gigi.

dc’s finest !

[gigiohvanna]

late night talking ! — b m

summary — allie’s 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 — classmates to lovers, no warnings ! three acts

act i.

„i bet you won’t.“

allie‘s 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, she’d 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 didn’t feel that way at all, but my best friend had a way of challenging my stubbornness like no one else.

that’s how we got to setting up a perfectly whimsy profile, according to allie, and swiping endlessly.

„oh he’s kinda cute!“

CHARLES VAN PELT, 22

lifeguard

„so not, al.“

allie whines, „babe, this is the hundredth guy you’ve swiped left. it’s becoming brutal, give one of them a chance, would you?“

my hibiscus scented candle fills the space with a gentle glow, offering some warmth into our night. i glance at her sideways, „well, i don’t like them. isn’t that the point?“

i set my wineglass down on my coffee table as she scooted closer to me, taking my manicured hand in both of hers, „the point is that you should take some risks and put yourself out there, have some fun.“ then she let go and took another slice of pepperoni pizza, „how about this, next person that pops up, you have to swipe right. who knows, you could match, you could not? but at least try.“

if you ever wondered why you should never try to reason with allison hayes is because she’ll get her way either way, so it’s easier to just give in.

„fine.“ 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.

„no way. dude, no way!“ she yells, grabbing my phone, „beau maxwell?“ she muses.

i frown, „you know him?“

her head snaps towards me so fast i worried she might’ve pulled something, „you have literally been in the same room as him like a million times, y/n.“ allie laughs disbelieving, glancing between my phone and i every few seconds, „that’s dean‘s best friend. i’m pretty sure you guys have the same history courses?“

my eyes squint in thoughtfulness, then i remember, yeah, he sat three rows below me. i’m 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, „that’s awesome, prompts says, 'the dorkiest thing about me is‘ and beau answers, 'that i love historical theater and can tell you all the drama about it‘, oh my, i love this!“

i chuckle and lean into her, taking my phone back into my hands and reading through his profile myself. i wouldn’t have expected that from a football quarterback but he is in my historical class after all, so it shouldn’t be as surprising. perhaps because he was best friends with dean di laurentis.

a picture of 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, „alright, swipe him. swipe right!“ 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.

„what do i do?“

„text him!“

„allie, i can’t!“

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, it’s totally worth it and understandable.

i drop my phone on the sofa and hide my flushing face behind my palm, disbelieving of what’s 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. "he’s paying you a huge compliment, babe. look, he surely remembers you from history class, or he knows you through dean. play it cool.“

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, i’ll 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, i’d 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 i’d definitely seen beau plenty of times, he was hard to miss. but i’d 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 didn’t 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 he’d felt awkward sending a cheesy opening line. with that thought, my thumb hovered over the keyboard again.

you: i don’t think it was embarrassing

beau maxwell: no?

you: no. definitely cheesy though

beau maxwell: i’ll gladly accept cheesy over embarrassing

allie’s 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 wouldn’t 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, “this is the best thing ever.”

beau maxwell: you don’t seem to like frat guys

you: what makes you say that?

beau maxwell: i’ve seen you around, you don’t really fraternize with anyone but your close group

beau maxwell: and yet you’re very social and appreciated by everyone

you: you noticed all of that?

beau maxwell: it’s hard not to pay attention to you

you: that’s… incredibly adorable

you: for the record

you: i’m 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.

“wow.” i sighed, shaking my head.

our gazes met, and she gave a small nod, her smile never faltering.

act ii.

i’m sat by the counter in malone’s with allie, both of us sipping colorful, though non-alcoholic, drinks as we wait for hannah’s last few minutes of waitressing until shift end so we could have a girls’ 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: i‘m 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.

„friday, huh?” she hummed, nudging me again, “someone couldn’t wait to let you know.”

i shrug, „or,“ i muttered, fighting the smile tugging at my lips, “he’s just letting me know because we’ve been talking.”

allie gave me a look that practically screamed you cannot be serious. “babe,” she scoffed, „he probably texted you before he texted his own mother.“ 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 it’d be longer

beau: disappointed?

you: not at all

you: the opposite, actually

beau: i’m glad

beau: we should probably talk in person eventually

my heart gave one quiet, unexpected stutter, the feeling so fleeting i almost convinced myself i’d imagined it.

you: probably

beau: unless you plan on dating me exclusively through text messages

you: that’s 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 i‘m 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 boys‘ 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 hadn’t realized i‘d 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.

„it was a hilarious pun, mr. atwood didn’t appreciate it though.“ dean chuckled, recounting yesterday’s 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 didn’t 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 hadn’t caught glimpses of dean‘s hands occasionally sliding too close to allie’s waist, or the way he would try to subtly catch a whiff of her perfume. although, remaining blind to the way he’d caress her untameable waves, was only possible if you’d 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, „you okay?“

i blinked rapidly, unaware of my daydreaming, „huh? of course, yeah.“ i sighed out a startled laugh.

allie‘s 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, „have you talked to him today?“ dean spoke while brushing his palm across his mouth.

he didn’t need to mention who he was referring to.

i nod as i reach down for my mocktail i’d placed on the lawn before us, „he called this morning.“ ice clinked gently in the glass as i rolled it absently between my hands, „we talked for a bit, then he went kinda m.i.a throughout the day.“ i shrug.

i wanted to remain optimistic and have faith in my belief that beau maxwell was nothing like any man i’d ever been involved with, considering that he’d 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 couldn’t be ignored anymore.

if it was hard to overlook beau maxwell before, it’d be unattainable now.

allie suddenly stood up, pulling me out from my incoming melancholy and startling me. her eyes sparkled with a brightness i‘d seen often throughout our years of friendship when she was truly enchanted by something. her manicured hands slapped at dean‘s shoulders, who sucked his teeth with no malice as he stood as well.

„buddy,“ dean murmured while slightly bending forward to place his heavy hand on the top of my head, shooting a wink, „i wouldn’t worry if i was you.“

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.

beau‘s smile softened, his head tilting slightly as he studied me, „i‘m sorry i‘m late.“ he teased with a gentle rugged tone, „i had to run an errand.“ 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 another’s presence.

„hey, angel.“ 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, „hi, beau.“ 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.

beau‘s head tilted slightly as he studied me, „are you disappointed?“ 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.

„don’t worry, beau. you’re a pretty nice sight.“ i respond jokingly, though truthful.

beau looked undoubtably more handsome directly than i’d imagined. those passing glimpses i had gotten from him around campus and our daily calls didn’t 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, „pretty, you say?“

“don‘t make me repeat it.”

“i‘m just making sure i heard you correctly.” 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.

“you did.”

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.

“oh, angel.” he shook his brown waves, „you know how to make a man weak. i‘ll be thinking about that all night,” he added, the smug grin on his face growing as he let out a quiet, amused groan.

i couldn’t 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 hadn’t. not until now.

“these are for you.”

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, „because if you keep looking at me like that, i’m 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 don’t 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.

„good,“ beau rasps, „because i plan on keeping you for a long time."

[gigiohvanna]

table for three ! — s h

summary — you 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 daughter’s routines, your hearts, and made space for a future you hadn’t 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 that’s been reheated one too many times and dust warmed by electronics. it’s comforting in a way you can’t exactly pinpoint why. robin sits cross-legged on the rug covered floor, animated as always, gesturing wildly as she talks about something you’ve already lost the thread of, while your daughter sleeps curled into the couch cushions behind you.

ivory, or ivy since her tongue can’t yet formulate her 'r’s' properly, is a soft weight of balayage blending warm brown into honeyed blonde curls and warmth. her tiny toddler fingers twitch occasionally, like she’s dreaming in small, important bursts.

you’re half listening, half thinking about next week. hospice paperwork, signatures, rooms that smell like antiseptic and endings. you don’t 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 daughter‘s very short life.

having to let go of him felt like letting go of a part of yourself.

„i despise seeing you like this,“ robin frowns, „i‘d take my little angel of a goddaughter in a heartbeat to give you space to handle all this shit, but,“ she drags out dramatically, „you know i’m best in short bursts, crisis mode, or backup. not extended care during emotionally heavy weeks.“ 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 he’d 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,“ she shrugs, „meet 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 he’d 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. "i‘m 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 name’s steve. i’ve been told by a certain blabbermouth that you like hanging out here from time to time,“ the brunet murmurs as if it were a secret. „how 'bout you spend some time with us?“

ivy didn't answer with words at first , instead, she reaches out a chubby hand and pats steve’s stubbled cheek, her fingers lingering on his jawline as if testing to see if he was real. steve doesn’t pull back, rather, leans into the touch as his expression melts from a cool grin into something devastatingly soft.

„wan‘ spend time, seef.“ she giggles.

"seef, huh?" steve repeats, proudly accepting his adorably mispronounced name, letting out a breathy laugh. „you got a deal, ivy.“

as you freed her completely, he straightens up, but he doesn’t 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,“ steve explains, then encourages with, „wanna try it out? it’s fun.“

boing.

the sound echoed through the studio monitors, followed immediately by your daughter’s high-pitched, bubbly giggle. she lets her head fall back against steve’s 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 ivy‘s sweater-clad arm. „perfect comedic timing, ma’am. we might have to hire her and give robin the boot.“ 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 toddler‘s 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 steve’s 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 he’s fraid to disturb the moment.

when he finally notices you watching, he doesn’t 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 slightest…

steve h. i mean, should i even?

steve h. i guess it would be child neglect if i didn’t

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 'bitchin’' 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 steve’s 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. don’t rush back for us.“ steve looks down at ivy, then back at you, „i'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 can’t thank you enough, steve. really."

"don’t 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 steve’s 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, there’s 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 ‘thank you’ 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. "i’ve been officially replaced. by my goddaughter and my best friend.“

you giggle lightheartedly. steve looks up then, his face lighting up with a heat that was meant only for you.

„— 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 ivy‘s 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 ivy‘s melodic, high-pitched laughter followed by steve’s pretend-outraged: oh man, not again, bubba. the ivy-waffle-tax has to end! i don’t have any more left!

steve harrington had become a fixture in your phone’s 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 doesn’t 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 you’d 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 daughter‘s 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. „it’s no trouble, sweetheart. gives me a legitimate excuse to stay for another ten minutes,“ he grins boldly, “fifteen 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. steve’s 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 you’re busy or because i’m watching ivy. i’d 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.

enzo’s is the kind of italian place that feels expensive but smells like home. the restaurant feels like steve in the most quiet, unexpected ways; it’s 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 toddler’s curious messiness.

he doesn't sit across from you, rather, choosing the side of the table that allows him to sit right next to ivy’s 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?“

ivy pokes a picture of the ‘salmon al forno’. "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 ‘pink fish’ or the effortless way he wipes a smudge of olive oil from ivy’s chin. it’s the realization that for the first time in years, you don’t 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 it’s 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 ‘feed’ 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. "what’s wrong? is there sauce on my face already?"

"no," you laugh softly, reaching across the table to briefly squeeze his hand. "you’re just incredible, steve."

said man’s 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. "she’s 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, he’s 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 ‘bedtime’ 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. it’s a look that says he’s envisioning a thousand more moments just like this.

"she has your eyes, you know," steve says, his voice barely audible over the restaurant’s soft jazz. "especially when she’s happy. it’s kind of dangerous for me. i’m a goner."

"steve—" you giggle, though the weight of his honesty makes your heart beat firmer.

"i mean it, baby.” 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 ‘goner’ he mentioned isn't just him.

as you watch him carefully shift his weight to keep from waking your daughter, you realize:

you’re right there with him.

[gigiohvanna]

headline highs ! — c k

summary — 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

you’d promised perry you’d 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 “don’t antagonize him”, as if that ever worked on you.

“lex luthor is dangerous,” clark had warned you, gentle and serious, as though he wasn’t the superior being on the planet, dressed in a tie that still had a price tag on the back. “he’s manipulative, calculating, and uh, just… be careful.”

you had offered him a tantalizing smile, the kind that usually resulted in hr meetings or marriage proposals, „handsome, i invented careful, i just wear it sensuously.”

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.

“miss l/n,” the assistant greeted you, far too joyous for someone living under the threat of a quarterly review, „mr. luthor is expecting you.”

you paused, head tilted just slightly, gaze indifferent and unhurried, “shame,” you muttered, the word curling at the edges. “i was hoping to catch him unprepared.”

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.

“you’re late,” he said, in lieu of a greeting.

“you’re bald,” you replied, in lieu of pretending you respected him.

his mouth twitched, perhaps a smile, perhaps a snarl, “i see the daily planet has sent their finest.”

you crossed your legs, notebook balanced delicately on your knee, pen uncapped but entirely decorative, „flattery already, luthor?“ you frown.

his gaze sharpened, you could swear the room temperature dropped, „is baldness truly the hill you want to die on, miss l/n?”

you tilted your head, feigning thoughtfulness, twirling your curls with your fingers, “it’s a valid statement, and an accurate fact.“ your heels tapped the shiny floor beneath you in a rhythm, „did the hair leave on its own or did your ego push it out?”

a beat of silence overwhelmed the suite.

smiling sweetly, you continue, “i mean, you are a billionaire, lex, easy problem to fix.”

lex leaned forward then, the air changing, “i’ve dealt with worse than you, y/n.”

you didn’t flinch, only leaned in and mirrored his energy, voice velvet and venom. “huh, agree to disagree.”

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 — 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, „is there a reason you’re interrupting my interview, or do you simply enjoy hovering?”

“is there a reason your guards are stationed on every floor?” clark retaliated, serene and yet firm, as though he didn’t need to raise his voice to be a warning — 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, „thank transcendence,” you muttered under your breath, sauntering seductively toward the metahuman, “the tension in here was so bad, i nearly kissed someone just to break it.”

superman — clark, shot you a look, the one he gave you when you steered too far into provocation, the same you returned with a wink.

“did he hurt you?” clark asked, voice lower now, only for you.

you grinned, „no, supergenius. but i think i almost wounded his feelings.”

lex scoffed behind you, all bruised pride and barely contained malice.

“we’re leaving, miss l/n” clark continued, ignoring the billionaire. it wasn’t a question, barely a suggestion, it was, though, a demand.

and when he said it, you listened.

your heels echoed across lex’s 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, “you heard the boss,” you mused, “fun times, lex. until the next.” 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. clark’s 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 — even in stillness, there was care.

“i was winning, superdork.” you state, smugly.

“you always are,” clark murmured, leaning his toned taille into your own, “but you curled your hair today, it’s uh, very pretty by the way.”

you raised a pristinely carved eyebrow.

“when you do that,” he whispered, leaning to peck the corner of your mouth as soon as you’re by yourselves, “someone usually ends up crying, followed by a bold headline.”

smiling against his lips, your pink nails reach up to touch his curls, „well, yours tend to save the city.” you giggle, „also, it wasn’t me this time.“ then softly, „thank you.”

clark smiled, in this impossibly fond sense he did as though you were his favorite problem, cracking his previous sternness, „f’course.”

you slipped your hands along his colorfully clothed torso, reaching for his hands, “you know,” you whispered, voice low enough only for him, “i think lex might want to fight me for your attention, and you know i don’t play fair.”

his blue eyes twinkled with something softer, something wild and untamed, “he’s got nothing on you,” clark said, thumbs brushing your knuckles, „you keep me completely occupied.”

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, “super,” you murmured, voice thick with infatuation, “‘cause i don’t plan on sharing you, ever.”

he laughed softly, that rare, unguarded sound that made your chest ache with something fierce and tender all at once, „wouldn’t want it any other way,” clark said, his gaze slipping down to your lips, then back up, an unspoken question lingering there.

you didn’t 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, „you have me on my knees, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low and full of wonder — 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. “jimmy bet me you would someday,” you whispered, eyes wide with mischief.

clark blinked, caught somewhere between flustered and utterly gone.

and god,

— you loved him just like this.

[gigiohvanna]

heart rate hazard ! — c k

summary — 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 — or, well, superman.

diva!fem!reader , same old shenanigans ;) more

you’re 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: “so, how does it feel to spend more on gala dinners than fixing, say, literal sewage?”, when the roof above the stage cracks and starts to crumble.

“that is definitely a safety hazard. mayor berkowitz, unless you’re planning to literally bury us under your accounting skills, i suggest we get moving, like, now —” 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.

“alright, everyone,” you bark, voice sharp, commanding. people freeze while you point like a general with lip gloss, “do not run. i want a single line, toward the north stairwell — no elevators, no detours.”

a female voice yelps near the stage and you continue, “if you’re wearing heels, take them off. if you’re wearing flats, congratulations, you’ve won today. leave everything behind, a bag is not worth your life, unless it’s vintage. help anyone who’s slower than you — hurry, this is not a drill, people.”

a lighting rig comes crashing down but you don’t even flinch, you’ve 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 don’t have the time to feel scared, yet across the city, somewhere above metropolis, someone else felt it.

because your heart rate spiked.

— and he noticed.

in less than three seconds, the air shifts, the building shakes again, but this time, it’s 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 — superman, is at your side in half a second, worriedly scanning you for injuries , “are you hurt?”

your heart swoons at his gentle expression, he feels it. scoffing, you speak, “sweetheart, a roof threatened to fall near me, not on me.”

his chest rises like he just ran through a war zone, which thinking about it, he most likely did, “your heart rate jumped."

“It was the drama, superman.” you roll your eyes. “i didn’t flatline on camera, i was about to dismantle a local politician, not perish.”

clark’s heroic figure checks you regardless, hands gentle, worried, reverent.

“you scared me.”

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 you’re near danger.

you hum, lips curving like silk pulled taut. “well, aren’t you just to die for. though, if you really want to help,” you turn around in one elegant movement, hair, set to perfection, doesn’t move an inch. pointing with one manicured finger, you command the room, “let’s get this production team out before someone catches a beam to the head. smallville, keep this building in one piece, will’ya. i’ve got the interns and the dramatics.”

clark hesitates, not out of confusion, but because he’s looking at you like you’ve just rewired the planet’s 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 he’s seeing a supernova mid-evacuation.

“preferably now, superdork” you snap him out of the haze.

clark — 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 you’ve already unmade him in ways he doesn’t have the words for.

when the last person stumbles out, coughing but safe, you stop and let yourself take in a deep breath.

superman’s cape is slightly scorched, his hair an adorable mess. still — still, he’s watching you like you’re the most hazardous thing in the room.

“still tracking my vitals?” you tease.

clark swallows. “always.”

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.

“then i suggest,” you mutter seductively, lips brushing the stubble at his jawline, “you keep tracking ‘cause when i get home tonight? that spike’s gonna need containment.”

when you catch him off guard with a teasing grin, his ears flush in a shade of pink, betraying the hero beneath the cape who’s way out of his depth when it comes to you.

you grin wickedly.

twelve hours later you’re back in the bullpen, sipping an iced latte, phone screen dimming under the weight of hundreds of notifications.

“you broke twitter,” jimmy announces before you even sit down, spinning in his chair with a look that’s somewhere between astonishment and irritation.

lois doesn’t glance up from her keyboard. “superman broke twitter. y/n broke clark.”

perry storms out of his office waving a printed tweet like it’s damning evidence in a federal case, “superman didn’t land for the mayor, the crowd, or the collapsing ceiling. he landed for her. that’s biblical — what does this mean, is this what journalism has come to?!”

“it means the nation has eyes, perry.” you retort.

you scroll through twitter without shame, the comments are chaos, your mentions are worse.

and then

— 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 — so messily charming, so him. he smiles politely, carries too many folders, and nods earnestly as if the world didn’t see him soft-launching his emotional devastation for all of metropolis.

the dark haired journalist deadpans, “congrats on being the reason our city’s most powerful being is officially down bad.”

you shrug, “same old.”

he makes it to your desk, sets down a copy of your headline, and clears his throat like he didn’t practically vaporize a lighting rig to check your pulse yesterday, “morning,” 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, “you really had me worried,” he murmurs, voice low enough only you can hear.

you glance up, smirk tugging at your lips, “well, i like being the reason your heart races.”

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 wasn’t adrenaline at all.

[gigiohvanna]

flirt protocol ! — c k

summary — you, hr’s primary nightmare, counteract all of lex luthor‘s 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 perry’s 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, you’d be looking for a red and blue streak in the sky before a neon green exit sign. but it wasn’t 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. you’re supposed to be editing, however, clark’s adorably geeky manner of pushing his thick rimmed glasses upwards as he read seemed much more appealing.

“where’s that damn headline? i need olsen’s photos, i need kent’s copy, and you —” he levels a weathered, ink-stained finger directly at you, voice rising into that gravelly shout that usually precedes a fireable offense, “— need to stop treating the bullpen like a strip club.”

you pause, blinking once, then you frown, theatrically offended, “excuse you, i’ve been shockingly tame today.”

jimmy doesn’t even glance up from his camera, adjusting a lens calmly, „you purred at clark.”

a gasp leaves your glossy lips, manicured fingernails to chest, mock-scandal radiating off you like your expensive perfume. “it was a low whisper of admiration,” you tilt your head, eyes glittering, “very subtle, deeply respectful.”

behind her ridiculously sugar filled coffee mug, lois exhales, not blinking. “you called him midwestern daddy ten minutes ago.” she speaks exhaustedly, victim to your menacing ways for too long.

the silence that follows is loud, though clark’s chair creaked slightly.

said journalist stiffens, shoulders drawing up. he doesn’t look at you but you can see the pink hue spread across the tip of his ears, glasses blurring faintly at the edges. clark’s mouth opens, speechless. there’s something preciously boyish in the way his hand fiddles nervously.

you watch the motion like it’s a ticking clock, like if you stare long enough, maybe you’ll unravel the rhythm of his thoughts.

he exhales through his nose, steadying himself. there’s 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.

“you’re going to cause a workplace incident.” lois speaks smugly.

“if he files a complaint, it better be formatted in ap style,” 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.

you’ve built your whole career off catching what people don’t say.

clark shifts awkwardly, so him. “i—” his voice is hoarse, chest-deep, then quieter, “i have a meeting.”

a beat passed, everyone waiting for his next reaction. soon enough, it came. “with perry.” he stands too fast for the size of his body, chair scraping loudly against the floor, like it’s also trying to flee with him.

“you know,” jimmy murmurs, fiddling with his camera settings again, “one day you’re gonna push him too far and he’s actually gonna ridiculously fall to his knees right by your feet.”

you shrug, unapologetic. “i’m counting on it.”

you don’t see him again for an hour, not that you’re 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 you’d leaned back in your chair after he left, a little smug, though you shouldn’t have.

because now you’re trapped in a mandatory safety meeting.

and he’s back but not exactly clark.

superman. glowing on the screen at the front of the bullpen like a gift you didn’t deserve but would never return. voice calm, steady in a heroic authority.

and you’ve never been good at behaving.

your fantasy personified speaks serene and unbothered in a pre-recorded safety hazard video, „remain calm and exit through the designated stairwells. do not —”

“— run unless you’re running toward me, babe.” you mumble, seemingly hypnotized.

perry slams his pen down like it personally offended him. “for the love of god, l/n, can we get through one meeting without this torture?”

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. “respectfully,” you start, calm as ever, “i’m a better listener when the instructions come from a man built like justice and righteousness.”

superman, onscreen, pulls a lever to activate a mock sprinkler system. expression stern, focused and dangerously, to you, competent.

“look at those forearms, suddenly, i care deeply about protocol.”

clark, three chairs down, doesn’t look up. doesn’t 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, you’ll catch him thinking something unforgivable.

lois leans toward you without looking away from the screen. “so what happens if the safety video’s starring clark instead?”

you glance at her casually. “then i’d evacuate straight into cardiac arrest.” a beat passed, “he is the emergency.”

clark’s breath hitches subtly, but you catch it with the proximity of your bodies.

you smile delightfully.