summary, đŻhe blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. you had never thought youâd agree, until you found john logan and the bad influence department ⪠bid âŤ.
fem!reader x john logan, found family trope â roommates to lovers, descriptions of coping mechanisms, memories of family disputes, broken family ! five acts
act i.
"itâs a biohazard zone,"
allie threw herself into my bed with a deep sigh, her bones deeply tired and aching after her theater rehearsal. "dean has been strictly relying on dry cleaning since they havenât figured out how the washing maschine works. logan is totally helpless, trying to fix everything, technically and emotionally. and theyâre fighting over every small thing. they are completely helpless without tucker."
i could merely offer a ghost of a smile, a mechanical lifting of the mouth that carried no warmth. my hands fell into my lap like uselessy, trembling so violently they fluttered against my silky shorts. crossing my wrists, anchoring them deep between my knees, i squeezed until the physical pain subdued the rattling of my nerves.
âthat sucks.â i mumble monotonously.
my best friendâs expression shifted instantly, the humor draining from her eyes as she analyzed my demeanor. allie was slowly catching on, even if i hadnât told her yet. if my behavior hadnât thus far indicated the events that occurred this past week, by now, it would be obvious.
weâd marched through the difficulty of adolescence bravely, inventing a dialect only we understood, built from nights crying after family disputes, shared clothing, and an attachment that quietly outgrew friendship, reshaping us into family.
our histories were so deeply intertwined that my own childhood memories felt incomplete without her face in the frame. allie was the keeper of the girl i used to be, and the only person who didn't require me to explain myself.
my lips trembled and i had to bite into them briefly, âthe financial aid office officially locked me out,â a lone tear trailed down my face, âiâll be homeless in three weeks, al.â
my sheets rustled with allieâs movements as her body collapsed forward, burying her face into the crook of my shoulder as her arms closed around me. i sank into her responsively, pressing my cheek against her chest until i could hear the steady, rhythmic thud of her heartbeat.
the first sob finally ripped through my throat and i couldn't hold the weeping, nor could i halt the breathless hiccups that hitched in my windpipe with every inhale. allieâs rhythmic murmurs of iâm sorryâs were barely audible, a desperate chant offered up to the quiet space between us.
âlet me help you,â allie mumbled, kissing my temple as she caressed my hair from my sweaty forehead. i drew in one long, shaky breath, holding the air in my lungs until my ribs ached as i deliberately forced the hysteria to subside.
"they have an empty room," allie continued suggested softly.
i simply stared at her with wide hollowed eyes while singular trails of tears occasionally ran down my face. memories of my volatile household returned without warning, a sharp, jagged thought that sliced through my fragile composure. instantly, a heavy ache bloomed right behind my breastbone, as if my ribs were slowly collapsing inward to shield my heart from the blow.
my best friendâs fingers slipped gently into mine, weaving through the tension in my grip, "tuck needs someone to take over his lease immediately so he can pay for his new place with sabrina. and logan is handling the paperwork, heâll be really glad to have you.â allie whispers, âthink about it.â
act ii.
the front door was slightly ajar, leaking deep sounds of hysterical voices from the inside.
i held the oxygen in my chest for a fleeting second, watching the golden portion of apartment light cut across my ballerina flats while i gathered the courage to enter. with a resolute exhale, i pressed my manicured hand against the center of the door and pushed it slightly open.
"i watched a youtube video about it," an exasperated voice boomed from the living room, one i recognized well. there stood dean, wearing nothing but hockey shorts and a backwards cap as he strode past the hallway while shaking a plastic blender bottle. "and it did not help me differentiate the soaps at all, g!"
"you canât dry clean forever, dean.â another voice shot back from a massive mahogany leather sofa.
i gradually drifted further into the house, my eyes darting over the sheer mess. walking into the living room was like stepping directly into a space where aesthetics was a mere concept. a residence of men left to their own devices, free from the pressure of polite presentation, designed purely by brotherhood.
dean suddenly pushed away from where he leaned against the kitchen island, snapping his fingers as he stood up straight, cupping a hand around his mouth, âlook alive, gents!" he bellowed, "the historical moment has arrived. our new roommate enters the hawks nest!"
the blonde swept an arm out in a grand, melodramatic invitation, steering the attention of the entire room right onto me. watching dean stand there with that ridiculous, wide grin, throwing himself entirely into the theatrical bit just to make me feel welcome, i saw a glimpse of allie. suddenly i understood more than ever why she fell in love with him, they operated on the same wavelength.
the chaotic crossfire of their conversation vanished into a sudden, expectant silence, leaving two pairs of curious eyes waiting for me to make the next move.
âquite the announcement,â i laugh, âhi, guys.â
"welcome, iâm garrett," the brunette on the sofa spoke up, shifting his legs to make room beside him as he paused his video game. "make yourself at home, roomie." garrett flashed a charming, entirely unbothered smirk.
steeping deeper into their territory, the atmospheric weight of the room nearly made me collapse backward. the dominant odor was a sharp blend of lingering sweat and expensive cologne, though the sight as one stepped further inside was far worse.
stray tools, loose screws, and heavily taped hockey sticks were propped against every available surface, while a heap of clothes spilled across the rug, escaping the basket. as i approached the sofa, i had to consciously try to breathe exclusively through my mouth to block out the ambient aroma of the place.
the sheer filth made me question myself.
before i could forget how to breathe, the living room door swung open and john logan appeared, carrying a wrench while looking incredibly striking in his damp shirt. the stark white cotton turned translucent against the warmth of his skin, leaving the defined lines of his abdomen entirely exhibited.
my memory of his appearance had done him an injustice, painting him in the category of an ordinary handsome guy. the reality was far more disruptive. the sharp angle of his jaw and the flawless cascade of his brown waves made my previous recollection feel foolish. i stood entirely undone by the sheer sight of him.
howâs it fair for someone to look like that? i had never thought of a man as mesmerizing before, but john logan definitively was.
âyou made it!â logan exclaimed, a genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips as his eyes locked onto mine and the pensiveness in his face softened completely.
he set the wrench on the coffee table and wiped his hands on his sweats, stepping over a stray hockey stick to reach me. his grip on my hand was warm and steady as his thumb brushed lightly against my knuckles. it was a brief touch, but it felt entirely grounding. "please excuse the mess, especially me, we werenât expecting you today."
dean dropped heftily on the armchair, âdonât excuse the mess, itâs our standard at this point.â he then leaned backward, resting his arms behind his head, âyouâre excused though, man, did you lose a battle against our water pipe?â
i soft laugh catches loganâs attention for a moment while he walks to the kitchen counter and gets a cloth to wipe his hands. he bites back a smile, then glances at us, âgot distracted by your announcement and turned the pressure valve the wrong way.â
a ripple of quiet amusement passed through the three of us, binding us in a sudden, collective chuckle.
âso long the shower works again.â
garrett nodded, "we take things one appliance at a time here,â then he winked at me with a grin, âas of now, the shower is functional, which means weâre ahead of schedule for today.â
logan tossed the damp cloth onto the kitchen island where multiple beer blottes scattered. he stepped back into the living room, carelessly pulling the bottom of his white tee upwards, flashing his deeply defined torso, the consequence of relentless training on the ice. his shirt rested this way, and he didnât mind any of us observing, most of all my shameless ogling.
then, logan placed his body between dean and i on the sofa. he was close enough that the clean scent of his cologne completely overrode the faint smell of the pipe he fixed. his broad shoulder casually brushed against mine as he leaned back, the sudden touch washed a lingering feeling over me that i had to suppress by biting my lip.
"hmâyeah," logan mumbled, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a quiet intensity that moved a delicate flutter through my chest, my heart betraying me as it palpitated. "time for our five-oâ broadcast, the animal discovery channel. itâs supposed to increase our emotional intellect as well as rapport."
"a deeply emotional cinematic experience," garrett added in all seriousness, "last week we learned about the mating rituals of the penguins and dean wept."
"they mate for life, g! itâs rare in this day and age!" dean snapped back defensively, though there was no real heat to it. he kicked his feet up onto the wooden coffee table, narrowly missing a can of beer.
"youâre one to talk," john logan murmured, his voice practically a vibration against my left shoulder. he didn't pull away, if anything, as he settled deeper into the plush cushions, his right arm stretched along the back of the sofa, knuckles just barely grazing my head and boxing me into his orbit.
the television screen lit up with the icy blues and blinding white expanse of the antarctic wilderness. the stark, snowy landscape on screen was a sharp contrast to the suffocatingly close space of the sofa.
dean poked logan, eliciting a hissy-chuckle from the brunette, âshut up and watch the birds, lo." he muttered.
the chaos had a cadence to it and for the first time in weeks, my ribs stopped caving inward.
it was an unpolished, accidental sanctuary, built out of chaos and wit. though sitting there, pinned between the solid heat of john logan and the absurd, effortless chatter of the room, the terrifying weight of the outside world simply drifted out of reach. the tempest hadn't vanished, but the walls held firmer than before.
âso,â logan murmured, tuning his head, âfeel like youâd want to move into the b.i.d?â
the instant his eyes met mine, the atmosphere thickened. there was an intoxicating gravity in his tender gaze, something substantial and beautifully unhurried that bypassed every guard i had left. framed by the ambient light of the screen, his face became the only sharp detail in a blurred visage.
âb.i.d?â i question with a faint giggle, my voice barely carrying over the brass of the documentaryâs soundtrack, "what does that mean?"
âbad influence department.â
a wickedly slow tilt appeared at the nook of his mouth, but as his brown eyes locked onto mine, the smug humor melted into something entirely different, something infinitely intimate. the background chatter of the documentary dissolving into a faraway hum, as well as deanâs constant commentary.
then he moved. his rugged hand shifted along the leather backrest, long fingers trailing down to the nape of my neck before resting gently against the side of my throat. his thumb pressed against the hollow just below my jawline, a feather-light, deliberate drag of skin that felt less like a casual touch and more like unspoken yearning.
loganâs heat seeped directly through my skin, anchoring me so deeply to the spot that my racing pulse thudded right against his touch. he didn't pull away, nor did he look away. logan just held me there, broad shoulders closing off the rest of the apartment until he was all i could feel.
"so?â he probed, his low voice a physical vibration that brushed against the shell of my ear. his thumb smoothed another small, intoxicating circle against my skin.
"iâd love to be part of b.i.d."
act iii.
"state your purpose, pal." dean hollers, clicking a desk lamp directly into my face.
i groaned and blinked against the harsh light, sitting in a squeaky plastic rolling chair in the center of the living room. i was afraid that if i leaned too far back, i would topple over. âiâm signing the lease, dean. iâve been living here for a week."
"procedural protocol," garrett chimed in from the shadows of the kitchen doorway, wearing a striped tie paired with a hawks jersey for absolutely no reason. "youâve been unnaturally helpful and gracious so far. there has to be a catch.â
dean hums in agreement, âyeah. a spy for sure.â
logan drags out an exhausted groan from the kitchen island, where he was looking over a stack of official lease documents. he was wearing his brown carhartt jacket, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms, looking like the only sane person in this house. "leave her alone. sheâs already paid her application fee in the form of not reporting us to the health inspector."
i lean forward, shooing deanâs hand away away as i blinked rapidly. âi have questions about the financials," i pulled my phone out, showing the calculator screen. "logan, you texted me that my share is six hundred dollars. i checked the campus housing board and a room here is at least two thousand. what kind of tax fraud are we running here if iâm paying less than half the rent?"
my hypervigilance was screaming for growing up with my parents meant discussing and handling the topic of money was highly sensitive, usually ending in a spiteful dispute.
logan didnât blink as he walked straight to where i was trapped in the middle of the living room, sliding a pen softly into my hand while his steady gaze held mine with unwavering certainty. "tuck paid the bulk at the beginning of the semester," he spoke effortlessly. "the landlord just needs the remaining baseline covered so he doesn't flag us for an empty unit. we need you to sign it, dove, or the landlord forces a random sophomore in here."
"a random who wonât construct gourmet-level late night snacks with me," dean warned with a raised eyebrow, pointing a finger at me. "sign the paper, missy. save our late nights."
i giggled and looked at the document, then back up at logan. a tiny spark of amusement lit up in his brown eyes, but beneath it was a fierce, protective weight that made my chest tighten. he was standing close enough that i could smell his clean cedarwood cologne over the scent of garrettâs damp hockey gear.
"if you insist." i mutter lightheartedly, signing my name at the bottom. for the first time in my life, the suffocating knot behind my ribs dissipated.
it wasn't a grand shift, but weightlessly delicate as if i finally drew air after holding my breath for far too long. nestled in the warmth of their unhinged sanctuary, surrounded by unbothered banter and unspoken protection, the serrated panic that had consumed me faded.
garrett pulled me out of his thoughts by blowing a plastic whistle and jumping around my crappy chair with dean.
as the boys cheered and instantly locked horns over who got to pick what documentary weâd watch next, loganâs fingers glided over mine in an intentional sweep, a contact that was unhurried and undeniably charged. "sweet." his dark eyes dropped to my mouth, tracing it with an earnest, unhurried focus before climbing back to lock with mine.
"welcome home, dove. youâre stuck with us now."
act iv.
the screen faded to dark, rolling end credits over the muted living room. with garrett out at an extra training session and dean down the hall lost under his gaming headset, the houseâs usual uproar had condensed into the quiet hum of the radiator and the rhythmic cadence of logan breathing beside me.
in the dim, amber glow of the television, logan shifted, resting his arm along the back of the sofa and tugging me into his side. i leaned into his magnetism, resting my head against his shoulder. his fingers began a languid, soothing trace back and forth over the bare skin of my arm, a gentle movement that felt so sweet it almost made my chest ache.
it was surreal how effortlessly this intimacy had taken root over the past few months. i thought back to those early weeks, how i used to flinch at raised voices, constantly hovering on the perimeter of their lives, terrified of intruding.
but imperceptibly, the distance between us had collapsed. it was built in the subtly unscripted moments, where logan silently set a fresh cup of tea by my notebook during exhausting study sessions. the afternoon he sat on the kitchen floor with me, patiently fixing a broken shelf without asking why i was crying over a splintered piece of wood. the profound conversations on this very couch when the rest of the house was asleep, where he incrementally coaxed the tension out of my shoulders until being near him felt as natural as breathing.
"youâre quiet tonight," logan murmured, his breath fanning softly over my hair before his lips pressed a tender, unhurried kiss against the crown of my head.
"just comfortable," i whispered, turning my face into the crook of his neck to inhale his familiar scent of cedarwood and clean soap. "itâs rare that it's this peaceful for so long around here."
he chuckled a low vibration that thrummed straight through my ribs. loganâs hand slid down, intertwining his fingers with mine in a loose, protective hold as he shook his head in agreement. "enjoy it while it lasts. once dean finishes his game, the peace is officially dead.â
i smiled halfheartedly, squeezing his hand in return, anchored by his presence. as my gaze drifted to the coffee table, my instincts flickered to life and i reached forward to gather the empty glasses and snack wrappers. even after months of living here, the subconsciously persistent habit lingered. the urge to stay useful, to prove my utility, to guarantee i was never a burden to anyone.
"hey," logan interjected tepidly, his hand moving to catch my wrist in an arresting movement, "look at me, please."
i turned my head, sinking into the reassuring depth of his gaze.
"you don't have to earn your keep here," his tone struck a chord of absolute seriousness that cut straight through my defenses, âyou don't have to be perfect to be allowed to stay in this space. youâre aware of that, right?"
my throat constricts with a freight as i looked down at our joined hands, the memory of my first week in the apartment floating to the surface. i reflect on the absurd interrogation with dean and garrett, the rent amount proposal from logan, and his smooth explanation about tucker paying the bulk of the semester upfront. over the last few months, as iâd grown familiar with local lease agreements, the math had stopped adding up. tucker couldn't have prepaid that amount even if he wanted to.
i pulled my hand gently from his grip so i could face him fully. "logan, tucker didn't prepay the semester, did he?"
loganâs body froze but dark eyes didnât dare look away from mine. he didnât look particularly troubled and he also didnât retaliate against my assumption. he just waited, listening with infinite patience.
"six hundred dollars," the weight of the realization settled torrentially in my gut. "a room in this building is at least two grand. youâve been secretly covering the rest of my share every single month, haven't you?"
logan didn't get defensive, nor did his composure fracture. instead, he simply leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, âdean and i split it.â
a torturous spike of anxiety flared along my spine with his admission. growing up, money was never a gift; it was leverage that always came with strings attached to it. it was a weapon to be wielded in arguments, or a debt used to demand bonding obedience.
"you lied to me!" i huff in disbelief, my voice tense as i sat up straight with my pulse hammering. "i donât want you to fund me, it is not your burden to carry. i am not your burden.â his honeyed eyes held an overwhelming spark of understanding, which immediately began to dismantle my turmoil, âwhile itâs incredibly sweet that you care, i canât owe you logan, i canât.â
âyou will never owe me anything.â logan insisted as his voice lowered to demonstrate his earnestness, âyou wonât.â reaching out to hold the side of my face, his thumb swept gently across my cheekbone in a grounding caress. âlook, allie talked to us about your situation and we really wanted to have you here. youâre no burden to us and itâs no trouble. did i hold back the truth?â he sighs defeatedly, âyes, and iâm sorry, i truly never want to lie to you, dove.â
a stray tear slipped past my lashes to wet the skin beneath his thumb. "but you did." my whisper trembles. âyou donât understand, i canât owe you.â
then he called out my name, so stern and yet so tender.
"you donât understand," he said firmly, his dark gaze holding mine with unyielding devotion. "this isn't a debt, and i will never, ever hold it over your head. itâs just a cushion to give you room to breathe until your financial aid gets sorted out and you're standing firmly on your own feet.â his thumb caressed away my trailing tears, âwhen you're ready, if you want to pay back every cent, we will figure that out together. but as long as you're under this roof, with us, with me... you never have to worry about losing your home."
the suffocating knot behind my breastbone finally snapped, giving way to a profound, weightless relief. this feeling of unconditional generosity and compassion was entirely foreign to me and, frankly, extremely hard to welcome without some polite resistance.
"i donât need you to carry this burden and break to prove yourself to anyone." logan confessed, his voice dropping into that velvety tone meant only for me. he leaned in closer until his lips grazed mine with agonizing sweetness. "i just need you. every time i walk through that front door, iâm terrified you've realized how chaotic this place is and packed your bags. donât let anything drive you away, especially not yourself."
i looked into his mesmerizing eyes, feeling the steady weight of his hand against my skin. my parents had spent my entire life making me feel like a burden, an exhausting mess to be managed and logan made me believe otherwise just by the way he gazed at me.
"iâll try." i breathed, my hand instinctively rising to rest against his forearm, feeling the firm line of muscle beneath his shirt.
"good. i wont let you.â he chuckled as his gaze dropped to my lips but the cadence of his voice held a weight of truth. "because i don't think i could survive this place without you."
the tranquil space between us evaporated into laden desire. logan leaned in carefully until his lips just barely pressed into my own, hesitantly asking for permission with his proximity. his mouth only met mine in a profoundly intimate kiss when i leaned further into his essence.
it was not rushed or desperate but intoxicatingly enchanting, which consumed every lingering doubt in my chest. his free hand slid into the hair at the nape of my neck to hold me gently against him as i melted into his chest.
suddenly, the aggressive click of a door handle echoed down the hall. then dean strode into the living room, holding an empty green bag of chips. "hey, lo,â he hollers, âdo we have any more of those vinegar, uh," he halted mid-stride, eyes frowning as he caught sight of us almost absorbing one another on the couch. his eyebrows then raised as he shrugged, as if he had expected this phenomenon.
without breaking his cadence, dean executed a seamless, precise ninety-degree pivot on his heel, took two steps backward, and slammed his bedroom door shut without another word.
a breathy laugh broke against loganâs rosy lips, though he didn't pull away immediately, lingering for a final tender brush against my mouth before letting out a delighted whimper.
act v.
"johnny, hold still!"
i gently pressed a blue gel ice pack against the hard, defined contours of logan's left shoulder, slightly grimacing empathetically with his every whimper.
he groaned, a tiny flicker of tension passing over his features before settling back into a posture of absolute surrender on the wooden kitchen stool. positioned squarely between his knees, i was enveloped in his heat. he was shirtless, the sharp lines of his torso mapped out by the dim overhead lighting. despite the blooming purpleish-blue bruise, his rough hands were resting securely on my hips, holding me steady between his thighs as he had done countless times.
"i am holding still." logan muttered, though he complied nonetheless. his dark eyes were fixed entirely on my face, a subtle yearning in his gaze that hypnotized me whenever i caught it.
"youâre breathing too hard. it shifts the ice," i teased, using my free hand to gently trace the unbruised line of his collarbone.
"thatâs just because you're standing so close, dove," he countered, his voice dropping into that rough, deep register that always made my stomach do a violent flip. he slid his hands up my waist, fingers anchoring on my ribs as he pulled me a fraction closer, rosy lips grazing the delicate curve of my jawline.
footsteps thumbed against the wooden floor. "oh, look at the sympathy protocol," garrett groaned, walking into the kitchen and past us to grab a protein bar.
then he stopped to stare at loganâs bruised shoulder, then at my hands in his cascading waved. he didn't blink at the intimacy, by now used to it. âhey, doc, since logan is legally incapacitated by a minor body check, does that mean he can't do his half of the trash rotation?â garrett raised one eyebrow, â'cause i feel like, legally, you should take his shift."
i giggled while my hands continued to work.
"loganâs shoulder works fine for throwing things at your head, graham," logan growled, his grip on my waist remaining immovable. he then leaned further up, tracking his lips along my cheek until he found my mouth, pulling me into a deep, mellow kiss right in front of his best friend. for a fleeting second, logan leans back to harmlessly though seductively nip at my bottom lip with a practiced familiarity, his chest heaving against my front as his scent of sweat, cold ice, and cedarwood enveloped me completely.
garrett let out a dramatic groan, grabbing his protein bar. "unbelievable. domestic favoritism. iâm reporting this to, i donât know, someone."
the moment the kitchen door swung shut behind him, the room quieted, and the remaining air charged. logan pulled back just a fraction, a devastatingly handsome smirk settling at the edge of his mouth as he looked up at me through hooded lashes.
"is the ice still doing its job?" he whispered against my lips, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic circle through the fabric covering my hip.
"i think it melted," i breathed as my heart hammered in a a chaotic rhythm while my arms slid around his neck, pulling him closer.
"likewise, baby.â logan grinned with a sultry murmur against my skin before he pulled me back down into the heat of his mouth, drowning us both.
summary, đŻrapped by the same monster in different cages, you feed him the truth when the world feeds him lies, and he gives you a reason to keep breathing through the smoke.
haymitch abernathy x fem!snow!reader, no mention of lenore dove, forbidden romance, slow burn, graphic descriptions, death, hurt-comfort, hope despite everything, angst, gore, allusions to trade, psychological trauma, grief, political propaganda, loss, substance abuse, oppression; five acts
act i.
50 a.t.t
the silk of my ivory gown whispers against my skin, a pristine, blinding white that equals the marble floors of the presidential mansion. i stand behind the heavy glass of the balcony doors, watching the capitol elite swarm the avenue below like moths driven by a blind devotion, rushing toward the flame, begging to be consumed by the very thing that blinds them.
my grandfather stands beside me, resting his hands lightly on the mahogany balustrade. he looks out over his empire with a practiced serenity of a man who believes he has sculpted the world into his own image.
"look at them, my darling," he murmurs, his voice a smooth, gravelly grumble, "they revel in the spectacle, they need it. and you shall inherit all of this, every cheering throat, every trembling knee."
i force a courteous, though hollow smile to my lips, dipping my chin in the exact gesture of dutiful adoration he expects. yes, grandfather, i think behind my teeth, a venomous echo answering his vanity. my eyes deviate back to the chariot parade, spotting the incoming charcoal tribute chariot from district twelve, the coal miners.
i will inherit it, then i will burn it to the ground.
deep in the press of the roaring crowd, the tributes of twelve strain to stand tall against the rain of flying garbage and the venom of drunken taunts. a man lunges forward, aiming the crooked tip of a cane at maysilee donner, only to crash mouth-first onto the cobblestones and leave a bloody tooth behind in the dust. nearby, a half-bare woman sways above the chaos, mocking the district cart with brazen, unsparing gestures.
the capitol cheered for the slaughter, but my heart fractured quietly as the faces of the children hurried by in their chariots. i committed every single one of them to memory, refusing to let the capitol swallow their identities whole. my empathy bled for all forty-eight, whose lives were being stolen for a sadistic political game.
my thoughts were interrupted as chaos erupts.
a firework tears into the night with a guttural scream, bursting into a blinding shock of blue light directly before the district twelve team. terror strikes the horses then they rear and plunge sideways, hooves scraping wildly as they fight the pull of gravity. my palms slam flat against the cold balustrade, heart hammering violently against my ribs as the blonde tribute, haymitch abernathy, is swept off his feet. he crashes to his knees, fingers clinging desperately to the railing while the team dissolves into a frantic, blinding blur of panic.
the chariot veers wildly, shearing past district elevenâs rig before slamming into the churn of district tenâs heavy ironwork. terror anchors my chest as the next chariot sweeps in ruthlessly. louella mccoy, the youngest tribute of her group, is catapulted into the air, suspended for a breathless second before shattering against the unforgiving pavement.
below, the haze of dust settles just enough to reveal haymitch, falling to his knees in the dirt beside her lifeless form. he tries to rouse her, but it's useless.
her skull is cracked open, dark crimson pooling into the dust beneath her tangled braids. air locks in my throat and a veil of tears blurs my vision, drowning me in the raw brutality of the scene below. four peacekeepers surge into the fray to scrub away the horror, frantic to crate her frail, shattered frame and ship it back to her district before the capitolâs incompetence can stain the air. yet haymitch, bloody and enraged, dares the unthinkable.
he gathers louella into his arms, carrying her broken weight through the dust to the foot of the presidential balcony. a lone tear trails down my cheek, hand pressed hard over the ache in my chest as i observe him. there, he lays her down directly before my grandfatherâs sight; cruelty he can no longer pretend not to see.
then, the blonde stares up with indignant eyes.
they lock onto mine for a fraction of a second, turquoise fogged with grief, before shifting to grandfather. and then terrifyingly, haymitch abernathy gestures to the president of panem, raising his hands to deliver a slow, deliberate, mocking applause that echoes like thunder across the ambience.
nausea coils in my throat, heavy and suffocating under the weight of the carnage. yet even as my stomach churns, my chest thunders a surge of reverence. such reckless, unyielding courage, i realize with my pulse roaring like a tempest in my ears.
he is staring straight into the eyes of death, refusing to bow.
grandfatherâs nescience falters for a fleeting second before he turns away, dismissing the boy with an ignorant wave of his hand.
act ii.
i remain in the shadows in the cool dusk of the stables, watching the quiet exchange between ampert and haymitch. a gentle relief washes through me, grateful that ampert heeded his fatherâs counsel to seek out allies, most of all, the golden-haired boy. i had harbored a hunch that they would get along, and watching that silent bond take root breathes a rare moment of peace back into my chest.
the swelling tide of rebellion and its shadow system remained a secret to almost everyone, buried in silence until every detail reached flawlessness. yet the hunger games offered a rare chance to forge a grander army and gather those willing to partake in the revolution to dismantle this cruel carnage. we already had a constellation of victors aligned with our cause: beetee latier, mags flanagan, wiress, alongside plutarch heavensbeee, and the capitol traitors, my aunt fulvia cardew and myself.
as ampert scampers off toward his own district tributes, i canât help but step out from the deeper gloom of the corridor, letting the light wash over my face as i approach the golden-haired tribute.
his head jerks up, gaze searching the shadows for the iron grip of peacekeepers. instead, he finds me, the girl from the golden cage of the presidential box. "you," haymitch rasps out venomously, his voice rough.
âdonât be alarmed." i interrupt quietly as i close the distance between us.
haymitch fixed his eyes on me, cataloging every detail sharply; the gleaming capitol silks, the flawless waves of my hair, and beneath it all, the raw, bleeding grief etched into my eyes, âyou were on the balcony," he murmured, "with him."
"i was," i whisper in shame. crouching down with the silk fabric gliding gracefully on the floor, i bring myself to his eye level, âi offer you my deepest condolences.â
he lets out a harsh, humorless breath, resting his forehead against his knees, "what does misery look like to eyes that have only known the glow of comfort?"
an aching sting blooms in my chest, though not from the sharp edge of his words, but from the heavy understanding that my sorrow will never weigh as much as theirs. even beneath the crushing weight of everything i have lost, i am haunted by the bitter truth of my own privilege.
i didnât bother correcting him.
"what you did out there today,â i pause, hesitating, âstanding over louella mccoy, refusing to let any of them ignore you. it took more courage than this entire city has possessed in a century."
haymitch glides both palms down his face to presumably mask the quivering of his lips at the memory. his throat swallows back a devastating sob, âshe is just a kid."
"she deserved better," i declare with a trembling voice, and the absolute sincerity in my tone makes his head snap back up, âyou all do.â
for a long moment, neither of us speak as we just share a prolonged glance at one another. merely a doomed boy from the districts and a girl trapped in the circus of cruelty, mourning a little girl they both wished they could have saved.
"what do i do." haymitch questions with an angered sniff.
i stretch my manicured fingers toward his hand, faintly tracing the worn, calloused ridge of his knuckles. he stays still, letting the weight of his hand settle against mine, anchored in the quiet space between us, where his scent of sweat and smoke softly entangles with the rich floral draft of my tuberose perfume. in the silent wreckage of that moment, everything soft is stripped away to leave only the raw, unvarnished truth.
"survive," i whisper, the word slipping past my lips like a solemn vow. "for louella. donât lay yourself in the grave they dug for you, donât give them that."
haymitch stares down at the fragile bridge where our skin meets, his jaw locked so hard a muscle pulses beneath the surface. for a flutter of a heartbeat, the cynical armor he wears to keep the world out cracks wide open, exposing the bruised and terrified sixteen-year-old boy buried underneath.
my chest tightens with a grief so sharp it steals the air from my lungs. i lean slightly closer to his figure, my thumb brushing a stray tear from his dust-stained cheek before i pull my hand away, folding it back into the pristine folds of my skirt.
rhythmic boots echo down the corridor, signaling the peacekeepers return.
haymitch pulls his knees back up to his chest, hardening his features into a mask of stone as the guards march into view. and i rise silently, smoothing the ivory fabric of my gown, vanishing back into the circus lights of the capitol shadows, sparing the blond-haired boy one last glance.
act iii.
while grandfather remains cloistered with the head gamemakers, architecting fresh atrocities to unleash upon the valley, i move among the capitolâs gluttonous elite, weaving through a sea of parasites who thrive on blood.
the grand salon becomes my battlefield.
anchored against marble pillars, my fingers trace crystal flutes while i wear the coy, amused smile of a socialite. a seamless mask designed to manipulate those inhumane creatures surrounding me.
"utterly pathetic this district twelve boy," a young patron scoffs, adjusting his velvet lapel as we watch the screen. haymitch is currently clambering up the slick, treacherous shale of the central mountain, his clothes torn and bruises etched across his cheekbone, âone would think he'd have the decency to die quietly like the rest of them."
i tilt my head, offering a faint giggle that draws the appreciative gaze of half the men in the circle.
"quietly?" i murmur, my eyes widening with theatrical amusement. "how is that for entertainment? a dog that whimpers is forgetful, though one that bares its teeth,â i pause, appalled by my own words, âthat makes for a spectacle."
the men chuckle, entirely seduced by the venom in my voice. within hours, the narrative ripples through the high-society parlors like wildfire. the boredom that usually plagues the middle stretch of the games vanishes, replaced by a morbid, cash-bleeding fascination with the defiant boy from the coal mines. sponsors swing their fortunes, and across the board, green lights blink on the gamemaker supply terminals, routing clean water and basic medical kits toward haymitch's coordinates.
on the glowing screen, the arena's gears grind on.
i watch in agonizing helplessness as the environment slowly breaks him, mind and flesh alike. a suffocating malice poisons the ambiance, turning a simple drink of water into a desperate gamble, and every inhale of the floral scented air threatens to intoxicate him.
suddenly the cameras switch angles, capturing a dense patch of the emerald woods where a swarm of pink birds with long, needle-sharp beaks descend. my hands fly to my mouth, nails pressing hard against my lips to stifle the cry threatening to tear past them.
maysilee donner is trapped as the vicious, needle-nosed muttations spear through her flesh, blending horrifying crimson and pink. haymitch bursts through the brush, screaming, though too late and too powerless to stop the slaughter. he tries to reach her, tries to pull her back, but the flock tears her away before his eyes.
blinding tears trace the contours of my cheeks as i watch him collapse into the crimson dirt, curling inward as the realization of his isolation settles over him. in the valley of death, he is alone.
get up, i whisper, my breath fracturing against the knot of grief in my throat. haymitch, please. get up.
he remains motionless for an eternity, a shattered boy in a world forged to grind him to dust. then, agonizingly, his fingers twitch against the dark soil. haymitch forces himself upward, past the point of tears. a hollow, deadened stillness settles behind his eyes.
the exact armor he needs to endure the brutal, final stretch of the slaughter.
i canât bring myself to sleep with worry as the poison paradise is bleeding out its remaining players.
haymitch looks like a surviving ghost of himself. the poison in the air has settled deep into his chest, erupting in a dark, hacking cough he desperately muffles in the bend of his arm. yet, he keeps moving and endures, his eyes turned devastatingly hollow by the loss of maysilee.
the elite bite at my suggestions every time, their bloated egos convinced they are the masterminds of the betting rings, entirely unaware that their sponsors are the driving force to the survival of most undervalued tribute in that arena.
i observe haymitch receive his supply package where he crouched beneath a dense canopy of burning ferns as a blinding cascade of ash surrounded him.
on another livestream a tribute, silka sharp, a career from district one, bursts through the choking dust, weapon raised and face twisted in a feral snarl.
haymitchâs hands, raw and blistered, tear open the supply drop, where he finds the tub of burn ointment. i see his thumb brush over the cream-colored paper that rests hidden beneath it. relief washes over me at the subtle hitch in his breath, the way his shoulders drop an inch from their defensive hunch the moment my tuberose scent reaches his senses.
youâre still standing. donât give up now, keep moving, h.
he presses the note against his forehead for a fraction of a second, a fleeting, desperate anchor in a world trying to rip him apart. then, with a ruthless motion, he swallows the paper, letting the evidence dissolve away into his stomach before anyone else can see.
beside me on the settee, mags reaches out her weathered hand and tenderly pats my knee. she doesn't look away from the monitor, her voice a gravelly rasp, âheâs a stubborn one, honey. takes after the ones who don't know how to stay down."
i search her words for comfort, but as the glowing flickers hope is all i have left to cling to.
then the final battle of the second quarter quell commences.
heat, ash, and blinding light bleed together in a sickening blur. sound buckles and drowns, the force fieldâs thunderous crack hitting my ears like a submerged explosion. i barely register as air starves in my lungs, my surroundings overwhelming all my senses.
through the haze of spiraling, i could only faintly register a violent flash of blue electricity, silkaâs collapsing outline, and haymitch convulsing as his hands clawed at his disemboweled abdomen.
then the harmonious chime of the victory anthem rings out across the speakers, a sickeningly cheerful melody.
act iv.
the air in the family garden hangs heavy with the scent of damp earth and rotting blossoms, a quiet sanctuary where the ghosts of my bloodline rest beneath manicured lawns. i sit on the cold marmor bench, weeping in synchronized harmony with the violent downpour beyond the glass of the conservatory.
this was my sole sanctuary to weep freely, the only place where the venom of my grief and resentment could spill out without betraying my inner turmoil. to anyone looking in, i was merely a young girl entombed in her solitude, grieving a dead lineage. a bloodline extinguished by president snow. my grandfather, coriolanus snow.
my bitter tears trail for my grandmother, livia cardew. a truly brilliant woman, loved with every beat of my heart, the force that shaped my mother, aurelia, my aunt, fulvia, and myself. she instilled in us unwavering values my grandfather slaughtered anyone for daring to possess; empathy, solidarity and being kind despite all the circumstances, even if it costs everything. and in the end, it did cost her life, a price paid in full.
my fingernails scrape desperately into the cold stone while furious tears streak my face for my mother and father. two more casualties of a cruel fate.
the unfairness of it all rested in the very palms pledged to protect us. family. though, to him blood was nothing more than currency and family was just as transactional as his business affairs. once our purpose for his opportunism was fulfilled, we were reduced to less than strangers.
we are writing this because you are old enough to carry the truth, and truth is the only weapon,
i despise coriolanus with every fiber of my existence, it is an agonizing, suffocating weight that presses down on my chest from the moment i wake.
he will never tell you the truth.
when i look at him, the grief hits me in violent, choking waves, a relentless mourning for the parents he stole away from me, and for the mother and father whose lives were reduced to floral arrangements.
he doesn't love you, sweet dove. not like we love you.
a familiar ache twists in my chest every time i enter the conservatory, knowing that beneath those crimson petals lies my grandmother livia, brutally discarded the moment her purpose withered. he turned her corpse to fertilizer for his vanity, echoing the quiet death of her purpose the day she bore him children.
knowing he slaughtered my parents, his own daughter, when she uncovered his web of lies and deceit.
the rage inside me is a blazing, blinding fire, burning desperately, as i hunger to rip away his untouchable armor and make him feel even a fraction of the heartbreak he has inflicted on the entirety of panem.
it ends with you, my dove.
and that oath i will fulfill.
i anchor myself with a steadying breath as i close my eyes until my lingering thoughts drift to the blonde-haired boy.
for days, i have been tortured by the inability to see him or check on him, knowing only that he was locked away in the sterile medical wards, being sewn back together from the inside out after the horrors of the arena.
how is he? is this tormenting pain more than a sixteen-year-old can bear?
the heavy crunch of gravel and the sound of my name interrupts my spiraling thoughts. when i glance up, i find my trusted peacekeeper friends, cabe varro and brutus atwood, stepping through the dense ivy archway in their sterile white uniforms.
"we need to hurry," cabe murmurs, his voice low and urgent as he scans the perimeter, âyour grandfather is away with his acquaintances for the next couple of hours."
"and the surveillance feeds at the twelve tribute residence have just been temporarily blinded by beetee," brutus adds, offering a rare, reassuring nod. "if youâre going to see him before the victory ceremony, it has to be now. we have a maximum of two hours."
without hesitation, i slip through the shadowed corridors of the mansion, my heart hammering frantically against my ribs in anticipation. i press on until i cross the threshold into the quiet, desolate apartment where the district tributes once stayed.
the air inside is stagnantly heavy with the phantom weight of children who will never go home again. haymitch sits alone in the gloom, his body a map of angry, puckered scars and unhealed trauma. he lifts his head, his turquoise eyes stripped hollow by a grief too immense for any heart to contain, still reeling from the brutal carnage he survived and the horror of the revelations that followed.
âwhat are you doing here?â haymitch's voice rasps cautiously, aware of the cameras surveilling his every move.
i cross the distance between us before my mind can intervene, the soft taps of my flats echoing in the quiet.
i care nothing for the fragile boundaries between us, or the fact that we have not looked each other in the eye since our last conversation. the phantom image of him in the arena shatters the last of my reserve. when i reach him, i wrap my arms around his neck, desperate to prove that he is real, that his chest is rising, that he truly survived the nightmare.
my touch is agonizingly gentle, shaping my embrace so it never presses against his mended flesh or strains the raw wounds beneath his skin. nestling my face into his shoulder, a selfish, trembling wave of relief washes over me as i cling to him as tightly as he clings to whatever sanity he has left, needing his warmth to drown out the terror of those gruesome days spent watching him bleed from afar.
âiâm glad youâre okay, haymitch.â
he pulls back just enough to look down at me, and i tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. in the exhausted depths of his eyes, there is a mutual relief that our efforts, mine to help him as much as i can and his to survive, were successful in a twisted way.
but his turquoise irises pulled my mother and grandmotherâs guidance back to the surface, pumping in my head like a pulse. be kind despite all the circumstances, even if it costs everything. looking into his eyes, i realized how true that was.
âi wanted to warn you,â i clear my throat while i placed myself beside him on the sofa. my fingers curl against the fabric of the cushion, the lingering warmth of his embrace still humming faintly in the air between us. âwhat comes next is worse than your guilt, haymitch. coriolanus, uh, my grandfather does not tolerate defiance, especially from someone from twelve.â
haymitch goes entirely rigid beside me. the faint color in his face drains away and his bruised hands tighten instinctively into fists, the movement pulling slightly at the stitched flesh across his abdomen, but he doesn't flinch. he just stares at me, his mesmerizing eyes hardening with a dangerous realization.
"what are you saying?"
"iâm saying the victory tour isn't a celebration," i whisper back, the bitter weight of my family's legacy pressing down on my shoulders, âit's an extension of the arena. itâs designed to break whatever spirit you have left and remind you that your life belongs to the capitol now. you canât let them, canât let him."
haymitchâs gaze is fixed on nothing, his jaw set so fiercely that his teeth grind together. the silence prolongs, thick with the suffocating memories of the children who were murdered in the arena. maysilee, wyatt, ampert, louella â lou lou. i see the raw, jagged edges of his grief tearing him apart from the inside out, the horrifying awareness that the nightmare isn't over just because he holds a crown.
i reach out gently and place a small token on the charcoal cushion between us. it gleams faintly in the dimness, the golden of the bangle my aunt fulvia handed to me before she escaped to district thirteen.
"i don't want you to feel like you're trapped in another cage, haymitch," i say softly, keeping my gaze steady on his profile even as my fingers tangle nervously in my lap. âiâm not here to use you, nor am i like him. you need time to breathe, to mourn your friends, to process every piece of this nightmare they put you through. take whatever time you need."
the blonde glances down, his brow furrowing pensively.
the stagnant air of the room seems to grow even heavier, thick with the lingering, medicinal scent of antiseptic and the sharp, coppery ghost of old blood that he canât seem to wash from his skin. for a long while, the only sound is the frantic, uneven rhythm of his breath and the anxious rustle of my friends patrolling the shadows behind us.
"act incompetent," i murmur, observing the slow burn of comprehension dawn in his eyes, âdonât show them your strength for resistance, be useless once the shock wears off. give them nothing to use against you, and give the capitol no reason to suspect you have an ounce of fight left. this is bigger than youâd imagine."
haymitch swallows hard, the muscle in his throat working as his eyes move from the bangle back to mine.
"if you ever decide you're ready to fight back, only then, wear this," i tell him, tapping the cool metal of the bracelet with a faint, mournful smile. "then iâll know. brutus and cabe, as well as your and my avoxes, will guard you. you can rely on them, and on me but i beg you to take your time. grief has no expiration, and i wouldnât dare rush you."
he is motionless at first. then, with fingers that tremor ever so slightly, he reaches out in an agonizingly slow gesture to lift the flame-patterned bangle, curling his fist around it. the soft drag of his calloused skin against mine sends a jolt of fierce warmth straight through the hollowness that separates us.
âtimeâs up.â
act v.
the tragic news of the fire had hit the capitol whispers long before the official records caught up. haymitch abernathyâs home reduced to cinders, his mother and brother burned alive in an orchestrated execution designed as president snowâs warped homecoming gift.
when he eventually returned to his district, locked behind a heavy perimeter and forced to subsist on meticulously rationed scraps, the devastation threatened to swallow him whole. a dark despair that took hold in the dead of night.
the shadows stretched long and distorted across the hallway of his mansion, such oppressing darkness wafting in the air that it instinctively brought stinging tears to my eyes.
i gently push his bedroom door open and upon entering, my eyes lock onto the dark bottle clutched tightly in his hand. the amber glass ricochet under the faint moonlight filtering through the window. sleep syrup. one of many vials accumulating across the hardwood floor, unspoken evidence of a desperate attempt to flee a reality he cannot bear to face awake.
âput it down, haymitch!â
my voice fractures into a hysterical cadence of pure despair, completely foreign to me.
the golden-haired boy freezes, his eyes clenching tight as he buries the bottle against his ribs like an addict clinging to survival, "go away," he rasped, his voice rough and defensive, the exhaustion pouring heavily into his words, âleave me alone."
i lunge across the room in an unmeasured burst of violent momentum. my palm strikes his grip with blinding force and the bottle falls with a heavy thud, spilling its poison-colored contents across the floor.
"trying to kill yourself! 'that it?â bile rises hot in my throat and i have to fight the desperate urge to retch at the sheer thought of it. âyou survive the arena, survive coriolanus â you made it this far. is this how you surrender?"
"you wouldnât know the first thing!" he roars suddenly, the volume trembling as he stumbles backward, slamming his shoulder against the rough timber wall. haymitchâs chest heaved while inconsolable sobs and choking noises interrupt his speech, turning into deep wails and gasping stutters. âhe will never let me die! theyâre dead â i have nothing to live for anymore, i have no one, who,â he hiccups, âcares â so let me be the dead boy breathing!â
my distress evaporated in an instant, ceased beneath a grief so heavy it felt physical. i stopped inches from him, stepping right through his defenses and into his warmth, blind to the volatile glint in his bloodshot eyes. i reached up and tangled my fingers around his wrist and pulled his hand down to expose his face to mine.
âi care.â i whisper, my voice cracking on the words. my eyes welled up, completely surrendering every line of defense i had left between us, âyou have me and i care about you. i need you, selfishly, i need you. it hurts to see you like this, truly, you deserve better and iâm sorry.â i stare into his mesmerizing, miserable eyes, âbut punishing yourself will not bring them back, so live for them.â
haymitch stares down at me, his violent intake of breath mingling the sting of mint with the soft, lingering scent of my perfume. the impenetrable wall heâd built to protect his shattered heart gave way entirely under the significance of my confession.
he closed his eyes, a defeated wail tearing from his throat as the last of his fight drained away. wordlessly, he collapsed forward and buried his face in my abdomen, his arms locking around my taille as if i were the only solid thing remaining in a crumbling world. in return, i cradle him closer while caressing his hair as he shook against me.
"promise, hay," i murmured against his skin, my lips lingering a kiss at his temple as if to press the words directly into him. "promise me youâll reach for me instead."
his grip tightened until it ached, yet i endured it, knowing his internal agony cut far deeper. in the somber darkness, an unspoken binding vow sealed itself between us.
âi promise.â
from that night on, the golden flame-patterned bangle remained clamped to his wrist like a permanent mark, catching the light during our covert meetings.
the burden of haymitch's survival did not rest on my shoulders alone. stung by the bitter reality of what my grandfather had ripped from our lives, i transformed my remorse into action, constructing a secret lifeline to connect haymitch to the few people who still mattered to him.
burdock everdeen and asterid march, who had stood at his side in that ash-choked yard on the day his family was buried, needed to know he hadn't given up. whenever cabe and brutus cut the surveillance feeds and cleared the perimeter, i guided asterid and burdock through the shadows to haymitch's doorstep.
asterid would bring small jars of homemade chamomile or herbal remedies, checking the puckered scar tissue of his gut wound, while burdock offered a grounding presence.
i moved between their two worlds, running low-voiced updates back and forth to prove that the twitching, incapable wreck haymitch performed for the capitol was just a facade for the survivor underneath.
plus, by sharing that treason, an unbreakable bond was born between all of us.
the weeks merged into a grueling rhythm of deception. to the capitol, haymitch became the ultimate disappointment. a twitchy, stumbling fool who could barely hold a glass steady, let alone pose a threat to president snow's immaculate order.
they laughed at him on the mandated broadcasts, sneered at his slurred speech, and wrote him off as another victor broken by the gravity of his own victory, exactly as we intended.
yet, no one could sustain that kind of performance without breaking.
tonight the silence in his bedroom was charged, disrupted only by the soft rustle of my gown and the ragged sound of his breathing. the bravado he wore for the cameras vanished as soon as he slumped against his headboard, hands trembling of pure exhaustion.
i leaned into him gently, resting my weight against his side while my hand reached to trace the constellation of moles dotting his face, "you did great, hay. iâm proud of you."
he leaned sideways and pressed his forehead against the top of my head, breathing me in fondly. his bruised hand slid down to my thigh, thumb brushing back and forth rhythmically.
"what sick pleasure does he get from this?" haymitch questions, hands resting on my taille, "how do you survive living with him?"
the question burned my mind, tearing open old scars of my own. i pulled back slightly, looking deep into his beautiful eyes that gazed back at me. how is it even fair for someone to look like that? in that solacing moment i decided to give him the truth of my own bondage.
"my parents," my lip trembles hesitantly. i hadnât dared mention them since their funeral and those pitiful, empty condolences that forced me to express gratitude for hollow empathy. "three years ago, they traveled to the districts. they liked buying things personally crafted from the locals. it was supposed to be just my father on that trip, like usually, but my mother went with him.â i swallow my hurt, forced to relive the constant, imagined horror of their deaths.
âsnow wanted to send a message to keep her malleable, so they ambushed them at the market on district four. gunned them down under the guise of a casualty. my aunt told me the truth months later after she found a letter addressed to me, by my mother. she knew."
haymitch turns his entire body towards me, groaning as he did so, and for a heartbeat, the air shifts from the sharp tension of being forbidden accomplices into something unexpectedly intimate. then his thumb traces delicate strokes over my lips while his free hand slides around my hips and pulls me right against his chest.
"iâm sorry, dove." he leans his forehead against mine. i close my eyes let the solace of his words, that nickname, comfort me. spoken by the one person who truly understood my loss.
haymitch closed in until the air between us vanished entirely, his presence so suffocatingly close that i couldn't tell where my breath ended and his began. gently, he tilted his face to mine and brushed a doting kiss right against the bridge of my nose.
"i don't know where iâd be if it werenât for you," haymitch admits, "in a golden cage. or dead."
"youâd still be fighting," i trace his moles until i reach the constellation on his neck, feeling his pulse beneath my fingertips. "youâre too ambitious to give up, hay."
"maybe," he breathed, a ghost of a genuine smile touching his rosy lips.
my fingers slide to a rest on the broad expanse of his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath my palms. "itâs true," i profess with an unflinching certainty, âyouâre the catalyst for this rebellion⌠and soon fire will catch. and i swear it on my life, coriolanus snow will burn.â
until then, in the quiet shelter of the shadows, we only have each other. two rebels carved out of grief, holding tight to a fragile tomorrow, bound by a dangerous promise that when fire finally catches, we will be the ones standing in the ashes.
summary â đllieâs gift for challenging your stubbornness and a mere right swipe leads to the ultimate campus match, worthy of the heisman trophy
fem!reader x beau maxwell, dating app trope â classmates to lovers, no warnings ! three acts
act i.
âi bet you wonât.â
allieâs white wine sloshes around her wineglass at her rapid rise from my sofa but she remains holding it skillfully in her manicured hand.
as the evening progressed into night and the windows turned into a dark mirror reflecting the room, allie and i had made a comfortable wine and pizza night in my living room, where suddenly the certain topic of dating had come up.
ever since her breakup with sean, sheâd become so free, allie had a new cheeky manner about her and i loved it for her. she was in that awkward in between of freshly being freed from commitment and stepping into fortuitous possibilities. however, that also meant her interest in grumbling about romance, and protesting it generally and her micro-analyzing habit of my lack of interest in dating-slash-hookups increased.
i groan in agitation, knowing she got me. the conversation had turned about every which way until we landed on dating apps. now allie was adamant i had to try one out and see where it would lead, saying it would be 'fun' and an 'exciting new experience'. i didnât feel that way at all, but my best friend had a way of challenging my stubbornness like no one else.
thatâs how we got to setting up a perfectly whimsy profile, according to allie, and swiping endlessly.
âoh heâs kinda cute!â
CHARLES VAN PELT, 22
lifeguard
âso not, al.â
allie whines, âbabe, this is the hundredth guy youâve swiped left. itâs becoming brutal, give one of them a chance, would you?â
my hibiscus scented candle fills the space with a gentle glow, offering some warmth into our night. i glance at her sideways, âwell, i donât like them. isnât that the point?â
i set my wineglass down on my coffee table as she scooted closer to me, taking my manicured hand in both of hers, âthe point is that you should take some risks and put yourself out there, have some fun.â then she let go and took another slice of pepperoni pizza, âhow about this, next person that pops up, you have to swipe right. who knows, you could match, you could not? but at least try.â
if you ever wondered why you should never try to reason with allison hayes is because sheâll get her way either way, so itâs easier to just give in.
âfine.â i mumble as i reject charles. we wait a few seconds for the feed to refresh, then another account pops up suddenly.
BEAU MAXWELL, 22
college quarterback, history major
i stare at the strikingly handsome picture before me, a definite improvement from all others previously. recognition clings in my memory for a short second before i am interrupted by allie excitedly hopping on my sofa with a shriek.
âno way. dude, no way!â she yells, grabbing my phone, âbeau maxwell?â she muses.
i frown, âyou know him?â
her head snaps towards me so fast i worried she mightâve pulled something, âyou have literally been in the same room as him like a million times, babe.â allie laughs disbelieving, glancing between my phone and i every few seconds, âthatâs deanâs best friend. iâm pretty sure you guys have the same history courses?â
my eyes squint in thoughtfulness, then i remember, yeah, he sat three rows below me. iâm pretty sure i saw him around campus and parties a few times, though seeing him around and on pictures where he is striking some funny poses, flashing his charming smile and showing off his to-drool-for physique doing what he loves, clearly differs.
while i thought, allie was scrolling through his pictures and prompts, giggling giddily, âthatâs awesome, prompts says, 'the dorkiest thing about me isâ and beau answers, 'that i love historical theater and can tell you all the drama about itâ, oh my, i love this!â
i chuckle and lean into her, taking my phone back into my hands and reading through his profile myself. i wouldnât have expected that from a football quarterback but he is in my historical class after all, so it shouldnât be as surprising. perhaps because he was best friends with dean di laurentis.
a picture of him shirtless on top of a mountain on a sunny day, looking off into the scenery. another of him with a backwards cap smiling brightly into the camera while holding a beer like a trophy. him in his football gear. him posing at a party, shimmering of sweat though the smile on his face was so adorably bright. and if you squinted hard enough, you could see dean was cropped out of it.
allie startled me suddenly by clapping her hands once, âalright, swipe him. swipe right!â she edged excitedly.
hesitantly, though with no complaint, i did.
then nothing. purely awaitance in deafening silence of anticipation as my heart beat rapidly inside my chest. after a few seconds, i almost shut off and threw my phone away from me, then suddenly:
you matched with beau maxwell ! say hi ;)
my heart almost leaped out of my chest as allie and i both jumped up from the couch with loud screams of both horror and laughter. she took my hands in hers, then rapidly let them go in fear of disrupting anything inside the app, lastly we covered our mouths with wide eyes and heavy breathing. my brain had to catch up with the rest of my body, and when it did, i glanced back at my phone and took a few steps backwards until the back of my thighs touched the sofa.
âwhat do i do?â
âtext him!â
âallie, i canât!â
our argument was disrupted by another vibration of my phone. when we chaotically leaned closer and fumbled to hold the phone still, we saw a red dotted one by the message inbox.
beau maxwell: this feels like winning the heisman trophy
allie and i scream once more, not being able to contain our thrill. she almost tips over our almost empty wine glasses by jumping up from the couch and hopping around the dorm. surely, some neighbors might complain later, but as of now, itâs totally worth it and understandable.
i drop my phone on the sofa and hide my flushing face behind my palm, disbelieving of whatâs happening.
"hurry, answer!" allie hissed, her hands flapping wildly in the air as if the phone on the cushion might spontaneously combust.
i carefully pinched the edge of the screen, lifting it like a live grenade, my face burning hot. "al, what do i even answer to that?" i mumble as my slightly palm my face in nervosity.
"good question," allie shrugged, practically vibrating with excitement. "heâs paying you a huge compliment, babe. look, he surely remembers you from history class, or he knows you through dean. play it cool.â
my thumbs hover over the keyboard, suddenly feeling heavy and useless as my brain thought of what to say. if beau maxwell has this affect on me each time we talk, iâll have a whole other issue.
allie paces the small space between the coffee table and the dark window, then took a quick sip of her remaining beverage to calm down. the keyboard glowed beneath my thumbs, each letter suddenly feeling impossibly significant. it was ridiculous, iâd written essays longer than this without a second thought, yet simple words had my mind drawing a complete blank.
you: i guess i should feel honored then
i had never been against dating, i just never cared enough to chase it. most people around campus seemed determined to make romance and or hookups the center of their college experience. sports games turned into frat parties, frat parties turned into situationships, messy breakups and rumors reaching every corner of campus.
the football and hockey crowd had always existed somewhere adjacent to my life rather than inside it and iâd definitely seen beau plenty of times, he was hard to miss. but iâd never been interested in whatever came to paying attention to these men surrounding campus. one of my best friends dating a hockey team captain definitely didnât ease being surrounded by them.
my phone vibrated against the couch cushion, causing both allie and i to snap our heads toward it so quickly our foreheads nearly collided. then the phone buzzed again.
beau maxwell: i was hoping you would
beau maxwell: makes me feel slightly less embarrassing for sending that first message.
i found myself wondering if the version of beau everyone seemed to know, myself included, the loud, charismatic quarterback always surrounded by people, was the same guy who had admitted, without hesitation, that heâd felt awkward sending a cheesy opening line. with that thought, my thumb hovered over the keyboard again.
you: i donât think it was embarrassing
beau maxwell: no?
you: no. definitely cheesy though
beau maxwell: iâll gladly accept cheesy over embarrassing
allieâs eyes widened before she clapped her hands together with a delighted squeal, bouncing excitedly on the sofa cushions.
you: good
beau maxwell: i was hoping matching with me wouldnât scare you off
my eyebrows scrunched in confusion, though eagerness still ran through my body. allie was leaning so close to me, we were practically merging together. her hand reached up, holding out a pizza slice in front of my mouth to feed me.
you: why would it?
allie hums as she chewed her own slice, âthis is the best thing ever.â
beau maxwell: you donât seem to like frat guys
you: what makes you say that?
beau maxwell: iâve seen you around, you donât really fraternize with anyone but your close group
beau maxwell: and yet youâre very social and appreciated by everyone
you: you noticed all of that?
beau maxwell: itâs hard not to pay attention to you
you: thatâs⌠incredibly adorable
you: for the record
you: iâm glad we matched, beau
beau maxwell: for the record
beau maxwell: me too ;)
i let out a quiet sigh, switching my phone off before setting it beside me on the couch. leaning back into the soft cushions, i allowed the excitement to melt from my shoulders. beside me, allie curled closer without a word, her cascade of chocolate brown waves spilling over my shoulder and brushing gently against my neck. the silky strands tickled my skin, drawing a faint smile from me as she let out a soft, breathy giggle, settling comfortably into my side.
âwow.â i sighed, shaking my head.
our gazes met, and she gave a small nod, her smile never faltering.
act ii.
iâm sat by the counter in maloneâs with allie, both of us sipping colorful, though non-alcoholic, drinks as we wait for hannahâs last few minutes of waitressing until shift end so we could have a girlsâ night. then my phone buzzed in that particular manner that got my heart excited, knowing it was a certain quarterback i had been consistently texting with for a month now.
beau: iâm back friday
my lips curved into the faintest smile, as effortless as the warmth slowly settling beneath my ribs. beside me, allie caught it instantly and nudged my shoulder with her own, eyebrows lifting knowingly as she stole a quick glance at my phone, a smug smile already spreading across her face.
âfriday, huh?â she hummed, nudging me again, âsomeone couldnât wait to let you know.â
i shrug, âor,â i muttered, fighting the smile tugging at my lips, âheâs just letting me know because weâve been talking.â
allie gave me a look that practically screamed you cannot be serious. âbabe,â she scoffed, âhe probably texted you before he texted his own mother.â she took another sip of her drink, still grinning.
the warm buzz of conversation drifted through the air, mingling with the clink of glasses and the faint hum of an old song playing overhead. at times, we could spot hannah hurriedly transporting filled trays between the lively tables.
you: exciting, i thought itâd be longer
beau: disappointed?
you: not at all
you: the opposite, actually
beau: iâm glad
beau: we should probably talk in person eventually
my heart gave one quiet, unexpected stutter, the feeling so fleeting i almost convinced myself iâd imagined it.
you: probably
beau: unless you plan on dating me exclusively through text messages
you: thatâs a bold assumption
beau: which part?
i could almost imagine him smirking at his phone, and the thought of him being so brazen kind of excited me.
you: us dating
beau: fair
beau: would you like me to rephrase, angel?
you: not necessary
beau: good, great even
the warmth of the inside disappeared the moment we stepped outside the bar, replaced by the quiet hum of the campus at night. allie and hannah continued their conversation ahead of me, their voices blending into the background while i checked my phone one last time.
a new message waited.
beau: cause i have every intention of properly courting you once iâm back ;)
a soft laugh escaped beneath my breath as i placed my phone back into my handbag, carefully hiding the smile it had left behind.
act iii.
the afternoon had settled into that rare kind of summer warmth that felt almost weightless as sunlight spilled lazily through the tree leaves of the boysâ backyard, painting golden patches across the lawn and warming everything it touched.
the old picnic bench creaked softly with every shift of our bodies, though inaudible as the house behind me drowned it out with the shouting voices, and the occasional burst of carefree laughter of both hockey and some football players.
friday arrived with a softness i hadnât realized iâd been anticipating.
the thought of finally orbiting the same space as beau after a couple of weeks apart settled somewhere deep within me, quiet but impossible to ignore. there was a strange kind of comfort in knowing that this time would be different.
before, we had only been two people becoming aware of each other, carefully learning the outlines of who we were. now though, we knew. we recognized each other in a way that went beyond a name on a screen or a voice through the phone. somewhere along the way, between the hours spent talking and the little pieces of ourselves we had shared, we had become connected.
âit was a hilarious pun, atwood didnât appreciate it though.â dean chuckled, recounting yesterdayâs occurrence in our political science course. someone, i assumed tucker, started turning on the amber hued lights for the backyard as the evening approached, creating a comfortable atmosphere, opposite to the chaos happening inside the house.
previously, dean and i were acquainted, seeing as we attended the same class and even sat beside one another. however, since finding out i was the one his best friend was kind of, unofficially, romantically involved with, he made an effort to build a friendship. i appreciated it plenty for i was deeply falling into a pit of infatuation for beau and having his best friend approve of me and even initiating amicability between us, was a huge relief.
he had even started calling be buddy, because apparently i reminded him a lot of that one elf from the christmas movie. i didnât care to stop him.
the group had divided all over the house and garden: logan and tucker had stayed in the house, where their close friends were playing games, to keep the chaos manageable. garrett and hannah had disappeared a while ago, leaving dean, allie, and i sat by the picnic table in the backyard, laughing endlessly.
at first i had pretended i hadnât caught glimpses of deanâs hands occasionally sliding too close to allieâs waist, or the way he would try to subtly catch a whiff of her perfume. although, remaining blind to the way heâd caress her untameable waves, was only possible if youâd been a fool.
as one would expect, allie had folded and told me they were sleeping together, casually only of course. however, only a loon would believe that with the way dean naturally gravitated towards her. similarly, i have known allie hayes for too long to not be able to see how thrilled she was around him. they fit in a chaotic way that just made sense.
witnessing that pulled at my heartstrings, joyful for the pair but longing for that same kind of affection, as well.
a finger poked my side gently, âyou okay?â
i blinked rapidly, unaware of my daydreaming, âhuh? 'course, yeah.â i sighed out a startled laugh.
allieâs unconvinced smile and nod told a whole other story than her frowning eyebrows. the blond head of dean settled on her shoulder from behind, sharing an identical kind of frowning that almost pulled a laugh out of me. their chemistry was unconcealable.
he then leaned back and took a long chug of his beer, âhave you talked to him today?â dean spoke while brushing his palm across his mouth.
he didnât need to mention who he was referring to.
i nod as i reach down for my mocktail iâd placed on the lawn before us, âhe called this morning.â ice clinked gently in the glass as i rolled it absently between my hands, âwe talked for a bit, then he went kinda m.i.a throughout the day.â i shrug.
i wanted to remain optimistic and have faith in my belief that beau maxwell was nothing like any man iâd ever been involved with, considering that heâd proved it to me countless times. but fear gnawed at every inch of my body at the thought of him choosing cowardice and ghosting me.
it would be more humiliating than anything else, now that our groups were officially intertwined, with my newfound friendship with dean, and the spatial proximity between us that we dismissed previously couldnât be ignored anymore.
if it was hard to overlook beau maxwell before, itâd be unattainable now.
allie suddenly stood up, pulling me out from my incoming melancholy and startling me. her eyes sparkled with a brightness iâd seen often throughout our years of friendship when she was truly enchanted by something. her manicured hands slapped at deanâs shoulders, who sucked his teeth with no malice as he stood as well.
âbuddy,â dean murmured while slightly bending forward to place his heavy hand on the top of my head, shooting a wink, âi wouldnât worry if i was you.â
then both of them retreated.
leaving me utterly pensive and bewildered.
breaking my own overthinking, i sighed and stood up from my seat at the crumbling bench and took my now half empty glass with me. my feet had to suddenly halt to a stop to avoid collision with a body before me, forcing me to to gaze upwards.
an arrangement of multicolored foliage caught my attention, hiding the figure holding it with its sheer proportion. delicate layers of fuchsia, coral, evergreen and ivory colored petals complemented one another in harmony. the fuchsia-colored hibiscus flowers caught my attention first, then the ivory-coral orchids. filled with cascading wisteria plants and evergreen calla lilies, i was enamored by the overall composition of the bouquet.
gradually, the bouquet lowered downward, then revealed the figure behind it.
there beau stood in an adorably bashful manner. a delicate giggle fell from my mouth and in return, he grinned brightly, the kind that made you forget whatever had weighed on you a heartbeat before.
beauâs smile softened, his head tilting slightly as he studied me, âiâm sorry, iâm late.â he teased with a gentle rugged tone, âi had to run an errand.â he concluded.
a delicate flutter moved through my chest, my heart betraying me as it softened at the sheer sweetness of his words and the excitement of finally being in one anotherâs presence.
âhey, angel.â beau murmured. then he closed the distance between our bodies with a single step, glancing down at me with his bashful grin. his fingers of his free hand lightly caught the belt loop of my skirt, a playful little tug bringing me just a little closer while his tongue briefly traced his lips.
i laughed fondly, breaking the hypnotic trance that is beau maxwell, âhi, beau.â i whisper back with a natural ease, though, this sort of felt like an outer-bodily-experience, for my words seemed to disappear somewhere between my thoughts and my mouth. a small, quiet solace bloomed in the warmth of recognition between us.
beauâs head tilted slightly as he studied me, âare you disappointed?â he teased with a gentle rugged tone. his fingers fiddled with my skirt, eliciting excited jolts of goosebumps through my body. his cologne, cedar and old-spice i believed, engulfed me and was adding to his hypnotic charm even more.
âdonât worry, beau. youâre a pretty nice sight.â i respond jokingly, though truthful.
beau looked undoubtably more handsome directly than iâd imagined. those passing glimpses i had gotten from him around campus and our daily calls didnât do him any justice. my pulse hammered so violently against my ribs that i was certain he could hear the chaos he was causing in me.
he raises an eyebrow while trying, and failing, to conceal his evergrowing smirk, âpretty, you say?â
âdonât make me repeat it.â
âiâm just making sure i heard you correctly.â his voice carried that familiar teasing edge i had gotten accustomed to through late-night conversations and endless messages, except now here he was, standing before me, oh so dangerously handsome.
âyou did.â
for a moment, neither of us moved. the lukewarm breezy breathed softly around us, while the first crickets started their steady, rhythmic hum in the shadows of the evening.
a slow grin spread across his face, the kind that looked like he was trying very hard not to seem as pleased as he actually was. but by now, i knew beau maxwell pretty well.
âoh, angel.â he shook his brown waves, âyou know how to make a man weak. iâll be thinking about that all night,â he added, the smug grin on his face growing as he let out a quiet, amused groan.
i couldnât help but laugh, fully infatuated by his antics. the teasing eventually faded into a comfortable quiet, the kind that no longer felt unfamiliar. beaus fingers unraveled from my skirt and slid along my hip until he reached my palm. the touch lingered, tender and uncertain, offering me the freedom to retreat if i wished. our fingers intertwined without thought, as if they had already known the shape of one another.
which was ridiculous, because they hadnât. not until now.
âthese are for you.â
i looked at our intertwined fingers as if taking in the weight of the moment, then gazed to his occupied hand. a soft, involuntary hum vibrated in my throat as the scent of the fresh petals washed over me. my eyelids fluttered shut for a brief, dizzying second, my whole body sinking into a profound, heavy weightlessness. when i opened them, my vision blurred slightly at the edges, entirely locked onto him, while a genuine, unprompted ache of sweetness expanded behind my ribs, making my hands cradle the bouquet against my chest like something sacred.
beau looked back at me with quiet devotion, a small smile gathering at the edges of his expression. he didn't say a word, but his gaze dropped to the base of my throat, locking onto the rapid, telltale flutter of my pulse. under the weight of his observation, my fingers trembled against the magenta-pink paper wrapping.
his empty hands found my hips, fingers digging softly through the fabric of my clothes as he gathered me against him. the sudden, solid warmth of his chest pressed against mine, erasing the remaining air between us. automatically, my free hand flattened against his chest, feeling the solid thump of his heart beneath the fabric.
before i could catch my breath, his right hand slid upward, palm tracing the curve of my neck until his fingers cupped my jaw. the world narrowed down to the steady beat of his heart under my palms as he tilted my face just enough to press his lips lingeringly, against my forehead.
"say something," beau murmured, his thumb slightly tracing my lips, âbecause if you keep looking at me like that, iâm not going to let you step away."
my heart did a violent flip, palm now resting on the back of his neck, slightly caressing his skin. "what if i donât want you to?" i whispered, my voice laced with a sudden, breathless heat.
beau didn't blink, his grip at my waist anchoring me flush against him. amber twilight washed over us, melting the sharp edges of the shadows until the only real thing left in existence was the solid, radiating heat passing between our chests.
âgood,â beau rasps, âbecause i plan on keeping you for a long time."
summary, đ´ou went to the squawk to get through a hard time and came home with more than help. steve harrington was supposed to be a babysitter; a temporary solution, nothing permanent. instead, he learned your daughterâs routines, your hearts, and made space for a future you hadnât dared to imagine.
single mom!reader x steve harrington & daughter ivory (ivy) modern au, aged up characters (early twenties), five acts
act i.
the squawk always smells faintly like coffee thatâs been reheated one too many times and dust warmed by electronics. itâs comforting in a way you canât exactly pinpoint why. robin sits cross-legged on the rug covered floor, animated as always, gesturing wildly as she talks about something youâve already lost the thread of, while your daughter sleeps curled into the couch cushions behind you.
ivory, or ivy since her tongue canât yet formulate her 'râs' properly, is a soft weight of balayage blending warm brown into honeyed blonde curls and warmth. her tiny toddler fingers twitch occasionally, like sheâs dreaming in small, important bursts.
youâre half listening, half thinking about next week. hospice paperwork, signatures, rooms that smell like antiseptic and endings. you donât say much about it, but robin knows, she always does.
losing your grandfather is the most heartbreaking event that has ever happened to you. he was the constant in your life, someone you fell back and leaned on when things got rough. he raised you and nurtured you throughout your twenty-three years and your daughterâs very short life.
having to let go of him felt like letting go of a part of yourself.
âi despise seeing you like this,â robin frowns, âiâd take my little angel of a goddaughter in a heartbeat to give you space to handle all this shit, but,â she drags out dramatically, âyou know iâm best in short bursts, crisis mode, or backup. not extended care during emotionally heavy weeks.â she concludes her rant, taking a deep breath.
it was honestly self aware.
that's when she mentions steve.
she talks about him the way people talk about something reliable; how he babysits sometimes. how he's good with kids. how he doesn't get weird about difficult things. how heâd kinda, may have, perhaps, adopted a party of six kids and has been a role model in their eyes for years despite being a bachelor.
"just,â she shrugs, âmeet him. no pressure. but i think you'd like him." robin speaks tenderly. something about the way she says it makes it feel less like a favor and more like a hand extended to stabilize you.
the next afternoon, the squawk is brighter. later sunlight slants through the windows, catching dust specks and turning them gold. robin is on the floor again, dismantling something with intense focus.
as you step in, low heels clicking softly on the ground while a baby carrier bumps against your leg with a soft, rhythmic thud, you lure the gaze of a man who looked like heâd stepped out of a hair commercial, sitting on the leather couch. the brunet stands when you walk in, immediately, like he's been waiting for that exact moment, and God, he's taller than you expected. softer, too.
"hi," steve says, smiling kindly, with a gentleness in the way he holds himself. at first his dark hazel eyes met yours, then subtly shifted to the tiny person beside you.
ivory peers at him from her seat, one hand clutching her pink baby blanket, the other half-raised like she's unsure whether she's waving or hiding.
"this is ivy," you say, crouching a little as you set down the carrier, preparing to set her free. "she's a babbler."
steve crouches too. not all the way down, just enough to meet her where she is. "that's okay," he tells her, glimpsing at you briefly. "iâm used to blabbermouths." he gestures to robin obviously so that your daughter could catch on.
that gets him a look with big eyes of curiosity. she giggles, sudden and bright, like she surprised herself.
steve gazes at you once more with a grin that made your stomach do a subtle, traitorous flip. "my nameâs steve. iâve been told by a certain blabbermouth that you like hanging out here from time to time,â the brunet murmurs as if it were a secret. âhow 'bout you spend some time with us?â
ivy didn't answer with words at first , instead, she reaches out a chubby hand and pats steveâs stubbled cheek, her fingers lingering on his jawline as if testing to see if he was real. steve doesnât pull back, rather, leans into the touch as his expression melts from a cool grin into something devastatingly soft.
âwanâ spend time, seef.â she giggles.
"seef, huh?" steve repeats, proudly accepting his adorably mispronounced name, letting out a breathy laugh. âyou got a deal, ivy.â
as you freed her completely, he straightens up, but he doesnât break the connection with her. after a quick look at you to see if it was appropriate, he reaches out, offering a single finger for her to grab onto, and she wraps her entire small hand around it.
the contrast was striking of his large hand held captive by her tiny, soft grip.
later, she's sitting on a wooden counter by him, pressing buttons on the off-air soundboard with serious concentration. steve narrates it like it's the most important job in the world and when she presses the wrong thing, he doesn't correct her, just adjusts around it.
robin disappears into the background to handle some small task, and you settle in on a loveseat nearby, observing.
"this one makes the 'boing' sound, ivy,â steve explains, then encourages with, âwanna try it out? itâs fun.â
boing.
the sound echoed through the studio monitors, followed immediately by your daughterâs high-pitched, bubbly giggle. she lets her head fall back against steveâs chest, her small body relaxing into him.
said man looks up, catching your eye across the glowing equipment. his thumb moves in a slow, absent-minded circle against ivyâs sweater-clad arm. âperfect comedic timing, maâam. we might have to hire her and give robin the boot.â steve murmurs, a low, prideful hum vibrating in his chest that seemed to soothe the toddler even further.
by the time the shift hit nine p.m., way past the toddlerâs usual bedtime, the "on air" light was off, and the studio was bathed in amber lowlight. ivy had finally succumbed to the rhythm of the room, curly head of her lolling against steveâs shoulder.
he doesn't move her, just shifts slightly and makes room for her cheek against his chest. one hand settled steady at her back, his body rocking slow and instinctive.
you notice how careful he is not to wake her. how he breathes shallow, like heâs fraid to disturb the moment.
when he finally notices you watching, he doesnât speak. steve harrington just offers a small, lopsided smile; one that seemed to acknowledge the sacredness of the quiet. he inclines his head toward the baby carrier, silently signaling that he was happy to help you get settled to go.
your slightly glimmering eyes showed him appreciation.
act ii.
the week leading up to the hospice visitation was filled with a folder of text messages. it started simply but quickly devolved into something more.
steve h. what time does she usually nap?
steve h. these videos about changing diapers are not helping in the slightestâŚ
steve h. i mean, should i even?
steve h. i guess it would be child neglect if i didnât
steve h. are you okay with that?
steve crisis averted! found the pink care-bear hiding under your couch :) sneaky thing huh
when the day finally comes, steve arrives at your door looking suspiciously like a man who is ready for an apocalypse, equipped with a backpack filled with snacks and a spare set of 'bitchinâ' sunglasses for ivy.
inside your living room, the morning light feels too bright for the heavy task ahead of you. while you stand by the counter, fingers trembling as they nervously flattened your dark capris every few seconds, steve is already down on the rug, taking over.
"alrighty," said man murmurs, his voice animated and low. "first, we need to park your toes. beep beep!"
ivy let out a delighted shriek, her tiny finger shooting out to poke the tip of steveâs nose as her feet are put in her ballerina flats. "beep beep, seef!"
"atta girl, perfect parking," he praises, smile wide and genuine, but as he glances up and catches sight of you, the playfulness in his expression shifts into something profoundly empathetic.
standing in one fluid motion, crossing the room to bridge the gap between you, steve approaches closely and you are suddenly enveloped in his scent, something spicy and woodsy.
"hey," he whispers, resonant and grounding. then he reaches out and his hand hovers just near your arm as if waiting for permission to anchor you. "take all the time you need to do what you have to do. donât rush back for us.â steve looks down at ivy, then back at you, âi'll send you updates every time she does something even remotely genius, which, let's face it, is every five minutes."
the corner of your glossy mouth twitches in a ghost of a smile, the first bit of warmth to hit your chest all morning.
"i canât thank you enough, steve. really."
"donât mention it," he replies, thumb grazing the back of your hand for a fleeting, electric second.
act iii.
the squawk becomes neutral ground and ivy knows it now.
she toddles through the bustling space like she owns it, waving at robin, tugging at steveâs hand.
he lets her.
throughout the passing week, you took care of the legalities. the funeral had passed, the house was sold, and the weight of the grief had settled into a dull, manageable ache. you did what you needed to do, but still, thereâs a quiet pride in that, even if it aches.
ivy is sitting in a small yet tall stool steve had clearly brought from home, placed right next to his. he was teaching your daughter how to sign âthank youâ after watching many videos on the internet to further expand her already established tiny genius status.
robin spots you from across the room and waves you in with a dramatic roll of her eyes. "lookey," she sighs, leaning against the soundproof glass. "iâve been officially replaced. by my goddaughter and my best friend.â
you giggle lightheartedly. steve looks up then, his face lighting up with a heat that was meant only for you.
ââ he doesn't even want to go to the bar with me after the shift anymore, just wants to watch videos all day to learn what he can teach her next."
as robin continues her rant, steve stays right where he is, one hand steadying the back of ivyâs stool as he took you in. his eyes searches yours, cataloging the relief in your expression.
"everything handled?" he asks in a low rumble.
you breathe deeply while nodding, low heels stepping to stand beside them.
steve reaches out, his hand finding the small of your back in a gesture that feels less like a greeting and more like grounding. "good. then you can finally stop being a legal expert and go back to being a person." he leans in closer, thumb grazing your waist.
looking deeply into his eyes, you smile sincerely for the first time in weeks.
act iv.
the transition from the babysitter to whatever he is to you happened so gradually that you almost didn't notice the shift in the atmosphere.
steve a voice message of ivyâs melodic, high-pitched laughter followed by steveâs pretend-outraged: oh man, not again, bubba. the ivy-waffle-tax has to end! i donât have any more left!
steve harrington had become a fixture in your phoneâs notifications and, increasingly, a presence in your doorway.
at first it started with 'dropping off' things your daughter had left in his car; a hairband, a jellycat. then, it became picking up dinner because he happened to be near that italian place you mentioned you liked.
each visit stretched a little longer than the last, the conversations moving from toddler milestones to the quiet, personal details of your own lives.
on a late night , everything shifts even more.
steve doesnât make a move for his jacket, check his watch or mention the evening he had at the station. instead, he moves through your space with a practiced silence.
he is on his knees, large hands gathering the stray wooden blocks youâd stepped over a dozen times. and you, well you observe him from the kitchen island, a glass of water held loosely in your hand, completely forgotten.
the sight of his broad shoulders hunched as he carefully tucks a toy into the wooden chest so as not to clatter the wood hit you with a sudden, striking clarity.
he didn't look like a favor from your daughterâs godmother anymore. steve harrington looked like he belonged in the frame of your life.
"you don't have to do that, steve," you whisper, the sound cutting through the serenity.
said man pauses with a blue triangle in his palm, and looks up at you. the amber light of the floor lamp catches the gold in his hair and the sheer, unadorned sincerity in his eyes. âitâs no trouble, sweetheart. gives me a legitimate excuse to stay for another ten minutes,â he grins boldly, âfifteen if i move extra slow."
then, steve stands up slowly, white and green nikes squeaking against the tiled floor under his weight as he crosses the room to where you stand. the kitchen is quiet, the only sound the steady hum of the dishwasher as it churns through the evening's mess. steveâs gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second in yearning trance before his dark hazel eyes meets yours again.
he reaches out, thumb brushing against the back of your manicured hand where it rests on the counter. it isn't a bold move, just a tentative test of the waters, his skin warm and slightly rough against yours.
"i was thinking," steve starts, his voice dropping into a low, private murmur that feels like a physical touch. "maybe next time i see you, it doesn't have to be because youâre busy or because iâm watching ivy. iâd like to take you, both of you, on a proper date."
the invitation is simple, but the way his fingers linger against your knuckles feels so much heavier.
steve harrington is asking to be woven into the fabric of both yours and your daughters lives.
"i'd like that," you reply, your voice devastatingly honest.
that night, when he finally makes a move to leave, he doesn't just give you a yearning smile by the door. steve stops, reaching for your hand one last time, squeezing it.
act v.
steve picks you and ivy up at six on the dot, looking devastatingly handsome standing by his maroon beamer in a forest green button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. he gives ivy a huge hug, hoisting her high into the air until she squeals, before leaning into you and kissing your cheek.
"you look breathtaking," steve whispers to you, his eyes lingering on yours with a warmth that makes the evening air feel still. then he drives to enzo's.
enzoâs is the kind of italian place that feels expensive but smells like home. the restaurant feels like steve in the most quiet, unexpected ways; itâs polished and classic on the surface, but beneath the white linen and mahogany is a heart that is deeply inviting. it has that same paradoxical charm he carries, where the atmosphere is upscale enough to feel special yet comfortable enough to handle a toddlerâs curious messiness.
he doesn't sit across from you, rather, choosing the side of the table that allows him to sit right next to ivyâs high chair, determined to make this evening, and many more, as stress-free as possible for you.
"okay, babblebug," steve says, opening the heavy, evergreen leather-bound menu and propping it up so she can see. "big decisions tonight. do we go for the spaghetti, or are we feeling brave to try something new?â
ivy pokes a picture of the âsalmon al fornoâ. "pink fish, seef!" she giggles.
you watch from across the table, your chin resting on your hand, feeling that traitorous flip in your stomach turn into a brighter glow.
"that is a pink fish," steve nods solemnly, his voice thick with a genuine respect that makes your heart ache. "very observant. does that look yummy, pipsqueak?"
you track the way his thumb absent mindedly strokes the edge of the dark green leather, his focus entirely on her. he waits for her answer patiently, absolutely focused on the tiny toddler. the amber candlelight catches the gold in his hair and the softness of his expression, and for a moment, your breath is taken from you.
he catches you staring and gives you a small, loving wink.
as the night progresses, you find yourself relaxing, the constant tension in your chest finally dissolving as you give yourself permission to recognize what your heart has been trying to tell you all along. it isn't just about the way he handles the âpink fishâ or the effortless way he wipes a smudge of olive oil from ivyâs chin. itâs the realization that for the first time in years, you donât have to carry a cross by yourself.
"is it yummy, ivy?" you ask, leaning in to catch her eye, your voice finally losing that edge of exhaustion.
said toddler nods vigorously, her mouth full of salmon. "yummy, mommy! seef made it small!" she holds up a tiny forkful of fish as if itâs a trophy. "you wanna, seef?"
steve laughs, a rich, genuine sound that vibrates in the small space of the booth. he leans his head down toward her, letting her âfeedâ him the tiny scrap of fish, beaming, and the look of pure pride on his face makes you tear up. he looks up at you, catching your expression. "whatâs wrong? is there sauce on my face already?"
"no," you laugh softly, reaching across the table to briefly squeeze his hand. "youâre just incredible, steve."
said manâs eyes lock onto yours, the playful energy in his face settling into something profoundly steady. he doesn't pull his hand away, instead, he shifts his grip so his palm is flat against yours, thumb tracing the line of your wrist.
"being with you is the most natural thing in the world." steve admits.
his voice is a low, grounded rumble that cuts through the noise of the restaurant. gaze shifting to your daughter, his expression softens into something raw and unguarded as he watches her explore the texture of the white linen with a focused frown. "sheâs curious about everything. i love that," he says, his voice dropping into a quiet confession.
"i spent a lot of years not asking enough questions. just going through the motions, you know? i like seeing her figure the world out. it makes everything feel new again."
the honesty in his admission forces a tear to flee your eye. he isn't just watching her grow, heâs letting her curiosity heal parts of him.
ivy looks up at the sound of his voice, offering him a blurry, tired smile before her head finally thumps against his shoulder, her energy spent. steve doesn't miss a beat, his arm instinctively curling around her to hold her steady as his lips mouth âbedtimeâ quietly.
he looks back at you, the candlelight reflecting in the warm, deep brown of his eyes. "i think i've spent my whole life looking for this," steve murmurs.
"i think we have, too."
a look of profound, quiet yearning crosses his face as he looks from the toddler to you. itâs a look that says heâs envisioning a thousand more moments just like this.
"she has your eyes, you know," steve says, his voice barely audible over the restaurantâs soft jazz. "especially when sheâs happy. itâs kind of dangerous for me. iâm a goner."
"steveâ" you giggle, though the weight of his honesty makes your heart beat firmer.
"i mean it, baby.â he says, the endearment slipping out as naturally as a breath.
steve looks down at ivy, who is now fast asleep against his side, and then back at you, his expression raw and unshielded.
"i'm here for as long as you'll have me," he murmurs, his eyes searching yours with a quiet, burning intensity, "and i hope that is a long time."
you can't find the words to tell him how much that promise means, so you just squeeze his hand back, letting the silence say it for you.
the âgonerâ he mentioned isn't just him.
as you watch him carefully shift his weight to keep from waking your daughter, you realize:
summary â you were sent to interview lex luthor, though your real mission was clear: demolish his towering ego and leave his carefully crafted persona in ruins. standing solidly behind you, to protect and serve, was superman.
diva!fem!reader , you know it
youâd promised perry youâd behave, crossed your heart and everything, even wore your hair up for the first five minutes of the morning to make it believable. contrasting, well, your mood had been venom-laced since your second iced latte and the way clark had tried to say âdonât antagonize himâ, as if that ever worked on you.
âlex luthor is dangerous,â clark had warned you, gentle and serious, as though he wasnât the superior being on the planet, dressed in a tie that still had a price tag on the back. âheâs manipulative, calculating, and uh, just⌠be careful.â
you had offered him a tantalizing smile, the kind that usually resulted in hr meetings or marriage proposals, âhandsome, i invented careful, i just wear it sensuously.â
and so you went.
lexcorp tower loomed in the skyline, its reflective windows catching the afternoon sun like it wanted to be worshipped. everything inside was clinical: white marble, silver accents, no warmth, no life, no personality, just narcissism in structural form. you stepped into the lobby with your usual assertive steps, demanding attention with each click of your heel.
âmiss l/n,â the assistant greeted you, far too joyous for someone living under the threat of a quarterly review, âmr. luthor is expecting you.â
you paused, head tilted just slightly, gaze indifferent and unhurried, âshame,â you muttered, the word curling at the edges. âi was hoping to catch him unprepared.â
the elevator purred to life, private and silent and sterile, like it judged your existence with every passing floor. by the time it opened into the penthouse suite, you had already reapplied your lip gloss and curled the ends of your strands with your manicured fingers for the fifth time.
lex was waiting, standing behind a monstrous desk that screamed overcompensation, his posture too perfect, smile too precise, the whole room adjusted to feed his god complex. the view behind him: gleaming skyline, sweeping cityscape, only made it worse.
âyouâre late,â he said, in lieu of a greeting.
âyouâre bald,â you replied, in lieu of pretending you respected him.
his mouth twitched, perhaps a smile, perhaps a snarl, âi see the daily planet has sent their finest.â
you crossed your legs, notebook balanced delicately on your knee, pen uncapped but entirely decorative, âflattery already, luthor?â you frown.
his gaze sharpened, you could swear the room temperature dropped, âis baldness truly the hill you want to die on, miss l/n?â
you tilted your head, feigning thoughtfulness, twirling your curls with your fingers, âitâs a valid statement, and an accurate fact.â your heels tapped the shiny floor beneath you in a rhythm, âdid the hair leave on its own or did your ego push it out?â
a beat of silence overwhelmed the suite.
smiling sweetly, you continue, âi mean, you are a billionaire, lex, easy problem to fix.â
lex leaned forward then, the air changing, âiâve dealt with worse than you, y/n.â
you didnât flinch, only leaned in and mirrored his energy, voice velvet and venom. âhuh, agree to disagree.â
his hand twitched toward the call button, likely to summon security or sycophants or something significantly more lethal, though the ceiling above you trembled before he could. a low rumble, barely there, then the windows buzzed with a low vibrato.
and then he tore open the penthouse suite doors. the gust of his arrival swept through the room like a god had exhaled. no dramatic entrance, no grandstanding, no thunderous declarations, just boots on steel and the silence of tension.
superman â his cape fluttered once, then settled, eyes not even sparing lex a glance, though fully locked on you. the moment his glacier-colored eyes set on yours, everything else in the room evaporated into nothing.
lex straightened, observing the interaction, âis there a reason youâre interrupting my interview, or do you simply enjoy hovering?â
âis there a reason your guards are stationed on every floor?â clark retaliated, serene and yet firm, as though he didnât need to raise his voice to be a warning â which he clearly was all by merely existing.
you rose from your chair slowly, brushing invisible lint from your vintage capris like the diva you are, âthank transcendence,â you muttered under your breath, sauntering seductively toward the metahuman, âthe tension in here was so bad, i nearly kissed someone just to break it.â
superman â clark, shot you a look, the one he gave you when you steered too far into provocation, the same you returned with a wink.
âdid he hurt you?â clark asked, voice lower now, only for you.
you grinned, âno, supergenius. but i think i almost wounded his feelings.â
lex scoffed behind you, all bruised pride and barely contained malice.
âweâre leaving, miss l/nâ clark continued, ignoring the billionaire. it wasnât a question, barely a suggestion, it was, though, a demand.
and when he said it, you listened.
your heels echoed across lexâs polished floor like the ticking of an expensive bomb. you paused at the doorway, turned on your heel, looked the bald man up and down once more, âyou heard the boss,â you mused, âfun times, lex. until the next.â you shut the door behind you before he could reply.
outside, the guards gripped their guns tighter, subtly taking steps away from the superhuman as you walked by. clarkâs stressed hand rested tenderly on your exposed skin between your short-sleeved button down and capris. warm palms held without holding too tightly, thumbs traced slow, absent-minded circles as if he was memorizing you â even in stillness, there was care.
âi was winning, superdork.â you state, smugly.
âyou always are,â clark murmured, leaning his toned taille into your own, âbut you curled your hair today, itâs uh, very pretty by the way.â
you raised a pristinely carved eyebrow.
âwhen you do that,â he whispered, leaning to peck the corner of your mouth as soon as youâre by yourselves, âsomeone usually ends up crying, followed by a bold headline.â
smiling against his lips, your pink nails reach up to touch his curls, âwell, yours tend to save the city.â you giggle, âalso, it wasnât me this time.â then softly, âthank you.â
clark smiled, in this impossibly fond sense he did as though you were his favorite problem, cracking his previous sternness, âfâcourse.â
you slipped your hands along his colorfully clothed torso, reaching for his hands, âyou know,â you whispered, voice low enough only for him, âi think lex might want to fight me for your attention, and you know i donât play fair.â
his blue eyes twinkled with something softer, something wild and untamed, âheâs got nothing on you,â clark said, thumbs brushing your knuckles, âyou keep me completely occupied.â
you felt the heat of his words settle against your skin, a quiet fire burning just beneath the surface. fingers tightening around his, you anchor yourself in the moment, âsuper,â you murmured, voice thick with infatuation, ââcause i donât plan on sharing you, ever.â
he laughed softly, that rare, unguarded sound that made your chest ache with something fierce and tender all at once, âwouldnât want it any other way,â clark said, his gaze slipping down to your lips, then back up, an unspoken question lingering there.
you didnât need any more invitation than the way his eyes softened, the way his breath hitched just before you closed the space between you. slowly, deliberately, you leaned in, savoring every second as your lips brushed against his, light and tentative at first.
the kiss bloomed slow and warm, something tender unraveling in his chest the moment your mouth touched his, no urgency, merely the certainty of two people choosing each other in the soft space between chaos.
clark kent kissed like he meant it.
when you pulled back, the air between you felt charged, with what had just happened, his forehead rested against yours, breath still uneven, and cheeks flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. looking dazed and stupidly infatuated, clark grinned, âyou have me on my knees, sweetheart,â he murmured, voice low and full of wonder â dorky and devastating all at once.
while your heart stuttered, a laugh bubbled up in your throat, bright and giddy. you tilted your head, curls flowing perfectly, and lips grinning so hard it hurt. âjimmy bet me you would someday,â you whispered, eyes wide with mischief.
clark blinked, caught somewhere between flustered and utterly gone.
summary â you, in the middle of a live segment with mayor berkowitz, are seconds into questioning him about his suspiciously large office budget when the roof caves in. thank god your emergency contact is clark kent â or, well, superman.
diva!fem!reader , same old shenanigans ;) more
youâre live on air ragebaiting mayor berkowitz, barely listening as he stutters through a deeply boring answer about about city sanitation that you shamelessly phrased as: âso, how does it feel to spend more on gala dinners than fixing, say, literal sewage?â, when the roof above the stage cracks and starts to crumble.
âthat is definitely a safety hazard. mayor berkowitz, unless youâre planning to literally bury us under your accounting skills, i suggest we get moving, like, now ââ before you can finish, half the roof caves in with a thunderous crash, dust filling the air, cameras wobbling as panic rises in the background.
âalright, everyone,â you bark, voice sharp, commanding. people freeze while you point like a general with lip gloss, âdo not run. i want a single line, toward the north stairwell â no elevators, no detours.â
a female voice yelps near the stage and you continue, âif youâre wearing heels, take them off. if youâre wearing flats, congratulations, youâve won today. leave everything behind, a bag is not worth your life, unless itâs vintage. help anyone whoâs slower than you â hurry, this is not a drill, people.â
a lighting rig comes crashing down but you donât even flinch, youâve been taught safety by the most heroic there is. though your heart rate ticks up slightly with adrenaline, just a split second faster than usual.
too busy organizing an evacuation in heels, you donât have the time to feel scared, yet across the city, somewhere above metropolis, someone else felt it.
because your heart rate spiked.
â and he noticed.
in less than three seconds, the air shifts, the building shakes again, but this time, itâs from a comically sonic boom, then, a blur of red and blue crashes through the open skylight. he doesn't look at the mayor, the crumbling ceiling or even the crowd.
just you.
you turn calmly, hands on your hips. "took you long enough, smallville."
clark â superman, is at your side in half a second, worriedly scanning you for injuries , âare you hurt?â
your heart swoons at his gentle expression, he feels it. scoffing, you speak, âsweetheart, a roof threatened to fall near me, not on me.â
his chest rises like he just ran through a war zone, which thinking about it, he most likely did, âyour heart rate jumped."
âIt was the drama, superman.â you roll your eyes. âi didnât flatline on camera, i was about to dismantle a local politician, not perish.â
clarkâs heroic figure checks you regardless, hands gentle, worried, reverent.
âyou scared me.â
you melt, only slightly. the worry in his voice, the way his hands hovered to not break your mighty bravado. it hit you gently, subtly. not enough to make you crack, but enough to make you soften.
perhaps you like how his voice goes tight when youâre near danger.
you hum, lips curving like silk pulled taut. âwell, arenât you just to die for. though, if you really want to help,â you turn around in one elegant movement, hair, set to perfection, doesnât move an inch. pointing with one manicured finger, you command the room, âletâs get this production team out before someone catches a beam to the head. smallville, keep this building in one piece, willâya. iâve got the interns and the dramatics.â
clark hesitates, not out of confusion, but because heâs looking at you like youâve just rewired the planetâs orbit. he stands there, colorful suit clinging to every inch of that ridiculously lean build, curls perfectly gelled with just one curl hanging down over his forehead in the kind of way that should be a hazard in itself.
glacier blue eyes, mesmerizingly unreal, carved out of daydreams and comic books, are locked on you like heâs seeing a supernova mid-evacuation.
âpreferably now, superdorkâ you snap him out of the haze.
clark â superman, does his part clearing fallen beams, lifting a sound guy with one arm and shielding a grip from another ceiling crack with the other. all while sneaking glances at you, as though you might vanish, like youâve already unmade him in ways he doesnât have the words for.
when the last person stumbles out, coughing but safe, you stop and let yourself take in a deep breath.
supermanâs cape is slightly scorched, his hair an adorable mess. still â still, heâs watching you like youâre the most hazardous thing in the room.
âstill tracking my vitals?â you tease.
clark swallows. âalways.â
your kitten heels cross the space like sin, then you let your manicured fingers trace his jaw, other hand sitting perfectly on the famous S pressed proud across his chest.
âthen i suggest,â you mutter seductively, lips brushing the stubble at his jawline, âyou keep tracking âcause when i get home tonight? that spikeâs gonna need containment.â
when you catch him off guard with a teasing grin, his ears flush in a shade of pink, betraying the hero beneath the cape whoâs way out of his depth when it comes to you.
you grin wickedly.
twelve hours later youâre back in the bullpen, sipping an iced latte, phone screen dimming under the weight of hundreds of notifications.
âyou broke twitter,â jimmy announces before you even sit down, spinning in his chair with a look thatâs somewhere between astonishment and irritation.
lois doesnât glance up from her keyboard. âsuperman broke twitter. y/n broke clark.â
perry storms out of his office waving a printed tweet like itâs damning evidence in a federal case, âsuperman didnât land for the mayor, the crowd, or the collapsing ceiling. he landed for her. thatâs biblical â what does this mean, is this what journalism has come to?!â
âit means the nation has eyes, perry.â you retort.
you scroll through twitter without shame, the comments are chaos, your mentions are worse.
and then
â he walks in.
clark kent, late and flustered as always, with his shirt somehow still crisp and those adorable glasses sliding down his nose just enough to be unfair. the curl on his forehead is somehow worse than yesterday â so messily charming, so him. he smiles politely, carries too many folders, and nods earnestly as if the world didnât see him soft-launching his emotional devastation for all of metropolis.
the dark haired journalist deadpans, âcongrats on being the reason our cityâs most powerful being is officially down bad.â
you shrug, âsame old.â
he makes it to your desk, sets down a copy of your headline, and clears his throat like he didnât practically vaporize a lighting rig to check your pulse yesterday, âmorning,â he says softly, pink creeping up his neck.
clark then settles into the chair beside you, careful not to spill the stack of papers in his hands, âyou really had me worried,â he murmurs, voice low enough only you can hear.
you glance up, smirk tugging at your lips, âwell, i like being the reason your heart races.â
the smile returned is soft and genuine, as if time itself holds its breath for just a moment between you.
this time, that spike in your heart wasnât adrenaline at all.
summary â you, hrâs primary nightmare, counteract all of lex luthorâs bitterness with excessive infatuation for superman, though you may swoon for clark kent just a bit harder
diva!fem!reader , warning by itself ! more
monthly visits to perryâs office were routine for you, but hows that your fault, really? if lex luthor was bitterness refined into steel, then you were its counterweight; shamelessly flirty, too infatuated to take seriously, except you were serious, and everyone was aware of it.
you once told perry that if the city was ever on fire, youâd be looking for a red and blue streak in the sky before a neon green exit sign. but it wasnât superman that got your stomach twisted, not really. though he was an exciting fantasy.
in contrary, it was clark who had you all breathless and smitten.
the chief storms out of his office, evidently stressed. youâre supposed to be editing, however, clarkâs adorably geeky manner of pushing his thick rimmed glasses upwards as he read seemed much more appealing.
âwhereâs that damn headline? i need olsenâs photos, i need kentâs copy, and you ââ he levels a weathered, ink-stained finger directly at you, voice rising into that gravelly shout that usually precedes a fireable offense, ââ need to stop treating the bullpen like a strip club.â
you pause, blinking once, then you frown, theatrically offended, âexcuse you, iâve been shockingly tame today.â
jimmy doesnât even glance up from his camera, adjusting a lens calmly, âyou purred at clark.â
a gasp leaves your glossy lips, manicured fingernails to chest, mock-scandal radiating off you like your expensive perfume. âit was a low whisper of admiration,â you tilt your head, eyes glittering, âvery subtle, deeply respectful.â
behind her ridiculously sugar filled coffee mug, lois exhales, not blinking. âyou called him midwestern daddy ten minutes ago.â she speaks exhaustedly, victim to your menacing ways for too long.
the silence that follows is loud, though clarkâs chair creaked slightly.
said journalist stiffens, shoulders drawing up. he doesnât look at you but you can see the pink hue spread across the tip of his ears, glasses blurring faintly at the edges. clarkâs mouth opens, speechless. thereâs something preciously boyish in the way his hand fiddles nervously.
you watch the motion like itâs a ticking clock, like if you stare long enough, maybe youâll unravel the rhythm of his thoughts.
he exhales through his nose, steadying himself. thereâs a flush creeping down his throat now, staining the collar of his deliciously fitting suit, and it hits you with quiet satisfaction how undone he looks from nothing but your affection.
you lean back in your chair, unbothered, heels-clad feet crossed sensually. your coworkers snicker knowingly, observing the tension.
âyouâre going to cause a workplace incident.â lois speaks smugly.
âif he files a complaint, it better be formatted in ap style,â you reply sweetly.
behind his glasses, clark shoots you a look. quick. pink around the edges. it lands and disappears almost instantly, like he regrets it the second it leaves him. but not before you see it, just the flicker of something too sharp to be harmless.
youâve built your whole career off catching what people donât say.
clark shifts awkwardly, so him. âiââ his voice is hoarse, chest-deep, then quieter, âi have a meeting.â
a beat passed, everyone waiting for his next reaction. soon enough, it came. âwith perry.â he stands too fast for the size of his body, chair scraping loudly against the floor, like itâs also trying to flee with him.
âyou know,â jimmy murmurs, fiddling with his camera settings again, âone day youâre gonna push him too far and heâs actually gonna ridiculously fall to his knees right by your feet.â
you shrug, unapologetic. âiâm counting on it.â
you donât see him again for an hour, not that youâre counting.
you definitely are.
but only because he fled like a man personally threatened by the concept of being admired for too long, and perhaps youâd leaned back in your chair after he left, a little smug, though you shouldnât have.
because now youâre trapped in a mandatory safety meeting.
and heâs back but not exactly clark.
superman. glowing on the screen at the front of the bullpen like a gift you didnât deserve but would never return. voice calm, steady in a heroic authority.
and youâve never been good at behaving.
your fantasy personified speaks serene and unbothered in a pre-recorded safety hazard video, âremain calm and exit through the designated stairwells. do not ââ
ââ run unless youâre running toward me, babe.â you mumble, seemingly hypnotized.
perry slams his pen down like it personally offended him. âfor the love of god, l/n, can we get through one meeting without this torture?â
lois snorts, jimmy full-body winces into his sleeve, someone two rows over mutters your name like a prayer and a warning.
you just sip your iced coffee, eyes still glued to the screen. ârespectfully,â you start, calm as ever, âiâm a better listener when the instructions come from a man built like justice and righteousness.â
superman, onscreen, pulls a lever to activate a mock sprinkler system. expression stern, focused and dangerously, to you, competent.
âlook at those forearms, suddenly, i care deeply about protocol.â
clark, three chairs down, doesnât look up. doesnât speak.
but his neck is pink, flushed in that telltale way, knuckles white and spine rigid, shoulders drawn back with that exacting control he thinks makes him unreadable, yet you see it; the way he sits too still, as if he relaxes even an inch, youâll catch him thinking something unforgivable.
lois leans toward you without looking away from the screen. âso what happens if the safety videoâs starring clark instead?â
you glance at her casually. âthen iâd evacuate straight into cardiac arrest.â a beat passed, âhe is the emergency.â
clarkâs breath hitches subtly, but you catch it with the proximity of your bodies.
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