precariously in her glass.
With one final shake of your head, you throw them a smile and head towards the entrance. Clark is still nowhere in sight so you twiddle your thumbs for a little bit in the silence. The music inside is muffled the moment the doors closed, which is a bit of a relief. You didnât realize how exhausted you were until you stepped away, your feet tingling in protest.
Footsteps approaching have you looking up, a smile on your face thinking itâs Clark. It dims quickly when you see that it is in fact not. His name is⊠Danny, you think. Heâs part of Steveâs team, which means you donât interact much because sports isnât typically breaking news. Until someone breaks something.
He greets you warmly, cheeks flushed from the drinks and the heat inside. âYou enjoying yourself?â
Ah, and the small talk begins. This is not a conversation you will particularly enjoy. Itâs stilted, mainly because you donât know him that well. On top of that, he keeps inching closer and closer, oscillating from side to side. You hate the idea of making things awkward so you donât back away and press on a smile that makes your cheeks ache.Â
âHey, listen, I know we donât get to talk much in the office, but you took my breath away tonight. I meanââ his hand waves to gesture the length of you, and you have to resist a wince at the blatant objectification, ââdo you want to go on a date with me sometime?â
Crap. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. This time, you really canât escape your flinch. Itâs one thing to know your colleague is interested and ask you out (example: your crush on Clark and it would be very clear that you would say yes if Clark were to propose a long marriage to you); itâs another to shoot your shot and end up with an airball (you assume he would get this reference). However, this is a sensitive situation because you donât want to make it tricky in the office as well, so you canât just say absolutely not. So instead you sayâ
âActually, Iâve recently decided that Iâm not really interested in dating anyone right now. With work so busy and life being⊠life, I figured itâs safer that way. Thank you though, Iâm really flattered,â you force out the last part with a sympathetic smile. You never know how men will deal with rejection, so you may as well soften the blow.
Also, this guy is another tally on the list of why you donât think your adoration for Clark is that obvious, because why would he ask you out otherwise?
âAh, thatâs a damn shame,â he whistles low. âMissed my slot, huh?â
Yes, thatâs definitely why. Not the fact that you barely remember his name and that youâve been pining over the six-foot-four cute journalist for over two years.
âWell, have a good night.â With that, he wanders back into the party, leaving you once again in the quiet.
âReady?â
You nearly curse when you jump, the voice creeping up behind you. Clark is standing right there, your coat open in his hands. âOh, sorry, I didnât see you there.â
âNo worries, sorry for the wait. There was a line to get the coats. It seems everyone thought about leaving at the same time.â
âThank you for getting my coat,â you say as you slip your arms through and he drapes it over your shoulders. When you turn to face him, a look flickers across his eyes. One too fast for you to catch. âAre you okay?â
He blinks away the impassive look in his eyes and smiles warmly at you. âYes, letâs go.â
The walk home is silent. Quiet in a way thatâs comfortable, a weight that settles in nicely between close friends. Your fingers are entwined in gloves behind your back as you marvel at the city lights at this hour. Thereâs tension woven into the air, like things left unsaid that manifest in incoherent whispers in the wind. Clark appears deep in thought when you look at him, a slight pinch between his brows, a tightness on the corners of his lips.
He doesnât say a word though. His thoughts receded into himself.
When you arrive at your door, you turn to look at him with a nervous smile. Itâs not like youâre expecting anything. Clark is a gentleman, youâre sure, but youâre also hoping that heâs the type to pin you up against the wall and make you forget your own name. Perhaps itâs the weaning effects of the alcohol in your veins, but youâre feeling a little bold when Clark hasnât said anything.
Heâs rocking on the balls of his feet, seeming as antsy as you are. You? Well, you just want to spend a little more time with him. Get him to stay longer â whatever the reason may be.
So you bite the bullet, licking your lips one last time to stop your voice from breaking. âWould you like to come inââ you pause, trying to come up with some reasonable reason as to why he would stay, ââfor wine?â
Clark only looks mildly taken aback. For a moment, his lips part and you can see his tongue press against his teeth on the brink of a yes. Unfortunately, something in his brain seems to click because then he visibly deflates, his eyes flatten and you think that perhaps youâve mistaken his response. Maybe what he meant to say wasâ âNo, I donât actually drink.â
Oh, well, so thatâs not a full no, right? âOh, uhm, I have tea as well. Or soda. Or⊠water,â you grimace at the last one. Why would you offer him that? He has that at home. What a silly thing to bring up.
His throat moves as he swallows, eyes shifting to the ground. âPerhaps not tonight.â
Your heart falls hard and fast, splattering across the ground. That last little bit of hope evaporating into the wind. Stupid, stupid! Now, youâve gone ahead and mucked things up, havenât you? Clark was just being a perfectly nice man who did a perfectly nice thing, and you completely warped it in your mind into a different situation.Â
He was probably only looking for an out from the party and you were a good excuse. The walk home was a bonus for you.Â
Clark â the sweetheart that he is â mustâve seen something on your face because he quickly adds, âIâll see you Monday at work though?â
âRight, work,â you cough and force out a smile. âIâll see you then. Thanks for walking me home.â
For a brief second, something in his eyes makes you think he may change his mind. Or maybe itâs the way his feet stay rooted to the concrete. But then he seems to shake himself out of it and he throws you one last smile before turning on his heel and disappearing into the night.
Happy holidays, huh?
â
Throughout the entirety of your career, you have admittedly never experienced the Sunday scaries. It isnât as if you were particularly excited about going to work, but you werenât exactly worried about going through the motions of generating income either. The Daily Planet has incredible people and youâve made a good number of friends who make the days a little less painful. Stories keep you busy, there is always something to chase.
So Monday should be like any other day. Well, it should have been. If it werenât for the fact that you opened your big mouth and absolutely humiliated yourself in front of the love of your life.
When your eyes open bright and early that very first weekday, fear of all things sits in the pit of your stomach. It festers and grows even as you go through the motions of getting ready for the day. Brushing your teeth, picking out what to wear, packing your bag, and making that walk.
The dread sinks in hard and fast as you go through the rotating doors. Stanley, the security guard, greets you warmly, tells you good morning, and you almost ask him whatâs so good about it. The worries plagued you all weekend and it shows in the shadows under your eyes, no matter how much you tried to conceal it.
Lois takes one look at you and concern takes over her expression. âYouââ she stops herself, âdid you get enough sleep?â
Maybe youâre a little crabby, but you only shoot her a look. It eventually does melt to an apologetic one but for now you can only shake your head. âNot really,â you say as you drop your bag on your desk, pinching the bridge of your nose. âFeel a migraine coming.â
âYou should just take the day off.â
âNo, I have to finish up that fluff piece on holiday decorations.â
âThatâs hardly breaking news. Cat could take over for that.â
With a deep sigh, you once again shake your head. âNo, I think I need work to distract me today. I donât want to be sitting alone at home with my own thoughts.â
Loisâ lips press together into a thin line. âDid something happen? I thought, on Friday, you know withâŠâ
âDonât ask,â you blanch, âI embarrassed myself enough as is. I donât think I can look him in the eye.â
âWhat do youââ
Her words get cut off when Clark strolls in and she promptly clamps her mouth shut. Even if your crush is allegedly very obvious to everyone in the office, Lois still respects your privacy and your need to pretend like it isnât. You appreciate it more now than ever, especially when Clark smiles warmly at Lois and the look on his face falters when he sees you.\
Way to go, pat yourself on the back for ruining what little chance you already had.Â
âMorning,â he murmurs to both of you before going to his desk.
Youâre about to fling yourself out the window.
Luckily, Perry does keep you busy when he stacks another assignment on your desk. Before you can even work on your piece due tonight, he tasks you to help Cat with a piece of breaking news in the entertainment sector. This means you have to turn down Loisâ offer to grab lunch together with Jimmy and Clark as you usually do.
You donât look at Clark when you respond to Lois. âSorry, I should get this done. Iâll just eat lunch at my desk.â
âOkay, Iâll grab you something then?â Lois offers kindly and you nod at her gratefully.
When you do need a mental break from working (in other words, you need to just chat about nothing for a bit), you resist the urge to plop yourself down on Clarkâs desk as you usually do. Instead, you swerve and head straight for Lois. She doesnât seem to mind, but her gaze does dart between you and Clark even as sheâs talking.
You avoid looking at Clark the entire day. If you see that sympathetic expression on his face again, one that pities your unfortunate unrequited crush on him, that may be your last straw before you burst into tears. The last thing you want is to make things unnecessarily tense in the office. Itâs not his fault that he doesnât reciprocate your feelings. Itâs not his fault that you made him uncomfortable by inviting him in for a drink.
You really need to get it together.
At the end of the day, after everyone else has left, itâs surprisingly only you and Clark again in the office. Your mind runs through all the upcoming deadlines and you didnât think he had anything that had him working late today, perhaps heâs beginning his next one proactively.
âAre you working late?â
His voice has you jolting back, chair rolling and banging against the corner of your desk. The impact on your back is immediate and you wince.
âGosh, Iâm so sorry, I didnât mean to scare you,â he drops to his knees, hands flailing in the air like heâs looking for something to help with. His beautiful blue eyes are wide, shaped into concern when your face morphs in pain again. âSorry, sorry. Are you okay?â
âYep,â you laugh, âjust being silly. You didnât do anything wrong, donât worry.â Clark doesnât seem convinced and stares at you again, searching your face. You have to smile reassuringly at him before he even softens just a tad. âIâm fine, promise. And, to answer your question, I have to wrap this up and get it out to Perry so it can go out at midnight.â
âThe holiday decor one?â
Youâre a little surprised he knows, but you nod anyway.
âThe piece with Cat turned out okay? You seem to have a lot on your plate.â
âOh, yeah. Itâs no big deal. Catâs thing needed to go out today, so I didnât mind helping out. Everyone has been super busy.â
Clarkâs lips pinch, jaw clenching. âYes, but Perryâs been giving you a lot of the heavy stuff. He should ease up.â
âClark, Iâm fine. I promise. You know I can tough it out against Perry,â you smirk.
Having a normal conversation like this is nice. Perhaps there is some hope for you yet; not hope for romance because that oneâs buried six feet under now. But at least hope that you can salvage this friendship and your working relationship.
âI can stay, wait for you to wrap up so I can walk you home.â
Your protest is immediate. âNo, no, please. You donât have to. I wonât be much longer and itâs really not that late.â Again, he doesnât look swayed by your words. âI promise I wonât leave too late. If I get scared, Iâll give you or someone else who lives nearby a call. Or Iâll call a cab. Donât worry.â
âCall me,â he says quickly. âIf you need someone to walk you home, call me. Iâll be here.â
Itâs incredibly unfair that, even after he so clearly rejects you, heâs still being so kind. But thatâs just who he is, isnât it? He canât help himself. Always wanting to take care of people. Your heart aches at the thought and you can only give him a grateful smile. âThanks, Clark.â
Clark pauses one last time, checking your face for any sign that you might change your mind. When he doesnât find it, he rises to his feet. âIâll see you tomorrow then?â
âSee you tomorrow, Kent,â you grin, doing your best to convince him.
âHave a good night.â
When his footsteps finally subside and youâre left in the quiet again, you finally let out a long exhale. You lean back in your chair, the joints creaking, and press the balls of your palm against your eyes.Â
Donât cry. Itâs always been a far-fetched crush anyway. Clark is kind to everyone and you took that kindness and twisted it into a hope for something more. You couldnât help yourself from falling for the gentle giant, but itâs not on him to manage your feelings.
So you swallow back the tears and toughen up your heart. After all, you still have work to do.
Once you finish up your final words of the arguments of tinsels versus garlands and click the send button, you release a sigh of relief. What a Monday. Youâre ready to get the heck out of here. You quickly pack up your bag and head towards the exit.
Only, you nearly trip over your feet when you see the lone figure by the door.
âYouâre still here.â The words are out of your mouth before you can think them through.
Clarkâs head jerks up immediately, eyes finding you. A smile slowly stretches across his lips. Itâs been at least thirty minutes since you last spoke to him. âHey. I wanted to make sure you got home okay.â
âYouâve just been standing here? Why didnât you wait inside?â
His mouth twitches. âYou wouldâve spent the entire time trying to get me to go home if I stayed inside.â
You wouldâve. It wouldâve been ridiculous for him to wait for you. Especially sinceâŠ
âDid you wrap up?â
âYeah, itâs in Perryâs hands now.â
âBest place to be.â He smiles, tugging his bag higher on his shoulder. âShall we?â
Similar to the previous night, the walk home is quiet. Side by side. Two separate souls. The walk feels a little lonelier today. The distance is palpable, a chasm you canât seem to ignore. Gone is the easiness that rests between you when your entire body is stiff as a board. The walk feels like it lasts forever and takes no time at all.Â
Reaching your front door alleviates some of the tension in your shoulders. For the first time, youâre actually thankful that youâre home. You donât think you can take much more of interacting with Clark, not when everything still feels so taut between you.Â
âThank you again for walking me,â you murmur. After that spiel inside your head, you canât even bring yourself to look at him fully. Your eyes brush over him, then fly to your door. âIâll see you tomorrow?â
Clark clears his throat, you donât look at him. You canât. You donât think you can handle it. What you have to do is disappear behind your door and wallow in self-pity. Maybe in that tub of double fudge caramel ice cream you picked up over the weekend.Â
âUhm, right. See you tomorrow.â
You throw him one last smile, barely sparing him a glance, and move towards your door and close it behind you.
Crud. What a day. As heartbreaking as this whole ordeal is, youâre grateful that Clark is at least trying to show some semblance of normalcy after your big mishap. Itâs not the outcome you wanted but you can finally put a close to this chapter of your love life.
Now, onto your ice cream. And maybe a few more tears.
Right as youâre shrugging off your coat, the doorbell rings. A frown settles on your face as you float towards it, swinging the door open and surprised to find Clark on your stoop. Before your mouth can even open to say anything, Clark blurts out, âDid I do something wrong?â
You blink, surprised. âIâ what do you mean?â
âYou didnât sit at my desk today. You sat on Loisâ.â Youâre gobsmacked but Clark continues, âAnd we always eat lunch together â granted with everyone else â but you ate alone today.â
âWell, Iâ uhm, I had that piece to finish.â
âAnd youâve barely looked me in the eye today. Itâs justââ he runs his fingers through his curls, looking devastatingly handsome even when heâs flustered. âIâm not sure what I did. If I did something, I want to know so I can fix it. Fix this.â
The words spill from your mouth without much thought. âNo, Clark. Oh gosh no. You didnât do anything wrong. Not at all.â
He steps towards you and you take a step back out of instinct. Aware of your reaction, he winces and takes a step back, putting a safe distance between the two of you. âSorry, sorry. I donât know how to do this. Iâmâ Iâm not used to you being⊠distant from me. I thought we were fine. I thought we were friends.â
Friends. Yes, thatâs what you are. Thatâs exactly why you needed to put a bit of breathing room between the two of you. You donât want to do anything to ruin this friendship. âNo, itâs not you. I promise. I thought you were uncomfortable with me, so Iââ
âUncomfortable?â He interrupts, eyebrows furrowing again.
Your nervously pick at your fingernails as your face contorts into an expression you donât want to name. âI thought the entire office knew. Then after yesterday, I just assumedâ I donât know. I didnât want you to be awkward around me because of what I did.â
âKnow what? What did you even do?â
âWell, I invited you in here and you clearly werenât interested and I thought you knew that Iâve been in love with you for forever,â you finally confess, face feeling like itâs in flames with the embarrassment that carves itself deep into your core. You canât look at him, canât bear to see his face when he realizes that youâre truly messing up this friendship. âThis is so humiliating,â you mutter, âand Iââ
Suddenly, you feel cool hands on your warm face and his lips on you. The cool winter air is nothing compared to the sudden wave of heat that floods your body as Clarkâs mouth devours you. Itâs gentle for a heartbeat before his movements grow frantic, desperate, like he canât get enough of you. He steals the air from your lungs, breathes it into his own.
And it feels so good. Oh so good. So good that your brain has short-circuited, wires fizzling out into disarray. Itâs better than you couldâve ever imagined because Clark tastes a little like espresso, a little mint, and a little something that is just him.
Your back hits the wall and Clark only presses in deeper, swallowing your moans like they have always belonged to him. His hand is on your cheek, the other on your waist. His fingers sink into your flesh to keep you there against him.
It is only when Clark begins to shift his lips, his warm, soft lips, along your jaw and down your neck that youâre able to see clearer, the prints on your wall becoming coherent. That is when your palm lands on his chest to slowly push him back, but at the same time, maintaining a close enough distance that you could easily twist your fingers into his shirt to pull him back towards you.
Clark reluctantly draws away from you, lips swollen, glasses slightly askew. His breathing is a far cry from yours, where your chest rises with stuttered breaths, his is surprisingly even. Youâre not sure how you do it, but you do find your voice eventually. âUhm, what just happened? Whatâs happening?â
His throat moves as he swallows, staring at you with such earnest, sweet eyes. âI thought it was obvious that Iâve been in love with you. Lois gives me crap all the time for it.â
You nearly break your neck with how fast you jerk up to look at him. âYou what?â
âI thought you knew!â
âHow would I know that?â You gasp, âLast night, you didnâtâ I mean, I asked you twice to stay. I thought I messed this â our friendship â up. Thought you were trying to be nice today to let me down gently.â
Clark groans. Itâs a pained one, but you canât help the way the sound shoots straight between your legs. âI overheard you talking to Danny last night, you told him that you recently decided that you donât really want to date anyone right now. So when you asked me to stay, I thought all you wanted wasâŠâ he tapers off, eyes flicking away for a second, âyou know. And I wouldâve obviously still loved to take care of you â and Iâve thought about it in great detail plenty of times â but I donât think I couldâve walked away from that. From you. I canât just do one night.â
You feel so stupid. You thought you were letting Danny off easy, but you hadnât even realized Clark had been listening. Your teeth catch your bottom lip as you huff a tired laugh. âItâs because Iâm not interested in dating anyone but you.â
âSo this is real? Us? This is happening?â Clark brightens, the growing source of light in this otherwise desolate winter evening. âI mean, we can really be together?â
A giggle escapes your lips. âYes, Clark. This means we can be together.â
He closes his eyes, relief crashing over him in waves. When he opens them, his blue eyes have darkened. Pupils dilating as he rakes his eyes over you. âGood, that means I can properly take care of you now.â
âNow?â You squeak.
Clarkâs eyes fall to your mouth, shamelessly taking in the way your lips part in surprise. âOnly if you want to. Iâd love to take you out to dinner or do any other activities. Iâll be sure to do that too, but, if Iâm being honest, Iâve been thinking about this a lot lately and I really want you.â
The man has always been honest. Honey-soaked truths dripping from his lips. But not like this. Never like this.
âI justââ you pause, heat crawling up your neck, âI havenât even gotten ready. Iâm not wearing cute underwearââ
âNo need for cute underwear if Iâm going to take them off you.â
Oh goodness. Well, he doesnât have to say more than that. And he doesnât because then heâs pushing up your pencil skirt to your hips as he drops to his knees before you, leaving you in your sheer black stockings. Clark groans, kissing his way up your inner thigh when he reaches the space between your legs. A rough exhale leaves his lips. âI could smell how wet you are, you know. Every time youâre near me. I never realized this was for me. Now, I get it all to myself.â
âClark,â you whimper pathetically.
âHow attached are you to these stockings?â
You blink through the haze. âNot veryââ
The rip echoes down the hall as Clark uses minimal brute strength to tear through the thin fabric, the stretchy material scrunching up as youâre exposed down there. You always thought Clark was handsome â cute, even â but youâve never seen him like this. Eyes glazed over with wanton need, lips parting with heavy pants, and â your eyes dip to his pants â so, so hard.
âCute,â Clark chuckles low when he spots the teddy bear prints on your panties.
Can this be any more embarrassing? Your instinct is to clamp your legs, hands flying to cover up your childish underwear. You really didnât think you were going to end up with the head of the love of your life between your legs, so your underwear choice really wasnât top of mind this morning.
Clarkâs very large hands pry yours away as he looks up at you. His glasses are slightly crooked, dipping just below his eyes. Instead of his usual awkward self, he looks tantalizing. Inquisitive, hungry eyes peering over at you. âDonât hide from me, honey,â he coos, âyouâre so beautiful. It feels like Iâve been waiting for this my entire life.â
His breath his hot where it kisses your skin. First your thighs then to your clothed pussy. You can feel yourself leaking through the fabric, desire pooling in an embarrassing puddle soaking up the cotton. His lips brush over your core, light and teasing. Your hips jerk up involuntarily and you let out a small whine over how desperate you seem. Clark lets out a delicious moan when he hears it.
âI thought about doing this yesterday. When I saw inside your house, all I wanted to do was press you up against this wall and taste you.â His words stoke a fire inside you. His finger hooks around the gusset of your panties and drags them to the side. Clark leans close, a whisper of warmth against your sensitive, wet skin. âYou always smell so sweet.â
âClark, please,â you whisper as your fingers twist through the silky strands of his midnight hair.
He flattens his tongue against your core, dragging it up painstakingly slow until it presses against your clit. His tongue swirls around the nub, flicking it eagerly until youâre tugging on his head with a gasp. Your head falls back against the wall with a thud, eyes sliding shut as Clark licks and nips you like a starved man. Youâre not entirely sure how he does it but you see stars in the back of your eyes, dancing like theyâre taunting you with how heavenly his mouth feels on you.
When you finally look down at him, heâs looking up at you through fogged up glasses. His eyes are no less sharp as they watch your every move. The way you respond to how he strokes along your pussy lips, how his tongue pushes deep inside you, how his fingers dig into your thigh. Your body falters with the intensity of his gaze and you nearly slip but Clark is faster, holding you up easily against the wall as he continues to devour you.
Every movement feels intentional, like heâs rehearsed this and thought through every single thing that would make you tick. Your mind goes into a frenzy, body hot with how desperately heâs mouthing you. You look down further to find his other hand has drifted down to his cock, palming himself through the fabric of his slacks. His moans against your cunt reverberate straight through you, your toes curling in delight at the evidence of how much heâs enjoying himself.
Youâre getting a little too close when he flicks his tongue inside you again and you have to yank his head back by his hair. The bottom half of his face glistens with your slick and his tongue darts out to lick his lips.
âClark, I canâtâ Iâm going to cum like this.â
âGood,â he says, ready to dive back in when you pull him back again. Another needy sound leaves his lips as he does so and you burrow your fingers deeper into his hair.
âI want you to get off too. I want you to finish with me.â
âI can finish like this, honey. I promise.â
âBut I want you. I want you inside.â
âYouâre going to be the death of me.â He releases an unsteady breath. Without warning, he rises to his feet and picks you up, earning a surprised squeal from your lips as your legs wrap around him in panic. Clark props you up easily against him, your hands landing on his broad shoulders. âWhereâs your bedroom?â
You weakly point in the general direction and Clark carries you all the way there before unceremoniously tossing you onto the bed. He climbs over you in a heartbeat, mouth latching onto your neck to litter pretty blossoms across your skin. He marks you up with constellations, all named after him to show everyone that he belongs to you and you to him.
âSo pretty like this,â he mumbles as he begins to unbutton your blouse, kissing his way down your breasts and down to your stomach. He pays particular attention to the insides of your thighs when he feels you squirm again. âYouâre so sensitive, itâs so cute.â
âDonât tease,â you chide playfully, swatting his shoulder.
âNot teasing, I like it. I like how responsive you are. Love hearing your moans,â he hums as he makes his way back up to you. âDo you know how many times Iâve pictured spreading your legs open in the office? Every time you sit on my desk, all I can think about is getting on my knees and burying my face in between them.â
The visual only adds fuel to the fire already burning bright inside you. You can imagine what it would be like to have Clark eating you out on his desk after everyoneâs gone, his tongue eager and hungry. He would lap you up, so desperate to make you feel good. All he wants is for you to feel good.
âMaybe next time we work late,â you smile teasingly at him.
âIâll do it, you know,â Clark beams right back as he begins to unbutton his shirt. You drag your finger down from his collarbone, south to his chest and to the smattering of hair leading down to his pants. âKeep teasing me like that, keep wearing that tight skirt you love so much, and Iâll do it in front of everyone.â
Your neck flares with warmth. âYou wouldnât.â
âI would,â he says, such resolution in his voice that you know he means it.
âOkay, well, good thing weâre at home then,â you say with a huff, but even he can see how frail your voice is.
âYou like the idea of it,â he correctly guesses.
âIââ The denial sits on the tip of your tongue, but you relent at the last second. âI do.â
Clark licks his lips and leans down to press them against yours. He smiles against you. âI can make it happen.â
âClark,â you flush again.
âFor now, darling girl, Iâm going to focus on making you feel good right here. Iâm going to go slow, okay? Donât want to hurt you.â
Youâre about to tell him that he couldnât hurt you but then you see the bulge in his pants and how itâs straining against the fabric, demanding to be released. You can see the not-so-faint outline that has your mouth watering. One day, youâre going to put your mouth on him. One day, youâre going to be on your knees between his legs. Maybe in the office.
âOkay,â you concede quietly.
âMm, good girl,â he murmurs and those words send blood straight down.
Clark grabs a condom from his wallet and you raise an eyebrow at him. âNever pegged you as the type to carry around condoms.â
âI wasnât,â he pauses, âuntil two years ago.â
âTwo yearsââ the words stop short on your tongue. âYouâve been in love with me for two years?â
âWell, more like two years, five months, ten days, siââ
âSix hours,â you finish. âOh wow.â
Clark smiles softly down at you. âItâs been a while for us, hasnât it?â
âA little too long if you ask me.â
Without missing a beat, Clark kicks off his pants, followed by his boxers. At the same time, youâre stripping off everything except your underwear, which Clark finds himself grinning at. As for you, you canât bring yourself to smile when you see the size of him.
âWhat do you eat to get it that big?â You let slip. Itâs an embarrassing but relevant question.
Clark blinks, looking humored. âYour pussy.â
âClark!â
He chuckles low before rolling the condom on himself, XXL no doubt. Must cost him a fortune to look for specialized latex thatâll fit him. âIâll go easy,â he mumbles, more so to himself.
You can feel him nudge at your entrance, the thick head of his cock pushing into you slowly. The stretch stings, tears prick your eyes at the feeling.
âSorry, sorry,â he mutters, wincing. âIâm sorry.â
âDonât be, itâs okay. Iâm fine,â you try to reassure him.
Clark is definitely doing his best to try and make it easy for you. Even with how wet you are, Clark is still very⊠well-endowed. He swallows thickly when he finally manages to notch his tip into you, the head stretching out your poor little pussy. âDo you have lube? I can use it, make it easier for you.â
âBedside table,â you rasp, gesturing to the nightstand.
Clark pulls out of you slowly again to grab the bottle and drizzle a generous amount on himself. Itâs cute seeing him so laser-focused, so intent on making this as pleasurable for you as possible. Youâve had other men, of course, even in the two years youâve been in love with him. But none of them have ever been as attentive, as careful with you.
You almost wonder what it would be like for that restraint to snap, for him to just take you the way he wants.
âI can take it, Clark. I promise.â
He nods slowly before repositioning himself back between your legs. The slide in is slightly easier this time, his head making it past your tight muscles despite your resistance. He moves slow, deliberate. The veins on his neck protrude as he tries his best to control himself with how youâre squeezing around him.
âYouâre so tight, honey,â Clark musters out, âso tight for me. You feel so good. I canât wait to fill you up all the way.â
âI-Iâm not sure I can take you all the way,â you admit, feeling the burn intensify. Clark pushes himself in gently, in and out an inch at a time, until youâre used to his girth. Each slide in goes deeper and deeper until you feel him hit your womb. âSo deep, Clark,â you groan, âfeels so full. So good.â
âYou can take it. You can take me. I know you can,â Clark encourages as he begins to thrust into you gently. The drag of his cock, thick and hot, inside you is enough to have you squirming underneath him. Not necessarily your bodyâs instinct to get away from the pain, but your pussyâs need for more.
Clarkâs muttering reassuring praises at you, telling you that youâre doing such a good job taking him. How beautiful you look like this underneath him.
âIâve been thinking about you for so long, what you would feel like wrapped around me. My imagination couldnât do this any justice,â he breathes, burying his face in your neck as he plunges into you.
As you get accustomed to his size, Clark begins to move more confidently, more freely. His cock splits you open but you feel that burning pleasure more now than ever. One of his hands is on your headboard, the other on your hips as he presses into you. The bed creaks a complaint underneath him, your headboard rattles against the wall.
Burning need coils tight inside of you, twisting all of that delicious feeling until you canât see anything but him. The world blurs before you as Clark pants every time he rams into you. Heâs buried to the hilt, you didnât think it was possible, but your legs curl around him to pull him in even closer.
âH-honey, donât do that. Iâm going to cum too fast,â he whines. And he sounds so good doing so.
âI want you to feel good,â you sweetly say, arms sliding around his neck to pull him closer. His lips find yours and you lick into his mouth to get a taste of you and him, that intoxicating combination that has you grinding up to meet his pace.
âFeels so good, feels too good,â he croaks, voice fraying at the edges as he continues to drive into you. His cock feels like otherwordly, like something no mortal man should ever have.
You moan and dig your head into your pillow as your entire body bounces with every thrust, even as he tries to keep you steady. Clark looks down to see the way your breasts move as he slides into you.
âTits so pretty,â he mumbles, âso pretty. I canât wait to taste them after this. Just want you to cum once first. One time then Iâll give you more, honey. I promise. Iâll make you feel good all night.â
His name comes out of your lips in another whine. âWe have work tomorrow, c-canât go at this all night.â
âWeâll call in sick, you deserve it. Youâve been working so hard,â he huffs, muscles on his abs rippling as he continues, biceps flexing above you. You wish you had a camera on you, capture every second of this moment. The one youâve been waiting for for far too long.
âIââ you hiccup when Clark shoves in particularly deep, âI didnât know you had it in you to be so naughty.â
âOnly if it keeps you here with me.â
His little praises, his sweet promises, his broken mewls. All of them combined have you climbing and climbing faster. The pleasure that has evaded you for so long finally chasing after you, pace faster than you can avoid.
âC-Clark, Iâm g-gonna cum, please, please,â you plead, nails scraping down his back as you arch your body into him.
Clark moans at the feeling and begins to hammer in faster and deeper. Your bed is loudly protesting how hard heâs going but you arenât, instead begging with your mouth as you reach up to kiss his neck, your tongue laving at his skin.
That seems to be the last straw because then Clark is coming apart before you, splintered gasps falling from his lips as you find your own climax, your pussy pulsing around his length. The air is knocked out of your lungs as you find it, your body convulsing with satisfaction but also a need for more.
His forehead presses against yours, equally warm. âS-sorry. I shouldnât haveâ you shouldâve cum first, I didnât mean toââ
You giggle and lean up to kiss him. âI didnât mind. I like that you were so wrecked that you couldnât even hold it back.â
âStill shouldnât have happened,â he frowns at himself. âLet me make it up to you, yeah? Let me take care of you again.â
âClark, we just finished. Arenât you tired?â
He stares you like you have three heads. âWhy would I be tired?â
You have no answer to that, but you smile up at him anyway.
âNow, I have two years of making up to do. What shall we do next?â
The screen in the bullpen replayed the footage for the fourth time, and you were no closer to pretending you werenât staring at Supermanâs biceps than you had been the first three times.
âThatâs precision work,â Lois said from her desk, eyes narrowing as the feed froze on Superman bracing a slab of highway above his head. âSee the angle? He shifted just enough weight to keep the pressure from collapsing the other side.â
âOr,â you said, leaning forward on your elbows and squinting at the screen, âhe knew exactly what he was doing to my central nervous system.â
Loisâs sigh was audible, Cat gave a delicate snort, and Jimmy didnât even look up from his notes. They were all used to you by now.
The shot resumed, Superman lowering the cracked concrete as if it were cardboard. His cape flicked in the smoke-heavy wind, the kind of unbothered hero shot film directors would kill to get. Your brain unhelpfully whispered, Imagine those arms around your waist. You blinked it away before the thought could fully settle.
âItâs the third collapse in two weeks,â Jimmy muttered, tapping his pencil against his notepad. âFirst the bridge, then the construction site for that new government building, now this highway. Someoneâs orchestrating it. I just have toââ He cut himself off to scrawl another note. The poor guy hadnât slept, probably.
âDo you think he smells like smoke after something like that, or is he more of a,â you tapped your chin, âcologne that costs more than my rent kind of guy?â
Lois pinched the bridge of her nose. From the corner of your eye, you caught Clark. Heâd just taken a sip of coffee, and now he was very determinedly staring at his computer screen. The tips of his ears were pink.
âOh, come on, Clark,â you said, sing-song, swivelling slightly in your chair to face him. âDonât tell me this is weird for you because heâs your bestie.â
His head jerked up, glasses catching the light. âWhat? No, Iââ He stammered, then tried again. âIt doesnât weird me out. And weâre not best friends.â
âUh-huh,â you said, smug. âYou definitely donât look uncomfortable every time I mention his jawline.â
âThatâs notââ Clark rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks now matching his ears. âI just donât think the, uh, newsroom is the place forâŠâ He trailed off, apparently unable to finish the sentence without combusting.
You grinned. Clark made this too easy. âFor what, Clark? For me appreciating a local hero in the way God clearly intended?â
Lois barked a laugh without looking up from her screen. âCareful, Clark. Weâll never hear the end of this.â
âDonât remind me,â Clark muttered, but his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. For a split second, his eyes flicked to yours, warm and amused, before he ducked his head again. You caught the moment and dismissed it, chalking it up to friendly teasing.
Cat finally chimed in, reclining back in her chair. âIf you ask me, the man could use a fan club. Itâd do wonders for his image. Youâre just ahead of the curve.â
âSee?â you said, pointing at her in triumph. âVisionary thinking.â
Clark ducked his head further, but you caught the edge of his grin, hidden half behind his mug. Something about itâshy, crooked, almost like it was meant just for youâdid a strange thing to your stomach. But you brushed it off, too caught up in the replay of Superman on screen.
You leaned back in your chair and let your gaze drift back to the paused screen. Superman, larger than life, standing amidst wreckage. It was ridiculous, really, how one man could manage to look both divine and approachable at the same time. Like heâd save your life and then ask if youâd eaten lunch.
Your heart did its now-familiar lurch, the one youâd been trying to write off as mere professional admiration for months. Totally normal to want to interview Superman. Totally normal to wonder what his laugh sounded like up close. Totally normal to imagine how those lips would feel brushing yourâ
Okay, no, dangerous territory. You shook your head, blinking hard. Because the problem wasnât just his lips. It was how easily your imagination filled in the rest: his hands spanning your hips, your back pressed against some convenient wall, that cape falling heavy around both of you like a curtain. You swallowed, realising your coffee had gone cold in your hand.
Focus. Colleagues. Professional environment. Stop picturing the man of steel doing decidedly un-heroic things to you on top of your desk.
âOkay,â Jimmy said, still scribbling furiously, âif we trace the supply chain for the explosives used in the bridge collapse, we mightââ
âJimmy,â you cut in, âI support your heroic quest, but I do need to ask: how many hours of sleep have you had this week?â
âUhâŠâ He blinked. âEnough?â
âFour,â Lois corrected without looking up.
You chuckled, but your gaze wandered back to Clark. He was pretending to read his notes, but his pen hadnât moved in several minutes. When your eyes caught his, he looked away quickly, but you could swear the flush crept a little further down his neck.
And for one moment, you wondered why Clark Kent of all people looked like he had something to hide. When he shifted in his chair and you saw the way his broad shoulders strained against his shirt, your brain did the traitorous thing again: Superman would look like that under a button-down.
You pressed your lips together, willing the thought away, but it was no use. The images kept tumbling in. Superman loosened his tie after a long day, tugging it down with those big hands. Superman leaning over your desk to point at your notes, the heat of him close enough to make you forget how pens worked.Â
You caught yourself and dug your nails into your palm. Focus. Work. Journalism. Not turning your colleagueâs blush and your favourite heroâs shoulders into one disastrous fantasy cocktail.
Loisâs voice cut through your spiral, brisk and sharp. âI donât care how he does itâI need to call a source and find out where those explosives came from. If someoneâs targeting infrastructure, we need a lead before the next one goes down.â
Jimmy perked up, already rifling through his notes. âIf youâre calling sources, Iâll start pulling records on construction contracts. Somebody has to be benefiting from these collapses.â
Lois shot him a quick nod. Clark just looked down at his desk, hiding behind his glasses like the worldâs most suspicious Boy Scout.Â
You took another long sip of your cold coffee, trying not to think about how your crush on Superman was starting to feel a little less hypothetical than it should.
The train station was always quieter at night. A few tired commuters in suits, a cluster of teenagers sharing earbuds, a woman in scrubs leaning against a pillar with her eyes half-shut. You had your usual spot, halfway down the platform, where the overhead lights didnât flicker so badly.Â
You tugged your coat tighter around you and glanced at the clock. The train was due in two minutes. Just enough time to scroll aimlessly through your phone and pretend you werenât waiting for a metal box to ferry you back to your little apartment.
Then the floor shuddered.
At first, you thought it was just too much caffeine, not enough sleepâuntil the tremor rattled the railings and a hollow boom echoed from below, drawing startled murmurs from the crowd.
Your stomach dropped. The lights overhead flickered. One of the teenagers yelped. A crack zigzagged across the tiled wall behind you, spiderwebbing out with a groan of stone under strain. The entire platform trembled.
Someone shouted. A woman clutched her child. You backed away instinctively, heart hammering so hard you thought you might be sick.
The train headlights tore through the tunnel, but instead of the usual rhythmic glide, it burst forward at a terrifying tilt. Wheels screamed against metal. Sparks shot out in jagged bursts. The whole structure groaned, a sickening chorus of strained steel and cracking concrete.
You didnât have time to process before the world blurred red and blue. Superman shot into view, cape billowing, eyes set on the train. The first car teetered dangerously on its rails, but he braced himself in the centre of the tracks, caught the nose of the train with both hands, and pushed.
The train screamed against the tunnel walls, sparks spitting. Superman slowed it until, impossibly, he lifted the first car clear and set the whole train down on solid ground like a misplaced toy.
And then the platform gave way. The slab beneath your feet buckled with a roar, pitching you off balance as chunks of stone sheared away into the tracks below.
âGo, go, go!â you shouted, snapping into motion before your brain could catch up. You gently pushed the teenager nearest you toward the staircase. âThis way! Keep moving!â
People surged toward the exits, panicked but moving. You caught the eye of the woman with the child and gestured sharply. She nodded, clutching her kid and running. Cracks raced faster along the ceiling. The platform lurched, a violent tilt that knocked you off balance.
The floor started splitting beneath your feet. You were going to die. The thought carved itself into your mind in cold, perfect clarity. You gasped, shutting your eyes and bracing for the fall.
Except, suddenly you werenât falling.Â
Strong arms locked tight around your waist, solid as steel, lifting you as easily as if you were weightless. The air shifted in a rush as you were carried effortlessly through the haze of dust and chaos. Debris rained down behind you, but all you could register was the fact that there was no ground beneath your feet and you werenât dying.
Superman caught you mid-collapse, scooped you up as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His grip was secure, unyielding, like nothing on Earth could pry you from him. You clutched at the fabric at his shoulderâinstinct, panic, maybe something elseâand your fingers found the smooth fabric of his suit.
Superman carried you down in a controlled dive and set you gently on solid ground beside the others. Your knees wobbled, but his grip lingered for a beat, steadying you until you could breathe again. The station you were standing on moments ago had crumbled, but first responders were already on the scene.
All you could focus on was the man in front of you, his eyes sharp and intent, the smell of smoke clinging faintly to him. Your pulse hadnât caught up yet, and neither had your brain. One minute, youâd been waiting for the train like always. The next, you were pressed against the chest of the man youâd been daydreaming about for weeks, only this time he wasnât on a screen.
The station was a mess of coughing commuters and scattered debris, but Supermanâs voice carried through it with calm authority. âIs anyone hurt?â he called, scanning the crowd.
Around you, people coughed and steadied each other, shaken but safe.
Supermanâs shoulders eased. His cape, still settling from the landing, brushed lightly against the ground as he turned back to you. âAre you alright?â
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.
Superman stepped closer, lowering himself slightly so his gaze met yours directly. His eyes were the clearest blue youâd ever seen, bright even through the haze of dust. âYou need to breathe,â he said gently. âDeep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.â
You obeyed. Inhale. Exhale. Your pulse steadied, if only because Superman was watching you so intently, like you were the only person in the station. His voice was low but commanding, the kind of voice that made you want to obey before you even registered the words.
âThatâs it,â he said, encouraging, his mouth curving into a small smile. And just like that, the apocalypse backdrop melted into irrelevance. His smile wasnât dazzling in the flashy, toothpaste-commercial way. It was worse, soft and entirely real.
The sight of it pressed heat down your spine. He smelled faintly of scorched air and something clean, like fresh rain on concrete. Your fingers itched where they hovered near your sides; half a breath away from reaching out, from brushing against the impossible fabric stretched across his chest. God, the suit. The material clung like a second skin, sculpting every inch of broad muscle, and your treacherous brain immediately imagined peeling it back.Â
What would he feel like under your palms? What would his mouth taste like if you tilted forward just a little?
Internally, your brain was sprinting laps. Superman was right there. Superman was holding you steady. He was looking at you like you werenât just another face in the crowd. Your body hummed, a giddy mix of adrenaline and something far less noble.
Externally, you cleared your throat and managed, âIâm fine. Thank you.â Your voice was steadier than you expected.
Superman nodded, but didnât step back. His gaze lingered, checking for any flicker of pain you might be hiding. His proximity made it hard to think straight. Warmth radiated off him in waves, like he carried the sun under his skin. Your heartbeat went wild, thundering in your chest, and you knew he could hear it. Luckily, you could always blame it on what just happened.
When he was finally satisfied, he let out a small breath of relief. Which, of course, made you blurt out the dumbest possible thing.
âIâm a reporter for The Daily Planet?â Smooth. Very casual. Worded like a statement but lilting up at the end like a question.
Superman smiled, raising his brows. âAre you?â
âYes.â You straightened, trying desperately to salvage dignity. âAnd, if you ever had the time, Iâd love to sit down with you for something in-depth. Not about today specifically, but⊠more of a profile. Who you are, not just what you do.â
His smile tilted, amused, and Superman was even more devastating up close. A smile like that should come with a warning label. Your knees hummed with the urge to buckle. His jaw was sharper than it had any right to be, shadowed just enough that you wanted to feel it scrape down your neck.
You scrambled to fill the silence, trying for a playful tone. âUnless you already have some kind of exclusive deal with Clark, in which case I completely understand.â
Superman blinked, then laughed. It was a quiet, genuine sound that made your chest flutter. âNo,â he said, shaking his head, curl shifting faintly at his forehead. âNo exclusive deal with Clark.â
âGood,â you said, aiming for a professional tone. It came out a little too quick, a little too breathless.
Oh my God, he laughed. He has dimples. He has actual dimples. You needed to lie down on the floor immediately. Or kiss him. Or both. Preferably both.Â
âIâd be delighted,â Superman added, and something in the warmth of the word nearly unmoored you.
âGreat,â you exclaimed. âWonderful. You could, uh, come by the Planet whenever it fits your schedule.â
Superman nodded, thoughtful. âHow about a week from today? Next Thursday night?â
Your brain short-circuited. Eventually, you managed a brisk nod, like this was perfectly ordinary business. âNext Thursday night works.â
âGood,â he said, with the kind of certainty that could stop tectonic plates from shifting. Supermanâs gaze held yours a beat longer, steady and knowing, like maybe he could tell what was running through your mind.
Which was unfair. Kryptonian x-ray vision was one thing, but thirst-detection was cruel.
You finally tore your gaze away, blinking as if that would shake the image of his smile branded onto the inside of your eyelids. Around you, the chaos of the station hummed back into awarenessâsirens in the distance, EMTs rushing down the street, civilians muttering shakily about what had just happened.
But Superman didnât move. His presence, his eyes, and his impossible steadiness all lingered, anchoring you in place.Â
For one dizzying moment, you werenât just the reporter who made too many jokes about his biceps in the office bullpen. You were the person he couldnât tear his eyes away from.
The newsroom was buzzing the next morning, every desk alive with the sound of clattering keyboards and the smell of burnt coffee. You slipped through the doors with your bag slung over your shoulder, hair still faintly carrying the scent of smoke from last nightâs disaster.
âHoly shit,â Lois shot up from her chair the second she saw you. Her pen clattered against her desk. âYouâre alive.â
âBarely,â Jimmy added, already halfway across the bullpen. His camera bounced against his chest as he looked you over like youâd been through war. âThe police report had you listed as one of the last witnesses on the platform! Do you have any idea how freaked out we were?â
You blinked as Lois and Jimmy converged on you like an overprotective tag team. âUh⊠sorry?â you offered weakly. âI meant to text but my phone sort of didnât survive the whole crumbling-infrastructure thing.â
âYou think we care about your phone?â Lois demanded, gripping your shoulders. âWe care about you. You couldâve been crushed, you idiot.â
âLove you too, Lois,â you deadpanned, though your chest warmed at the concern.
Jimmy shook his head, relief etched in every line of his face. âSo what actually happened? The article said Superman caught the train, stabilised the structure, butââ
ââbut left out that he pulled me off a collapsing platform at the last second.â You shrugged, casual, like you werenât replaying it every three minutes in your head. âIt was very dramatic. Definitely gave me a couple new grey hairs. Oh, andâŠâ You cleared your throat, trying not to sound too smug. âI mightâve gotten an exclusive Superman interview out of it.â
That got their attention. Both jaws dropped in unison.
âYou what?â Lois demanded.
âHeâs coming by next Thursday night,â you said, as nonchalantly as if you were announcing a dentist appointment. âSo everyone better clear out by then.â
Lois groaned. âOf course you get a Superman exclusive. I nearly got trampled during an alien invasion last month, and all I got was a sprained ankle.â
Jimmy pressed a hand to his heart. âYouâre out here living the dream.â
Before you could respond, Cat breezed by, heels clicking against the tile. She didnât even pause to lower her voice. âWell, well, look who finally gets to meet their celebrity crush in person.â
Heat shot to your face. âThat is notââ You cut yourself off, then laughed, shaking your head. âFine. Maybe a little bit.â
Everyone laughed, the tension lifting, and eventually the newsroom settled back into its usual rhythm.
Clark appeared at your desk with a fresh cup of coffee. He set it down in front of you carefully. âThought you could use this,â he said softly.
You glanced up, and your chest squeezed instantly. Clarkâs tie was a little crooked, his hair rumpled like heâd rushed into work, and those glasses were sliding down his nose. One curl had slipped loose at his temple, dangerously close to endearing. It shouldnât have been a look, but somehow it was devastating.
Your pulse tripped over itself. The cup was warm in your palms, but not half as warm as the flush creeping up your neck. âThanks,â you murmured. âYou didnât have to.â
Clark gave a small smile. âI wanted to. You really scared us when we saw your name on the witness list.â His voice dropped, quiet enough that only you could hear. âIâve⊠seen a lot of situations where Superman had to step in. Itâs not easy, being right there when it happens.â
Your throat tightened. The way he said it, almost protectively, made your chest ache. âYeah,â you admitted. âIt was a lot. I was the last one on the platform. For a second, I really thought that was it for me.â
Clarkâs expression shifted, softening further. His brows drew together in concern, and you had to look away before you got lost in it. âIâm glad youâre still here,â he said, voice low but steady.
Something fluttered low in your stomach. You tried to play it off with humour. âMe too. Iâd hate to miss this coffee.â
His mouth twitched, but his gaze stayed steady on yours, searching. âYouâre really okay? Not just saying that?â
You took a sip of coffee to buy time. âIâm okay,â you said finally, quieter than you meant to. âA little shaken, maybe. Iâm just really grateful Superman was there.â
Clark was standing so close you could see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way the morning light caught in his hair, almost too ink-black to be real. You were noticing things you shouldnâtâlike how broad his shoulders looked even under the modest cut of his suit jacket, or how his fingers brushed lightly against the rim of your desk.
Your pulse wouldnât settle. Every time Clarkâs voice dipped low, something in you seemed to respond instinctively, a shiver at the base of your spine, the kind youâd blame on adrenaline if you were being honest.
âWell, if you ever need a near-death buddy to swap stories withâŠâ You said, aiming for lightness, though your voice was a little thinner than usual.
Clark chuckled, low and soft, and the sound wrapped around you like a blanket. âIâll keep that in mind.â
As he pushed off your desk, he gave your hand a gentle tap with his finger. It was barely a touch, just enough to make you jolt with awareness. Then Clark smiled again, that shy, crooked thing that somehow undid you just as much as Supermanâs blinding perfection.
It turned out that seven days could stretch into eternity if you were waiting for Superman. All week, the newsroom had been merciless.
âBig date Thursday,â Cat crooned whenever she passed your desk.
âItâs an interview,â you corrected, every time.
âUh-huh,â she said, nodding sagely as though she knew exactly how hard you were trying to keep from grinning.
Lois was subtler, though only barely. âYouâve got one shot,â she told you, smirking over the rim of her coffee mug. âDonât blow it by asking about his workout routine.â
âI wasnât going to!â you protested.
âSure,â she said. âBecause the first words out of your mouth when Superman sits across from you are definitely going to be Pulitzer material.â
You were counting down the days. You were rehearsing imaginary questions on your walk home, in the shower, brushing your teeth. You caught yourself doodling little Superman logos in the margins of your notes like you were twelve again, which Lois spotted once and nearly choked on her gum.
But the strangest shift had been Clark.
Since the train incident, youâd had found yourself more at ease with him. He wasnât different, exactly. Still the same polite, slightly awkward Midwestern farm boy. But you felt different around him.Â
It was like something in your body had quietly decided you could lean closer, joke softer, trust deeper. Clark lingered at your desk more, offering to help with sources or swapping stories about Perryâs legendary rants.
By the time the day actually arrived, your nerves were a live wire.
The newsroom emptied out slowly, staff peeling away with warm pats on the shoulder or smothered grins. Cat called, âGood luck, darling,â on her way out.
Lois added, âRemember. Profile, not thirst essay,â like she hadnât already marked up your interview questions in red ink and told you how great they were.
When Perry finally gathered his coat, he paused at your desk. âYouâll do fine, kid,â he said, his gravelly voice gentler than usual. âJust donât let him charm you into forgetting to take notes.â
Then it was just you.
The bullpen seemed unnaturally large once empty. Youâd dressed deliberately in the outfit you felt most confident in, using flattering colours that made you look your best. It was sharp enough to be professional, but fitted enough that you still felt good.
You perched on the edge of your desk, back straight, hands folded over your notebook. For a moment, all you could hear was the thud of your heartbeat in your ears. You reminded yourself that this was work. You were a professional. You had a list of thoughtful questions.
You were absolutely not going to melt into a puddle at the sight of Superman, no matter how gorgeous he was.
A soft rush, like the flap of something vast against the wind. Papers fluttered on the corner of a desk. You turned your head, and there was Superman. He stepped forward from the open window, cape settling around him, posture relaxed.
He was smiling, not the world-saving, photo-op grin youâd seen splashed across front pages, but something smaller, crooked at the corner. A sweet smile, soft-edged, as if heâd just helped a neighbour carry groceries inside.
âHope Iâm not late,â Superman said, voice warm, easy. âGot caught up with a little kid who lost his dog. Turns out he didnât actually have one yet, he just thought I might help him find a dog who needed him.â
A laugh escaped you, nervous and bright. âNo worries. Did you end up finding one for him?â
âFound his parents first, then gave them the address to a nearby shelter.â His grin widened, as if youâd just won him over by expressing your curiosity.
Your heart thumped painfully against your ribs. Up close, Superman was too much to catalogue at once. The sharp line of his jaw dusted, the impossible shade of blue in his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders that made even the high ceiling of the bullpen feel suddenly close.Â
âThank you for coming,â you managed, gesturing to the chair across from your desk. âPlease, have a seat. Do you mind if I record this?â
âNot at all,â Superman replied, his voice as rich and warm as velvet. He moved toward the chair opposite yours.
You clicked your recorder on, notebook open, pen ready. âLetâs start with some broad questions,â you said, clearing your throat. âWhat drives you to keep doing this? Day after day, when it would be easier and safer not to.â
Superman leaned back slightly, considering. You noticed the way his eyes flicked briefly upward, as though he was searching the sky beyond you for answers.
âBecause I can,â he said finally. âBecause I was given abilities most people donât have. And if I can stop someone from suffering, even for a moment, how could I choose not to?â
The way he said it wasnât self-righteous. It was gentle, like he believed it was the easiest truth in the world. You scribbled down details about his tone and cadence, even though you knew youâd never forget it.
âThat sounds⊠lonely,â you mused before you could stop yourself.
A flicker of surprise crossed Supermanâs features, then something quieter. âIt can be. But loneliness isnât an excuse to do nothing.â
You tapped the pen against your notebook. âIf you could teach a stranger one lesson, what would it be?â
âThat strength isnât about what you can do,â he said without hesitation. âItâs about what you choose to do even when things feel impossible.â
âYou sound like a philosopher,â you teased, hoping humour would loosen things up a little.
Superman laughed, low and warm and so thoroughly human. âIâm not sure anyoneâs ready to put me in that category. I just⊠spend a lot of time thinking, I suppose.â
âFlying above the city gives you plenty of time to ponder?â
He gave a half-shrug. âThereâs a lot of silence up there. A lot of space to reflect.â
You nodded, scribbling notes, though your handwriting was starting to slope dangerously toward the edge of the page. Supermanâs voice was steady, but every so often, his gaze lingered on you just a second longer than necessary.
It was silly, but you couldnât help feeling like he was studying you, too.
âDo you ever wish you could do something else?â you asked.
He tilted his head, considering. âNo. But sometimes I wish I could be better at ordinary things. Doing crafts, for instance.â
The idea of Superman trying to knit or crochet made you laugh out loud before you could stop it. His grin widened at the sound, the corners of his mouth tugging higher with pride.
âI can stop a runaway train,â he added wryly, âbut ask me to make anything creative and the best I can give you is a stick-figure drawing.â
âTragic,â you deadpanned, trying to scribble something discreet in your notebook so he wouldnât notice your smile. âThe city may never recover from this revelation.â
You hesitated because the next question felt personal. âDo you ever wish you didnât have to be Superman?â
Silence stretched long enough that you wondered if youâd crossed a line. But then he said, âNo. I wish I could balance it better sometimes. But wishing I wasnât Superman would be wishing I wasnât me.âÂ
You werenât supposed to notice how tense his forearms looked resting on his knees. Or the faint, distracting warmth of him leaning slightly forward. You nodded, throat tight. Yeah, totally calm.
âYouâre good at this,â Superman said suddenly, a glint of humour sparking in his eyes.
âAt my job?â
He shook his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. âAt making someone feel like they can be honest.â
Your stomach flipped. You tried to smile, keep it light. âIâll take that as a professional compliment.â
âOf course,â Superman said, and his gaze lingered just enough to make your heart speed, a quiet heat settling low in your chest.
You tapped your pen against the notebook again, grinning like a fool. âAlright,â you said, leaning back slightly. âTime for rapid-fire. Quick answers, gut instinct, no overthinking. Deal?â
Supermanâs brow quirked, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. âDeal,â he said, and the word carried a weight that made your chest skip anyway.
âFavourite pizza topping?â
âPepperoni,â he said instantly.
âDesert island snack?â
âApples.â
You laughed. âReally?â
âTheyâre versatile,â Superman said, chuckling lightly. âAnd nutritious. Hard to get sick of.â
âAlright. What does Superman do on his day off?â
âI watch baseball, read if I can, maybe just walk the city. Sometimes old movies,â Superman grinned, âthe really sappy ones.â
You smiled back. âWhatâs a movie that always makes you cry?â
âAnything with Gene Kelly,â he confessed.Â
You nodded, trying not to laugh at how sweet the mental image was. âWhatâs your guilty pleasure?â
Superman hesitated just a fraction, and you caught it. That brief flicker of vulnerability made your chest squeeze. âI⊠bake pies. Really obsessively, sometimes.â
You blinked, pen hovering mid-air. He smiled faintly, but there was a softness to it, the kind that made you want to lean closer, to hear more.
âMy motherâs pies are the greatest thing in the world. Truly, I was getting spoiled every day growing up. I miss them a lot.â Superman reached out just slightly, brushing an eyelash from your cheek with the pad of his thumb without thinking. Your pulse jumped. âSo when I moved out, I had to learn to make them myself.â
His eyes flicked to yours, warm and unguarded. The eye contact was unwavering, intense, and you felt a jolt each time your eyes met.Â
âThatâs kind of amazing,â you said, smiling widely. âI never pictured Superman in an apron.â
He chuckled, low and easy. âNeither did I, initially. But itâs comforting. Makes me feel connected to her and my hometown.â Superman shifted slightly, brushing his knee against yours casually, as if unaware, but you werenât about to move.
âI like baking too,â you admitted. âBut Iâve never made a pie. I usually stick to chocolate cake. I make a mean dark chocolate ganache.â
His eyes lit up. âThat sounds perfect,â Superman said quietly. The way his gaze held yours, steady but gentle, made your stomach flutter. He shifted again, almost mirroring you, hands resting just a fraction closer on the chair arms, shoulders angled toward yours.
The conversation slipped easily, naturally, like a door had opened that neither of you realised existed. âSo, pies,â you prompted, leaning forward. âWhatâs your favourite? Apple? Cherry? Something more adventurous?â
âApple. Classic, reminds me of my apple trees back home,â Superman declared happily. âBut I experiment sometimes, even when itâs beyond my skill set. I love pecan pie in the fall. The kitchen gets messy.â His laughter was soft, but the movement behind it made you acutely aware of the curve of his shoulders, the gentle tension in his forearms.
You bit your lip, imagining him in his kitchen. Rolling dough, flour dusting his hair, his sleeves rolled up. Your thoughts skidded forward unbidden, picturing other domestic scenarios that were far less innocent. You shook your head, trying to focus.
âI like things a little messy,â you teased.
Both of your eyes widened at your unintentional innuendo.
Superman blushed. He actually blushed. âThatâs good to know,â he said, and without thinking, his hand brushed your forearm. âDo you bake other things too?â
âOccasionally. Strawberry shortcake, sometimes brownies. But never pies, anything beyond cookie dough is too intimidating.â You laughed lightly.
He smiled, and it reached his eyes, softening them. âMaybe I could teach you. Not just the pie, but⊠how to enjoy the process. Even the mess.â
You felt your pulse jump. The casual offerâthe closeness, and the easy intimacy of itâwas impossible to ignore. âIâd really like that,â you admitted.
Supermanâs eyes lingered, and you caught a subtle tilt of his head, the barest exhale that brushed the air between you. You found yourself leaning slightly closer, almost imperceptibly, drawn by the warmth and steady intensity of his gaze. It made you wonder, suddenly, what he was like when he wasnât saving the world.Â
âDo you get homesick a lot?â you asked instead of acknowledging the growing tension between you, recalling how he mentioned his hometown earlier.
âYes. Every day,â he said quietly, voice carrying a hint of wistfulness. âMy parents kept me grounded. Theyâre amazing; taught me right from wrong, made me⊠human, I guess. And where I grew up is a huge part of that. Having a community like that made me realise how important it is to nurture relationships.âÂ
Superman reached out, lightly resting a hand near yours on the notebook edge, then pulled back almost immediately, as if startled by his own actions.
âI get that,â you murmured. âI mean, no matter how long you live in the city, nothing ever quite compares to that feeling of being home. Itâs not just a comfort, itâs a familiarity that you canât ever replace.â
For a few minutes, you just talked about childhood memories and the comfort of home. Your forearms brushed as you both leaned forward in sync; he adjusted slightly, shoulders angling toward you, while your eyes held his without wavering.
Each accidental touch was electric. Supermanâs gaze lingered just a fraction too long on your mouth, your eyes, your fingers as they flipped pages of your notebook.Â
By the time you looked up, the Daily Planet interview had completely dissolved. Notes were scribbled, pens tapped idly, and all that remained was the quiet intimacy of shared confessions, laughter, and mutual understanding. Both of you had unconsciously leaned closer, shoulders nearly touching, hands lingering a heartbeat too long near each other.
You lowered your pen, letting your hands rest on the notebook. The words you had written about pies and home felt personal in a way that made your chest tight.
âI donât have to print all that, about the pie and your parents and hometown,â you said, keeping your voice steady, despite the cartwheels inside your stomach.
Supermanâs blue eyes softened, unwavering. âYou should leave it in,â he said quietly, leaning slightly toward you, shoulders angled in a subtle invitation. âAs long as youâre not too specific. I donât want anyone figuring out who or where my family is.â
You nodded, pulse jumping. You felt a faint itch in your fingers, a desire to reach for Superman, to touch the solid strength of him even once.
âYou know,â he added, lips just curving, ânot a lot of reporters would offer to do that. Most would just run the story.â
You tilted your head, feeling heat coil low in your ribs. âI like to think that what we just did was not just a reporter talking to Superman,â you said, your voice catching a little. âIt was two people talking. And itâs not fun for me if I share anything too personal with the rest of the world.â
He blinked, then smiled widely, dimples on display. âI think youâre right,â Superman agreed. You felt the faint brush of his fingers against yours, and the contact made something swoop in your belly.
âI promise Iâll be careful with it,â you said, leaning forward slightly. âNot just your words, but your intentions.â
âI know you will,â he murmured, voice calm and warm. His eyes never left yours.Â
You let your gaze drift to his mouth for a moment too long. The curve of his lips was soft and compelling. Your fingers itched to brush against his jaw, to feel the strong shape beneath your touch.Â
âIâŠâ you said, and then the words faltered. Your chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts, the air warm in your lungs and tight in your ribs.
âYou what?â Superman asked patiently.
âI donât think Iâve ever connected like this with anyone before,â you admitted, exhaling shakily.Â
Youâd spent years admiring Superman from afar, and now, inches apart, this connection felt immediate and tangible. You were suddenly aware of every detail in his body. The breadth of his shoulders, the soft line of his collarbone, the slope of his nose, and the faint exhale he didnât realise he was holding.
For a few seconds, you just sat watching each other. Supermanâs hand moved imperceptibly closer to yours, and you could feel the heat of his breath against your cheek. Neither of you moved away. Every glance, every tilt of the head, every subtle shift of a shoulder felt like a conversation on its own.
Superman shifted slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. âJust double-checking that Iâm supposed to ask if something can be off the record before I say it?â he asked, eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your chest thrum.
You swallowed, breath catching. âThatâs right,â you said, voice breathless.
He tilted his head, gaze flicking down at your lips and back to your eyes, the movement smooth and deliberate. âGood,â he murmured. âBecause Iâd really like to kiss you. Preferably off the record.â
Your chest jumped, and a laugh burst from you before you could stop it. âI think itâs better that way,â you agreed.
That was all he needed. Slowly, deliberately, Superman closed the distance. Your breath hitched as his hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and your arms came up around his shoulders almost instinctively. You felt the warmth of him, the broad strength in his chest, and the way he moved with careful precision, as if making sure nothing about you felt unsafe.
Your lips met his, soft and tentative at first, a sweet, careful press. Your pulse was frantic, every nerve firing. He leaned into you a fraction, and the small sigh you let slip mirrored the quickening of his own breath.
Then the kiss deepened, becoming hungry, insistent. Your hands threaded through Supermanâs hair, tangling in the soft curls, and you felt the press of his body against yours. His lips parted yours, tongue teasing, and your knees nearly buckled at the sensation. You gasped, and he hummed into the kiss, a low vibration that made your stomach tighten and your chest ache in a delicious, unbearable way.
He pulled back just slightly, lips brushing yours, eyes searching yours. âI want to be careful,â Superman murmured against your mouth. âDonât want to hurt you.â
Then he gently lifted you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and your hands fisted lightly in his cape as he set you on your desk. The movement was careful, precise, but you felt the thrill of it, your heart racing in your ears.
You giggled breathlessly.Â
Superman smiled, leaning in closer, forehead brushing yours. âWhy are you giggling?â he asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.
âIâve had this fantasy before,â you confessed, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. âFor a long time.â
He raised an eyebrow, lips curving. âOh yeah?â
You nodded, heart hammering. âYeah.â
That was all it took. Superman kissed you again, letting you melt against him.Â
His hands roamed under your shirt, pulling you by your lower back to adjust your position, and yours explored the firm planes of his shoulders, the curve of his chest, the solid warmth of his muscled abdomen.
Every gasp, every low moan, every teasing bite of Supermanâs lips sent heat coiling through you. Your fingers grazed his jaw, tangled in his hair, and you could feel the barely restrained strength beneath his touch. He sighed softly into the kiss, lips and tongue moving with urgent tenderness, each motion deliberate.
You pressed your body closer, rocking lightly, feeling his hands anchor you to him. The desk beneath you shifted slightly, your notebook sliding to the floor with the movement, but neither of you cared. You bit gently at Supermanâs bottom lip, eliciting a deep, drawn-out groan from him that sent a shiver straight through your spine.
When Superman finally pulled back, just enough to catch his breath, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling. His hands lingered on your thighs, holding you firmly but with care.Â
You kissed him harder, frantic now, teeth grazing his bottom lip. Your body arched instinctively, searching, needing, until you could feel the solid, unyielding heat of him pressed against you.
The desk beneath you creaked and shifted, pens clattering to the floor. Supermanâs breath hitched, his head falling to the side as you kissed along his pulse, leaving a mark behind his ear.
The sharp smell of ink from the spilt pens, tangled with the faint, clean scent of him, offered you a moment of sudden clarity. The desk. The scattered papers and pens. The silence of the empty newsroom echoed around you.Â
You stilled first, breath ragged, and felt Superman freeze too, lips lingering against your skin before he lifted his head. His chest heaved as he looked at you, a trace of the earlier fire still smouldering in his gaze alongside something gentler. His hands loosened their grip on your thighs, slipping back to rest at your waist instead.
Your pulse thundered, but a shaky laugh escaped you. âWow,â you managed, half-breathless, half-disbelieving.
Superman smiled faintly, brushing his forehead against yours. âYeah,â he agreed softly, like it was all he could say without unravelling again.
You could see it in him. The quick rise and fall of his chest, the way his breath stuttered as if the air between you was too thick. But what you couldnât see was what it felt like from the inside. Clark could get addicted to it; the taste of your lips, the press of your body against him. Heâd kissed youâor, rather, Superman had kissed youâand it had been everything heâd dreamed of for so many years.
But now reality pressed in. The office. The interview. The not-so-small matter of you not knowing that Superman and Clark Kent were the same person. He wanted to tell you, but the words wouldnât come.
Superman swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. âI⊠should apologise,â he said, though the thought of it made his chest ache. âThis isnât exactly what you signed up for when you asked for an interview.â
Your lips curved, and you shook your head. âDonât you dare apologise. This was better than I hoped for.â
Clarkâs heart lurched. Your smile could knock the air from his lungs faster than any blow. He wanted more of it; all of it. So he let as much of the truth slip out as he could.Â
âIâd really like to see you again,â Superman said, voice low, tentative, but sincere. âNot as Superman in an interview. Just the person youâve been talking to tonight. Could I maybe walk you home?â
A grin spread across your face, brighter than anything Clark had ever seen before. âIâd love that,â you agreed, voice warm and sure.
The next morning, you tried to walk into the Daily Planet like it was any other day. Coffee in hand, bag slung over your shoulder, head high. Completely normal. Totally casual. Absolutely not the person who spent the previous evening melting against Supermanâs chest in your office chair.
It mightâve worked if Cat hadnât immediately pounced on you.
âThere you are,â Cat sing-songed, swivelling dramatically in her chair. âOur very own Clark 2.0. Tell me everything. What did he smell like? Donât say soap and sunshine unless you want me to scream.â
You nearly choked on your coffee. âGood morning to you too, Cat.â
âDonât deflect,â she warned, heels clicking against the floor as she crossed the room and leaned against your desk. âThere are already whispers on Twitter that he walked you home and stood outside your building for an extra twenty minutes afterwards. Staring at the windows. Probably your windows. So,â she leaned in conspiratorially, âDid he maintain eye contact the whole time? Did he lean in close? Did he keep reaching out to touch you?â
You blinked. âWhat are you talking about?â
âBody language,â Cat exclaimed with gravitas, as though youâd just admitted to not knowing what gravity was. âItâs what men do when theyâre attracted to you. He did it, didnât he?â
You opened your mouth to deny it, but Superman had done all the things Cat mentioned. Heâd kept eye contact like he couldnât bear to look away, brushed his fingertips across your wrist when you dropped your pen, the way heâd leaned a little too close when he smiled, his gaze lingering on your mouth beforeâoh God.Â
Cat smirked. âThatâs what I thought.â
Before you could dig yourself out, Lois dropped her bag onto her desk with a thud and said, in the most pointedly disinterested voice imaginable, âIf you two are done pretending this is Page Six and not the Planet, maybe we could talk about the actual work part?â
You shot her a look. âYouâre not fooling anyone.â
Her lips twitched. Just the tiniest crack in the façade. âFine. Iâm curious. Did he actually give you anything new for the interview, or was it the usual save-the-day PR stuff?â
Grateful for the lifeline, you fished the printed stack of recorder transcripts out of your bag and handed them to Lois. âSee for yourself. I printed this last night but havenât edited it yet.â
Lois took it, flipping through like she was barely interested. She didnât even skim the first pages; she went straight to the end. And then she snorted loudly.
You frowned. âWhat?â
She turned the transcript around so you could see: a string of gibberish letters, a line of nonsense that could only have been your recorder desperately trying to process the sounds of Superman kissing you like you were the last person on earth.
Lois raised an eyebrow. âSo, when exactly in the interview did it become⊠off the record?â
Cat let out an unholy shriek of laughter, clutching at her chest like Christmas had come early. âOh my God, you didnât!â
You buried your face in your hands. âI hate both of you.â
âLiar,â Lois said smoothly, flipping the transcript back over and skimming with a little smile tugging at her lips. âYou love us. Just maybe not as much as you love Supermanâs lips.â
For the rest of the morning, you did an excellent job pretending to be normal. Coffee in one hand, your transcript and notes stacked in front of you, and a serious expression plastered on your face as you typed furiously at your keyboard.
Just a totally professional reporter who definitely did not make out with Superman on their desk last night.
Clark walked in an hour after you got there, late as usual. Which meant no one looked twice. He shuffled to his desk with that lopsided gait, muttered a sheepish âmorninââ to Perry, and collapsed into his chair like the commute had been uphill both ways. Classic Clark.Â
Except then he bumped his knee under the desk and groaned.
Your hands froze on the keyboard.
Not just any groan. The groan. Specifically, the low, rough sound that had escaped Supermanâs throat last night when youâd bit his lower lip and heâd pressed you back against your desk like he was starving for you.
Your stomach dropped clean through the floor. You told yourself you were imagining it, because otherwiseâwell. Otherwise, youâd have to face the fact that your mild-mannered colleague-slash-office buddy was also the man whoâd kissed you like the world might end if he stopped.
When Clark leaned down to rub his knee, you saw a smudge of red, half-hidden by a curl behind his ear. A bruise, small but absolutely unmistakable. The kind of bruise one might get if, say, someone had gotten carried away kissing their way across his neck last night.
Your breath caught so loudly that Cat looked up from across the room, eyebrows climbing. You flapped a hand vaguely like youâd forgotten to pay your rent and snapped your attention back to your computer. Except, you couldnât type a single word because your brain was busy shrieking nope nope nope nope.
But it wasnât ânope,â exactly, but a horrifically thrilling âyes.â
Clark Kent was Superman. Superman was Clark Kent. Youâd made out with Superman, who was also Clark, and left physical evidence behind.
You stood up so quickly your chair squeaked. Before Clark could blink, you were at his desk, yanking him up by the sleeve of his jacket. âBreak room, now.â
âWhâ?â His glasses slid down his nose as he looked at you, bewildered.
âNo questions,â you hissed, dragging him across the newsroom. Jimmy didnât even glance up. Catâs mouth fell open in delighted scandal. Lois, the traitor, smirked into her coffee mug like sheâd been waiting for this day her whole life.
You didnât stop until youâd shoved Clark into the break room, slammed the door shut, and planted him firmly against it with both hands pressed to his chest.
You stared up at him, chest heaving, eyes flicking from his startled expression to the very obvious hickey by his ear. There was no talking yourself out of this anymore.
âClark,â you breathed, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. âOh my God.â
He blinked down at you, all wide eyes behind crooked glasses. âUh. Morning?â
âDonât you âmorningâ me.â You jabbed a finger at the hickey by his ear. âWhat is that?â
He flinched like youâd accused him of grand larceny, reaching up to cover it with a hand. âOh, uh, mustâveâran into a doorââ
âRan into a door?â you whisper-yelled. âClark, thatâs not a door bruise! Thatâs a hickey!â
Clarkâs ears went pink. His mouth opened, shut, opened again. âMaybe itâs justââ
âDonât even finish that sentence. I know what a hickey looks like, Clark. Especially one that I made!â You clutched your own hair, pacing a two-foot circle. âOh my God, itâs you. Superman kissed me, except Superman is you. Youâre him. Youâreââ You threw your hands in the air, searching for the right word. âClark Kent, but with, like, a cape!â
He winced. âI meant to tell you, I justââ
âYou meant to tell me?!â Your voice cracked, whisper hitting a glass-shattering pitch. âClark, weâve known each other for years. I copy-edit your work when youâre behind on your deadline. You steal my fries every time we order take out, and you owe me twenty dollars from that time you lost a bet and didnât have any cash on you. And you forgot to mention youâre also Superman?â
âI didnât exactly forgetââ
âOh my God.â You dropped your hands from your hair and grabbed the front of his shirt, glaring up at him. âSay it. Out loud. I want to hear you say it.â
Clark swallowed hard, Adamâs apple bobbing. Then, quietly: âIâm Superman.â
Your knees went weak. Sensing this, Clark reached out and grasped your hips carefully, preventing you from sliding straight onto the floor.
âYou kissed me last night,â you whispered. âA lot. There was heavy petting involved, it got kind of obscene towards the endââ
Blushing bright red, Clark cut you off: âI did.â His voice was soft now, steady with a vulnerability youâd never heard before. âLook, I understand if youâre disappointedââ
âDisappointed?!â you whisper-screeched. âClark, are you kidding me?! The guy Iâve been gushing over for years was in front of me the entire time? Heâs one of my closest friends? My celebrity crush just turned out to be the guy who brings me doughnuts on Fridays?!â
Clarkâs brows furrowed. âSo⊠thatâs a yes? Or a no? Iâm sorry, the yelling is kind of confusing me.â
Instead of answering, you surged up on your toes, grabbed him by the collar, and kissed him. The second his hands steadied you, warm and firm at your waist, and he kissed you back with that same starved intensity as last night, you forgot about everything else.
When you finally pulled back, breathless, you both stared at each other for a long, stunned beat.
Then you blurted, âWow. Iâve waxed poetic about your biceps right in front of you for years without knowing it.â
Clarkâs startled laugh rumbled against your chest, and before you could spiral, he bent down and kissed you again.
Summary: Getting stuck with Steve in the van on crawl nights fucking sucks. Getting stranded in a snowstorm, forced to cuddle up next to the one person you cannot stand, all to share warmth and hopefully survive the night? Youâre almost certain youâd rather freeze to death. Almost.
WC: 18k+
Includes: bitchy idiots to lovers. one bed & forced proximity tropes. hurt/comfort. angst w/ some fluff to balance it out. language. steveâs trauma. readerâs trust issues. smut- heavy petting, humping, oral (f receiving), PiV sex, dirty talk. reader has no descriptions beyond breasts & vagina, and she/her pronouns. fic takes place in the winter, pre s5. prob some inaccuracies re: treating hypothermia; everything I researched was conflicting with other info, so for the sake of the fic, pretend any errors work lmao. lmk if I forgot any tags. // MDNI 18+ as always with my fics, please respect that.
A/N: Said I wasnât gonna even try to write a van fic, the fandom has enough, and then this idea slapped itself permanently into my brain after vol. 1, and unfortunately took me months to finish. So... sorry if youâre sick of the van fics, but hereâs one more đ title is a lyric from hard - hayley williams, and the fic is loosely (very loosely lol) inspired by the song itself. dividers by @/cursed-carmine
ââȘ always ready for the piano to fall / always ready to be left out in the cold / armorâs heavy, never suited me at all / but itâs the devil I know âŹ
This has to be the worst night for a crawl yet.
Much to your dismay, you're stuck with Steve in the van tonight.
Dustin's sick with the flu, Will is still restricted from ever leaving Joyce's sight at this point, and you were more knowledgeable on telemetry tracking than Jonathan.
Leaving you-Â alone- with your least favorite person, for the rest of the night.
Yeah, lucky you.
This isn't the first time you've been paired up with him, nor would it be the last, you're certain. However, tonight's forecast called for snow and plummeting temps; accurate as ever as the evening grew near, with grey-white clouds blanketing the skies, flurries fluffing up by the minute.
You tried warning the others about the weather, understanding that crawls were usually non-negotiable, keeping flexible to the military's burn schedules, unbeknownst to them.
It still had to happen; any chance to find and defeat Vecna is a chance to end this nightmare, once and for all.
And that's never your call to make.
Creaking the passenger side door open, the first greeting that hits you is a miffed grumble, "Jesus, took you long enough."
"Yeah, hi to you too, Steve," you deadpan, careful to climb in backwards, kicking as much snow off your boots as you can before shutting the door.
He gives you a once-over, poorly stifling an ill-fitted chuckle.
Rolling your eyes, you glare over at him. "What?"
"You look like that kid from A Christmas Story with all those layers."
"Ha-ha, very funny." You struggle to cross your arms, puffed up and padded down with your winter coat.
"There's heat in the van, y'know." Glancing over his shoulder, he throws a thumb to the back of the van. "That box of stuff is back there, too, but⊠kinda just a waste of space, don't you think?"
"Oh, for the love ofâ" you crawl between the front seats, shoving Steve's shoulder in the process. Reaching the medium-sized cardboard box, you drag a well-loved and worn blanket out. "We've been over this, Steve."
"We get it, your circulation sucks, or whatever. I don't see how that's anyone else's problem."
"If I have to put up with you leaving all those goddamn Boppers wrappers around, you can deal with the emergency box." Holding a hand up, you add, "Which, is for everyone, by the way."
"Yeah, well, a sleeping bag's a little much. And extra socks? A sweatshirt? C'monâ"
"Last week Dustin was glad I packed that sweatshirt when it dropped to 40 degrees at night," you settle in the back, unlocking the wheel on the ceiling. "Because you refused to shut your window."
Exasperated, he throws his arms up. "The cold keeps me awake! Sue me!" Steve turns around, lip curled upward in disgust. "Also it's gross you just⊠leave socks for other people to use."
"They're new and I wash them if they get used! I wash everything in here, you fucking morâ"
"Hey, guys, you good to go?"Â Robin's voice through the tinny speaker of the walkie disrupts the insults you had on standby for Steve.
Glaring at Steve while he reflects his own sharp stare, you respond, "As good as we're gonna get."
There's no room for Steve to bite back; you're already tugging the headphones over your ears, focused as you fidget with the knobs. Your main concern isn't him, it's tracking Hopper to keep this as successful and safe of a crawl as possible.
Steve's gaze lingers, but it softens, deflates into one of dejection. You feel his eyes on you, but ignore it, thinking he's still trying to hold out on the sign of animosity; it's not that.
Despondency plagues him whenever you're around, and he resorts to cynicism, trapped in its ugly cycle. You hate him, why should he play nice in return?
It's easier to allow bitterness to keep distance between the two of you. Easier to forget how you and Steve were just in reach of something more.
Until you justâŠÂ left.Â
 Friendship break-ups are sometimes harder than romantic ones.
No one ever talks about that weird gap, suspended between acquaintances and beyond, falling into potential friendship, drifting back off into something bitter, a bond you only shared, tip-toeing along a jagged edge.
You'd drift in, drift out.
Grew close, just enough for hope to thrive, only to push him away.
In, out.
All while longing for something more, desperate to ride out a wave that drifts back and builds momentum, only to crash ashore into nothing.
So you cough up water, take a few deep breaths, and dive back in again.
Turns out, that shit gets exhausting over time. Especially when you discover a grim truth, hidden from the start.
When you're not treading water to stay afloat, it's swimming through a naval minefield in murky waters; drift into one, and you're blasted into overthinking what went wrong, what stopped the bond from blooming. And all it takes is one 'what if?' to shift course and bump into one these mines, ruining your day completely.
What if you hadn't moved away after Starcourt's explosive demise, deciding on a fresh start by leaving this nightmare of a town behind?
What if you and Steve were able to become more, if not stay friends, and he had just been honest about the Upside Down from the beginning?
What if you allowed that friendship to swell into something more? Standing him up on a date that could've changed everything; a wave ready to ride out naturally, only to retreat. Withdraw like the ocean before returning full force as a tsunami; why follow the tide out just to trap yourself in the path of imminent destruction?
If you stayed⊠would it have been worth it?
The two of you were star-crossed; Steve was still hung up on Nancy when you discovered your feelings for him. When he moved on, you found someone else. It almost turned into a sad, little game; when one was ready, the other had been redirected elsewhere.
It was even pitiful, the way you two barely had a friendship to build on, because one wasn't ready, and the other got tired of waiting.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Your time outside of Hawkins brought you steps away from turning fully into stone; get hurt enough times, you refuse welcoming anyone and everyone in so easily. One too many soured relationships had you settled on the idea that maybe you just weren't meant to share love like that.
That hurt transforms your body as a shield for your heart, ribs hardening into steel cages as an added last line of defense; you were one heartbreak away from adding electric barbed wire for good measure.
No one would get in again. Not if you could help it. Not like that.
Coming home wasn't an easy choice, but it was the only one that felt right. Your friends were still here, who you loved as familyâ bonded through unholy tragedies rather than blood, still family all the same; you had to check on them. You couldn't leave them hanging again.
Because your first thought upon hearing of the destruction, was what if any of them died?
Then you return to find out the worst what if came true: someone among the group died; Eddie's gone. And Max? Well⊠she's closer to a tragic ending than most of you.
You suffocated yourself in distractions, helping your parents to pack up and move out, promising you wouldn't be too far behind, that you needed to check on your friends immediately.
Unfortunately, coming home right before the town went into quarantine was not part of the plan.
Time away had you forget how downright stubborn Steve could be if he set his mind to something, and all he wanted was to break your walls down, at least to find common ground.
That was still far too much give, and not enough take for you. They're not uncharted waters, you just know you're not meant to navigate them, and know damn well Steve would just stand by and watch you sink.
Those what ifs of your past resurfaced, pulling you under, taunting you to open your mouth when there was nowhere to breathe.
The last place you needed to drown in emotions you couldn't afford was in a town under quarantine. Locked in, fenced off from the rest of the world, with someone you barely had a chance to build a friendship with. Someone you always yearned for more with, yet royally fucked up any chances with.
That more, those chances, they're thousands of meters below a rough, choppy surface, down to the pitch-black depths of the abyssal zone; it's just not in reach, and you've protected your heart this long, you didn't need all that effort to go to waste within a impulsive dive, head first into what would certainly make your heart implode.
You can only tread water for so long, though.
"Hop's going as slow as possible tonight, so we don't have to speed, alright?"
Steve only shoves an aggressive thumbs up over his head, tongue prodding into the side of his cheek.
"I mean, it'll pick up if he hitches a ride on a military truck for a while, butâ"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don't go fast unless necessary." He grumbles under his breath, "I'm not stupid."
And that stings, because you genuinely weren't insinuating that. In fact, you're certain you've never insinuated that before.
"Steve, I wasn't trying toâ"
"Don't."Â His shoulders tense up, grumbling out, "Unless it's about this crawl, I don't wanna talk. You focus on your job, I'll focus on mine."
His flat tone and curt demeanor makes your stomach churn. Nights like these where you're forced together have you longing for the past. Before you knew of the Upside Down, before he was trapped in a bunker below Starcourt, before you left like a goddamn coward.
Ever since you returned to Hawkins, it's like he resents you for protecting yourself. Your peace. Your sanity.
What the hell was the point of continuing to stick around, pour your heart into a friendship that only opened if you brought the crowbar?
Despite the mutual loathing, you and Steve make a pretty solid team when kept strictly to business.
Keeping up with a telemetry tracker while stuck in a snow storm is tricky, to say the least. Neither of you have a problem blaming the other for what's outside of your control, though.
"Jesus, Steve, slow down." It's hard to sit upright as he keeps his speedâ a speed that normally wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for the slick roads. You hiss under your breath,"Fucking lead-foot."
He hears you, snapping back, "You wanna drive? Huh?" His eyes stay fixated on the road. The windshield becomes more obstructed as the snow gains momentum, falling heavily onto every surface within reach. "By all means, be my guest."
"God, you're such a bitch."
"Me?! Have you ever heard yourself talk for even, like, five seconds?" Steve's tempted to turn around to shout at you, but he keeps whatever cool he has leftâ which isn't muchâ and continues driving safely. "You're so fucking rude, and- god- you're so annoying, so fucking annoying."
"That's bold, coming from a pain in the ass like youâŠ" you grumble, trailing off as the signal on the tracker drops; Hopper stopped moving. "Steve. Steve!"
"What?! Christ, can't you shut upâ"
"Stop!"
"How come I have to stop, but you can keep bitching and moaningâ"
"I meant the van, asshole!"
Steve slams on the brakes, hoping to skid to a stop, but the van keeps moving.
Gliding. Coasting. The van's skating on the slick road, completely out of control.
You throw the headphones aside, scrambling to the front to peer around Steve's seat. "Dude, what the fuck?!"
"Shit, shit, shit!"
Steve's death grip wraps around the wheel, knuckles turning white; he's ready to turn it toward the shoulder to get off the road, but you grab his arm and hold him in place. Eyes darting to the floor, you see his foot is still weighed down on the brake pedal.
"Waitâ watch it! Harrington, keep the wheel straight!" Voice trembling from the frenzy. Steve's about to slam his foot down onto the brake when you panic, "Fuck, get your foot off the brake!"
Despite sliding, you don't spin. Snowfall rushes around the van, limiting visibility to just a few feet ahead. Even as the van slows, it fishtails. Steve frantically switches into low gear, breaths heavy and jagged as he releases control.
His right arm shoots out, bridging between the seats to brace himself and create a barrier to hold you back. Alarmed, he shouts, "Stay down!"
You don't move in time before impact, but you're projected into his arm with force, restraining you from hurtling over the seats and into the dashboard. The van's wheels rumble as it veers off the road, the ditch finally slowing you down to a halt.
Adrenaline rushing, you pant as you're frozen against his arm, processing that absolute disaster.
"ShitâŠ" Steve gasps, trying to catch his breath. "⊠You okay?" Scanning over your figure, unable to find immediate concern beyond the fear on your expression, his shoulders begin to relax.
"Uh-huh," you rasp out, glancing up at him. "You?"
He nods firmly and swallows. "M'okay."
Static harshly shoves into the van, with Robin's voice following close behind.
She drones out, "Angry Lovebirds, do you copy? Hellooooo? Where the hell did you two go?"
You cringe at the code name, wishing you could shrink on the spot and disappear.
"Why the hell does she still call us that?" Steve gripes, running his hands over his face. "We've neverâ I don't evenâ"
Her voice drops to a mutter and cuts Steve off, asking as if the others aren't on the same channel, "Please tell me you two didn't kill each other."
"Oh my god," Steve rolls his eyes with a groan, head falling back against the seat.
In reluctant favor of answering Robin, you leave the warmth of Steve's side to grab the walkie. You curse yourself inwardly at the misplaced feelings.
Thumb jabbing in the talk button, you exhale a winded response, "We're good, we, uhâŠ" Your eyes meet Steve's before darting away. "We hit black ice, though."
"Shit! Can you make it back safely?"Â She adds, "We were trying to get a hold of you guys, 'cus we had to call off the crawl. It didn't work out."
So the two of you slid on black ice⊠for nothing.
Fantastic.
"Um, hangâ h- hold on." Turning to Steve, you noticed smoke rising on the other side from the van's hood. "Oh, fuck."
Steve jerks his head up, jumping into action. He kills the engine, immediately cutting off the warmth from the janky heater. Throwing his jacket on, he flings the driver's side door open and jumps out. Snowfall drifts sideways from the wind, and he winces as it pelts into his face.
"Guys?" Nancy's voice takes over now, concerned with the delay. "What's the status on the van?"
"Uh- well, it's actuallyâ" You forget to release the talk button, shouting after Steve. "Wait! I'm coming with!"
Releasing it, a booming voice immediately floods through the speaker. "What the hell is going on out there?"
Hopper.
Oh, boy.
Meanwhile, Steve stands firm, shouting over the brutal, howling wind, "No, you're staying put!" He bites back on his own shivers, already creeping down his spine as he slams the door shut.
Well, can't say you didn't try.
Flicking your thumb against the talk button, your explanation comes to life with nervous laughter. "Hop! Hi. Soooooo⊠we're stuck in a ditch."
You can just imagine the drawn out sigh he lets out before responding, pinching the bridge of his nose, and all.
"Okay, where are you exactly?"
The glass of the back door window is freezing as you try to peek out. You huff your breath onto the glass, rubbing your sleeve against it to clear it up. It barely helps, with snow and frost beginning to coat it completely outside.
You squint through the narrow opening between patches of snow, gaze landing on the landmark in the near distance.
Groaning, you punch the talk button with your thumb. "The fuckin' cemetery."
"Language."
"Hey, I'm an adult! Last thing on my mind right now is censoring myself," you grumble into the walkie.
"How the hell did you two end up out there? That's not where I was in the Upside Down."
So, not only did the van throw you and Steve around like rag dolls on a failed crawl, but the tracker was off.
Way off.
"I- I don't know."
A frustrated shout cuts through the whistling squall outside. The van rocks as Steve kicks the bumper, cursing wildly at the shoddy engine.
"I thought you said you could handle tracking?"
Your blood begins to boil. Now's not the time for some trivial debate, not when you're possibly stranded in what's shaping up to be one of the worst snow storms Hawkins has seen yet.
There's no chance to respond when another voice, congested and hoarse, cuts in. "She can, she's actually good at this."
Dustin Henderson is a goddamn good egg, even while battling the flu.
You wish Hopper could see the smug grin on your face right now.
"I personally think Hop lost the trackerâ" silence cuts in for a second, returning with Hopper scolding him; they have to be fighting over the damn walkie. "Watch it, kid. I didn't lose shit."
You slam your thumb down onto the talk button within another pause, mocking back, "Hey, Hopper? Language."
Another pause draws itself out, and eventually Robin returns with an exasperated huff. "You and Steve did nothing wrong. Hopper definitely lost the tracker."
"I didn't lose the fuckingâ"
The talk button is released on her end, abruptly interrupting Hopper's rant.
"Anyway⊠we're not that far from the station, right?"
"Five miles an hour in that van might take way longer, but you're not making it here on foot in this weather. It's not safe."
Woven into the wind is a muffled "son of a bitch!". The hood slams shut, jostling the van before Steve yanks the van door open, gracelessly stumbling inside.
Snow sticks to his hair, his clothes, slowly melting to leave him like a freezing, wet dog.
"This is fu-Â fuck, it's coldâ!". Steve huffs out a mirthless chuckle, appearing nowhere near amused. "S'fucking ridiculous." His teeth chatter as he gripes, eyes falling on you, then to the walkie. "Give m- me that."
Steve's hand brushes against yours as he snatches the walkie from you, frigid and stiff. It takes a few tries to hit the talk button and hold it in successfully.
"Can anyone come get us? The van's f- fucked." With his jaw this tight, he's about to crush his teeth to dust. For a second, his eyes flicker to you, and you swear there's a flash of something genuine within the hazel. "Leaving the engine run is a d- disaster waiting to happen, so we can't use the h- heat."
There's silence on the other end; lack of an instant answer usually never fares well for any of you.
Scouring through the emergency box, you pick out a small, rolled towel, handing it over to Steve. For once, he doesn't look at you like you're nuts for keeping the damn box stocked.
He accepts it with a trembling hand, murmuring a both grateful yet defeated "Thanks".
"It's too dangerous for anyone to drive out, and way too dangerous for you two to try walking back. The nearest tunnel is at least a mile out from you, give or take on where you two ended up exactly in the cemetery."
Steve exhales roughly through his red, wind-bitten nose, handing the walkie back to you. "You t- take it. M'too pissed off to be nice ri- right now."
Nodding solemnly, you grab it back, responding to everyone. "Okay. We'll just⊠tough it out. I got some stuff to stay warm, so we should be okay for a few hours at least." Sighing, you glance up at Steve, laying out the now damp towel on the dashboard. "But the second it's safe enough, someone needs to come get us."
Hopper presses the talk button early, releasing a weary sigh first. "We'll try when we can."
That's not good enough, not for you, and not for Steve; the two of you cannot be stranded here overnight.
Together.
Alone.
"No, you'll do it when you can. I warned y'all the weather would be shit. You get us out of this mess the moment this storm slows down. Got it?"
A lengthy pause begins to irritate you the longer the seconds pass.
"Yeah, kid. I got it."
In defeat, you chuck the walkie aside, swallowing down the urge to scream.
It's no use to be angry now; best to bury those emotions and redirect that energy into something useful. Like helping Steve.
Even if he doesn't really deserve your help to begin with.
"Okay, Harrington, here's what's gonna happen." He turns slowly, heavy-lidded with fatigue settling into his expression. "I think the clothes in here are your sizeâ"
"How the hell do y- you know what size clothes I wear?"
Would it kill him to be nice? Or quiet? For just five fucking seconds?
"To keep this shit on hand if we need it, and you're welcome, by the way." You toss a t-shirt with the radio's logo on it, wool socks, and sweatpants his way. "There's a reason I asked everyone what their sizes were months ago."
Steve catches it all, just barely, but he's left dumbfounded. Through chattering teeth, he snaps, "Wh- why the hell do I want these?"
"Are you kidding me? Dude, you can't stay in those clothes. You're gonna get hypothermia."
"Whatever," he starts peeling off his clothes, and you take that as a cue to turn around. A faint comment slips under his breath, "It'd be better than being stuck here."
It's still audible enough to you, clear enough to sting. You feel like a damn fool for thinking Steve was finally presenting something other than hatred, for once.
"You're not the only one who doesn't wanna be stuck here." Rubbing your eyes, you sigh.
There's no way you can last the night in here without killing one another; it's too long to put up with his bullshit.
UnlessâŠ
There might be one shred of hope left. And okay, sure, it's more a thin, fraying thread that could lead to nothing, but you won't know until you try.
You bundle yourself back up, zipping up your jacket, winding the scarf around your neck tightly, tugging your hat over your head. Steve notices when you're slipping your hands into a pair of mittens.
"Hey, whoaâ" Now comfortably changed, he clambers to the back, a little too close for comfort. "No. What are you doing? You're not going out there."
But you ignore his concern, if it's even real to begin with. "That gas station's still down the road, right?"
"Maybe? I don'tâ that's notâ" Frazzled, he stumbles over his thoughts. "You're not walking down there in the snow." His fingers fight against stiffness, winding around your wrist shielded under your coat. "You need to be safe."
"Why? So you don't get the blame if something bad happens?" Irritated, you yank your hand back. "Just⊠wait here. I'll be quick."
"Quick? Yeah, right. It's not that close by foot." Steve, still stiff from the cold, clumsily shoves in front of you to block the back doors. "Your circulation sucks, remember?"
His attempted smartass comment fails miserably as concern seeps through the cracks of his tone.
"And you said it wasn't your problem," you retort, shoving him aside. "Look, it's right down the road. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll have coffee, or something hot. We both could use something like that right nowâ"
"You brought your thermos! I haven't seen you use it once." He runs a hand through his damp hair, sighing. "And even if they did have coffee, it'd be ice cold by the time you got back."
"Oh, you watching my every move now, Harrington?" Your voice drops low, dry, sick of this conversation. "That's precious."
He doesn't react, only argues, "What if it's closed?"
Your eyes dart away from him, faltering. "T- there's a pay phone outside," you really thought it'd be easier to shake him. "I can call someone to get us outâ"
"No. Now you're just being ridiculous." One hand perches on his hip, while the other waves wildly as he speaks. "Who the hell's coming out after curfew? Especially in this?"
You shrug, shrinking into yourself with a weak lie. "⊠I might know a guy?"
"Cut the shit, what's out there that's worth freezing to death for, huh?"
"I'm trying to leave you the fuck alone, Steve!" Seething, the explosion silences Steve, guilt and shame softening his expression. "I'm not thrilled to be stranded here with you either, but I was willing to play nice! I was willing to get along, but you don't want that, and thatâ" You bite back tears, ones born of anger, maybe even a hint of rage. "That's fine. Just trying to make it easier for us both, give some space."
"Wh⊠what?" He's dumbfounded. "When I said I didn't want to be stuck here, that wasn't about youâ"
"Oh, please. Like I buy that for a fucking second."
"I wish you would!" He exclaims, voice fracturing with panic. "You really think I want you to freeze to death 'cause we can't get along? That's the last thing I'd want."
"Yeah, wellâŠ" your hand lingers over the handle, glaring back at him, returning the jagged comment to sender. "It'd be better than being stuck here."
It's tempting to tack on "with you" at the end, but you bite your tongue. You're not even sure if you'd mean that.
Eyes set forward, you miss his sullen, wounded stare, etched into his features when you exit the van. You're plunging head first into regret once your boots hit the snow. Instead of swallowing your pride and climbing right back in, you feign indifference as you slam the doors shut without looking back.
The doors never reopen, and he never calls for you; it's clear how much of a relief the space is for both of you.
If you tell yourself enough times that it's better than being stuck in that doomed ice box on wheels with Steve all night, maybe you'll begin believing it.
Before the Upside Down, before losing his friends, losing Nancy, losing the cheap crown on his head in his fall from graceâ Steve could fall asleep with ease. His head could hit the pillow and he'd be out.
The typical high school blues were enough to send any teenager into stress-induced sleep loss, but the Upside Down's daunting reminder that the fight was only dormant, forced full blown insomnia to become his closest friend.
Exhaustion would lead him to eventually sleep, but he'd fight it off as long as he could; you can only handle the bloodcurdling screams and cries of your friends dying in your dreams so many times before giving up on sleep completely.
Every creak in his house on nights home aloneâ loneliness all too common in that houseâ had him holding his breath, waiting for sudden movements to echo out again. Every light bulb, flickering on its way out for good, froze him in fear of who, or what, lay in wait on the other side. And if a detail, no matter how small, is enough to keep him from sleep, that's an open invitation for his mind to spiral.
Tonight, trying to rest in the van, he notices a gap; it's thin and barely noticeable, between the flimsy plywood floorboards underneath the shag carpet. Steve feels it every time he tosses and turns; it always digs into his left hip, slightly uneven from the other board it should be snug against.
He flips to the right, but no, that feels wrong; he's not a right side sleeper. That changed after '84, and he's not exactly sure why, but he sleeps better on the left side.
And on his back? He doesn't even dare, not after a sleep paralysis episode after those fucking bats attacked him. That one and only episode he felt pinned to the bed, like a bat was choking him all over again. His scars ached for hours after, the one around his throat singed through his skin like some god-awful, hellish rope-burn.
So, yeah, Steve can't sleep, clearly not from the cold; turns out, that sleeping bag of yours was a good idea. He won't outright admit that though. Or, how your emergency box actually was, and continues to be, useful.
He tries to rest, flip-flops between sides to get comfortable, but the minutes you're gone only accumulate in his mind to a concerning degree, like the heavy snowfall outside. Every second that ticks past is a second too long without you.
By car, the gas station is a few minutes away. By foot, in weather like this, bundled up in excessive layers? Shit, even he'd struggle to move quickly. He'd definitely get sick, too.
Time passes, snow builds, and Steve continues to overthink. Eventually, he wonders, Am I really that fucking awful to be stranded in the snow with?
What the answer would be to you, he already knows. You think he doesn't give a fuck, and it's not like he's done much to prove otherwise.
To you, Steve's fears to let you go out into the cold were only linked to the clear concept of: if you got hurt, he'd be to blame.
To Steve, though, it goes beyond blame; he's scared, now rueful, that he didn't fight harder to make you stay, because the thought of losing you more than he already had terrifies him.
The possibilities of what could go wrong were endless: you, losing your way, disoriented from the blizzard. What if you froze to death out there? Or got caught being out past curfew? Though, Steve's pretty sure the military doesn't give a fuck about two idiots stranded in the snow.
The wind howls and whistles, whipping around the van as the snow falls diagonally. Every now and then, he opens each door to slam it again, shaking off the snow outside; there's too much buildup to keep an eye out for you.
He checks his watch; you left about an hour ago. The footprints that trailed behind you are now covered over with fresh snow.
Steve's tempted to radio everyone at the stationâ assuming they stayed in for the night with the stormâ but that means admitting he didn't stop you. He didn't protect you.
You're your own person, though. You don't need to be babied, or protected.
Sure doesn't stop Steve's protective side from caring about you.
It's not like anyone could come out to rescue either of you in the first place. But if you're gone and he says nothing, he'd never forgive himself if you got sick. Or worse.
Jesus, what if you're already freezing to death?
In the midst of internal panic, a thud! with fierce force slams against the van outside. Steve jolts upright, startled enough that it clears his damn sinuses while his heart races.
There's another thump, with a few more to follow, inching towards the passenger side door. It flings open, snow sprinkling in as you flop forward, face against the seat.
"Jesus Christ," is all Steve can manage to say, because he's grateful to see you, alive, but also, you're such a fucking idiot.
You crawl into the van, collapsing onto the floor. "'Idn't wanna get th'carpet wet," you mumble through your teeth, jaw rigid, struggling to close the door as the handle slips through your weak grip.
"C'mon, sit up for me." Steve guides you into the seat while you struggle, clumsy like you're intoxicated, yet your limbs are stiff. Under your freezing wet clothes, he can feel you shiver, practically vibrating uncontrollably.
When you're settled up right, he shoots an arm between the seat and wall, barely managing to grab the door handle and slam it shut.
"OwâŠÂ S'loud," you groan.
"Shit, sorry." He drags the box over, rummaging through it haphazardly. A pair of sweats and a sweater lay at the bottom, warm and ready to wear. He lays them aside, leaning over the seat to unzip your coat.
"D- damn, a'least flirt with me first," you slur, lips a muted shade from their normal lively color.
It's a joke, but not an invite for playful banter; Steve bites his tongue, quickly helping you out of your coat. He unwinds your scarf and tugs your hat off, dropping all of them to the driver side's floor.
Your clothes are soaked underneath, too. Though you're still pretty covered, he can see how strained your muscles are from stiffening.
Steve peels your puffy vest, hoodie, and sweater off nextâ Jesus, he forgot how layered you were. And it still didn't help.
"You're an idiot, you know that?" The fondness in his tone sneaks through the disapproval. When the air hits your skin, damp and frigid, gasp, face twisting from discomfort; it feels like sharp needles prickling along your arms.
"M'fine," yet you look far from itâ hair tangled and soaked, frozen in spots, skin dull of its usual shine and shade, lids weighed down like you're drunk and sleepy, even a little puffy.
Funny how concerned you were of him getting hypothermia earlier, when you're already there.
And by funny, it's fucking scary, because there's no way to get you to a hospital tonight.
Really, he doesn't think it's that severe, but at any stage, hypothermia's nothing to fuck with; you're still suffering no matter what, and he hates to see you in pain.
Hates that he just admitted that to himself, too.
"Bullshit," he contends as he pulls another small towel from the boxâ seriously? You thought of everything with this box.
He'll thank you later. Maybe even apologize for being such a dick about it if it saves your asses.
Steve lays the towel over your head, gently tousling your hair against the fabric to help it dry. You shiver violently, "Hey, the sooner you get changed, the sooner you'll feel better."
"Said m'fine," you grit your teeth, attempting to shove him away, but your arms are still weak and stiff. "Jus' put the heat on."
"We can't run the engine, remember?" Steve throws the towel onto the driver's seat; that's a problem for future him. "C'mon, you can't stay in your clothes."
The moment the words leave his lips, he cringes, waiting for you to snidely remark, insinuate he's a pervert, but you're quiet.
Yeah, you're worse than he thought.
"I'm gonna help, okay?" There's no protest from you. He reaches down to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, but pausing before it passes your belly button. "This alright?"
"M'yeah, s'kay."
If you weren't tumbling into a life threatening condition, he'd poke fun at how wasted you sound.
Steve's perceptive, keeping an eye on your reaction, ensuring he's not hurting you. Prioritizing your safety doesn't make the reveal of you, half naked, any easier to deal with.
Shirt thrown to the side, Steve scrunches his eyes shut, scolds himself internally to behave, don't be a creep. He leans from behind the seat, over you to unbutton your jeansâ Jesus Christ, why the fuck did you wear jeans? They're practically painted onto your form after all the ice and snow sunk into the denim.
He sucks in a breath, "Uh⊠can you get them off yourself?"
"S'okay, jus' leave 'em like this."
"It's really not," he sighs, climbing between the front seats and sliding down to the floor before you. The space is limited, incredibly limited, and he's contorting in a way he's never folded before, just to fit here. And for you, of all people.
He finds the chair's lever, shoving it back as far as it can go, though not much of a difference exists.
"Okay, c'mon, boots first."
Steve undresses you with care, tries not to notice the position you're both in, how close his face is to your core. How he's imagined on lonely, late nights, him kneeling for you, while he strokes himself, cock twitching as always while wondering what you taste like.
Every last ounce of self control is gathered up to keep his composure. You're in your underwear. Nothing else.
And your underwear? Yeah. That's wet, too; bra sticking flush to your chest, nipples peaked enough to reveal their shape through the fabric. He dares to take a lower peek when your eyes flutter shut as you sighâ out of concern, not pleasure, he reminds himselfâ and the fabric against your core is damp, hugging to the shape of your puffy lips.
He scrunches his eyes shut, runs a hand down over his mouth as he thinks âŠÂ fuck me.
You shiver and twitch and whimper as the near-numbness finally settles into fucking freezing. It shatters whatever trance Steve was falling into.
"Honey," he frowns at himself immediately, because where the fuck did that come from? "You need to warm up."
There's no way to suggest sharing heat without sounding like a total pervert. Every choice of words could definitely be taken as suggestive, at best.
At worst? Steve's coming off as Hawkins' biggest douche-bag.
"Don't wanna," you whine, petulant and pained.
"It's this or freeze to death," he forces himself to deadpan, afraid of coming off as too concerned.
"You'dâ bet that'd make y'happy."
He's not sure if he should file that comment under the usual banter the two of you have, or something worse.
"It wouldn't." Steve crawls up, hands gripping the sides of your seat as he tries respecting your spaceâ the little bit left, at least. And still, he stumbles, catching himself right before he headbutts you. "Shit. Ahâ shit, I- I'm sorry."
If he makes eye contact with you right now, it is game over. The whine you just released, though likely in pain, doesn't help his already wound-up, touch-starved thoughts.
"Okay. Okay," he sighs, more to himself, finding his balance again. "C'mon, we're gonna use that sleeping bag of yours to stay warm."
You're slow, painfully, agonizingly, moving at a snail's pace, while Steve moves you out of the seat. He's patient, cautious, already trying to press his body against yours to share warmth from the moment you begin trembling.
"Slow, take it easy," he guides you to the carpet while he murmurs softly. It's a miracle you make it to the back safely, considering how frozen stiff your joints are. "Doing okay?"
That's a dumb fucking question.
"Other th- than my t- t- tits freezing off, m'f- fine."
When you flash a curl of a smirk, just the tiniest one, Steve still feels relief. It's a speck of relief, but he'll gladly accept.
About to sit from your kneeling position, he grabs your hips to stop you. Steve clears his throat, awkwardly releasing you.
"Sorry, just, uh⊠your, uh⊠theâ" he nods vaguely to your chest, eyes lingering for a second too long, wondering how soft you'd feel. By the time he peels his eyes away to drift lower, he gulps. "Those need to come off."
"Wh- why?" You pout, body violently trembling the longer you go without warmth.
"Just work with me, okay? Dry clothes aren't gonna warm you up enough on their own." He huffs, kneeling near you. "M'not trying anything funny, I promise."
Leaning close, Steve's face is near yours while his hands reach around your torso. His fingers skate up your cold skin, bringing about his own shivers, finding your bra clasp and unhooking it.
Poorly strangling a gasp, it still manages to slip past your lips, and he's almost certain it's because you're in pain. Nothing else.
But it sure sounds like it stems from another source.
Hovering his touch, he halts, eyes wide as they dart to meet yours. "Did I hurt you?"
"N- no, just co- c- cold." Teeth chattering, you grab onto his shoulders weakly as he removes your underwear. He bites back the urge to yelp from how bone chilling your touch is.
You hold your balance against him while shifting onto one knee, then the other, to step out of the soaked garment. "'Vry'thing hurts."
He hears you, knows you're hurting, but your panties, soaked and bunched up in his grip, make his cock twitch. The fabric is nowhere near his face, but your scent is dizzying; he wonders if they're only soaked from the snow, or yourself, too.
What stands between him and dirty thoughts is your fragile state; you need help, not him as⊠some horny creep.
Steve pushes past the tempting thoughts, for your sake.
"I know," he murmurs, heart aching, wishing he could take that pain away instantly. "It's gonna be okay, promise."
He guides you into the sleeping bag, eyes off and away from your figure out of respect. When you're settled, he rips his clothes off, save for his boxer briefs. One glance down his body and he's reminded how scarred he still is. He falters, swallowing thickly; what if you notice them? What if you're disgusted by him?
That's not like you, though; you've never been shallow like that.
Your teeth clatter together so loudly, it breaks him from those looming insecurities. With a deep breath, he finally slides in next to you.
Steve zips the sleeping bag up, arms hooking around your torso to pull you flush against him. He weaves his legs between yours, careful not to press his thigh against your core. He has to throw his thoughts as far away from you as possible; the last thing either of you need is a poorly timed hard-on.
He thinks of the time he broke his arm in sixth grade, falling off the seesaw at recess. Tries focusing on the concept of race cars and the specific tires they use. Forces himself to wonder how broccoli grows, or if it really matters to separate the dark garments from the lights when doing laundry.
That tangled trail of curiosity leads him to wonder what life outside of Hawkins must be like these days, and if they're forgotten to the rest of the world.
The last one's bleak, so he redirects to thinking about aquariums, and if fish sleepâ they sleep, right?
God, he really wished he paid more attention in school. Did they even talk about any of this stuff? What the hell does he care if race cars use specific tires?
Whatever.
It's a challenge to keep his thoughts on a steady path away from you, because every time you breathe, your bare chest pushes against his, and that'sâ no. Just no.
The plush of your breasts squish up against him, nipples poking through his chest hair and into him like an accusing finger, shaming him for fighting off a natural response to a naked figure entwined with his own.
Doesn't make it any easier that your breaths are shallow, because logically, he knows it's because you're freezing. But every so often, you make these faint gasps as you shiver that sound closer to pleasure than pain.
That's not the case, and he feels guilty for letting his mind wander that far.
Okay, focus. Think about⊠concrete. Sure. That. Must be fascinating to pour that shit for sidewalks andâ
"How come your underw- wear is on but not mine?"
Well, that's not fucking helping when you just out right ask it like that.
Steve's face burns up, rushing out, "Didn't wanna make you uncomfortable."
Your heart is pounding so viciously, he can feel the thumping against his own body.
Which, yeahâ you have hypothermia. Of course your heart is working overtime. Just from that. Only that.
He reaches outside the bag to throw a worn, knitted blanket over your bodies, hoping for extra warmth while he's zipping the bag back up.
"Please tell me this shit is helping," he murmurs, fighting the urge to gently rub your back; this isn't supposed to be some kind of cute, intimate moment. And rubbing to create heat isn't helpful for hypothermia.
He doesn't remember why, just that it's unsafe for a situation like this.
"S'helpin'," you shudder against his skin, face tucked into the curve of his neck. Your lips brush against one of his sensitive spots, and he gulps, praying you don't notice. "I sh- shouldn't have lef-f- ft."
Steve doesn't scold you, but he doesn't disagree. "I really wish you didn't." He shivers, nowhere near as violently as you have, but exchanging body heat with someone in this state isn't all rainbows and sunshine. "I wish I didn't let you go. I should've gone with you, or had you stay here while I went out."
The words ache with more desperation than he intends.
"I'm a b- bi- big girl, s'my choice," your body involuntarily twitches, rutting into his bulge.
"A-Â ahâ"Â Steve manages to swallow down the breathy moan before it can fill the van.
"Sor- sorry. Did I h- hurt you?"
He's quick to shush you, gently, rushing out, "I'm fine." One hand wanders to your head, delicately threading your damp hair through his fingers. "How are you feeling?"
"Fu- fucking cold."
"No shit," Steve dryly retorts. "You have hypothermia, dumbass."
You hum out what he thinks was a shaky hum. "Surprised y'even kn-know anything about i- it."
"At least something good came from me being a Boy Scout for one year," he snorts. "That, and I know how to start a fire... which, not very helpful while snowed into a van. Don't know much more than that."
You don't respond. Whenever he's shared something personal of his past, even just a passing comment, you groan and fuss about "learning Harrington lore against your will". The lack of that snarky response is just another sign of how unwell you're feeling.
Shifting cautiously, your arms bend slowly, snaking between the two of you. Steve's breath hitches, wondering what the fuck you're doing.
Your hands travel north, both to his relief and disappointment, cupping over your chest. "M'sorry, m- my tits hurt." And sure enough, the attention is brought to your stiff nipples, harder than minutes ago, brushing up against him through the gaps between your fingers.
Steve doesn't have the chance to panic, not when he fails to stifle a chuckle before it slips out. That comment was the last thing he expected to leave your lips.
"Be n- n-Â nice!"
"Sorry, sorry!" He relaxes against you again, tries not to dwell on how much of your figure he can feel against his. "Are you getting any warmer?"
"Why? You h- hate this?" Your tone is dry, but he can feel the curve of your smirk against his neck. "Want me to go back outside?"
The lighthearted energy drains quickly; Steve feels his heart drop just at the mere thought of you enduring the blizzard.
Like a fucking fool.
"Don't joke about that," he mutters, daring to speak aloud, "I thought you were dead."
The shrill, whistling wind draws out the lapse in conversation.
"⊠Didn't th- think you c- cared."
"IÂ do, it's justâ" Steve huffs, pausing. "We can talk about it when you're feeling better. Deal?" You nod slowly, sighing. "Do you think you could sit up? Just for a few seconds?"
You were feeling warmer, still cold, still aching, but nowhere near the severity you felt before your return. "Um⊠I g- guess?"
"Just hang tight okay? Where's your thermos?"
"S'up by th'cup h- holder," you nod to the front. As soon as Steve moves, you begin to harshly shiver again.
He's quick to snatch it, unscrewing the top to pour out whatever you had inside into it. The warm aroma hits him head on. "Hot cocoa? Damn, if I knew that, I woulda' stole some."
"You could h- have some f'ya' want."
"Maybe later, but you need to drink something warm." Steve slides a hand under your back, arm curling around to lift you upright. He tries to ignore the sleeping bag falling off your chest, leaving you exposed. "C'mon, just a few sips."
"N- no, m'cold, wanna get back in."
"I know, honey, I'm sorry." There it is again, a slip up without warning. Like it's natural, familiar.
You manage to sit up, resting against a crate on the shelf behind you. Reaching a shaky hand out, Steve gently pushes it aside. "I got you, try to keep still for me."
He eases the mug top to your lips, cautiously tilting it while you sip on the hot cocoa. It's slow, but Steve's relieved you're not at the severe stage, where you wouldn't be able to drink anything at all. "That's it, a little more⊠s'good for me."
Oh god. He's one step away from praising you with a 'good girl, and now is not the time or place for that.
"Promise it'll help," he assures, feeling horrible for dragging you out of the warm cocoon of the sleeping bag. Yet he's desperate to try everything, anything, as long as it brings your temperature back up.
You finish off the mug with a gasp. Steve takes it away, watching as that muted tone in your lips begin to fade. It's subtle, but it's a change for the better, nonetheless. A step in the right direction.
"Can't say th- that shit to me," you pant, forcing an airy, uneasy laugh. "I'm gonna start thinkin' y- you'reâ you like me, or something."
Oh, if only you knew.
"C'mere," Steve murmurs as he gently brings you close. Guiding you back into the sleeping bag, he slides in cautiously next to you, zipping it shut around the two of you. "Don't make this weird, okay?"
"Make wh- what weird?"
Arms winding around your waist, he reels you in, body flush against your own. It's like every goosebump on your skin brushing up along his he can feel. Every shiver runs out of you and into him, like an electrical current.
The gasp that leaves your lips is unexpected and sharp. "Fuâ fuck, Steve, m'so c- c- cold."
"I know, sweetheart." He tangles his legs between yours, large hand reaching up to cradle the back of your head. You bury your face into his shoulder, shivering violently. "Just stay close to me."
"M'tryin'," you whimper as your hips shift closer. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd think you were trying to rock your hips against him, as if you're aching for relief, release.
The airy, shattered, "oh, god", sure doesn't help his imagination either. His cock twitches again.
"You're okay," he reassures, not just for you, but for his filthy mind to chill the fuck out. When you roll your hips again, he seizes them, grip tightening to end the attempt. "Don'tâ hey." You huff as he firmly holds you in place. "Hey, listen to me. No sudden movements."
"S- sorry, jus'thought friction would help," your teeth chatter as you force you words through them. "⊠Oh my god. Wait. Oh my god, no, wait."
You sound mortified.
"What?" Steve defaults to panic once more. "What's wrong?"
"I- I swear to go- god I didn't mean it like that." You untangle yourself from him, limbs haphazardly knocking into his own with the limited space in the bag. "I justâ friction causes he- heat, and I didn'tâ I wasn't tr- tr- trying toâ"
He nervously chuckles, not at you, justâ well, shit. How should anyone react in a situation like this?
"S'okay, you're okay." The reassurance seems to help; you relax against him once more, still trembling from the cold in your bones, though. "Can't warm you up too quickly, it could make you feel worse."
"Well that's fu- fucking stupid."
He chuckles, taunting, "You're starting to sound more like yourself again." It's much more endearing than he wanted to sound.
There's no response, just your steady breaths in spite of your jitters. You hum, winding your embrace around his torso, burying your face into his neck again.
Steve's about to lose it; you've got to stop resting your lips on his skin.
Talk about something else. Anything.
"Hey⊠thanks for helping earlier," he mumbles. You lean back to meet his stare with a perplexed one of your own.
"Hm? Wi- with what?"
"The black ice," he clarifies. "I panicked and blanked out, forgot how to handle it. I could've fucked up real bad⊠could've wrapped us around a tree, or something."
"We still ended up in a ditchâ"
"Alive. It sucks, being stranded in the storm sucks, but we're alive, thanks to you."
You shake your head, cuddling closer to him, still shivering, still unable to shake the cold. It's not warm in the van anymore, but it'd be more tolerable if you weren't recovering.
"You know how to dr- drive this damn t- thing," you quip, shuddering and clinging closer to Steve. "S'like a fuckin'Â boat."
Steve laughs heartily, tightening his embrace around you. "Guess we make a pretty good team."
"When we're n- not trying to ki- kill each other."
Emboldened, Steve's lips brush against the top of your head; it's not quite a kiss, but it's enough to be noticed. Enough to mean something. They linger as he takes a deep breath, voice rumbling low against your scalp.
"⊠We don't have to fight all the time," he suggests, fingers skating along the length of your spine. You arch your back, pushing the hardened peaks of your nipples against his chest. He swallows down a moan. "We don't have to hate each other."
"S'jus'easier," you slur, though, he's not sure it's from the cold.
"Yeah? Why's that?" Face still buried into his shoulder, you shake your head. "No, c'mon," he hopes the low, gentle rasp in his voice is enticing. "You can tell me."
It's quiet for a moment, swirling gusts of wind providing filler noise among your shallow breaths.
"'Cus liking you means letting you in," you're shuddering as the van sways, wind strong enough to sneak into the drafty vehicle. "Letting you in m- me- means this is real, and that's just a set up to be let downâ be a let down to you, eventually."
He has to be hallucinating from the cold. Or maybe you're still delirious. There's no way you just said that.
"⊠What?"
Because since when do you care about letting him down?
"You've been hurt enough, I didn't want to add to that hurt." Steve feels you shift with a whimper, has to swallow back the cocky remark he'd make if you felt better. "Your heart's always g- gonna be elsewhere, anyway."
Steve would do anythingâ hike through this blizzard, move mountains, face a swarm of demo-batsâ if it meant he could use a time machine, return to the moment things shattered before they could flourish. He'd do anything to fix it all.
"Even when it was elsewhere, itâ" Your trembling brings him to a pause, a reminder how real this all is. After hoping for so long that you'd return, dwelling too much on the anger of you justâŠÂ leaving, fleeing so quietly, so abruptlyâ you're here, in his arms. "You were always in it, but I didn't want hurt you, either."
And look where that got the two of you.
Steve's stunned into silence by your confession, tumbling out in unstoppable waves.
You trail off with a huff, tensing up; Steve's unsure if the cold's at fault, or if teasing went too far. "It's hard to⊠to trust. It scares the hell out of me."
"Scares me too, but look at you. You're trusting now."
"It was that or freeze to death, Harrington."
"Still chose to trust me after everything between us." His voice softens, moving on autopilotâ courtesy of his heartâ as he cradles the side of your face. His cheeks grow warm as he whispers your name, just loud enough to be heard over the howling winds outside. "Thank you. For trusting me."
The pads of your fingers press into his skin as you tighten your hold around him. "Thanks for not letting me die."
We're not out of the woods, yet, he thinks. But you should be able to keep warm now.
"I used to hate that you couldn't relate to what Robin and I went through last summer," Steve's got no reason to hide this anymore. "Truth is, I was relieved you called out sick that day."
An aching warmth bleeds through his chest with the confession, one that he hopes is enough to warm you up, even a little.
Or, maybe that's just because Steve's bare chest is pressed up against yours, still generating heat like a human furnace for you.
"I still have nightmares, and Iâ" He chokes up, arms tightening around you. You return the squeeze with reassurance, leaving patience and silence for him. "Sometimes, in them, they're hurting you, too⊠and I- I can't do anything but watch."
It feels like is heart is caving in all over again; he had done so well ignoring the hurt, but nowâŠ
Now he realizes he only bottled it up, shelved it away for darker times.
And dark times have arrived; here you both are, trapped in a goddamn, broken down, radio station van in the middle of a blizzard.
"Then you just⊠you left. You stood me up. You were gone not even a month later. We were finally getting closeâ"
"And I f- fucked it up." A sigh rumbles out of Steve; he doesn't agree or disagree, just⊠acknowledges it. "This is gonna sound so dumb, but I feltâŠÂ guilty, for calling out that day. I should've been thâ"
"No. I mean it. It's a relief you never went through that shit. And then in the springâŠ" Except, you came back. Right after the destruction, but you came back. Colder, yet braver than you left. "I get it. I don't blame you for leaving. You were scared." He swallows thickly. "⊠But so was I."
Scared is an understatement.
He's feared for his life before, the year prior, and before that. He was scared for Nancy, hell, even Jonathan, the night they tried to trap the Demogorgon in the Byers' home.
He was terrified in the junkyard, plastering on a brave face for the kids. No way in hell would he let them down; he was gonna succeed or die tryingâ to Steve, no other choices existed.
He was convinced he'd die down in that cursed bunker with Robin, and if it weren't Erica and Dustinâ two childrenâ that anticipated fate would've played out to truth.
And the Mind Flayerâ Jesus Christâ that fuckin'âŠÂ thing. A grotesque terror on monstrous legs; too many damn legs, arms, everything, if you ask Steve. He can't think too hard about what exactly it was made up of, who specifically turned essentially into human jam andâ
Yeah. No. He really can't stomach it. Just like the nightmares of losing you leave him shaken for the rest of the waking day.
Most nights, Steve has to double, sometimes triple check the locks on the doors before he goes to sleep. He latches all the windows. Sometimes unlatches just to re-latch, jiggling the window's frame, just to be certain it's closed. Every room, every hallway, holds a night-light's subtle glow for peace of mind.
Peace of mind from what, exactly? A Demogorgon? Demodogs? The Mind Flayer? The Russian guards, and flayed former classmates? All this time later, he hasn't been able to pinpoint which exactly he wants peace from the most. They're all equally fucked up, all royally fucked him up.
Steve knows his efforts are not enough to stave off these fears forever. They never are.
And Vecna? He's still processing that. After all, it hasn't even been one year since it all happened.
Less than one year since Eddie died, slowly killing Dustin with each day that passes without him; the more Steve tries to be there for the kid, the more he's pushed away. It's taking a toll on Steve, trying to be mindful of Dustin's grieving, trying to remind this kid he's not alone.
Less than one year since Max technically, in clinical terms, died, for over a minute; even a second considered dead is way too fucking long, and for a kid her age? Too damn soon. If it weren't for El reviving her, the party would be in shamblesâ yet they're on the verge of crumbling while Max is in a coma, anyway.
If anything happened to any of these kids, it'd devastate the rest of them. It'd devastate anyone in this little, yet forever growing, found family Steve's tripped and fallen into years ago.
And you.
Youâ he can't even stomach the idea of your safety being threatened. It only circles back to the nightmares he still has of you. He fears one of these days losing you will come true, andâŠÂ andâ
It hits him like a nuclear missile, dead on.
He didn't want you to leave earlier, to go out into the storm, because he was afraid one of his greatest fears, losing you, again, would come true. This chance to fix everything, at least make peace with what never came to be, has been right in front of you both for months since you got home.
Instead, it's been spent stuck in a cycle of hate, giving and taking sharp glares and words only dripping in venom.
So much wasted timeâ
"Steve?"
Reality settles in around him again, eyes focusing on you, remorse taking hold of every thought crossing his mind.
Unexpectedly, even to him, Steve blurts out, "I'm sorry." When your brows furrow, the remorse floods out. "I- I'm sorry for not being honest from the startâ"
"You were trying to protect me, I get that now." He feels the tension dissolve out of you. "I'm sorry too." Your voice trembles, not from the cold this time. "Can we⊠start over?"
A smug smirk curls along his face. "Um⊠we can, but it'd be pretty awkward to start over like this."
"Oh my god, Steve."
"What? I'm just saying!" He chuckles with a shrug. "When we met, I had strawberry ice cream stains on my shirt, and I got, like, maybe three hours of sleep the night before. This seems incredibly different, considering we're both naked."
"You're not the one fully naked." You stifle laughter, rolling your eyes.
"Oh, what, I'm sorryâ did you want me to be blunt instead? Because I am really fucking sorry if I get hard." Flustered, he rambles as you blink up at him, wide-eyed. "Seriously, you keep rubbing against me like that and it's- I'mâ fuck."
Your hips are rolling into him again as the corners of your lips gradually quirk upward. "Okay," you say simply, not matching your devious smile.
"âŠÂ Okay?" Steve scoffs.
"I mean⊠it's not like you're the only one struggling here," you admit, brash and certain. "Can't tell you how wet I've been since you started holding me."
"Oh, trust me. I know." Steve bounces back, stifling a smug chuckle. "Felt it the whole time."
Mortification contorts its way into your face. You hide again, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder.
"Hey, nuh-uh, no hiding. I thought it was hot." His fingers trail down your spine, sweeping to your side. He rests his hand over the curve of your hip, drawing slow circles into your skin with his thumb. "⊠Still do."
A shrill, piercing whistle whirls past the van, leading in a wave of howling wind, rocking the van. The instant jostle nudges you against him completely, It taunts you and Steve as you dance around you feelings.
The van's frame sways and creaks as the blizzard continues. You shift, trying to get comfortable, until your thigh presses against Steve's bulge and he hisses under his breath.
"Fuck, shit, fuckâ"
Yeah. He's hard.
He tangles himself into you, thick thigh flexing against your slick heat. All carnal desires aside, he's sure fucking relieved to feel some part of you completely warm.
Thinking of being warm, and staying that way, leads him to speaking unfiltered. "Might not be the worse way to keep each other from freezing to death."
"Uh-huhâŠ" you sound breathy, the last of your animosity towards Steve long disintegrated by now. "S'good idea." A shiver down your spine sends your hips bucking forward; Steve's curious if it from the cold or not. "S- sorry, m'sorry, I keepâ"
Steve shushes you delicately. "Don't be sorry, take what you need."
Your thighs tighten around his, clit throbbing against him. Arousal builds onto his bare skin the more you drag your cunt against him.
"Just go slow, okay?" His reminder is tender, faces close enough to touch, breaths picking up speed. "Slow, slow, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."
"Yeah butâ" your fingers hook under his waistband teasingly, breaths growing shallower. "Want you n- nowâ"
Steve grabs your hands, pulling them up within eyesight. He needs you clear-headed. "Hey, I mean it. We gotta be smart about this."
He doesn't expect you to frown, ego visibly wounded in your expression; what did you hear out of what he said?
"We don't have to do anything if you're not into it."
"No, no, I'mâ" Steve puffs his cheeks out, exhaling quickly. His arms rope you back in, pressing up against him with a gasp. "You were freezing to death less than an hour agoâ"
"Not to death."
"Only 'cause you came back before it was too late." And that he kept you stable, but he's not seeking recognition for that. His hands rise to cradle your cheeks, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Last thing we need is your heart over-exerting itself."
"But you're the one who suggestedâ" you collect your thoughts with a deep breath. "You're sending mixed signals, Steve. Do you want this or not?"
"I do, but I want you safe and warm. So, let me take care of you, alright?"
"OkayâŠ" Steve looks down as you trail off, noticing your mood shift. Concern draws your brows together, tugs your lips downward and hushes your voice to a whisper. A cold finger traces the scar around his neck, and he gulps. "When did this happen?"
He was dreading this, grateful you'd been so delirious while recovering that you didn't notice the freshly healed skin, taut and pinkâ now a little purple from the cold, he's sure; this kind of weather always promises to emphasize souvenirs of the past.
"Last year," he trembles; the more he focuses on trying to breathe steadily, the more he shakes. "⊠Bats."
"The same thatâŠ" He hears you hesitate, holding that one, brutal truth on the tip of your tongue, only to soften it for both of your sake. "Same ones that⊠that attacked Eddie?"
"Yeah, I guess." Steve shakes his head, "I don't know how I survived and he didn't." His voice drops, laden with guilt. "Kinda fucked up if you ask me."
"Do they hurt?" You ask so tenderly, sincerity woven within your words. It pricks hot tears in Steve's eyes, ones he blinks away quickly.
No one ever really asks Steve if he's okay. Not like this. Not when it comes to the Upside Down.
"Yeah," he croaks out. "Sometimes, yeah." Unprompted, he adds, "Not as much as the headaches, though."
"How often do you get them?" You ask, but Steve only shrugs. It's not enough to quell your concern. "SteveâŠ"
He doesn't need you to know just how bad it gets sometimes. The warning signs leading up to a flareâ like how his neck aches and stiffens, how his vision doubles, and the ringing in his ears only grows louder.
Steve doesn't want to worry you, or anyone, of the throbbing, consistent pain; how similar it feels to being cracked in the skull with a fist, something he's experienced more than onceâ one time too many. The agonizing throbbing that morphs into pounding, and sometimes he can feel it behind his left eye, like it's still swollen shut.
Sounds become unbearably sharp and jagged to his brain. Too much light enrages him. They're more than just headaches, he knows that. Yet he bottles it all up, because emotionally, he can't afford to not be okay. He has to show up for everyone else.
Acknowledging him, you hum softly; he's grateful you've never been one to push him too far on a subject he'd rather avoid. "Should I, umâ" you clear your throat awkwardly, "avoid them? The scars, I mean."
Not like this one's much easier to talk about.
Steve's shoulder's tighten while his breath hitches, sharp and obvious and shit, he wishes he caught that in time. That wish strengthens when you grimace.
"I'm sorry. That'sâ I'm not trying to be rude, just wasn't sure since sometimes they hurtâ"
"S'okay," he relaxes after a deep breath. "Don't worry about 'em."
You hum, tracing the one along his neck with your finger. The warmth left in the wake of your touch is another reminder he's safe with you.
It's when your fingertips trail up to his face, palm caressing his cheek before resting there, that his heart skips a beat. And when you gingerly sweep your thumb against his cheekbone, his breath hitches.
"Whenever your headaches start⊠you'll tell me, right?"
When that simple question, loaded with empathy and laced with tenderness, leaves your lips, something within Steve breaks.
"It's⊠it's okay, I can handle it on my own."
For the first time, those words aren't convincing enough to lie to himself.
"Steve," you whisper, head shaking as the color of your irises bore into the hazel of his. "You don't have to handle anything on your own."
It's so direct, so honestâ how can he even respond to that?
There's so much to sayâ how he'd always put the kids before himself, no questions asked. How he wants to do his part and keep everyone safe, during crawls and beyond. How his trauma, chronic and relentless, stays bottled up and shelved away, only to have manifested into a physical curse on every nerve ending in his entire beingâ and he still keeps it hidden away.
The past you narrowly escaped while he was beaten to hell and back, that's not yours to carry, it's his.
"I won't let you handle it alone," you whisper, challenging his unspoken thoughts. "Not anymore."
Feelings for you that he forcefully sunk long ago, rush to the surface and consume Steve. It's overwhelming, and words aren't enough; he surges forward, his lips finding yours while you squeak with surprise.
Steve breaks away, presses his lips to your jaw, kisses down your neck while his hands caress the shape of your figure. His touch is gentle, yet sturdy. Firm, yet sweet.
You bite back a moan, teeth pinning your bottom lip down, but you still shiver. He knows he's making you feel good. If you won't say it, he certainly feels it in the way you grab him, anywhere you can find purchase; his hips, his arms, his back, leaving behind little divots from your finger tips, dug into his skin.
He moves lower, one hand pausing on your breast, kneading it tenderly, kissing down your chest to pause at the other side. His lips gently lingering against the sensitive, pebbled peak is all it takes to begin unraveling you.
The gasp that slips out is one beyond what Steve's dreams could even imagine. His cock kicks as he flicks his tongue on your nipple.
"Shit, SteveâŠ"
He sucks softly, a distinct pop! filling the confined space when he pulls back. He looks up with a thread of spit tethering him to your skin, and you look wrecked already.
He can't even wrap his mind around how devastatingly fucked out you'll look when he's through with you.
"Coulda' kept each other warm all this time," Steve breathes, kissing across the valley between your breasts to the other side. His tongue flits out, lazily teasing your nipple while tweaking and pinching the other. "You just had to be stubborn, huh?"
"Only 'cause you- youâ a- ah, fuckâŠ" your hips roll up into his, cunt grazing against his clothed cock, sticky and warm and slick and godâŠÂ if you weren't so fragile right now, Steve would love to ruin you immediately.
If, you know, you were into that.
His cock twitches as his mind drifts, curious as to what the hell you're even into, and if he'll be lucky enough to have more chances to find out.
The two of you just have to survive this night first.
"'Cause IÂ what?" He should be a little softer, a little kinder, but the edge is returning, and only because of your wanton, needy squirming. "Finish the sentence."
You gasp as Steve nudges his knee between your legs, parting them to flex his thigh against your cunt. You're soaked enough to glide yourself effortlessly against him.
Except, Steve grabs your hips, hovering above you while pinning them in place.
"Finish. The. Sentence."
You clamp your legs tight around the one against your core, but he plants his hands on your thighs, pushing them apart to admire your glistening cunt.
"I wouldn't h- have left if you weren't so m- mean!"
"Yet you're a mess right now." He withdraws, only to use his thumbs to part your folds. "Look at you, dripping and pretending like you're not into this."
Steve licks his lips, one thumb casually gliding up from your hole through your folds, resting lightly over your clit. You jolt from even the slight pressure.
"Bet you were this wet before you left."
Your brows knit together. "IÂ wasn't."
"No?" He taunts you, pad of his thumb circling your clit, so close to where you want him, yet so deliberately distant. "Hm⊠you sure?" Your hips twitch while you gasp, inflating his ego as he simpers. "Seemed like earlier you were pretty fuckin' soaked."
"From t- the snow!" The more flustered you become, the more Steve's confidence grows, bordering onto being cocky. "Jesus, I was outside in a blizzard, in case you forgot."
Steve laughs. He laughs; it's cruel and runs straight to your throbbing clit, adjacent to his teasing touch.
"I don't think so, sweetheart." With a smug grin, he adds, "Doubt the snow would make you smell this damn good either."
"Steve!" You gasp, taken aback. The line's almost tacky, straight out of a bad porno, but Jesus Christ, he can't help himself around you.
"In factâ" he reaches out of the bag, retrieving the garment in question. Reservations long buried under the snow, he brings the pair to his face, eyes rolling back as he huffs in your scent. A guttural groan tears through him, while you're left speechless. "Been wanting to do that all fuckin' night."
Jaw hanging ajar, you whisper, "Holy shit, Harrington."
The smug expression falters, "Too much?"
"No," you breathe out, "fuck, no."
Relief revives his smirk. "Good. I'm far from done with you."
Trailing wet, painfully paced kisses down your body, Steve begins unzipping the sleeping bag; he'd rather not suffocate in that while going down on you. If anything keeps him from breathing tonight, he prays it's only your slick cunt smothering his face.
He's gentle, mindful, caressing your sides slowly to keep you warm. It softens the mean streak he just held out for your sake.
Parting your legs, he glances up to you. "Doing okay?" His lips drag along the plush of your left thigh, gentle, pointed kisses trailing closer to your core. His strong grip digs into your thighs before switching to the right one. "Need to hear you, honey."
"Mhm, yeah, I'mâ" Steve parts your slit, moaning softly as he takes you in. "M'good. Promise."
"Good," he husks, leaving a chaste, open mouth kiss over your core. "Don't wanna neglect this pretty pussy."
You huff with an affectionate eye roll. "Swear to god, Steve, if anyone else said shit like this to me, I'd leave instantly."
"So what you're saying isâŠ" Steve's lips linger on your folds, tongue teasingly flitting out, barely meeting your clit. Your legs twitch while you whimper. "I'm the exception?"
"D- don't let it get to your head, Harâ" Sharply, you gasp as he spreads your core apart with his thumbs, only to spit on your puffy clit. "Fuck."
He leans in, mouth working languidly as his lips meet your glistening slit. It's already written in stone that the taste of anyone else won't ever compare; you've effortlessly wrecked him.
And he's already ruined you with each drag of his tongue, leading to your clit to suckle tenderly. He looks up, hoping to see you slowly unravel, and he does; your eyes roll back in time while you clench around nothing, rolling your hips to chase his tongue.
The soft sounds from his mouth cause you to throb, feeling every hum and groan, hearing him lave at your arousal. Hooded stare weighed down with lust, he continues watching you fall apart on his tongue.
Steve's moans tremble through you, with gravelly murmurs in between; every oh shit, and fuck, and little praise in between is enough to roll waves of heat through you. He must be able to feel it.
"See? You just needed to get warmed up." Your hips jolt against his mouth as he laps at your clit, while a thick finger circles your hole. He grins smugly. "Be good for me, and I'll keep you warm."
Your clit throbs against his tongue, and Steve moans. It's almost as pornographic as the sound he let out minutes before. His arms hook around your thighs, tugging you flush against his mouth.
"Is this all it takes to shut you up?"
Though drained and still trembling, your fingers tangle through his hair, pulling to trap his mouth against your pussy. He notices the light pressure in your grasp, mindful of his mention of headaches earlier.
"I dunno, I- I should be asking you the same damn thing."
The switch is subtle, tiny, but it's enough to send Steve's eyes rolling back into his head, whimpering as he bucks into the floor of the van.
"OhâŠ" you grin deviously. "You're into that, huh?"
The ounce of power, that microscopic switch, falls apart instantly as Steve leans back. Warmth withdraws along with him, your hands fall away, and all pleasure ceases. He slides two fingers up the edge of your folds, spreading them apart to spit directly onto your clit; you twitch and gasp.
"Hey!"Â Exasperated, you yelp, "Why'd you stop?!"
Steve doesn't answer, only runs his hands along the back of your thighs, gently nudging your legs to fold closer to yourself. He reaches your hips, pushing up to throw a nearby blanket underneath your back.
"Whatâ what are youâ" His mouth is back on you, tongue delving into your slit, running around your clit before puckering his lips. "Ohmyfuckinggodâ Steveâ"
You gasp when he mouths sloppily at your cunt, making out with it, taking his time to explore this part of you he's already dreamed so much of.
This part, this sweet, tight, hot part of you that he's fucked his fist to the thought of almost every night since you've moved home.
Not even his wildest dreams could've conceived what you really taste like. Your scent. How soft you are. And pretty, so goddamn pretty.
And as your hardened personality thaws out, the real youâ the one Steve's always pined overâ finally melts through.
He's missed you. So, so much.
The obscene sounds, all of the slurping and suckling to make you fall apart, fill the van. Walls clenching around his fingers as they barely enter you, your body sucks him in greedily.
"Jesus Christ," Steve breathes, getting sloppier as you get louder. He angles his fingers differently, and with the way he's got you positioned, you're blindsided by an orgasm shattering through you.
"Oh my god, oh my godâ" he brushes up against your sweet spot, triggering your legs to shake around his head. "Fuck!"
Your high's barely over as he kisses your inner thighs, eyeing up your puffy, dripping folds.
"Got one more in you?" His lips and chin glisten with your essence in the low light. You nod breathlessly, hand over your chest as it rises and falls rapidly. His demeanor softens. "Hey, look at me."
Dazed, your eyes flutter open. They lock with his, full of concern.
"Should we stop?" You shake your head, but the silent conformation isn't enough. "Need you to say it if you want it," there's a flash of dull pain as he nips at your inner thigh, kissing away the sting immediately. His hand pulls away, leaving you empty and needy.
"I- I want it."
"WantâŠÂ what?"
Exasperated, you whine while throwing your head back, "Oh my god, Steve."
"C'mon, you can tell me." He begins taunting you, "Usually you have no problem running that mouth of yours."
"You're so fucking insufferable sometimes, I sw- swear to god." The tremble in your voice is more from aftershocks than the cold.
Even when you were nice, you had an edge, and he missed that, too.
Steve crawls over you, nose nudging against your own. His fingers feather and tease along your slit, retreating as you buck your hips to chase his touch.
"There she is," chuckling, he slips a finger back into you, leaning down to murmur against your lips, "There's my girl."
As you gasp, he takes the chance to kiss you, really kiss you this time. Your back arches while he pumps into your slick heat. Lips parted against your own, slotted together, tasting yourself on his tongue while he licks into your mouthâ it's all so goddamn dizzying for the both of you.
You break apart when you palm him over his boxers, rendering Steve speechless for a moment.
"Who knew that'd shut you up so easily too," you snicker, giving a gentle squeeze to his bulge, eliciting a sweet gasp from him. "Fuck, Steve. You'reâŠ"
Cheeks heating up to a rosy pink, he freezes, eyes darting down between your bodies, then back to you. "What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. I- I justâŠ" Keeping an airy touch, you trace a finger along his cock. He whines pathetically, head falling forward onto your shoulder. To muffle his sounds, he mouths at your skin. "You're soâŠÂ big."
He sighs; yeah, he should've expected that.
"It's not a bad thing! No part of you is bad!" You're tumbling into a nervous ramble. "That stuff doesn't matter anyway, y'know, size and whatever. I just- I don't knowâ" you clear your throat with an awkward laugh, rushing out, "Idon'tknowifyou'llfit."
Steve blinks as the words sink in.
Oh.
"Hey, shh, s'okay," he chuckles softly, confidence flowing back. "We can try, if you want. But there's no pressure."
"I wanna, I really want to, it'sâ I'mâ youâ"
He cuts you off with a kiss. There's a soft hum reeled out of you, shaping his lips into a smirk against your own. It's short and sweet, resting his forehead on yours as you break apart.
"One step at a time, okay?"
He's back between your legs as before, allowing you both to relax as he tries to take this slow, almost at a lazy pace, but that lasts all of five seconds.
Because one more taste of you, and Steve's a fucking goner.
Steve juts his face into your cunt, tapering his tongue to fuck into you as you're grinding onto his face. He grants your wordless wish, sinking a finger into you again. In search of that sweet, sacred spot, he curls it, grazing somewhere inside that makes hips rock with desperation while you cry out.
"Harder," he grunts into your core, the rumble of his order going straight to your clit without direct touch. He yanks you closer to his faceâ as if it's even possible at this pointâ and his gaze travels away from you, rolling to the back of his head, groaning as you're the only taste on his tongue. In way too deep to speak, he just hums with satisfaction, laced with an air of praise.
Licking into you, the strong bridge of his nose nudges against your clit as it throbs. You buck forward accidentally, but he happily accepts, burying his face between your thighs. He slides another finger into you and smirks as your legs begin to quiver.
"SteveâŠ" You cover your mouth, but he yanks your hand away, while leaning back to spit onto your cunt again.
In between flits and laves of his tongue, he husks, "Wanna hear you again." The vibrations of his gravelly voice are what send you to the edge, but his tender encouragement is what seals the deal. "It's just us, honey. C'mon," he coaxes. "Lemme hear those pretty sounds you make."
Steve works overtime, meticulous in the speed he pumps his fingers, while your essence drips down his hand. The curls and flattening of his tongue between your folds, lapping up every drop you have to offer. Eventually rubbing his nose against your clit while he both tongue and finger fucks you simultaneously.
Bliss rolls through your body, luring out whimpers of his name and babbles of praise.
"Steveâ" you gasp, back arching up as your tangled fingers anchor him to you. "Fu-Â oh my god, fuckâ!"
You tremble, you gush, you unravel at the seams, and he'd keep doing this, and only this, all night if you'd let him. Watching you fade into such a fucked out state has his cock throbbing, sandwiched between himself and the van's floor.
Steve feels sticky; that much he expected. But⊠his boxers are damp, tacky against his skin, along with his tummy, where the tip of his cock lay snug under the waistband.
Oh, no.
"So, uhâŠ" he kisses your core, smirking as it clenches around nothing. Kissing your thigh, he peers up through his lashes at you. "⊠How hard is it to wash cum out of a sleeping bag?"
Dazed, you're still smiling, dopey and giddy and sighing, "Mmm, dunno. Can't be that difficultâ" your eyes pop open before you study Steve, still between your legs. "âŠÂ Why?"
"No reason, really, justâ I'm just curiousâ"
"Steve."
"M'yeah?" His eyes shift away for a second, guilty.
"Were youâ oh my god."
"What?!"
A taunting, victorious smirk comes to life. "Did you hump the fucking floor?"
"Well, when you put it like thatâŠ" Steve cringes, blushing intensely. "Kinda?" Your playful stare narrows down at him. "It's not like I was trying to! It justâ Iâ youâ" he groans, burying his face into the plush of your inner thigh.
The embarrassment's worth it to hear your laugh, genuine and breathy woven into your comedown. "Better on the damn bag than the actual rug."
He could fall asleep here, so cozy and warm between your legs. You card your fingers through his soft hair, gingerly scraping along his scalp, earning his content hum.
Steve lifts his head to be met with your longing stare, soft, weary smile. It's impossible to hide his own smile. "What?"
"Come back up," you shoot out grabby hands. "M'cold."
"Oh," he snorts, crawling back into your arms. "Is that all I'm good for?"
"Nah, your tongue is pretty great, too."
Rolling his eyes, a smile peeks out as he zips the bag back up, cuddling close to you. Your leg swings over his hip and he reels you in. Fatigue settles in, and it's not long before you're drifting off.
You're not cold anymore, with most symptoms finally fading or completely dissipated; he figures it's safe to sleep. Hell, he could use the rest, too.
It's not until the first, faint snore, that he realizes his goddamn, sticky boxers are still on, and he doesn't have the heart to move you.
A little discomfort is worth it if you're safe and sound in his arms, but⊠Jesus Christ, this is going to be one long fucking nap.
Steve's unsure when the two of you shifted in your sleep, but with the limited space in the bag, you've ended up spooning him.
It's⊠kinda nice. He's never been the little spoon before, not with anyone he's ever cuddled with.
By some higher power or sheer, dumb luck, you're warmâ fucking finally. You're clinging onto him from behind and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck.
Steve's breath hitches when your lips graze his neck. He chokes back a whine as you brush your soft figure against his back.
He gently murmurs your name into the dark while your arms tighten around his torso. You hum in return, soft and content.
Splaying out your fingers, they creep down his body, teasing around the waistband, dipping just below the elastic of his briefs.
"Mmâ" Steve bites back some kind of pathetic sound. "Baby, what're'y'doin'?"
The pet name blooms heat under your cheeks. He hears you hum, feels you shrug. Your fingers sink a little lower, brushing up against the head of his cock.
"S'okay?"
"It- yeah, butâ" Steve gasps when your thumb sweeps over the slit on his tip, still tacky from when he came in his boxers earlier. Now, on top of that, arousal weeps his slit on command by your touch.
"But?"
Your hand begins to retreat, until Steve grabs it, shoving it toward the base of his cock. His hips buck into your palm, groan rumbling deep from his throat.
Whether it's because Steve's been touch starved, or just really, really into you (both. it's totally both), your fingertips tracing down his shaft cause him to twitch.
He can feel himself pulsate into your palm as your grip winds around him. You only pump once, twice, three times, and he's quick to begin unraveling.
"I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that," Steve whines, bucking into your fist. "I can'tâ ah⊠f- fuckâ" he grumbles, forcing out, "Iâ dammit, I can't afford to come in my pants again. I only have one pair!"
"Then take 'em off," you giggle. "Need you in me."
Any other circumstance, Steve would allow the teasing to drag on, but he can't take any more tension. He flips over to lean above you, switching positions; you're the little spoon now, and you're flustered from the sudden change.
As you roll to your left side, you lean on your elbow to prop yourself up. Steve hastily plucks a condom from his wallet, still in the crumpled, damp jeans he discarded earlier and within reach.
You keep your legs bent as Steve settles behind you, backside on full display to him. Glancing over your shoulder, you've got a perfect view of him, already reveling in the way he's struggling to keep himself together while rolling the condom down his length.
Hand at the thick base of his cock, he drags the ruddy tip between your folds, teasing your clit before catching at your entrance. He repeats the taunting motion, smirk building with each whimper and whine you set free. One last drag through your slick slit, Steve rests the head at your entrance, pushing in only a little bit.
"Still okay?" He asks, eyes flitting to yours. One might think he sounds groggy from a nap, but he's just pussy drunk already.
"Yeah, mhm," your breathy reply makes his cock kick in his hand and against you. "Ju- just go slow, okay?"'
Steve leans down, planting his lips on your forehead. "Promise I will."
And he does; inch by inch, he slides into you, stretching you out to a limit you've never reached before. In awe, he watches himself disappear inside of you, breath hitching the further he goes.
"Fuckâ fuck, you'reâ" his eyes roll back, twitching against your tight, warm walls. Hips tilting, you push your ass back to help him ease in. All it does is make Steve a total wreck. Pathetically, he strains out through bated breath, "âŠMight need a minute."
"Yeah?" The teasing edge he secretly loves so much is returning; a sign you're feeling more like yourself. "You look like you could use ten."
"Keep it up," he huffs, "you're gonna need a few days 'til you can walk again."
Steve's hips reel back, dragging out torturously slow as you banter on. He leisurely slides back in, stretching you out. Again, he pulls out, even slower this time.
"We talkin' business days? 'Cause tomorrow's the weekend, and I'd love to not be in recoveryâ" He slams into you, bottoming out in one thrust. "â Christ, Steve! What theâ"
Fully retreating, his shaft caresses your silky, slick walls. Fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, he teasingly glides the tip of his cock through your folds, dipping into your entrance.
With each push back, he pulls out; your desire is only met with taunting, dangling bliss just in reach.
"You done talking logistics yet?"
Though your jaw falls open to quip back, only a gasp tumbles out. With another snap of his hips against yours, he fills you again.
That stretch isn't dizzying on one end only; Steve has to gulp down steady breaths to relax. He's wanted this, wanted you, for years now.
No way is he fucking this up now with a pitifully swift finish.
"N'you were worried you couldn't take me," he patronizes, yet your walls clenching around him mercilessly wipe the smug grin off his face. "Jesus fuckin' christ."
"Maybe you can't take me," you dare to challenge him. The teasing ignites something deep within, and, well, you're the one who started a fire you most likely can't extinguish.
Steve lifts the leg closest to him to rest it against his torso. You roll a little more onto your back as he straddles your leg against the floor; similar to missionary, but the angle hits so sinfully as he sinks back in.Â
Then, without mercy, void of warning, he relentlessly pounds into you.
Already at a loss for words, all you have to offer are sharp gasps. The plush of your body bounces with each of his thrusts, enticing his grip of one hand to dig into your hip.
What he doesn't expect is your hand to glide down your form, conforming to your curves until your fingertips brush over his knuckles.
Steve's breath hitches, hips stuttering with a faltering pace. Hesitantly, he laces his fingers between yours, and to his surprise, your grip doesn't falter.
It tightens.
Just like the choke-hold his feelings for you have on his heart.
"Don't get sappy on me now," Steve teases, fighting off his own emotions. His eyes flicker down to your hands intertwined, cock twitching inside you when you tighten your hold on him.
The gesture is small, but his heart flutters; what's meaningful to Steve is something you're probably not even thinking twice about. He rolls his hips against you, slow and deep, hoping to distract from his feelings.
"Wouldn't drâ oh!" You gasp, eyes rolling back as he hits the spot that makes you weak. He hears you murmur his name, strung together with expletives under your breath. "W- wouldn't dream of it."
Fog blankets the windows as each thrust rocks the van on its frame. Sweat beads at your brow, and there's relief found in the sight. You feel so warm, only reminding him mere hours ago you were freezing to death.
But you're here, underneath him, closer than he ever imagined to be outside of his dreams. You're here, warm, coherent, safe.
Safe because of him. Alive, because you chose to trust him.
That plucks at his heartstrings, too.
"Steve?"
Your voice is breathy, but concern is laced throughout, tugging him back into the present. He locks eyes with you, but you're blurry. He registers your hand extending to rest on his cheek, instinctively leaning into your tender touch.
"Hey, slow down," you swipe your thumb across his cheek, and it glides against his skin with ease. Too much ease. "Baby, stop for a second. You're crying."
Baby.
Anytime he's been called that, it never felt right. But hearing it from your lips is a whole different story.
Wait, did you say he was crying?
"Sorry, IâŠ" he trails off, glancing away and kissing your palm, panting heavily against it. "M'okay."
"Steveâ"
"No, I swear. I'm justâ" he shudders out a breath, one with relief. "I'm glad you're okay."
"So much for not getting sappy," you tease, but when Steve only halfheartedly smiles, you fall back into the energy he has. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I'm okay."
"I know." He nods, hair flopping in his face. "I know, I know that. I know."
Maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it.
"Stâ"
He cuts you off abruptly with a kiss, insatiably slotting his lips against yours. His tongue runs along your bottom lip, silently pleading for more. When you oblige, parting your kiss-swollen, wind-bitten lips, he groans, thrusting without warning into you again.
You break the kiss reluctantly, grabbing his face. "Steve. You shouldâ"
"I'm fine, I mean it," he whispers against your lips, sloppily rocking into you. "I'm okay. Promise."
And, really, he is, he just didn't think those emotions would sucker punch him right now.
You gasp again as he hits your sweet spot, eyes falling out of focus into a dazed stare. "M'gonna cum," you rasp out, staving off a strangled moan. "Steve, I'mâ Iâ"
He unsheathes himself from you, and it pains him to do so, whimpering as the chill of the air around erases your warmth. He glances down to your cunt, watching it clench around nothing.
"Why'd you do that?" You're breathless as you manage to ask, and the heartbroken look on your face almost tempts Steve to give in. Instead, he runs a finger through your folds, dripping and enticing as his touch drags over your throbbing clit. "Oh my god, this is the second time tonight you've done that!"
"M'not letting you finish that easy," he teases.
You whine, tossing your head back against the worn pillow, now damp with sweat. He restrains himself from splitting you open again, ignoring how needy his cock is, throbbing, red, and leaking at the tip.
"Up," he orders, throwing the sleeping bag off your tangled forms. Eager for more, you sit up, a little too quickly for his liking. Immediately his tone softens with concern, "Okay, wait. Careful, slowâ Don't need you passing out."
Steve's hand finds your cheek, lips planting on yours, kissing you so sweetly. He smiles against your lips before he rolls a blanket up while nodding to the carpet. "You okay on your knees?"
"Okay?" You climb onto all fours, teasing, "I'm pretty fuckin' great on my knees."
Steve shakes his head, though his smile doesn't fade, "Jesus Christ, and I had the bad lines?" He places the blanket under your tummy, hiking your hips up with the extra support. "That help?"
It's a small gesture, one he probably doesn't think twice about, but it sure sticks with you anyway. "Uh-huh." You wiggle your ass, impatiently eager to be filled again.
His large hands slide over the curve of your backside, squeezing and kneading the doughy flesh. Your core glistens with arousal, practically begging for indulgence.
And Steve? He's in a trance, mouth on you for the third time tonight; he can't get enough of you. No one has ever tasted like you. No one's ever felt as soft as you, been as soaked as you. No one sounds like you, or shows the tiny yet impactful levels of intimacy you do with him.
No one's like you. No one could even compare.
"FuckâŠ" he lowly sighs out, nose nudging between your folds. "Didn't think you'd get this wet again."
"Iâ" You cut yourself off with a strangled gasp as Steve's tongue flits out, curling at your entrance, but not quite dipping in. "Hhhohmygod."
Thick fingers drag through your folds as he pulls back, teasing in circles around your throbbing clit, never touching it directly. You push your ass back, but he grips your hip firmly, holding you still.
"Steve,"Â you whine.
"I know, I know," he murmurs, leaning in to suck crudely on your clit, one final time. Lining up with your entrance, one hand roams to your hips, the other, guiding himself into you. "Gonna take real good care of you, honey."
You're already clenching with a gasp. "Can't be sayingâ a- ah!" Steve nudges the tip into you, barely past the head's flare when you whine out. Sinking in, the delicious stretch lures you both under its spell. "S- sayin' sweet shit to me like th- that."
"I mean it," he groans, eyes rolling back as your tight heat envelopes him again. "Every damn time, too."
"What, this isn't a h- heat of the moment kinda th- thing?"
"Not even close, sweetheart." He digs his grip into the plush of your ass, slowly entering you again. Hypnotized, he watches himself disappear inside of you with each thrust. "Jesus ChristâŠÂ suckin' me right in."
You nudge back into him. Steve chokes on his breath as your ass slams into him. "I- I need more."
"Yeah?" Thumbs on your lower back circle softly on your skin. He watches the goosebumps rise with satisfaction. "How do we ask for more?"
"Jesus fuckin'â"Â irked, you grumble. You slump against the pillows beneath you, whining, "Please."
"PleaseâŠÂ what?"
"Steve, I s- swear to godâ"
"Go ahead," he juts his chin out, smirk strong as he feels a power trip within reach. He wishes you could see how smug he is from there. In a slow retreat, he drags himself out of you, leaving you empty, cold, miserable. "Keep up the attitude, we'll see what happens."
"You're such aâ" Steve slams back into you, knocking a cry from your lungs. His cock kicks against your tightening walls. "Oh, fuckâŠ" You clap a hand over your mouth, but Steve yanks it away.
He pins that arm behind your back, thrusting hard and deep.
"Such a what?"
"Nothing. Sh- shut up an' fuck me already." When he doesn't move, you breathe out reluctantly, "âŠÂ please?"
Steve snaps his hips against your ass, bottoming out within you. The sudden stretch shoves a cry out from the back of your throat.
"Aw, see?â He drags himself out, tauntingly slow. âNot so hard to ask for what you need, huh?" He thrusts again, sinking in to the hilt, "Thaaaaaat's my girl." He moans, rumbling deeply as he fills and stretches you all over again.
 The condescending comment should be that, only that, but instead your breath hitches. It's one that unexpectedly makes Steve's heart jump, his stomach flip; he wonders if you feel the same.Â
"IâŠÂ Yours?"
 Though you can't see him in this position, Steve's eyes flicker away, tongue darting out the corner of his mouth as he tries focusing on fucking you instead.
"Mhm, ifâŠ" He groans when your free hand reaches between your thighs, underneath you both to grip his balls and massage them. "Oh, shit, honey⊠s- so goodâŠ"
Fatigue still rests heavy in your limbs, and even with the pillow supporting underneath, you begin to sag down to the floor. It's not much help that you're not holding your own balance anymore.
"Hang on, I got ya'." It's such a basic phrase handled with care, passion coupling with his actions; a strong arm winds around your waist as his thrusts slow. He hoists you back into his lap, kneeling back on his heels while you're sat back onto him.
He moves again, and you cry out from the new angle, feeling him even deeper than moments before. It's almost toointense; your trembling legs are a sign of that.
"Hey, hey, shhh," Steve kisses your neck softly, leading up to your jaw. "Need a minute?" You shake your head, breaths rapid and shallow. "Wanna stop?"
"God, no," you nearly sob, tightly clenching around his cock, almost to keep him inside you.Â
"Okay, okay." He kisses your cheek, lips lingering against you as he demands gently, "Tell me what you need."
"Y- you."
Steve chuckles, nuzzling his nose against your jawbone, unable to keep his lips off of you. If this is the only time he has you, he wants to kiss every inch he can reach.
"I'm right here."
Your lips part, but your breath is taken away with each thrust; you can only manage a nod while you whine and gasp.
The smell of sex hanging heavy above you both, the plap plap plap of skin slapping on skin, filling the van alongside your filthy moans; the two of you could put a porn studio to goddamn shame.
And then, there's the mouth on Steve among all of this.
"This pussy all mine?" His head falls back with a throaty groan, hips twitching off-key as embers smolder low in his belly, a fire that's always been easy to build off of.
It's only fair to match his energy.
"DunnoâŠ" You turn your head as he leans over your shoulder, holding you flush against him while relentlessly, sloppily fucking into you. "This cock all mine, Harrington?" You burst into giggles among the breathy sighs. "Got me saying the dumbest shit, that's h- how much I like you."
He doesn't just twitch inside of you, he kicks, with little room to move within your tight walls. The whimper that pairs is one too delicious to ever imagine once, just once.
No, he'll never get enough of you. Not now. Not ever.
"S'all yours, honey," his nose prods into your cheekbone when he kisses the round, soft side of your grin. Huffing and puffing, thrusting into you relentlessly, he adds, "M'all yours."
Steve drives his cock deep within your cunt, dizzy as the stretch barely lets up. The fingers gripped around your chin ease up, two teasing at your bottom lip, tracing it softly. You're so fucked out already, it doesn't register what he's trying to accomplish. Not until he pushes them past your lips. That's when you take him in.
Even just two fingers are thick enough to softly gag you, while your tongue licks and laves at his digits. Warm and wet, you leave him a wreck as he quietly imagines fucking your mouth instead.
God, he hopes this isn't a one time fling; he wants you like this all the time.
"Fuck, you're unreal."
You try and fail to whimper his name around his fingers, drooling onto yourself and his hand.
Steve's fingers slip away, hands sliding down your neck. He loosely holds, gives a gentle squeeze, pushing you right up to the edge. You lean into his palm, tightening around him as you give into trust. His thumb caresses the side of your neck
"St- Steve, m'gonnaâ Iâ" his other hand finds your clit, coaxing you to fall into bliss with a steady, tender touch.
"C'mon, come for me," he husks in your ear while his own thrusts stutter, cock pulsing as he follows you into a shared high. He slurs out, "Thas'it. Fu- fuckâ"
He spills into you, and you gush around him, yet it's so much more than that. There's a closeness you've craved, finally satiated as you're intertwined and losing yourselves in well-overdue bliss.
Trying to anchor yourselves to one another, there's desperate grasping in tandem with sounds rooted in indulgence. You've got your arm curled behind to tangle your fingers through his hair. Steve's greedily planting his fingerprints everywhere he can reach, digging pressure into every muscle and curve. You pull, he squeezes; the two of you claim one another through frantically passionate touches.
Beyond the lust, this is what you've always longed for with Steve; even if it didn't pan out the way either of you wanted, maybe it was needed to all fall into place.
Wrapped around one another, sweat still drying, smell of sex finally fading, the two of you revel in the afterglow together. Any wallsâ built with years of spite, grudges, and lossâ between you have been demolished.
That doesn't ease Steve's nerves, though.
"Would youâŠ" Steve trails off as self doubt's choke hold tightens on his heart. You lift your head, chin resting on his chest as your eyes find his.
All animosity in your gaze vanishes; he never thought he'd see the day.
"Would you wanna, uh, go out?" Like he didn't just rail you into oblivion, shyness creeps in. He braces himself for rejection, and maybe this question should've waited until after you're dug out from the snow. "Like, on a date, I mean."
Eager, you tease, "Promise I won't stand you up this time."
"Not like you can leave town this time anyway."
Though you scoff, it's playful. There's a smile he never imagined he'd see again, paired perfectly with your sincere laughter that reassures him.
The light in your eyes that radiates a soothing warmth, like spring sunshine on his skin, is back.
"Not sure I'd leave if I even had the chance," you admit. "Not without you."
And the sincerity in those words, it comforts him. Grounds him. For once, just once, the two of you could have something stable, constant, that isn't a threat to your lives.
There's a comfortable silence between you; the blizzard's howling gusts don't sound so lonely and hollow anymore.
"Might be smart to get dressed before the morning." Steve grimaces, reaching between his legs to slide the condom off. "⊠and clean up first."
"You would ruin the moment with something like that," you groan as he ties it off, sliding an arm out of the sleeping bag to throw it into a small trash bin nearby. "Besides, we're warm and cozy, andâ" he smirks, reaching for the zipper next while you whine. "Ugh, no, c'monâ don't open it!"
Steve shrugs, amused. "Then you can explain to whoever ends up rescuing us why we're naked in the middle of aâ"
"Okay, okay!"Â You grumble, stretching over Steve to zip the bag open. Begrudgingly, you shimmy out, rushing to grab the emergency box for clothes.
Despite your protests, Steve helps you get dressed as you grumble over the soreness, no longer numb from the cold. With teamwork and grace, you're back in warm, dry clothes, and Steve follows suit. He helps you back into the sleeping bag, snuggling up next to you once zipped up.
It's effortless, though mindful, how you tangle yourselves around one another. Your leg is thrown over his thigh while you rest on your side. He faces you, slotting his leg between yours and reeling you into his embrace. You tuck your head under his chin, inviting him to kiss the top of your headâ and he does.
"We're taking the weekend off," you murmur. It's not a question, it's a firm statement. "No crawls. Not unless they're absolutely certain we're ending this."
"No crawls," Steve agrees, chuckling softly into you hair. "Stay over this weekend? I know it's not the most ideal first date location, but we don't really have the greatest options right now, andâ"
"Okay."
"Oh." He pauses, relieved there was no hesitancy from you. "Okay. Yeah. We'll do that."
This might take some getting used to, the whole not being at each other's throats all the time thing. He can't complain, in fact, it's a welcomed change.
"The others can wait, we got catching up to do," you nuzzle your face into his neck, voice vibrating against his throat. "And we'll be dry this time."
He hums with a chuckle low in his throat. "Not sure you could say that for yourself, but sure, okay."
"Steve."
The two of you are too wrapped up in one another to notice the snow finally slowing to something serene, teasing back and forth like you used to. This banter without venom, it's natural now, and he hopes it stays. He hopes you stay. By the way you're so at ease in his embrace, Steve knows you will.Â
Affection stitched directly into the lining of him, inseparable from the rest of his body.
Touch, to Steve, is instinct before intention.
Automatic and unthinking, his hands find you the way roots find water.
Waiting in line at the fall fair, he hooks two fingers through your belt loop and sways you gently side to side while the Ferris wheel spins overhead in smeared red and gold light.
The air smells like fried dough and cinnamon sugar, cold autumn wind carrying bursts of laughter through the crowds. Steve stands behind you with his chin resting on your shoulder, warm chest pressed loosely to your back while he argues passionately about kettle corn versus popcorn.
Once in a while, he'll slide his thumb beneath the cuff of your sleeve mid-sentence, stroking the pulse point at your wrist, completely unaware that your heart is beating itself raw under his fingertips.
Itâs impossible to explain it.
How overwhelming it feels to be loved by someone so thoroughly.
Because Steve never hesitates.
Never acts like affection is something shameful.
Love pours out of him, as naturally as body heat.
If your hands are cold, he interrupts himself halfway through a story just to catch your fingers and tuck them into his jacket pockets alongside his own, rubbing warmth back into your knuckles while continuing his sentence without missing a beat.
If you yawn during movie night, his arm is around your shoulders before the sound can finish leaving your mouth. âCâmere, sleepy girl,â he murmurs automatically, pulling you sideways against his chest.
If your shoelaces come untied in the middle of the sidewalk, he drops immediately to one knee with a distracted, âhang on, baby.â
Rainwater hisses along the curb while he reties the bow tighter this time, fingers quick and practiced, one hand steadying lightly against your ankle. His knuckles brush your skin through your sock and you have to stand there, holding your breath until your lungs ache with it, staring down at the concentration pulling his brows together.
Wondering what it must be like to love someone with your whole heart and not feel like itâs going to break you open.
Heâs warm everywhere, your Steve. Warm hands, warm mouth. Warm stomach pressed against your back beneath blankets. He smells like laundry detergent and faint cedar cologne rubbed into the collar of his jackets. Sometimes vanilla chapstick, sometimes mint gum. Always Steve.
And the kisses are constant too.
Quick, thoughtless ones, born entirely from fondness.
The corner of your mouth while waiting for the microwave to beep. Your forehead when he passes behind you in the kitchen. Your shoulder while you lean over the sink brushing your teeth side by side. The back of your neck when he reaches around you for orange juice in the fridge, mumbling a sleepy, âmorning, honey,â against your skin before kissing beneath your hairline.
Sometimes he just looks at you for a second. Expression softening imperceptibly, like some private thought crossed his mind, and then he leans over and kisses your cheek with this quiet little hum in his throat.
Like loving you tastes good.
And god, the neck kissing.
Itâs terrible.
And right now, in the middle of a museum gallery so quiet you can hear shoes squeak against polished floors, heâs doing it again.
Youâre trying to read the plaque beneath some enormous renaissance paintingâsomething about divinity and grief, oil on canvasâbut Steve is behind you, arms folded around your waist while he scans the museum brochure one-handed.
One of his hands has slipped beneath your cardigan, warm palm spread low across your stomach.
âOkay, so,â he murmurs near your ear, voice low enough that the sound vibrates through you, âthereâs the Greek sculpture thing upstairs, or... thereâs apparently a room with these like, tiny dollhouses?â
You wrinkle your nose. âThat sounds horrifying.â
âRight?â His lips brush the shell of your ear as he speaks. âLike what if one of themâs haunted?â
Then his mouth finds the hinge of your jaw.
One lazy, distracted kiss.
His lips are soft, slightly chapped from the cold outside. Warm breath spills across your skin afterward, making your pulse jump beneath his mouth. He lingers there, nose nudging lightly against your neck while he keeps mumbling off different sections of the museum.
You feel the shape of his smile against your skin when he finds another ridiculous exhibit.
âApparently thereâs a room thatâs just chairs.â
âThat canât be true.â
âNo, I swear to god.â
Then his mouth drifts lower.
Open-mouthed kisses this time.
Slow enough that warmth blooms beneath every press of his lips. You feel the faint scrape of his teeth catch your skin playfully before he smooths over it with another softer kiss, his thumb stroking across your stomach.
Your entire body tightens around the feeling.
The worst part is knowing that he isnât trying to fluster you.
Steve isnât performing intimacy.
He just never second-guesses affection.
Unlike you.
For you, every touch feels catastrophic.
The second Steve touches you, awareness crashes through your body all at onceâyour pulse, your breathing, the weight of his hand, whether your hair smells okay, whether your stomach feels too soft beneath his palm, whether someone across the gallery can see this.
Whether you deserve to be loved this openly at all.
â....and Robin said thereâs some painting of a guy eating his own son which honestly seems kindaââ
He stops, hand stilling against your stomach.
âBabe?â
You blink hard, staring at the plaque without reading a single word.
Steve leans back, concern creasing immediately between his brows.
âHey,â his hand slides higher, rubbing gently over your ribs. âYou okay?â
âHm? Mhm.â
âYou sure?â
âYeah, Iâm fine.â
Another lie.
Your skin still burns where he kissed you.
And underneath all the panic is something worse.
Fear and hunger, knotted so tightly you canât separate them anymore.
Wanting him closer, wanting him to keep touching you forever. Wanting to crawl inside every warm, gentle thing he gives you and stay there.
Not knowing what youâd do if he ever stopped.
Because as terrifying as it is to be loved this softly, you think losing it might actually destroy you.
âYou wanna sit down for a sec?â Steve asks quietly. âI think I still have that granola bar in my bag if youâre hungry.â
You almost laugh, because of course thatâs where his mind goes. Â
Care.
Always care.
âNo, Iâm okay,â you say quickly, forcing a smile. âWe can keep going. The uh, Greek sculpture thing sounds good.â
He watches you for a beat longer than comfortable, thumb rubbing against your hipbone through your jeans.
âOkay,â he says finally.
His hand slides up your arm, gently fixing the cardigan slipping off your shoulder. His fingers brush your neck in the process, absentmindedly smoothing your hair back into place too.
And then, because heâs Steveâbecause affection lives inside him so naturally he doesnât know how to love except with his whole bodyâ
He reaches down and interlaces your fingers with his.
Warmth immediately fills the spaces between your knuckles, his callused fingers curling around yours with steady, secure pressure.
He keeps holding your hand the entire walk toward the staircase, thumb stroking across your skin while he talks about haunted dollhouses and ugly marble babies and whether you think ancient Greek people had chest hair.
And isnât it terrifying, how quickly your body has learned what safety feels like in someone elseâs hands?
...
It isnât just the touching.
You almost wish it was.
Because that would be easier to understand.
A touch can be explained away:
Steveâs just naturally affectionate. Steve likes physical contact. Â
But itâs not just that.
Itâs the way he loves you without condition. Without making you earn it first.
A few weeks into dating, he showed up at your apartment carrying a bouquet so enormous it nearly blocked his entire face.
When you opened the door, all you could see were flowers.
Soft cream roses crowded against pale pink delphiniums, petals curling delicately at the edges like silk ribbon. Deep burgundy dahlias bloomed low in the arrangement, velvety and dark as spilled wine, white babyâs breath drifting between everything like tiny bursts of snowfall.
And hidden right in the middle were your favorites.
Blue hydrangeas.
Dusty-blue petals clustered together like storm clouds at dusk, edges fading lavender where the light caught them. Â
You had pointed them out exactly once while passing a florist downtown.
Three seconds, maybe. Â
You remembered slowing briefly in front of the shop window because they looked beautiful beneath the warm yellow display lights. Rain had just started misting softly against the sidewalk and Steve had been halfway through ranting about some middle schooler trying to rent an R-rated horror movie with a fake ID. Youâd smiled at his story before murmuring, almost absentmindedly, âThose are so pretty.â
That was it.
You hadnât even thought he heard you.
But Steve Harrington has a habit of holding onto the tiniest details about you like they're something precious.
âBaby, I swear to god,â Steve was saying now as he stepped inside your apartment, nudging the door shut with his foot, âI had the craziest day today. This guy at work tried to return a tape completely melted.â
The bouquet landed in your arms before he shrugged off his jacket.
âMelted,â he repeated, horrified, running a hand through his hair. âLike, fully warped. Looked like somebody cooked that thing in a microwave.â
You stared down at the flowers.
The bouquet was heavy enough that you had to support it with both arms. Thick stems pressed cool and damp against your palms beneath layers of cream florist paper, the wrapping folded slightly unevenly around the flowers and tied together with rough twine that looked suspiciously hand-done.
Not florist-perfect, but Steve-perfect.
The flowers smelled dizzyingly alive: sweet rose perfume softened by rainwater and the cool, earthy scent of freshly cut stems.
ââŠum, Steve?â
ââand Keith asked me if I did that,â he huffed, toeing off his shoes. âI mean, can you believe that shit? What does he think I do at work all day, destroy tapes for fun?â
âSteve.â
âYeah?â
You blinked at him slowly.
âWhatâsâŠâ Your throat tightened strangely around the words. âWhatâs this for?â
He looked down at the bouquet like heâd genuinely forgotten he walked in carrying it.
âUhâŠâ His brows lifted slightly. âFlowers?â
He laughed softly after saying it, confused.
But you didnât laugh.
Because your brain was already doing what it always did: rummaging frantically for conditions. For expectations and hidden meanings tucked beneath kindness.
Your heartbeat started creeping unpleasantly high in your throat.
Was it an anniversary?
Oh god.
Had you forgotten something?
Your stomach dropped, dates scrambling uselessly through your head too fast to follow. One month? Six weeks? Was there something couples were supposed to celebrate this early? Had Steve done something thoughtful and now you were standing there empty-handed like the worst girlfriend alive?
The cellophane crackled beneath your tightening grip.
âDid IâŠâ You cleared your throat quietly. âDid I forget something?â
Steveâs forehead wrinkled.
âHuh?â
âThe flowers.â
âWhat about âem?â
Your voice came out impossibly small. âWhyâd you get these?â
âUh, âcause IâŠâ He huffed a tiny laugh through his nose, head tilting. ââCause I wanted to?â
His confusion only made your chest tighten more.
âIs it our anniversary or something?â
His frown deepened. âWhat? No.â
âThen⊠why?â
Steve stared at you for a second, slightly open-mouthed now, the soft amusement on his face fading into gentle concern.
âBaby, theyâre just flowers.â
You stared back helplessly.
âBut why?â you asked again, quieter this time.
âWell, IâŠâ He shrugged one shoulder slightly. âI saw them. And I thought about you.â
The apartment suddenly felt very quiet.
You looked back down at the bouquet in your arms.
The hydrangeas were even prettier up close, petals shifting between pale blue and soft lavender depending on how the light hit them. Tiny sprays of babyâs breath caught between larger blooms like stars scattered through clouds.
A single sunflower tucked near the back, drooping sideways because Steve probably had the bouquet strapped into the passenger's seat on the drive over.
Your throat burned.
âThatâs it?â you asked quietly.
Steve let out a soft breath through his nose.
His socked feet whispered against the floor as he stepped closer, one hand rising to cup your cheek.
Big enough to hold the entire side of your face, his palm enveloped you in warmth. Your lashes fluttered at the feeling of his thumb sweeping beneath your eye, brushing over the apple of your cheek, soothing something there without even knowing what hurt.
âYeah,â he said softly. âThatâs it. I saw âem and thought youâd like them.â His mouth tugged into a small smile. âYou stared at those flowers for like, ten minutes.â Â
You huffed weakly. âIt was not ten minutes.â
Steveâs smile widened, encouraged by the sound of your laugh.
âThere was this whole wrapping station thing too,â he added, gesturing proudly toward the bouquet still overflowing from your arms. The cream paper rustled softly as he touched it, uneven folds bunching around the stems where the twine had already started slipping loose on one side. âThe lady kept trying to help me but I told her I could handle it.â
He tipped his head, inspecting his own work. âPretty good, right?â
You looked down again.
The wrapping really was crooked. One corner folded inward strangely while another flared too wide, babyâs breath poking free through gaps in the paper. Â
It couldnât have been more beautiful.
Steveâs grin turned sheepish, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. âHonestly, I think she stopped helping 'cause I was stressing her out.â
A quiet bubble of laughter escaped you, and the second it did, you noticed the way his face changed. Grin softening, eyes gone warm at the realization that heâd made you smile. Â
That was the other unbearable thing about him.
How carefully he watches for your joy, waiting for the next chance to do it again. Â Â
He really had done all this just because he wanted to.
No special occasionsâhe just saw something beautiful and immediately thought of you.
You blinked quickly, staring down at the velvety rose petals before he could notice the dangerous sting gathering behind your eyes.
Nobody had ever remembered little things about you before.
Not enough to act on them later.
Certainly not enough to drive across town carrying an absurdly oversized bouquet because of one passing comment you barely remembered making yourself. Â
But Steve noticed everything.
The tea you always reach for when youâre sick. The songs you hum in the car without realizing. Which side of the bed you like to sleep on. Which sweatshirt you wear when youâre sad. The way you peel pepperoni slices off pizza before eating. Â
The flowers you paused to admire for three seconds on a rainy sidewalk weeks ago.
Your fingers tightened carefully around the bouquet.
âThank you,â you managed quietly. Â
Steve smiled, stepping closer until the bouquet crushed lightly between your bodies, cellophane crinkling in the quiet of the apartment.
âYeah. Anytime, baby,â he hummed, bending down to press his smile into the curve of your mouth, as natural as breathing.
...
You donât know why you get like this.
Why your body reacts like itâs bracing for impact when all heâs doing is being gentle. Why his affection makes your chest ache the way it does.
Why your first instinct is always to freeze.
Body going stiff whenever Steve wraps himself around your back in grocery store checkout lines, chin hooked over your shoulder while he complains about magazine prices and rubs his thumb beneath the hem of your shirt.
Sometimes he brushes your hair behind your ear mid-conversation and keeps talking without even realizing he did it. Sometimes he reaches for your hand in his sleep, eyes still closed, finding you beneath the blankets when his body notices your absence before he does.
And you wonder why, in all those sweet, wonderful momentsâwhen he kisses your forehead while waiting for the microwave to beep, when he pulls you against his chest during movies, when he drops to his knees on dirty pavement because he doesn't want you to trip over your laces, when he holds your face in both hands like itâs something preciousâyou feel this horrible urge to apologize afterward.
Sorry Iâm difficult.
Sorry you picked me.
Sorry you donât realize yet there are easier people to love.
Love had always arrived transactional before him.
Conditional.
Dependent on being easy enough, pretty enough, quiet enough, useful enough.
But Steve loves you without condition.
And being seen that intimately by someone so goodâsomeone as warm and earnest and sincere as Steve Harringtonâfeels unbearable sometimes.
Maybe thatâs why nights like this overwhelm you so badly.
A fancy dinner downtown stretches long past sunset, candlelight flickering gold across Steveâs face while he steals bites from your plate despite insisting twenty minutes ago he was âseriously so stuffed.â
Wine leaves his cheeks faintly pink by the time you leave the restaurant. His tie hangs loose, crooked around his throat, top buttons undone and sleeves rolled to his elbows. Summer heat still clings to the sidewalks even this late at night, thick with blooming jasmine spilling from flower boxes outside storefronts. Somewhere farther downtown, music drifts through open bar doors, muffled bass and laughter carried through the warm air.
Steve's hand never leaves your lower back, fingers flexing gently against you whenever the crowd thickens, pulling you instinctively closer to his chest.
By the time you drift into the park, your heels are dangling from one hand and your body feels pleasantly heavy from the wine.
The grass is cool beneath your bare feet. Damp earth presses between your toes as you wander deeper along the meadow paths, fireflies blinking through the dark around you like floating embers.
Steve is halfway through retelling some ridiculous story his students had told him earlier that day, pausing every other sentence because he keeps getting distracted trying to kiss you. Â
Grass stains smear across the knees of his expensive slacks when he finally pulls you down beside him into the field.
âSteve,â you protest weakly, glancing at his pants.
âWhat?â he asks innocently, tightening his hands around your waist.
âThose are gonna stain.â
âMm.â He kisses the corner of your mouth, grin lazy. âWorth it.â
You lose track of time there.
Talking between kisses, lying shoulder-to-shoulder in the grass while Steve points out constellations he names wrong on purpose just to make you argue with him. His fingers comb slowly through your hair while your head rests against his shoulder, skin sticking together in the humid night air.
And by the time he gets you home, youâre half-floating.
Steve crowds you against the apartment door before the lock has even clicked shut.
Both hands on your waist, lips sealing over yours. The force of it nudges you softly into the door, his body fitting against yours as he grunts low into your mouth like heâs been holding himself back all night.
Sweet burgundy wine still lingers on his tongue when his lips part against yours.
Heâs warm everywhere.
Warm hands sliding beneath your dress, warm mouth against your throat. Warm breath ghosting over newly exposed skin every time he pauses to look at you.
And he does pause, constantly.
Heavy-lidded hazel eyes drag across your face, your throat, the curve of your body beneath his hands, lips gone slack from that third glass of Merlot though his smile tells you heâs drunk on more than just the wine.
His palms skim along the back of your thighs while he kisses down your neck, the soft scrape of his stubble pulling a shaky breath in the shape of his name.
He smiles against your skin, feeling your fingers clutch tighter at his shoulders.
âCâmere,â he murmurs softly.
The bedroom lights stay low when he walks you backward toward the bed.
Blue comforter wrinkling beneath you when he eases you onto your back, following you down, kissing over every inch of exposed skin while your heartbeat stutters harder with each press of his mouth.
Broad palms smooth upward beneath your dress while his lips trail lower, the slow descent of it dizzying; his mouth dragging across your collarbone, the center of your chest, down your stomach, your ribs, each kiss separated by warm breaths and playful nips that make your muscles jump.
And when he kneels at the foot of the bedânudging your legs apart carefully, lovingly, thumbs stroking slow circles into the soft skin inside your thighs as he settles himself in betweenâhe lets out this quiet little sigh.
Like nowhere else on earth could possibly compare to this.
âPretty girl,â he murmurs against you, pressing the words directly into your skin. âYouâre so beautiful.â
His fingers hook beneath the waistband of your underwear while he glances up at you through heavy lashes, tongue darting briefly to wet his lower lip.
You reach for his hair quickly, panic flaring.
âSteve,â you whisper. âWait.â
His hands still immediately where they rest on your hips. âWhatâs wrong?â
You swallow hard. âNothing, I just...â
Your head spins pleasantly and horribly all at once from the wine and the heat and the sweet boy kneeling between your thighs looking at you like you hung the moon.
âI should shower first.â
His brows pull together. âWhy?â
âBecause,â you laugh weakly. âIâm sweaty.â
Steve smiles at that, like itâs the sweetest thing heâs heard all day.
He leans in even closer, nose brushing over your clothed mound before he presses a slow kiss there.
âBaby,â he murmurs against you, âI donât care.â
âSteve...â
âI mean it.â
His hands glide upward along your waist, warm and heavy as velvet, fingertips grazing your ribs on the way up.
âI like you like this,â he says softly.
Then he takes in a breath.
A deep, deliberate pull through his nose, the warm drag of air against the damp fabric making your thighs twitch around him.
âYou smell good,â he murmurs, kissing you there again. âLike summer.â
Your face burns, but Steve only smiles wider, already halfway gone.
âJust stay,â he whispers. âLet me take care of you. We can take a bath after, promise.â
He turns his head to the side, nose nudging affectionately along your inner thigh before he closes his lips around the sensitive skin there. The suction is soft at first, teasing warmth into you before the pressure deepens just enough to sting pleasantly. Â Â
A new love bite starts to bloom, petal-soft and tender, like a flower kissed awake by rain. His mouth traces over it, soothing the flush of it back into softer color with gentle, unhurried pecks.
âSo pretty,â he murmurs, pressing another kiss over the bruise-tinted skin. âMy perfect girl.â
To be loved this intensely feels like it could swallow you whole.
Like the warmth of it could burn straight through you.
You donât even realize youâve started crying until your breath catches sharply in your chest, a raw, jagged gasp tearing from your lungs.
Steveâs head snaps up instantly.
You jerk your face away in horror, both hands flying to cover your eyes before he can see.
God.
Oh god.
Not now.
Why now?
âBaby, are youââ
His voice cuts off the second your breath stutters again, louder this time.
The mattress jolts beneath you as he pushes upright, fast enough that the bed frame gives a small protesting creak.
âHey, heyâwhatâs wrong?â
You can feel him at your side immediately, his quick, uneven breaths brushing against your hands where they're pressed tight to your face.
âBaby, what happened?â
His fingers curl around your wrists, firm but impossibly gentle.
Always gentle.
âDid I hurt you? Did I do something?â
âN-no,â you choke out immediately.
âThen what?â His voice starts to break slightly, turning sharp with worry. âWhat is it? Honey, whatâs wrong?â
You shake your head helplessly, unable to form the words, unable to explain.
The lamp clicks on beside you. Warm amber light spills across everything at once: rumpled sheets and discarded clothes, Steve kneeling beside you, shirt open at the collar, belt buckle undone and tie hanging loose around his neck. Â
The flowers from dinner are on the dresser.
Slightly uneven in their vase, waterline crooked, the hydrangeas beginning to open wider in the warmth of your apartment.
Embarrassment crashes over you like a wave.
Perfect.
A night heâd planned so carefullyâreservations at the candlelit Italian place downtown, your favorite wine already waiting at your table, flowers arranged before youâd even walked through the doorâ
And now youâre crying halfway through sex because your brain canât handle something as simple as being loved.
You turn your face away again instinctively, shoulders curling inward, but the tears donât stop. They come harder, messy and humiliating, gasps of air ripping through your chest no matter how hard you try to swallow them down.
You feel Steveâs hand slide up your spine.
Slow, slow passes between your shoulder blades, fingertips pressing gently.
âHey,â he whispers. âHey, itâs okay. You donât have to hide, okay? You donât have to hide from me.â
âIâm sorry,â you choke out, wiping at your face uselessly. âI-I donât know w-why IâmâIâm sorry, fuck, Iâm sorryââ Â
âNo, hey, donât apologize, baby. Donât say sorry.â
You resist him weakly when he tries to gather you in his arms.
You canât look at him.
Canât stand the thought of seeing the concern on his face after ruining this.
âI justââ You let out a shaky breath, voice cracking completely. âFuck, I-I donât know whatâs wrong with me.â
Steve stills at that.
Then slowly, carefully, he takes your wrists fully in both hands.
You let him this time. Arms trembling the entire way down as he lowers your hands into his lap. You still refuse to meet his eyes, staring instead at the heavy rise and fall of his chest. His crisp white shirt is wrinkled, open at the collar, a faint pink bite mark just above his collarbone where you kissed him during the taxi ride home. Â
His gaze presses into you, heavy and intent, trying to read what you canât say.
âI need you to look at me,â he says quietly.
âI canât.â
âYeah,â he answers immediately. âYou can.â
Another tear slips down your cheek. He catches it without hesitation, wiping it away with the pad of his thumb.
âPlease,â he whispers, softer now. âLook at me.â
You finally do.
Steveâs hair is a mess, chestnut strands falling across his forehead where your fingers had been tangled moments ago.
His eyesâwarm honey and green and amber all blurred together beneath the low lightâare pained, tight with worry and unbearably expressive.
âThere's nothing wrong with you,â he says, unshakably certain. âNothing.â
His lips are swollen from kissing you, parted slightly with how hard heâs breathing.
Itâs so painfully clear, how panicked he is.
Steveâs face never hides anything
It doesnât know how to.
When heâs happy, it shows in the soft wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
When heâs worried, it gathers in his brows, in the tight set of his mouth.
And when he loves, it radiates from him so naturally it feels endless. Like sunlight.
You wonder what that must feel like.
To love someone without fear.
To offer tenderness without expectation, without the quiet dread that grows the more there is to lose.
He reaches up slowly, clearing tear-sticky strands away from your temples, thumb brushing beneath your eye. Still trying to read what hurts, the furrow in his brows asking without words.
You want to tell him.
For him, youâd try.
But the truth feels monstrous once it reaches your throat.
How do you explain that being loved by him feels unbearable sometimes?
That every touch lands somewhere deep inside you that still expects pain?
That he gives and gives and gives, asking for nothing in return, and yet some terrified part of you waits for the bill to come due?
How do you explain that it makes you feel broken, not knowing how to take something he gives so easily?
You part your lips, throat dry and aching.
Steve waits, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your wrists.
Patient.
Always so fucking patient with you.
âI just...â Your voice shakes. You stare at his mouth instead of his eyes, because itâs easier than being seen.
â...I just really love you.â
It rushes out so quickly.
And in a horrifyingly beautiful moment of clarity, you realize itâs the first time youâve ever said it to anyone.
Ever.
Steve goes still. His brows soften, eyes drooping at the corners. His lips part soundlessly for a second.
âOh,â he breathes.
You feel his hands twitch against yours, squeezing your fingers unconsciously. Â
âI love you too,â he says, immediate and certain. âI... I love you so much itâs kind of insane.â
He watches you for a moment, thumb rubbing slow over your knuckles.
âIs that... is that why you're crying? 'Cause you love me a lot?â
A small, startled laugh breaks through your tears; it sounds so simple when he says it like that. Â
It isnât simple.
But maybe it also is.
So you nod, watching him visibly come back to himself, drawing out a shaky breath, shoulders dropping heavily like heâd been bracing too, just in a different way.
âOkay,â he murmurs. âOkay. Câmere.â
This time you donât hesitate.
You fold into him, feeling his arm wrap securely around your back, the other cradling the back of your head.
And what you always used to brace againstâtonight, you sink into willingly.
âIâve got you,â he murmurs into your hair.
You let your eyes slip shut, burying your face in the crook of his neck, fingers crinkling his shirt as you hold on tight.
âI love you,â you whisper again, the words pressed softly against his skin.
Thank you, you mean.
Thank you for being gentle with me.
Thank you for waiting.
Thank you for loving me like itâs easy.
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