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mcu-binge · 3 days ago

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Unspoken || Clark Kent x Reader ||

Pairing : Clark Kent x Reader Word count : ~2835

Summary : secret situationship clark kent x reader. you flirt back with someone new, clark short-circuits. cue petty office games

Tags/warnings : jealous!Clark, fluff, light smut (?)

A/N : Hellloooo I rewatched Twisters last night and I may or may not have written something inspired by David’s character Scott. Let me know if you would like to read it! Requests are still open feel free to send me one Clark Kent related or not!

=====================================

Daily Planet, 11:44 a.m.

You feel her before you hear her.

The intern. Madison. Or Madeline. Something with lip gloss and a fake laugh.

She floats past your desk again, third time this morning, armed with a stack of files she definitely doesn’t need help carrying.

You keep your eyes on your monitor. You’ve gotten good at pretending. Good at pretending a lot of things.

But you don’t miss the way her heels click to a stop at Clark’s desk.

“Oh my gosh, you’re seriously working through lunch again?” she coos, like it’s an original observation.

You can practically hear Clark smile. “I like to get ahead on edits. Makes Perry slightly less terrifying.”

She laughs way too loudly.

You tap your pen against your notepad. One, two, three. Breathe.

“You know,” she says, “I read that piece you did on the fires last month? The way you described the scene… it was like I was there.”

“Thanks,” Clark replies, gracious as ever. “It was a tough one to write.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. You’re so good with words.”

You look up then. Clark is smiling. Polite. Friendly. Maybe not flirting, but… not shutting it down either.

Your stomach knots not necessarily from insecurity, but from the quiet ache of knowing you don’t get to say anything. Not here. Not where people would ask questions.

Not where you’d have to admit that you snuck into his apartment last weekend and fell asleep wearing his flannel shirt. So you turn back to your screen. Focus. Breathe.

Until you hear her say “I don’t know how anyone expects me to get anything done with you sitting over there being all—” She lowers her voice. “Clark-y.”

You blink. Clark-y? What the hell does that even mean?

And that’s when you hear him laugh. Really laugh.

That’s it. That’s the crack. A fine, hairline fracture in whatever unspoken arrangement the two of you have been delicately well stupidly balancing.

You stand, a little too fast.

“I’m going to grab coffee,” you say, mostly to the air.

Clark looks up. “Want me to come with?”

“Nope.” You’re already walking away.

Behind you, the intern giggles again.

You’re back from the coffee run, to-go cup in hand and pride barely intact, when a voice stops you cold.

“Sorry—hold it right there. Light’s hitting you just right.”

You blink, turning toward the source.

He’s standing by the east-facing window, DSLR slung across his chest, a lopsided smile pulling at his lips. Tousled hair, scruff like it’s grown in defiance, and the posture of someone who doesn’t know how not to be confident.

“I’m the new photographer,” he says, as if reading your mind. “Caleb.” He adds extending a polite hand to you

You raise an eyebrow suspiciously before shaking it. “And you just take candids of coworkers without asking?”

“Only when they look that good holding caffeine.”

It should make you roll your eyes. It should. But something inside you, the same something that had to endure Miss Clark-y 20 minutes ago nudges you to tilt your head, just a little and let him snap some photos.

You smirk just a little. It’s harmless. It’s fun. And most importantly, you know exactly who’s watching from the corner of the bullpen, hand halfway to his glasses like he’s pretending to clean them.

Clark.

He’s facing his screen, but his ears are pink. You know that pink.

“Anyway,” Caleb says, stepping back, “if I’m ever assigned to your stories, we should, uh, coordinate. Lunch maybe. Talk shop.”

You nod. “I’ll think about it.”

And just like that, he walks away. No lingering, no pushiness. Just a lingering impression and a very obvious audience.

You don’t even have to look to feel Clark’s gaze. Not just watching. Tracking.

You take one slow sip from your coffee and return to your desk like nothing happened. The rest of the work day drags on with you avoiding Clark's glances and heading straight home after.

Your phone buzzes just as you’re about to put it on Do Not Disturb.

Clark Kent

You hesitate. One beat. Two. Three. Then answer.

“Didn’t peg you as a night owl Mr. Kent,” you say, voice soft in the dark.

Clark chuckles. You can hear the faint rustle of his sheets. He’s in bed.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says. “Thought I’d call my favorite insomniac.”

“Oh? And here I thought I was just your coworker.”

“You know better than that.”

There’s a pause a thick and warm and familiar one.

You let it hang a moment longer. “Hmmm… what’s on your mind?”

“I don’t know,” he says casually. “Just wondering how your day went. You were… smiley.”

You blink at the ceiling. “Am I not allowed to smile?”

“You are. It’s just…” He trails off. “New guy got you grinning like that on day one?”

You smirk, biting your bottom lip. “You mean Caleb?”

“Is that his name? I didn’t know; he didn’t come by and take my picture.”

You laugh. “You’re not even pretending to be subtle.”

“I’m just curious,” he says, too quickly. “Didn’t realize you liked… confident guys with man buns and vintage cameras.”

“He doesn’t wear a man bun, Clark. Is that jealousy I hear?”

“Nope.” He’s quiet for a second too long. “Just trying to figure out what your type is.”

You let that hang in the air.

“I don’t think I have a type,” you murmur. “But I do like when a guy makes an effort.”

He exhales. “I make an effort.”

“Do you?”

“Hey, I brought you soup when you were sick.”

“And I never said thank you properly.” Your voice softens, slow and warm. “You’re sweet, Clark.”

Another silence. Then “I don’t want to just be sweet.”

That does something to you.

You shift under your blankets, suddenly too aware of the sound of his voice through the line.

“So you’re calling me for a bedtime confession?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe I just… didn’t like seeing someone else flirt with you.”

“Why?”

“Because…” His voice dips lower. “I prefer being the reason you blush.”

You’re quiet.

Clark clears his throat like he said too much. “Anyway. Sorry. Didn’t mean to make this weird.”

“It’s not weird.”

Another pause.

“You make me act weird, you know that?” he says.

You smile into your pillow. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Clark laughs, soft and wrecked. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

“Sweet dreams.” He adds.

“Dream sweet and of me,” You add with a smile before hanging up.

—

You don’t expect anything when you walk in.

No follow-up to the flirt-heavy, “I don’t want to just be sweet” phone call. Just normal Clark behavior: polished, polite, maybe a little sheepish for opening up the way he did.

You definitely don’t expect your exact coffee order, oat milk, half pump vanilla, cinnamon on top sitting on your desk like it manifested from a dream.

You stop. Stare.

There’s a sticky note stuck to the lid:

Figured I owed you caffeine after that late call. – C

Your stomach flutters.

You barely have time to recover before Kat waltzes past, side-eyeing your cup.

“Oof. Is that from who I think it’s from?”

You shrug, playing dumb. “No idea.”

“Sure,” she snorts.

9:05 a.m.

You’ve just settled back at your desk when Clark appears. Not his usual notebook-in-hand work mode. He strolls in like he owns the place. His sleeves rolled to the elbows. Glasses on dangerously close to heartthrob-who-reads-poetry territory.

And he’s beaming. Like nothing in the world is wrong.

He leans against your desk, tilts his head. “Morning.”

You glance up. “Little late, aren’t you?”

He taps your empty coffee cup. “Thought I’d give you time to enjoy that first.”

You deadpan. “That’s suspiciously thoughtful.”

He lowers his voice. “Just making sure I stay your favorite.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks betray you.

“Anyway,” he adds, dropping a paper bag in front of you, “they were out of your favorite muffin, so I brought you the second favorite. Blueberry and don’t pretend it’s not.”

That makes you smile. “You remembered that?”

“I remember a lot of things,” he says, voice dipping.

Before you can form a snappy comeback, he’s already walked off.

Kat peers around the divider again, mouthing: WHAT IS HAPPENING

You don’t answer. Mostly because you don’t know anymore.

1:12 p.m.

Caleb returns from an assignment and spots you in the copy room.

“Hey, smiley,” he says, stopping just short of the door. “You free for lunch?”

You open your mouth to respond friendly, casual, not flirty when a shadow moves behind you.

Clark appears out of nowhere, holding a takeout bag in one hand and a smug smile in the other.

“Ooof she’s booked. I grabbed lunch for us,” he says, breezy and bold. “Hope you’re still on your wings kick.”

You turn, confused. “You… ordered lunch?”

Clark nods. “Figured I’d beat the rush.”

He sets the bag down and for the first time in office history brushes his hand against the small of your back. Not obviously. Not possessively. Just enough.

“Sorry,” he says to Caleb. “Didn’t mean to step on your plans.”

Caleb blinks. “Oh. No worries. You guys enjoy.”

Clark just smiles and hands you a box of fries like a man very pleased with himself.

At 3:27 p.m. Flowers arrive.

It’s a small bouquet of wildflowers and peonies soft and subtle. There’s no note. Just a tiny card in the bottom of the vase with your initials. But the handwriting? You’d know it anywhere.

Kat is losing her mind.

“Girl. What is going on. Is this your boyfriend or a PR stunt?”

You laugh, half-exasperated, half-flushed. “It’s complicated.”

Clark walks past your desk with a mug of tea, glances at the flowers.

Then, audible enough to be overheard, he mutters, “Wonder who the lucky guy is.”

Kat actually squeals.

End of the day. The office is mostly empty. You go into the copy room to grab some print outs when Clark appears in the doorway. It’s quiet maybe a little too quiet. Like the building is holding its breath.

“I need to talk to you,” he says, low, almost careful.

You don’t look up. “Now’s not great.”

“Tough.” His voice drops. “I’ve been patient. That’s done.”

You freeze.

He walks in, not fast, but with purpose. Like every step is a choice. He doesn’t stop until he’s close.

“You smiled at him like he made your whole damn day.”

You scoff. “You mean the same way I’ve smiled at you for weeks?”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“I’m the one who knows how you take your coffee. I’m the one you call when you can’t sleep. I’m the one you wear flannel shirts from like we’re already—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling.

You turn slowly, heart pounding, voice quieter. “Like we’re already what Clark?”

He stares at you. And it hurts. Because his eyes aren’t soft right now they’re hungry. Sharp. Bruised.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I do know I wanted to tear that camera out of his hands.”

You take a shaky breath. “You didn’t say anything.”

He exhales through his nose. “Because if I said anything, I was gonna say everything.”

You blink. “Then say it.”

He moves. One step. Then another. Until you’re backed up against the copy machine, the hum of it echoing your pulse.

“I want you,” he murmurs. “Not just late at night. Not just when no one’s looking.”

His hand grazes your wrist barely, but it sets your whole body on fire.

“I want to touch you whenever I want,” he says. “I want to sit in meetings and watch you try not to look at me. I want to take you to lunch and not pretend it’s platonic.”

You exhale shakily. “Then why haven’t you?”

His jaw ticks. His eyes flicker down to your mouth, then back up like it physically hurts him to look at you.

“Because…” he starts, voice low, tight, “I won’t be pretending. And if people know—if they connect us—then you’re not just some coworker anymore. You’re a target.”

You blink, a little thrown. “What?”

He swallows hard. “I interview Superman. People already watch me too closely. There’ve been threats before anonymous calls, notes, people trying to leverage my contacts. And if anyone figures out what you are to me—” His voice catches. “I don’t know what I’d do if you got hurt because of me.”

The air between you thickens. Not with fear, but with feeling. Sharp and aching and all-consuming.

“Clark,” you whisper, stepping into him, hand curling around his forearm. “I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“But I don’t.” You shake your head. “I care about you. I’ve been waiting for you to say something—anything—but all I’ve ever wanted was for you to want me out loud.”

He looks down at your lips then your eyes and suddenly he starts leaning into your like gravity, hands finding your waist, your hips, hauling you into him like he needs to feel every word he can’t say. It’s clumsy, frantic, desperate.

You stumble backwards hitting the copy machine. He palms blindly resting his hands on it, never breaking the kiss, never loosening his grip.

“You drive me crazy,” he breathes against your mouth.

“Ditto” you gasp, already tugging at his tie, his shirt, anything to get closer.

He lifts you with a groan, setting you down on the copy machine like you belong there, like he’s dreamed of this a thousand times. His kisses trail down your neck, hot and open-mouthed, like he’s memorizing you with lips and tongue.

“This is reckless,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

You curl your fingers into his hair. “You started it.”

He huffs a shaky laugh, then bites back a moan when you tug him in tighter. “I want you.”

“Then take me.”

His lips press against yours tongue begging to be let in, and there’s no more talking. Just moaning. Gasping. Your skirt is hiked up bunched at your thighs. You hastily unbutton his pants desperate to feel him. Desperate friction. You stroke his cock hungrily. His hand comes down moving your panties to the side. His name gasped against his shoulder as he moves inside you, forehead pressed to yours like prayer, like apology, like finally.

There’s nothing gentle about it just months of buried tension erupting into something real and raw and undeniable. His hands move your hips holding you tightly as he relentlessly thrusts into you. You lean back against the copy machine unable to keep yourself up anymore. He takes the chance and lets his hands explore every part of you.

And when it’s over when you’re clinging to him, lips swollen, heartbeat skittering against his chest. He presses a kiss to your temple.

“No more pretending” he whispers against your forehead

You smile, “No more.” You whisper back breathlessly

—

The next morning the morning air is crisp. City traffic hums in the background. You round the corner, distractedly tugging your scarf tighter, and nearly walk past him.

Clark. Leaning casually against the brick column like he’s in a cologne ad. Two coffees in hand. Hair a little windswept. Tie crooked in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

You stop short. He lifts your coffee and gives you that smile. The private one. The I didn’t sleep much thinking about you one.

“Good Morning,” he says, voice soft. “Brought reinforcements.”

You take the cup and stare at him for a beat. “You waited for me?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Didn’t want to walk in alone.”

You glance at the Planet’s doors, then back at him. “You okay?”

“I’m great.” He bumps your shoulder. “Last night was… clarifying.”

You laugh under your breath, cheeks warm. “You mean wildly overdue?”

He grins. “That too.”

You sip your coffee, then glance sideways at him. “You sure about this?”

Clark’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “More sure than I’ve been about anything in a long time.”

He opens the door for you, lets you step inside first, hand gently pressed to your lower back like it’s second nature. It sends a chill up your spine, but not in a bad way.

You walk toward your desk side by side, your steps synced, conversation light. And then, right there, in full view of Kat, Perry, Jimmy, and every nosy intern with a crush, Clark does something unthinkable. He leans in.

Not dramatic. Not flashy. Just casual, confident, and real. He presses a soft, slow kiss to your lips like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” he murmurs, like it’s been your routine for years.

Then he walks off. Calm. Collected. Definitely smirking.

You’re frozen.

The bullpen? Silent.

Kat’s jaw is on the floor. The intern drops her pen. Perry mutters something about “finally.”

You sit down slowly, heart hammering in your chest, still holding your coffee like it’s the only solid thing in the world.

Kat leans in, eyes wide. “What the actual hell just happened.”

You take a breath. Smile.

“Clark Kent just hard-launched me to the entire newsroom.”

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kissmxcheek · 1 day ago

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Flash & Focus pt.6/?? series masterlist ; part 5

pairing: clark kent x photographer!reader wc: 5k

series description: new to metropolis and the daily planet, you find yourself falling for your deskmate, Clark Kent, who you're convinced will never look your way. a rescue from attempted mugging becomes many late nights spent with superman on your apartment balcony... god why does he seem so familiar?

tags/warnings: fluff, slight angst, long awaited kiss.... ;), Clark and Lois argue like siblings lololol

---

You woke up slowly, with the kind of heaviness in your limbs that doesn’t come from sleep. The weight of last night's rejection sat in your chest like a stone, even before you opened your eyes.

But when you did, it’s soft light that greeted you. Your bedroom curtains are drawn, letting the morning sun pool into the space like a warm apology.

You’re in bed. Tucked in. A glass of water sat on the nightstand, next to a bottle of Tylenol, a folded blanket, and—of all things—a sticky note,

“It'll pass. — S”

The memories slowly flooded back. Wine and heartbreak. A knock on the balcony. A cape. Arms strong enough to hold the world. He didn’t say much, just let you cry. And you must’ve fallen asleep right there, curled up in Superman’s arms like you belonged.

You closed your eyes again and let the shame bloom hot and sick in your stomach.

Clark didn’t show. But Superman did.

And even though you know that should comfort you, it only complicated things more.

---

The walk to work wasn’t nearly as long as you needed it to be.

You tried to slow it down, stretching every step like it might buy you more time, like it might keep you from walking straight into the moment you’d been dreading since last night. You imagined a dozen impossible ways to avoid Clark—ducking into a supply closet, faking a stomach bug, setting your desk on fire—but none of them would change the fact that he sat directly across from you.

What used to be the best part of your day now made your stomach churn.

You considered calling in sick but you never would. The only thing worse than facing the man who stood you up was choosing not to.

Besides, you had work to do and pretending nothing was wrong was something you’d always done well.

The revolving doors let you in like nothing had changed, and your photos stared back at you from every newspaper in the lobby. Normally, that would’ve lit something in you. Pride. Purpose. A little thrill. You stood a little taller, instinctively.

But then you saw the name above yours.

Clark Kent.

You loved this job. You loved the rush of deadlines, the buzz of the newsroom, the quiet satisfaction of catching a moment the world might’ve missed if it hadn't been for you and your camera. And you loved it, partly, because of Clark Kent.

Because of the way he made you laugh with bad puns. Because of his uncanny ability to sniff out a story. Because of the stupid way he always remembered your coffee order, even when you changed it just to throw him off.

Specifically, because of the way he sought out and collected stories from your life like they were pure gold.

In the short time that you had lived in Metropolis, Clark Kent had come to know you like the back of his hand. Over many late nights spent at your shared desk, you'd come to know him the very same way. It only made your heart hurt more.

Still, you stepped off the elevator like a soldier entering enemy territory. Hair pinned up. Blouse neatly tucked. Your expression a polished shield. You were the image of control, but keeping up that image was wearing on you by the second.

Clark was already watching. His elbows rested on the desk. His glasses pushed up slightly. He looked… hollow. Like he hadn’t slept. Like he’d spent the night going over every terrible thing he’d done and come up short on how to fix it. His face flickered, some quiet ache behind his eyes, like seeing you hurt him too.

There was a coffee cup waiting beside your keyboard, your exact order. The sight of it made you falter, just barely.

Your gaze flicked to him, and he offered the softest smile, a plea, but you couldn't find it in you to smile back.

His mouth opened, as if he might try. But before any words could find their way out, Lois glided into the space between your desks on her rolling chair, mug in hand, grinning like she’d been waiting all morning for this.

“Okay, I can’t take it anymore. I need every single detail—should I start planning the bridal shower now? You know I have a sixth sense for matchmaking and I—”

You cut her off with a single, sharp look.

Clark cleared his throat and dropped his eyes to the morning paper.

Lois’s smile faltered. Her eyes flicked between you and Clark, registering the cold way in which you couldn't look him in the eyes.

“Oh,” she breathed, much quieter now.

You grabbed your notepad, the movement clipped. “Breakroom. Now.”

As you stood, you hesitated just a second longer than you meant to, long enough to look at him. Clark’s eyes met yours, uncertain, hurting. You reached for the coffee, his silent olive branch.

It wasn’t enough. Not even close. But as you walked away and took a sip, your shoulders relaxed by the smallest margin, just enough to betray how tired you were of pretending.

And Clark, watching from behind a half-folded news paper, felt something break and mend at the same time.

Maybe you weren’t ready to forgive him, but you hadn’t walked away forever. And maybe that was enough.

At least for now.

---

You slammed the breakroom door behind you, hard enough to rattle the vending machine.

“I cannot believe I got excited,” you hissed, pacing. “I curled my hair, Lois. I curled it. You know it never holds. And I wore heels! I mean—”

Your voice pitched higher with every word. Lois flinched but didn’t interrupt. She stood near the counter, arms crossed, lips pressed tightly together. Her silence wasn’t indifference. It was restraint.

'Not my secret to tell..'

You stopped pacing long enough to glance down at the coffee Clark had brought you that morning. Almond milk, cinnamon, two espresso shots, no sugar. His care for you felt like a taunt.

"You just think when someone tells you they want to be with you, they mean it, you know?"

Lois stepped closer, wrapping an arm around you. She didn’t speak. Just rested her chin against your shoulder.

You leaned into her for a beat before dragging your hands down your face.

“I waited for an hour and a half, Lois. The waiter asked me to give up the table. That’s how long I waited. I am humiliated."

“Did he—” she started.

“No call. No text. Nothing. He left me on read.”

Lois shifted, eyes flicking toward the floor.

“Did he say anything this morning?” she asked.

“No. Just… coffee.” Your mouth twisted into something sour. “Like that somehow erases the fact that he stood me up. Like a latte makes up for total radio silence.”

“Maybe something happened,” she offered gently, cautiously.

You let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, something did happen. He showed up to my door late lastnight and he just said, ‘I can’t tell you.’ That’s it. No lie. No half-truth. No pathetic excuse. Just—‘I can’t tell you.’ Why even bother showing up at that point?"

Lois bit her lip so hard it looked like she might draw blood.

You knew that look. She wanted to say something. Needed to. But whatever it was, she wouldn’t.

“I swear, if you try to defend him, I will throw myself into the bay,” you warned, voice sharp.

“I’m not defending him,” she said quickly. “I just… I don’t think he meant to hurt you.”

You blinked at her. Once.

“Well, he did. And honestly? That makes it worse. Because if he didn’t mean to—then what the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

You felt tears begin to well up in your eyes and didn't bother trying to fight them. "How the hell am I supposed to hate him?"

Lois didn’t say anything.

And that silence—the kind where you knew she was holding something back—was loud enough to make your skin itch.

You swallowed hard and tried to steer the conversation away before you lost your grip. “But it’s fine,” you said. “Luckily—”

You stopped. Too late.

Lois’s head snapped toward you.

“Luckily what?”

“Nothing.” You said quickly. Too quickly.

Her eyes narrowed. You kept your gaze glued to the cabinet door behind her like it had something fascinating to say.

“Y/N.”

She stepped in front of you, folding her arms. Her stare burned. You could practically see the gears grinding behind her eyes. You’d been best friends since college. She could always sniff out a secret on you like blood in the water.

In the past month, you had failed to mention how frequent Superman's visits on your balcony had become. You took her warning of spending so much free time with the superhero with a grain of salt, now it was coming back to bite you.

“You’ve still been seeing him,” she said.

You sighed. “Lois—”

“After I specifically told you not to!” she whisper-yelled, eyes darting toward the door. “I told you spending time with Superman was a bad idea. Do you even hear yourself?”

“I do not need a lecture right now.”

“I’m not lecturing, I’m—” She stopped herself, lowering her voice further. “I’m worried. What are you doing with him?”

“I don’t know!” The words burst out of you. You turned on her, voice breaking under the weight of frustration. “Okay? I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel like my life is coming apart at the seams and every time I try to grab onto something, it slips away. Clark, Superman…I don’t even know what I feel.”

Lois’s face softened.

Her heart hurt for you. You didn't know any better. Clark on the other hand? Lois was livid. But she would deal with him later.

She reached for you again, and this time you didn’t resist. You let her pull you into a hug.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured into your hair. “I know this sucks. I just… I want you to be okay.”

You nodded once into her shoulder.

She pulled back to look at you, her hands warm on your arms. “We’ll figure this out. But—until then…”Her expression shifted.

Guilt.

That could only mean one thing.

“Lois,” you said warily. “what?”

Right on cue, a gentle knock tapped on the breakroom door. It cracked open a sliver.

Clark peeked his head in, adjusting his glasses.

“Um—hey. Sorry to interrupt. Perry wants us in his office. I’ll… I’ll see you in there.”

He gave a small, sheepish smile before closing the door behind him.

You turned back to Lois, slowly.

Your eyes narrowed.

“Lois. What did you do?”

---

After a few moments of hesitation—and some not-so-subtle urging from Lois—you finally took your seat across from Perry's desk, doing everything you could not to look at Clark.

“Before either of you say a word,” Perry said, flipping down the corner of that morning’s paper, “congratulations. This City Hall piece? Second front page this week. You two are on fire.”

You gave a tight nod. Clark offered a polite, but tired smile.

“And it’s not just us noticing,” Perry continued. “Metropolis High Society rang this morning. They’re inviting a handful of press to cover this year’s Charity Ball.”

You blinked. Clark shifted slightly beside you. “The Annual Metropolis Charity Ball?” he asked.

“The very same,” Perry confirmed. “Biggest damn event of the season. Politicians, CEOs, WayneTech people, that weasel from LuthorCorp… you name it. The entire upper crust packed into one room.”

You risked a glance at Clark—he was already looking at you. The moment your eyes met, you looked away.

Perry didn’t miss a beat.

“I want our best on it,” he said, gesturing between the two of you. “You’ll go as press. Dress up. Blend in. Get quotes. Get photos. Shake hands with the devils in tuxedos.”

He tapped a knuckle against the paper—the one with your byline above the fold.

“My dream team,” he added.

Your throat felt dry.

You opened your mouth to speak, but Perry cut you off.

“Yes, it’s black tie. No, you don’t get to complain. This is a front-row seat to half the corruption, philanthropy, and media manipulation in the city served on silver platters. Find the cracks. Get something worth printing.”

Clark cleared his throat. “When’s the event?”

“Tomorrow night.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “That’s… not a lot of notice.”

Perry just shrugged, gruff as ever. “News doesn’t ask permission before it moves. Now get outta here.”

You both stood, but as Clark reached to hold the door open for you, you paused.

“Um—I’ll meet you out there, Clark.”

Your voice caught him off guard. So did the eye contact.

“Oh,” he said, startled. “Okay.”

You shut the door gently behind him, leaving just you and Perry in the room.

He didn’t look up from his paper.

“You need something, L/N?”

You hesitated. “Yes. Well—sort of. I just wanted to ask…” You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “Why am I going to the ball?”

That got his attention. He lowered the paper slowly, giving you a long look.

“Not that I’m not grateful!” you rushed to add. “I am. It’s just—I’ve been here less than two months. I mean, Lois has seniority. Experience. And she’s Lois Lane. Why not send her?”

He stared at you for a beat longer, then returned to the paper.

“You're going because of Lois. You and Clark.

You frowned. “What?”

“I gave the assignment to her and Jimmy but she passed it onto to you. Said you needed the exposure.”

You blinked. Of course she meddled.

“Oh,” you said quietly.

“She also said she’d raise hell if I didn’t let you take it,” he added without looking up. “So don’t make her look like an idiot.”

You managed a nod. “Yes, sir.”

"And Y/n?"

You turned wincing. Perry carefully folded his the paper and put it down to look at you clearly, "Sometimes, we need to put a little more trust into the people around us."

He looked at you knowingly being continuing, "just like I'm trusting you and Clark to come back with the story of the year. Understood?"

You simply nodded.

And with that, you turned and quietly made your way back to your desk.

---

"We have to stop meeting like this."

You leaned against the frame of the balcony door with a grin, coffee in hand, watching as he touched down with a soundless thud. He looked like he belonged there—boots on the concrete, cape drifting softly in the breeze, the city lights glinting off his shoulders.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a moment longer than he should have, like he was trying to memorize the curve of your tired smile. His mouth curled at the corner.

“You know too much of that will kill you,” he said, gesturing to your cup with a mock-stern brow.

You took a slow sip anyway. “So will Lois Lane,” you muttered. “And yet, here I am.”

That earned you a breath of a laugh, low and warm, and you weren’t sure whether it was because the line was funny or because he was relieved to hear your voice at all.

'I shouldn’t be here', he thought.

Not like this, not when you were still hurting, still mad at him.

Superman stayed back, just shy of the railing, his boots settled quietly beside your bare feet. The air between you felt too still, too quiet. His presence, normally grounding, made your pulse do strange things.

He knew what this was. He could fly across the world in seconds, bend steel, catch buildings before they crumbled. But he still couldn’t look you in the eye without thinking of the way Clark had let you down.

He had let you down.

And yet, here he was, playing this version of himself that didn’t know which town you grew up in. Which books you reread every winter. That your favorite M&M color was blue—not red—and that you sorted them before you ate them like it somehow made the candy last longer.

He felt like an idiot pretending to forget things he couldn’t stop remembering and loving about you.

You stepped forward, joining him at the railing. Shoulder to shoulder. He was so close now you could feel the heat radiating off him.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

You stared out at the Metropolis skyline, glittering with everything you’d ever wanted. Everything you were suddenly terrified to touch.

“Lois is… your friend, yes?” he asked finally. “The journalist?”

You turned your head, staring at him. “You already know that.”

He flinched. Not visibly, but you saw it. The slight shift of his jaw. The blink that lasted a moment too long.

You softened it with a faint smirk. “Best friend. Try not to get jealous.”

He smiled. “Oh, I’ll try.”

You chuckled quietly, but the sound was thin. It was the first time today you hadn’t felt like curling in on yourself. The first time your chest didn’t feel entirely hollow.

“So… Lois,” he said. “What’s the problem?”

You shifted, your knuckles white around your mug. “I got invited to something. The Annual Metropolis Charity Ball. Big night. Big opportunity.”

With an enthusiasm he couldn't show as Clark he said, “That’s amazing,” and the pride in his voice was unmistakable. “I’m proud of you.”

You looked at him.

And for a moment, you believed him.

Then you swallowed, looked down. “Yeah. Except I’m not going.”

He frowned. “Why not? Y/N, you deserve—”

“No. I don't." you said quickly, sharper than you meant. You turned, facing him fully. “Perry told me Lois and Jimmy were supposed to go. But she passed it onto me and Clark. She said it would be good for us to work together again.”

There was a silence. The information knocked the wind out of him.

'Of course Lois had meddled.'

You bit the inside of your cheek. “I don’t want a favor. I don’t want to walk in there and feel like everyone’s looking at me wondering why I’m there. And I don’t want to do it standing next to...”

Your throat burned. “I can’t face Clark.”

Superman’s face was unreadable for a moment. But something flickered in his eyes. Guilt. Regret. Something close to grief.

He looked away first.

“Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing,” he said softly. “Maybe he thought stepping back would… spare you something worse.”

You snorted. “Right. Because nothing says respect like leaving someone waiting for hours.”

His shoulders dropped.

And still, he didn’t defend Clark. He didn’t say anything.

You stared at him, watching the way his jaw tightened. “You always do that,” you said quietly. “You never tell me I’m wrong. Even when I want you to.”

He looked at you again, and something cracked open between you. Something raw. Real.

“I just… hate feeling like I only got this opportunity because someone handed it to me, not because I earned it.”

“Y/n, you deserve this more than anyone,” he said, voice low. “You earned it. You’re talented. Brave. You chase stories no one else will touch, and you make people care. That’s not luck, or pity, Y/N. That’s you.”

You blinked warm tears back behind your lashes. Your chest ached.

Superman turned toward you then, slowly. His eyes searched yours—cautious, quiet, intense.

“I don’t know how anyone could see you and think you didn’t belong.”

You blinked, lips parting slightly, the weight of his words settling over you like warmth in the cold.

And you weren’t sure what possessed you in that moment. Maybe it was how close he was, or how soft his voice had become, or how long you’d been waiting for someone to reach back, but you leaned forward.

And kissed him.

It was soft. Hesitant. Barely there.

And for a second, he didn’t kiss you back.

He pulled back, just enough to look at you, his breath caught between your lips. His eyes were wide, startled, filled with conflict.

“I…” he began, his voice a breath. But then, unable to stop himself, his hands came up to cup your face.

And this time, he kissed you. Harder. More sure. Like he’d been holding it in for years.

His lips moved with something that felt like apology, like longing, like he was trying to say every word he couldn’t. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, one arm winding around your waist as if anchoring you to him.

You sank into him, letting his arms wrap around you and wrapping your own arms around his neck. You deepened the kiss and nestled your fingers into his dark hair.

You let yourself believe, just for a second, that maybe this was something real.

When he finally pulled back, he kept your body flush against his and the world felt off-balance. You were breathless, blinking at him like the clouds had shifted and the skyline had rearranged itself.

“That was…” you whispered, voice shaky.

“Something I’ve wanted to do for a long time,” he said, barely audible.

You smiled—really smiled—and tucked a stray hair behind your ear. “Then come with me. To the ball tomorrow.”

His expression faltered. A quiet dread passed through him. He looked down.

“I—” His jaw tensed. “I can’t.”

You smiled and tilted your head, reaching your hand up to smooth the crinkle between his brows. “Why? Because you don’t have a formal invitation? Come on, the city practically rolls out a red carpet for you every time you breathe—"

He winced. “You know why.”

“No,” you said, more firmly now, stepping back. His hands lingered on your waist, unwilling to let you go. “I don’t know why. Because someone might recognize you? You already get stared at every time you land on a sidewalk. What’s so different about this?”

His eyes searched yours, desperate for understanding.

And that made your heart sink.

You swallowed. “Is there someone else?”

“No.” His heart ached that you could consider that possibility. “No. It’s not that.”

“Then what? What is it?” Your voice broke on the edge. “Do you just not want to be seen with me?" You paused, knowing the reason why.

"Or is it because I asked you to show up as a person, not just a hero?”

He winced.

And that’s when the cold started creeping in.

You stared at him, your voice dropping. “I’ve told you everything, poured my heart out to you. About my childhood. My job. My stupid, anxious brain that overthinks every text message. You know what I look like late at night when I haven’t slept. You know the sound I make when I laugh too hard, and how I always leave the crusts when I eat sandwiches.”

His grip tightened ever so slightly.

You looked back up at him in defeat.

“But I don’t even know your name.”

The wind shifted. A gull cried overhead. Somewhere far below, a siren blared. But up here, it felt like the world was holding its breath.

“You don’t let me in,” you said. “Not really. Not the way I’ve let you in.”

He looked down, silent.

And all you could think about was Clark.

“You should go,” you said, your voice smaller now.

You turned toward the door.

"Y/n," he called out to you. You stopped at the door but didn't turn to face him. "Go tomorrow. Please. Not for me, not for Lois...not for Clark. Go for you. Because you deserve it."

You turned to face him and gave him a weak smile, "Goodnight, Superman."

And that hurt more than anything else.

---

Any sane person would do a double take at Superman banging on Lois Lane’s apartment door like he was about to break it off the hinges but Clark was far past caring how this looked.

He was still in his suit, slightly charred from a house fire he stopped before making his way to Lois's.

Lois had absolutely no right. None.

He’d told her he would fix things with you. That he just needed time. A moment. A window to make it right—his way.

Apparently, Lois didn’t believe in waiting.

He pounded on the door again, jaw tight.

“Lois!”

A clatter from inside. Then a voice, muffled but furious:

“Jesus, Clark! What are you—wait—oh.”

The door yanked open. She stood in pajama pants, a Metropolis Meteors sweatshirt, and the sharpest scowl he’d ever seen.

“Superman,” she deadpanned. “Great. So we’re doing this version of you tonight.”

Clark brushed past her into the apartment, his cape sweeping dramatically behind him, which, admittedly, wasn’t helping his argument.

“You had no right,” he snapped.

“I don’t want to hear it, Clark. Superman. Whatever hat you feel like wearing tonight, because apparently, one identity isn't complicated enough.”

He paced across her living room, the carpet muffling the sound of his boots as he ran both hands through his hair and flopped down on the couch.

“I didn’t need your help,” he muttered.

“Oh clearly,” she said, arms crossed as she followed him. “Considering Y/n now actively hates Clark Kent and has apparently developed romantic feelings for Superman. Yeah, that's what I call a job well done.”

Clark’s head snapped up. His eyes flashed. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Lois shot back, unbothered. “You’re the one who stood her up. You’re the one who couldn’t explain why. You’re the one who kissed her on her balcony as Superman! Are you kidding me?.”

He closed his eyes like the weight of it physically hurt.

"She told you?"

"Yes. She told me."

Lois uncrossed her arms with a sigh and sat across from him.

"And for the record, I didn’t do this for you,” Lois said, voice quieter now. “I passed along the assignment for her. Because she’s my best friend. And she’s unraveling.”

Clark didn’t answer.

He just sat there, sinking into her couch like the air had been knocked out of him.

“Do you have any idea how hard this has been?” Lois said. “Keeping your secret from her? Lying to her face every time she says Clark doesn’t care about her? That he’s just another guy who flaked and disappeared?”

He opened his eyes and looked at her—hollow, heavy. “No, Lois. I don’t know what it’s like to carry secrets. Are you being serious right now?”

She threw her hands up. “Okay! Bad question. Whatever.”

They sat in silence, the kind that had existed between them for years—two people who loved each other too much to ever stay mad for long but just enough to fight like hell when it mattered.

Lois rubbed her temples and let out a breath. Then moved to sit beside him on the couch.

“You want to know what I see?” she asked.

“No,” he muttered, face buried in his hands. Lois grabbed his shoulders to look him in the eye.

“I see a man who’s more afraid of being known than being hated.”

That made him freeze.

“You could’ve told her weeks ago,” she continued. “After the date. After the rooftop. After she cried to you for hours wondering what she did wrong. But you didn’t. Because deep down, you don’t think she’d choose you. Not if she knew.”

Clark stared at the wall. At nothing.

“Well, I’ve watched her fall in love with you. Clark.” Lois said, her voice softening. “The version that listens. The one who shows up when she’s scared. The one who makes her feel seen and known. But now she’s in love with an illusion, Clark. And you’re letting her fall for it.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “So what? You think if I walk up to her at the ball and say, ‘Hey, surprise, I’m also the guy you hate,’ it’ll go great?”

“No,” Lois said. “I think it’ll go honestly. And that’s all she wants. That’s all she’s ever wanted.”

He turned to her now, finally. His eyes were red-rimmed. Not from tears, he didn’t have the luxury. From the restraint. From the exhaustion.

“I was going to tell her,” he said. “I was. That night. I had it all planned. I was going to walk her home, tell her everything. But then—”

“I know,” Lois said gently. “The fire on the Pier.”

He nodded. “I thought I could still make it in time.”

“You couldn’t. That’s not your fault.”

“But I hurt her, Lois.”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah. You did.”

He looked away again.

“I think she could forgive you,” Lois added after a long beat. “If you gave her the truth. All of it. Before it’s too late.”

Clark ran his thumb along his jaw, lost in thought.

“I just… I don’t want her to look at me and feel lied to.”

Lois reached over and gently pushed his shoulder. “Then don’t lie anymore.” She chuckled.

He turned his head toward her.

“She’s going to be wearing a pale blue dress,” Lois added quietly. “I helped her pick it out. She looks beautiful. But she doesn’t feel it. She feels alone.”

Clark closed his eyes.

“I’ve known you a long time,” Lois whispered. “I’ve seen you lift buildings, outrun storms, stop missiles midair. But if you don’t tell her the truth tomorrow night? That’ll be the most cowardly thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

Silence stretched between them again.

Then, after a long moment, he stood up.

Straightened his shoulders.

And this time, when he left, he knew exactly what to do.

---

a/n: so. what is it worth the wait. IM SO SORRY for taking an eternity to crank this out but. in my defense. i had jaw surgery. get out of my inbox telling me to stop rage baiting😭😭😭please

a couple of things: i hope this chapter made it really clear why there's been so much miscommunication on clark's part! i know a lot of reader have been frustrated with him. also i hope u love lois in this chapter because i do;))

please reblog, comment, and let me know what u think🪷🪷

taglist: @liuralibrar @icybarness @angel-dust-cb @crbpoetry @aim-formyheart @lavendermoons222 @10hrs26mn @linambc @casalucard @ticklish-leafy-plant @asteria33 @tati-the-fangirl @g4rb4ge-dump @yourmyonlyobsession @voidsxntry @my-little-secret-diaries @britttzy267 @nothere2478 @hagarsays @otakusimp1 @twsssmlmaa @kitten-daisy @qardasngan @writerreal @please-help-this-little-lesbian @brillitos-azules @selfishlycalculatingvisitor @pleasecallmeunhinged @materialgirl-97 @ldrfanatic @bellegirl16 @or-was-it-just-a-dream @khxna @rorysbrainrot @smolivin @screamingplastictoenail88 @slayerofthevampire @kneelarmhstrung @227777777333 @ifilwtmfc @loftilyviolentthunder @justp3achy03 @animegamerfox @nina-from-317 @sizzlingkryptonitetale @arcaichive @bamitzzsam @bellascrap @dntdltkss @livbonnet @scorpio-echo @bloodiedlusts @corenswetwife @lanasdolll @kai59999901 @ivegotdaddyissues @americanboz0 @ayy1234567 @jenneric2003 @areleine @turtle-in-a-tornado @keiralovesmoony @smellybad @shortandb1tchy @i1ovedeanwinchester @lando-scales @lilac-and-cherries @bananaminion678 @azrielsbbg @annabethboleyn @odevote118 @the-hist0rian @cyntsvmv @novausstuff @lecwife @reiofsuns2001 @renaeant @sleeplessskeleton @nanamilkbread @after8hore @abasnail28 @vanessalovesonedirection @annieaniya @nixandtonic

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she-is-juniper · 3 days ago

Text

sharp edges and warm hands - chapter one

word count (chapter one): 6.7k (more chapters to come) pairing: golden retriever bf!clark x black cat gf!reader synopsis (series): Your new next door neighbor and coworker Clark Kent is a ball of fucking sunshine. You are not. He’s noisy, he’s clingy, he tries too hard. You pretend to hate it but eventually, you have to admit it… he’s kind of the best. Although you can't help but wonder if he's keeping secrets from you. rating (chapter one): M (mature), explicit smut to come in later chapters ♡ content (chapter one): sunshine x grumpy trope, coworkers, next door neighbors, slow burn, fluff, clark is soooo soft and romantic eee author's note: My first Superman/superhero fic and I’m the fakest DC fan known to womankind. I had a lotta fun writing this and I hope you have fun reading (˶‘ ᵕ ‘˶) The story kind of resolves here so you could technically take this as a fluffy oneshot BUT I have plans to publish at least 3 more (verrrry smutty) chapters! if you like it and want to see more, please send me an ask to let me know and i'll gladly add you to a taglist! ((And please, for the love of all that is holy, comment/reblog/send asks/follow me if you want to see more of my writing!))

✧⋆.˚⟡ ˖ chapter one ˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

The repetitive knocking is coming from the wall. From the only wall you share with your next door neighbor.

It’s not a surprise that this shabby midtown apartment has walls as thin as your patience for its shitty occupants. What surprises you, though, is who you find on the other side of the neighbor’s door when your patience finally wears out.

The infuriating sounds are new. As in, you hadn’t heard a peep from this particular neighbor before today. And now it’s as if they’ve brought a whole damn circus into the building. Loud, annoying punk music that was popular a decade ago, playing from bass-heavy speakers. Off-key singing from a male voice. Incessant barking from a dog. And now?

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Fuck me. You groan in frustration and heave yourself onto your feet. Dodging half-unpacked boxes as you make my way out of your new apartment, into the hallway, and up to the wooden front door of the noisy neighbor. The neighbor you have yet to meet. In fact, you hadn’t realized when you first moved in a week ago that you even had a next door neighbor, things were so quiet. Not so lucky now.

You knock. Behind the door, his damn dog starts barking. No one answers. You try again—and nothing. You’re midway through a tirade of angry rapping when the door finally swings open.

It’s an absolute wall of a man. Your eyes travel up his legs and torso to his face. The first thing you notice is his face. Clean-shaven, chiseled features, thick-framed glasses that somehow look both too clunky for him and yet perfectly suited for his face.

And that he’s smiling at you.

It’s an all-star, earth-shattering smile that nearly knocks the wind out of you, except for the disconcerting fact that the man somehow doesn’t seem surprised at all to see you banging on his door.

“You must be a new neighbor.” His voice is deep, warm, interested.

You cross your arms over your chest. “I’m about to break my lease and move out if you don’t keep it down.”

The man’s dark brows stitch together before realization floods his annoyingly handsome features. “You moved into 3-C,” he remarks. A statement, not a question.

”Yup.” You narrow your eyes at him.

His face contorts. “Golly, I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t realize they finally got someone to rent that unit out. It’s been vacant for months, so I hadn’t thought to keep the noise down.” He turns to face the barking dog behind him, says, “Krypto, no barking. Inside voice.”

The dog, like many dogs, pays him no heed and continues to bark and whine. The man rolls his eyes and steps into the hallway with you, closing the door. Had he said golly?

“Really, I’m so sorry about the noise. Krypto just likes to bark at strangers. And the TV. And out the window, sometimes.”

“The barking’s not really the worst of it,” you tell him. You jerk your chin toward the wall you two apparently share. “It’s the thumping. Repeated. Constant. All day today. It’s driving me crazy.”

His face lights with sheepish realization. “Oh. Yeah. That. That’s just—“

You cut him off with a raised hand. “I don’t even want to know what it is.” Probably his headboard or something. Gag. “Just… make it stop. It's scaring my cat.” And pissing me off.

He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and says simply, “Understood. Yes ma’am. No more noise.”

“Great.” You turn and begin storming back to your own apartment when he gets your attention again.

“For the record,” he calls out. “It was just a tennis ball. Nothing else, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

It works. You turn to face him, giving him your full attention again. Is he… blushing?

“The… tennis ball?” you repeat.

He gestures loosely. “I toss it against the wall for Krypto to chase. He gets antsy if I don’t burn off some energy before bed.”

Ah. The dog. Still doesn’t explain why the thumping was happening twice a second. How fast was this dog?

“Your dog’s name is Crypto? As in, the currency?”

He presses his lips together in what seems like a repressed smile. “Different meaning,” he says simply.

“Okay, well, have you considered, I don’t know, walking your dog, or going to the park, instead of keeping your neighbors up at”—you glance at your watch—“eleven-oh-five-pm?”

He runs a hand through his dark hair. “We do. Go for walks, I mean. And—he’s technically not. My dog, I mean.”

The aforementioned dog peeks his white head around the man’s legs. The man smiles sheepishly.

“It's more of a foster situation,” he explains.

This stranger, his handsome face, his antics, his way of speaking... He intrigues you, but in an attempt not to show it, you frown at him and say curtly, “Whatever the situation is, just… keep it down, okay?”

He holds his hands up placatingly. Large hands. “I hear you loud and clear. No more noise.” He salutes. It’s not in a mocking way, but in a completely, utterly dorky way.

It’s annoying. It’s endearing.

You huff, nod your head. Problem solved. You got what you wanted by telling him off. So why didn’t you want to leave?

“Oh, and another thing…” you add. “The music.”

“Oh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You heard that, too?”

“Oh yeah. Hard not to. And the singing.”

“Impressed?” he smirks.

“If you mean, impressed by how off-key it was, then yes.”

“Well, it wasn’t meant to be on-key. I was harmonizing.”

“...No, you weren’t.”

“...You’re right, I wasn’t.”

You repress the smile that threatens to come to the surface with a scowl. “You know they make these little knobs or dials that control the volume on your speakers, right? Maybe you should learn to use them.”

He’s unfazed. “I’ll have to check that out. Thanks for the tip.” There’s zero malice in his tone, just lighthearted playfulness.

“Great.” Without another word, you head back to your own apartment.

“Have a good night,” he calls out. You wave him off in response.

Just before you close your door, you barely hear him say under his breath, “I didn’t get her name.”

~~~

The next morning, you leave early. It’s your first day of work. The Daily Planet, associate copy editor. A big step up from your last job. On your way out your front door, you nearly stumble on something. It’s a small box with a lid tied with twine. And a note. You read it first, noticing the small, neat handwriting.

Sorry again about the noise. Figured I owed you a peace offering (and caffeine, for keeping you up). Hope this makes up for it.

– Clark (and Krypto, who says ‘woof’)

So his name is Clark. Inside the box is a bag of single-origin coffee beans from a local roaster. You don’t even like coffee. But the whole thing is so… sweet. You can’t help but smile this time, to yourself.

Sweet gesture from such a shitty neighbor.

~~~

Your first day. Once you meet your new supervisor and get settled at your new desk, you don’t get much more interaction than that. Everyone seems extra busy today—or maybe it’s like this all the time. Someone’s barking out assignments from a conference room, and nearly everyone in the bullpen is furiously typing or frantically scribbling notes. You keep overhearing something about another Superman sighting in the sky last week. The strange, alien hero had emerged into the public eye a few years prior. Whoever he was, it was just one of Metropolis' many enigmas.

You put your headphones on, keep your head down, get to work editing your first headline. You hadn’t been wanting any extra attention brought to you or anything on your first day. Hadn’t even really expected outright friendliness from your new colleagues—this was Metropolis, after all. So the work flow and pace here seemed right up your alley.

Someone came stumbling in late. Balancing a coffee, a scone, a briefcase, a stack of manila folders, his glasses slipping down his nose—

You gape. It’s your goddamn next door neighbor.

It doesn’t take long for him to discover you that day, either. He approaches your desk, eyes glued to his laptop, and says without looking up, “Perry says to send all I have on the LexCorp piece to the new copy editor, which is—” He finally looks up, sees it’s you. Surprise lights his face, then delight. “It’s you!”

You stare at him over the edge of your computer monitor. “Unfortunately.”

He beams, unbothered. “Wow, small world. Neighbors and coworkers.”

“Guess so.” Just my luck.

He places his coffee mug on the table beside your keyboard. If he sees you glaring at it, he ignores it. “I apologize again about the noise yesterday.”

“Noises, plural,” you correct, bringing your gaze back to your computer screen. Pretending to type. Hoping he’ll take the hint.

He doesn’t. “Noises,” he affirms. “It’s just been a while since I’ve shared a wall with anyone. You won’t hear a peep from now on, promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“What’s your name?” he asks. You tell him, and he repeats it, smiling as though the name tasted like honey in his mouth. “Well, welcome to The Daily Planet. I’ve been told you have a reputation of being very, uh…”

“Cutthroat?” you guess. “Merciless?” It’s what your previous coworkers called you. You don't take bullshit when it comes to syntax and adhering to AP style.

“I was going to say meticulous, but good to know.”

“That, too.”

“I believe it.” When you simply nod and don’t reply, he adds, “Did you get the box I left?”

“Oh. Yeah, I did. Uh, thanks for that… You really didn’t have to.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

Honestly, to you, it seems like the most. He really shouldn't have gotten you anything. You move your cursor around the screen, pretending to work. He sips his coffee, sets it down again, doesn’t leave. You scowl up at him, and he just smiles.

You bite. “Are you always this… cheery?” And overbearing?

At least he’s not half bad to look at. Wrinkled shirt collar and scone crumbs on the lapel and all.

“No, I’d say I’m usually cheerier,” he says. As your glare intensifies, his softens. “Not all of us can be the mysterious, if-looks-could-kill type,.

“You should be grateful it hasn’t yet.” A small twitch at the corner of your mouth belies the venom in your words. He notices and it makes him smile, too. “Did you want anything else, or are you just here to waste more of my time?”

He watches you for a beat longer than necessary. And then clears his throat, looking at his laptop. “Right, yeah, the article. Want me to forward you the doc? Or do you want physical copies?”

“Forward. If you bring me anything printed, I will shred them out of spite.”

“Got it. Forwarding now.”

~~~

The rest of your first day passes without much incident. A steady onslaught of articles and captions and grammar issues that need editing to keep you happily busy. You meet some other coworkers during your lunch break. You avoid some not-so-obvious staring from Clark Kent as you pass his desk on your way to make yourself another tea at the coffee station. You’re efficient, so you leave work on time, yet still before everyone else.

When you finally get home after hitting the gym, going on a solo sushi date, a walk in the local park, you notice something else had been placed on your door mat. A small paper gift bag, and another note. Not this again. Inside the bag is a tin of loose leaf chamomile and a stainless infuser. The note reads:

Noticed you drink tea instead of coffee at work. I got this as a gift last Christmas but don’t care much for tea… Maybe it’d get better use from you? —C

That evening, while reading the latest book of your favorite series and sipping a cup of chamomile with your cat, Ember, curled on your lap, you think to yourself that maybe this Clark Kent really isn’t that bad.

~~~

After a few weeks, you come to the conclusion that Clark Kent has three habits that particularly irked you.

First, he’s usually late. And some measure of disheveled. Which is really more of his problem than anyone else’s… but it becomes your problem when it means he was late submitting copy. Which means, in turn, you’re late to edit his work. And you hate turning things in late.

Second, though the copy he submits is typically brilliant, he often does not do any of his own editing. As in, run-on sentences, misplaced commas, even sometimes entire sections that are just basically op-eds. As though he had just word-vomited onto the page at the scene of the story and sent it without even doing a single pass himself. You frequently return his work with a myriad of emotionally detached edits and corrections… “Unclear.” “Redundant.” “Rewrite for basic logic.” “Cut. Adds nothing.” Sometimes just a question mark.

To his credit, Clark takes all your edits like a champ. He also doesn’t seem to mind the fact that you’re openly irked by his lack of first pass edits. In fact, he doesn’t seem to mind you in the slightest.

Which brings you to the third point. He tends to stare. At you. A lot. Usually without realizing it. And every time you catch it, you just glare back at him until he looks away, usually with a dimply little smile on his face.

Okay, maybe it isn’t a lot of staring. Maybe it’s only every once and a while. Like when you sit across the conference room from him. Or when you’re grabbing a tea refill at the coffee station.

Maybe you’ve only been aware of it because you’d been staring at him first.

But that’s beside the point.

On one sunny day, you’re eating lunch outside. You sometimes sat with Steve or Jimmy during your lunch breaks, but today, they were too busy bickering about who was going to cover a press conference with MPD this evening. So today, you buy your lunch from the little café attached to the building and sit by yourself outside in the courtyard, where you find a perfect little nook on a bench.

You’re turning the page in your book when a voice breaks your concentration. “I should have known you’d find my spot.”

Clark Kent. He smiles down at you, holding a couple of leftover containers. You squint up at him.

He moves in front of the sun, blocking it with his shadow for you. My hero, you think sarcastically.

“Your spot?” you intone.

He nods, his curls hanging loose on his forehead. “I like to sit in the sun during my breaks. It’s… healing.”

No wonder you never saw him at lunch with the others. Turns out, even Clark Kent liked being alone sometimes.

“People like you shouldn’t need the sun,” you joke, deadpan. “You’re... sunny enough as is.”

You’d meant it to be backhanded, but he says, “Why, thank you.”

“You don’t understand. It’s blinding.”

At that, he holds a finger up and gestures for you to wait. He withdraws a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket. Before you can say anything, he places the sunglasses on your face.

“Better?” he asks.

A giggle emerges before you can stop it. You quickly mold your smile into a frown. “I’m not giving these back.”

“Keep ‘em. They look good on you.”

Warmth spreads to your cheeks. “Do you, uh, want to sit?” you offered, deflecting.

He nods, and you scoot over, giving him room on the bench. You go back to your own lunch but get distracted by the smell of maple syrup wafting from his meal.

“Did you bring… pancakes?” you ask him. You look over at his container. Yep, sure enough. Pancakes and eggs, with two links of sausage.

“I made too much for dinner last night.”

“Breakfast for dinner?”

“It’s so good.”

“That’s despicable.”

“It’s the best meal of the day. Why not have it for every meal?” he says around a bite. Then he holds a forkful out to you. “Want to try?”

You want to say no. But you take the bait. The pancake, albeit leftover, is divine. Clark watches your expression as you chew.

“You like it?”

“It’s… not bad.”

“It’s my ma’s recipe.”

“Oh, well, in that case.” With the smallest of smiles, you snatch his fork and steal another bite. He lets you.

“Well, what did you bring for lunch, then?” he asks you.

You gesture halfheartedly to your sad chicken caesar wrap. “I didn’t bring lunch.”

Clark eyes it woefully. “Do you… not cook?”

“No, I do.” You love cooking. “My stove is broken. And my oven.”

He tsks. “Ah. Yeah. Those standard issue appliances. I had to replace mine after I moved in, too.”

“I tried contacting our landlord, but…”

“I could try to fix them for you.”

You stare. Mostly in reverence at the mere offer. “I—no, that’s okay.”

“Let me at least try. I’m pretty handy.”

His eyes look so much like a puppy dog’s that you sigh and give in. “I’ll let you come over tonight to try,” you say, “but only if you submit your copy before three o’clock.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says dutifully.

“And you have to read through it on your own first. If I see another sentence splice, Kent, I swear to god…”

He nods placatingly. “You got it. I’ll come over after work sometime.”

~~~

After spending lunch together, you and Clark exchanged phone numbers. Just to coordinate a time for him to drop by to fix your kitchen appliances that evening. That’s all.

He’d arrived at 6pm. Your cat, Ember, took one look at the stranger in her house, hissed dutifully, and ran to a hiding spot. Clark had just laughed and compared her to you, and you weren’t even offended.

He'd looked around, complimented your place even though you had barely started unpacking all your boxes. You’d showed him your broken stove and oven. He’d taken one look at it, claimed, “I can fix that,” and got to work.

And that’s where he’s been the past half hour. Crouched behind your stove, his hands full of wires, his brows furrowed in concentration. And he’s cursing.

Well, not really cursing. More like muttering half-obscene nonsense under his breath as he attempts to reattach the wires, saying things like “what the hay” and “son of a gun.” And, on rare occasion, a “damn” would slip out.

Having him in your apartment is both disconcerting and soothing. You hadn’t had company over yet since you moved in, and you hardly expected your first guest would be the annoying next door neighbor. But here he is, fixing your appliances—not only for free, but seemingly just out of sheer kindness.

He’d given you full permission to go off and do your own thing while he worked. So you’d curled up on the couch with a book. A book you’ve now long forgotten about, opting instead to watch him struggle in the kitchen. It’s far more entertaining.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” you call out to him.

“Yes. Well, I watched a YouTube video.”

“Oh, great, yeah, that totally makes you qualified to do this.” Your curiosity gets the best of you. You close your book and pad over to your kitchen, peering at him and his work. “I won’t be upset if you give up, you know, Kent.” You certainly had given up on it yourself.

“I can fix it,” he says back, determined. His glasses are slipping down his nose. You resist the urge to push them back up for him.

“You better not electrocute yourself and die. I’ll have too much time on my hands at work without your grammar problems to fix all day.”

“My grammar isn’t that bad,” he waves you off.

“It’ll only get worse if you fry your brain trying to fix my stupid stove.”

“I’m not getting electrocuted. Trust me.”

He says it with such certainty that you halfway believe him. “Okay, but just so you know, I’m, like, five minutes away from ordering pizza delivery for dinner tonight instead of cooking.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

Eventually, he does fix the oven and stove. You don’t see it happen—you’d popped next door to his apartment to grab a toolbox he’d asked you for. You may have spent a few moments longer than necessary studying the inside of his apartment. It was… unexpected. The layout, the décor, the overall tidiness of it. More notably, the lack of a dog.

“Where’d your dog go?” you ask him when you return with the toolbox. Only to find that he no longer needed it. Seeing as he was currently using the stove to make a grilled cheese. “Oh damn.”

“I got it working,” he says in triumph. “I hope you don’t mind me using some of your ingredients.” He places buttered bread on one of your skillets, and it sizzles. So the stove is working.

“How did you…?” It was nowhere near in working order when you’d popped next door. Or maybe you’d been wrong.

He answers your previous question instead. “Oh, Krypto went back with my cousin. I was just fostering, remember?”

“You mean, dog sitting?”

“Wasn’t sure when she’d be getting back.”

Hmm. For someone so chatty all the time, he sure could be cryptic.

But it didn’t matter. All of your qualms and gripes and other misgivings about Clark Kent dissipate, even if momentarily, the moment you sink your teeth into the grilled cheese he made you. It’s melty, crispy, buttery, perfect. You want to tell him it’s the best grilled cheese you’ve ever had, but you’re not about to give him the satisfaction.

“What do you think?” he asks you, smiling to himself as he takes a bite.

“I’m thinking, maybe you’re good at at least one thing.”

He folds his arms across the top of your kitchen table. “I’m good at plenty of things.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

It’s how you two banter now. Easy, familiar. You two still barely know each other, but he knows you well enough now to understand that the small smirk that tugs on your mouth means you’re kidding. And he always smiles back, unabashed, unguarded. Like he actually enjoys your sharp edges. He seems unbothered by your sense of humor, and you like that about him.

“Hey, Kent.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the sandwich. And for the stove and oven. I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me a thing, sunshine.”

Interesting nickname. Your cat chooses that moment to emerge from her hiding spot. She graces Clark with a single look of pure disdain before jumping onto your lap and curling up contentedly.

He looks at the both of you. “You know, I’m glad we met,” he says matter-of-factly, out of the blue.

You glance up at him across the table. The warmth in his expression catches you off guard. It’s disarming, in a sincere, boyish kind of way.

“I’m not opposed to you either, I guess,” you mutter.

“Wow, high praise.”

“You’ll survive.”

~~~

Things change between the two of you after that day. Not in big ways, but subtly, incrementally.

Like when one day, you catch him leaving his apartment at the exact same time you do, and you poke fun at him for finally leaving on time for work. And so you both head downstairs together, take the bus together, walk in to work together. And the next day, he does it again. And eventually, he starts leaving work around the same time as you, too.

You pretend to be annoyed by it. But then one morning, he’s running a few minutes behind, and you wait for him—even though it means you’ll be late yourself. When he finally emerges from his front door and spots you waiting for him by the elevator, he grins, pushes back his mop of freshly showered hair, and says, “I knew you liked leaving for work together.”

To which you respond, “Hurry up, or you’re going to make me regret waiting.”

He starts leaving you notes at work. Like cheeky comments on docs he submits for you to edit that say things like, “Go easy on me, sunshine,” or, “I know you’re going to tell me to delete this part, but I like it a lot, so can we leave it in pretty please?”

You roll your eyes at them every time, but you secretly look forward to reading them whenever he submits copy.

One day, you catch his eye and notice he’d been staring at you from his desk across the newsroom. He quickly averts his gaze, then sheepishly looks back up. Glances away again.

You confront him during a mutual coffee/tea break. “You better stop staring at me like that,” you say as you stir your mug.

“Me? I wasn’t staring. I don’t stare.”

“You were. And you do.”

“Nah, I wasn’t staring. I just looked a couple of times.”

Even as he talks, he looks right at you. His sparkling eyes are irresistibly charming. Your skin grows hot wherever he glances, as if bathed by warm sunlight.

“Stop it. It’s distracting.”

“So you’re distracted by me?” he jeers. “Which part is the most distracting? Is it how handsome I am, or is it my charm?”

“More like complete lack of subtlety. And humility. And because your tie is uneven.”

“How observant of you,” he smirks.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You know, it’s fine by me if you don’t like me.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t.”

He sips his coffee and raises an eyebrow playfully. He knows your dry humor at his point. “Right, well, I was hoping you at least didn’t hate me.”

You don’t respond. You just tug his tie straight before walking off.

~~~

As the summer turns into fall and you continue to get more and more settled into life in Metropolis, the two of you start texting each other more frequently. It starts out as average neighborly texts…

You: the mailman put something in my box addressed to you again

You: i put it on your doormat

Clark: Thanks! :)

Or...

Clark: Heyyy I know it’s late but do you have like a half cup of milk I could steal?

You: sure

You: why

Clark: I poured cereal but I only had like a few drops of milk :(

You: why are you eating cereal at midnight

Clark: I was craving it

Clark: What’s a guy gotta do to eat cereal for dinner in peace around here? 🤣

You: your obsession with breakfast food never fails to baffle me

Clark: If you knew what was good, you’d never question my meal choices again 🤔

You: i have milk but youll have to be ok with it being oatmilk

Clark: …Okay never mind… I’ll just starve…

You: ????

Clark: You can keep your imposter milk but thanks anyway

You: dont be such a baby

Clark: I’d rather eat cereal with water

You: ok now thats just a crime

You: hold on im coming over with leftover lasagna for u

Clark: 😍

And sometimes, you and Clark would text each other during work, like during conference meetings...

You: Perry looks so pissed off rn

Clark: Haha he does… he just gave Jimmy a death stare just for breathing

You: no bc olsen did do that weird nose whistle thing again

Clark: That nose whistle haunts me…

You: i’m gonna record it next time and use it as my text tone for you

Clark: You’re sick

You: 😈

You: do you see how much perry’s sweating?!

Clark: It’s all the anger and rage. It’s gotta come out somehow.

You: i’m scared he’s gonna throw the clicker across the room like a grenade

You glance up at Clark across the room, and he meets your gaze. He mimics a small explosion with his hands and mouths, “Boom.” And that sets the both of you off in a burst of half-suppressed giggling in the middle of the meeting, that Clark tries to write off as coughing as you hide your smile behind your mug of tea.

~~~

On some days, things aren’t quite so lighthearted. Like on particularly busy days, or when the news is not so good. On days like those, you’re usually hunched over at your desk, headphones on, dark to the world for eight hours until you finally emerge from your own little pocket universe of copy editing, exhausted and drained.

And Clark usually looks particularly beat on those types of days. More beat than any of the other reporters. Sometimes, he shows up extra late, or doesn’t even show up to the office at all. As curious as you are about his whereabouts, you don’t pry.

You begin to learn that Clark, as it turns out, is not always sunshine and rainbows, like you’d thought.

It’s a breezy early fall evening when the two of you leave work together one day. Clark had been acting strangely sullen all day, even short-tempered. You’d seen him snap at the other reporters more than once. The copy he’d submitted was strangely terse, near to perfection in its grammar and syntax, almost too matter-of-fact. And he’d barely spoken to you at all, even on your mutual commute home.

“Alright,” you level with him on the bus. “What’s your problem, Kent?”

“What? Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“You don’t get to be the one acting like this. That’s my job. I take it very seriously.”

He barely cracks a smile but continues to stare gloomily out the bus window at the falling leaves. That’s when you know something serious is up with him.

You aren’t sure what to do, what to say. You’re no good at things like this. You sit in silence beside him for a while. Then you opt for a casual lean, letting your shoulder press against his. Which feels kind of awkward at first, but you’re getting the strange urge to break the touch barrier between you and him.

It works. After a moment of leaning, he sighs, relaxes, leans in closer to you, still staring out the window. His shoulder is big and solid against your own.

He finally speaks: “Do you ever feel like you’re the only one who cares about something that really matters?”

“I—” you stammer, considering. “Maybe?”

“Like…” He ponders his words. The crease between his dark brows becomes more prominent. “Like yesterday, when there were lives at stake at the harbor, but all Perry wanted to push out for today’s news were stories about the fire being staged, or the political motives behind the rescue, and all the think pieces on who was to gain financially from it.” His fists clench in his lap. “It makes me so angry.”

Clark Kent, angry? Your mind reels, about multiple factors to his words. “You’re talking about Superman saving those people from the burning building at the harbor yesterday?”

He nodded curtly, his fists still in tight balls. You frown at them, wondering why he might be so upset about what had happened in the news with the mysterious humanoid alien superhero who often saved the city from various supernatural plights.

“You’re right,” you agree simply. “It was shitty of Perry to even consider publishing that trash.” Taking a leap of faith, you place your hand atop one of his fists. Feel it soften somewhat beneath your palm. It’s the first time you’ve ever felt his hand, and it’s warm, big, slightly calloused.

“You… agree with me?”

You nod. “Usually I don’t, on principle, but this time, yeah." He cracks a small smile at that, which you mirror. "I think The Planet’s way out of line for publishing anything speculative. Half of the shit I edited today was based on mere, unfounded, opinion, not facts. I’ve never returned so many docs with so many edits.”

Slowly, but surely, like watching water begin to boil, Clark’s demeanor begins to change. “They don’t call you ‘The Guillotine’ for nothing, do they?” he remarks, breaking into a small, toothy smile that has your heart skipping.

Then you realize what he’d said. “They call me the what?”

Clark laughs and you nearly laugh too. He and you start going over what everyone’s nicknames for each other are at the paper. And by the end of your commute home, by some means, you and Clark had started to hold hands.

~~~

One Saturday night, you’re slipping on your pajamas when you get a text:

Clark: WYD tonight?! It’s a full moon

You’d just returned from a little night on the town with some new girlfriends you’d made. Some from work, like Lois Lane and Lane Cat Grant, and some new friends you’d met mutually. You hadn’t expected to have as much fun as you had, but you’re pretty tired now. And still tipsy.

Not too tired to be curious about Clark, though. You wonder why the moon phase matters.

You: abt to go to bed

You: are you abt to turn into a werewolf or something

He replies relatively quickly:

Clark: Nah, I mean, at least I don’t think so. Not as far as I’m aware, LOL

Clark: Come up to the roof before you sleep! You won’t regret it 😇

So you do. The fastest way to access the roof from your apartment is by means of the fire escape, a rickety, rusty contraption built on the outside of your balcony. You brave the danger and emerge onto the roof.

Sure enough, the night sky is blanketed in blue light from a full, yellow moon. Basking in the muted light on the edge of the roof is Clark. He looks ethereal, freshly shaven, wearing sweats and a hoodie, his eyes twinkling as he spots you. You think to yourself he’s never looked better.

You join him at the roof’s edge. He smiles as you approach, that cute, awkward, toothy, dimply smile.

“Thanks for joining me, sunshine,” he says.

You nod, folding your arms. He;s been calling you that goofy nickname for a while, now. You don’t hate it. “Mhmm. You’re lucky I even responded.”

“Busy, were you?”

“Earlier I was. You know Cat and Lois from work?” When he nods, you say, “We went out barhopping.”

Clark reared. “You went out with Cat and Lois?”

“Yeah. We’re friends. Don’t act so surprised I have friends, Kent.”

“Yeah, but no offense, but you three are like polar opposites.”

You snort. “If there's three of us, we can't be polar opposites. That's not how magnetic poles work."

"Oh my gosh, and you call me a dork?" he laughs with you, rustling your hair. "Well... was it fun?"

"It was."

"I didn't take you for a going-out type of girl."

"Why? And what's wrong with that?" You mock-glare at him.

He puts his hands up, mock-defensively. "I just mean. You should invite me next time. Sounds like fun."

You can't imagine Clark Kent going out dancing. Or maybe, yes, you could. "Your male energy would ruin my vibe."

He shrugs. "Fair enough. Speaking of your vibe,” he says, reaching behind him to pull out two travel mugs. “Hot cocoas.”

“My vibe is hot cocoa?”

“No, your vibe is probably more, like, a glass of dry red wine with a side of disdain. But all I had was hot cocoa.”

A smile tugs at your lips as you graciously accept. “Thanks, Kent.”

You don’t expect it, but you end up spending hours up there on the roof with Clark that night. Talking about everything under the sun—or, rather, the moon. The books you’re reading, the movies he likes. Your family, his family. Your career, his career. It’s the most open you’ve ever found yourself with him. And it’s the most open he’s ever been with you.

Clark is in the middle of telling you about Kansas corn—a topic that you would have expected to be boring (and did in fact joke about this to him) but is turning out to be rather intriguing—when a flash in the sky catches your eye.

“A shooting star!” you explain, grasping for his hand. You both watch the meteor trail across the sky before it explodes in an array of fiery colors. “Wow.”

Clark stares at you. “That might be the most excited I’ve ever seen you get.”

“I get excited,” you defend yourself.

“Never like that, though.” He grins. “It suits you.”

You both become aware at the same time that he’s still holding your hand. Or maybe it’s that you’re still holding his. In any case, your hand is grasped in his, and you aren’t pulling away. He’s still smiling at you. If it were anyone else, you would have already pulled away. But you're frozen.

“Dance with me, sunshine,” Clark says. It catches you off-guard, which is the only reason why you let him pull you by the hands into the middle of the rooftop area.

Your scowl, though originating more out of alarm and discomfort than out of dislike, does not deter him. He plants one of your hands on his shoulder, places one of his own on your lower back, and begins to rock back and forth.

“This is ridiculous,” you say.

“This is so fun,” he counters.

“It’s so cheesy.”

“So what?” He looks up at the moon. “So is the moon. The Big Cheese and all. Embrace it, sunshine.”

“There’s not even any music.”

You regret saying it instantly when he begins humming a horribly out-of-tune rendition of Harvest Moon. You groan and give him shit for it. He loves it. You love it too.

“I’m no good at this,” you tell him after a while, when the dancing becomes less goofy and more serious, when the giggles dissipate into intimate silence, when he begins to draw your body incrementally closer to his.

“You’re just fine at it,” he says, leading you into a twirl that makes you full-on smile. But the smile fades again as you look into his eyes.

“I don’t mean the dancing,” you say, in almost a whisper. “I mean… I just mean…”

He doesn’t prod you to answer, just squeezes your hand, waits patiently. You sigh and try again.

“You’re just really good, Clark.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a good person, and—and I know I’m not a bad person, I just—you and me, we’re so different. You always see the good in people, and in life, and… it’s just a lot harder for me.”

He peers down at you, his expression unbelievably soft. And he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “I think you’re good, too. And lovely. I don’t think you see yourself the way I see you.”

You can feel yourself tense up. “You have a goodness to you that I don’t have, Clark.”

“Okay, well, what if I don’t want to be good?” he responds with a wry smirk. There’s a hidden meaning, a roguish suggestion in his words that makes your stomach flip in a good way.

You smirk back and gently shove his shoulder. “You couldn’t stop it if you tried.” You sigh. “I just… I don’t know how to do this with someone like you.”

“What do you mean?” he asks softly.

“I just… ruin things. Or I freeze. Or I leave.”

He ponders this. “Those aren’t such bad things.”

“What?!” Those are three pretty bad things.

“I’m pretty patient,” he boasts. “I’ll happily wait for you until you un-freeze. And if you run away, I’m pretty fast, so I’ll just chase you.”

You smile, shaking your head. “This isn’t me joking, Kent.”

Clark steps closer, so close that you can smell his woodsy, soapy scent, can feel the warmth radiating from his chest. “I’m not joking either, sunshine,” he murmurs.

You can’t help but grab his shirt, then, and lean up into him, pressing your lips to his.

Just a peck.

Then you step away, gauging his reaction.

He blinks in surprise, his handsome mouth fallen open, and then something possesses him and he kisses you back, harder. He glides his hands from your shoulders to your back, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss. His mouth is warmth and softness and hardness all combined.

You can feel him smile through the kiss, and you pull away, your heart swelling at the sight of his dimples, the crinkles of his eyes. His blue eyes are exceedingly bright in the moonlight. You wonder if your own eyes are as bright as his.

Breathless, he says, “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you yelled at me about the tennis ball.”

“This is a bad idea,” you say, but your shaky breath and exhilarated smile bely this attempt at indifference.

Clark kisses you again, kisses both corners of your mouth. “Probably. But you’re the one who kissed me first.”

“You’re going to be even more annoying now,” you comment as his lips trail down your cheek to the edge of your jaw.

You can hear the sound of contentment he makes as he smiles into your neck, breathes you in. “Definitely.”

As he kisses that place just under your ear, a single chill runs down your spine, curling your toes in the best way. Clark brings his hands up your back and to either side of your face. He beams at you, his own personal sun, while he caresses your cheeks with both his thumbs. Smoothing away all your sharp edges with his warm hands.

˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧

click for chapter 2 (will be coming out on Saturday, August 9th at 1PM PST!)

A/N: Helloooo! Eeee I'm kicking my feet and giggling! I really hope you like this fic!! I will be publishing each chapter on saturdays! So chapter 2 (smuttyyyyy!) will be published next Saturday, August 9th at 1pm PST -- get hypeeeeed!!!!!

Please note that I write fanfiction for free; my only request for repayment is a genuine expression of your thoughts, opinions, likes/dislikes, and predictions about the story. Whether it’s simply a “Wow, I loved it!”, a keyboard smash, a series of convoluted thoughts in the tags, or even a full-out review, please know that any and all feedback is welcome!

Much love ❤︎ from Juniper

about me || masterlist | AO3 || ask me anything! Superman taglist will be linked here Disclaimers: I do not claim to own Superman, DC, or any other affiliated names or fictional events. Other details, such as names, locations, and events, are also fictionalized. Please note that the representations of body types in my moodboard are not intended to exclude anybody of any race, ethnicity, or body shape. Do not copy, reproduce, or claim my work as your own on Tumblr, AO3, Wattpad, or any other website. You do not have permission to use my works in AI generators or in any way related to artificial intelligence. You may not use my work to sell or pass off as your own creation.

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stlllle · 2 days ago

Text

ways stray kids say “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

Masterlist stray kids

main masterlist

ways bang chan says “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

bang chan was never just about words.

he’s care.

he’s softness.

he’s the kind of love that shows itself in quiet gestures, in tiny details that say everything without needing to speak.

—

he fixes your hair without saying a word

chan always notices you.

a strand out of place? he’s already there, gently tucking it behind your ear.

he doesn’t say anything — but his fingers whisper: “i like taking care of you.”

—

he always asks if you’ve eaten

time zones, busy days, stress… doesn’t matter.

chan will always check in: “did you eat?”

and if you say you’re not hungry, he’ll sigh and reply: “but you need to take care of yourself… for me.”

—

he sends songs instead of saying he misses you

he makes you playlists with names like “for rainy days” or “you, always.”

and when he hears lyrics that remind him of you, he sends them without thinking.

you ask, “why this one?”

and he just shrugs and says: “i don’t know… it just feels like you.”

—

he gives you his jacket even if he’s freezing

you forget yours? he hands you his.

no hesitation.

he’ll shiver quietly just to make sure you’re warm.

and though he won’t say it, his body is screaming: “your comfort means more to me than mine.”

—

he always finds a way to be there

he texts in the middle of the day just to check on you.

he sends random little emojis.

calls when he misses your voice, even if it’s only for five minutes.

no matter how busy, he makes time for you.

and that is love.

—

he gives you nicknames that only he uses

chan’s that kind of person.

he invents silly, soft, weirdly cute nicknames that sound like home coming from his lips.

and somehow, it always feels like he’s reminding you: “you’re mine.”

—

he covers you with a blanket when you fall asleep

you fall asleep on the couch?

he gently covers you.

adjusts the pillow.

kisses your forehead.

and just watches for a little while.

he says nothing — but the silence feels like:

“i could spend my whole life caring for you like this.”

—

bang chan doesn’t say “i love you” with words.

he says it with actions.

with time.

with effort.

and the truth is…

you feel it.

you’ve always felt it.

ways lee minho says “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

minho isn’t loud about love.

he doesn’t scream it.

doesn’t post it.

doesn’t rush it.

but if you know where to look,

you’ll see he says “i love you” all the time — in the quietest, softest ways.

—

he gives you the best part of everything

minho pretends he doesn’t care, but when he hands you the last dumpling or gives you the fluffiest pillow, he’s saying:

“i always think of you first.”

he might tease you right after —

“don’t get used to it.”

but the sparkle in his eyes betrays the truth.

—

he lets you win… sometimes

if you’re playing games together, he’ll act like he’s competitive.

but suddenly you’re winning.

and he smiles quietly, watching you celebrate.

that’s his way of saying:

“your happiness matters more than my ego.”

—

he sits closer than necessary

minho doesn’t always hold your hand.

but he’ll sit so close that your legs are touching.

he leans his head on your shoulder during movie nights.

and he’ll never say it out loud, but his body says:

“this is where i feel safest.”

—

he texts things like “don’t be stupid” instead of “i’m worried about you”

he hides his care under sarcasm.

texts like:

“wear a jacket. it’s cold. don’t be dumb.”

“eat something. don’t faint or whatever.”

and somehow… it feels more sincere than any love letter.

—

he introduces you to his cats

if you meet soonie, doongie and dori?

that’s a love confession.

point blank.

those cats are his heart.

if they like you — and if he lets you hold them —

you’re in.

you’re home.

—

he watches you sleep like it’s his favorite movie

you fall asleep on the couch, in his bed, in the car —

and minho just… stays.

quiet.

still.

looking at you like you’re the softest thing he’s ever seen.

he won’t say it, but in that moment, his whole body whispers:

“i’d protect this peace forever.”

—

he’s there when you need him — always

no drama. no announcements.

you say, “i had a bad day,” and he’s already knocking at your door.

you don’t even have to ask.

because when minho loves you, he just shows up.

no explanations. no words.

just presence.

and that’s everything.

—

lee minho says “i love you” with subtlety.

with side glances.

with shared earbuds.

with the last bite of food.

with being the safe place you didn’t even know you needed.

and if you pay attention,

you’ll realize —

he’s been saying it this whole time.

ways seo changbin says “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

changbin feels things deeply —

but he doesn’t always know how to say them.

so he shows love in gestures that feel loud when you notice.

and if you pay attention,

you’ll realize:

he’s saying “i love you” all the time.

—

he brings you snacks “just because”

“i saw this and thought of you,”

he says, dropping your favorite candy or drink in your lap.

he pretends it’s nothing,

but he literally stopped everything, went to the store,

and remembered what you like.

that’s not nothing.

that’s love.

—

he carries everything for you

your bag? his.

your groceries? already in his hands.

he acts all cool about it,

but if you try to take it back, he gets fake offended.

“what kind of man would i be if i let you carry this?”

translation: “i want to take care of you, always.”

—

he sings lyrics at you in the car

it’s always playful.

he raps your name into songs, sings dramatic ballads with fake tears…

but then there’s that one song.

the soft one.

and he sings it quietly while looking at you.

not smiling.

just… feeling.

and in that moment, he’s telling you:

“this is how my heart sounds when you’re around.”

—

he double texts. and triple texts.

you take a little longer to reply and he sends:

“hello?”

“did you fall asleep?”

“are you okay?”

and when you finally answer, he plays it cool like:

“took you long enough.”

but you know the truth:

he just missed you. so much it made him anxious.

—

he always makes sure you’re warm

changbin will take off his hoodie without a second thought.

he’ll wrap it around your shoulders and then say something dumb like:

“you better not sweat in it.”

but don’t be fooled.

he’ll sleep cold just so you’re not.

—

he gets shy when you compliment him

you call him cute?

he hides behind his hands.

you tell him you missed him?

he suddenly starts looking everywhere except at you.

but then, 10 minutes later, he’s hugging you so tight you can barely breathe.

that’s him saying: “i missed you too, more than you know.”

—

he works out just a little harder when you’re watching

he’ll flex.

he’ll lift heavier.

he’ll do one more rep, glance at you, and smirk.

it’s all for you.

he wants to impress you —

because even if he can’t say “i love you,”

he wants to be someone worthy of your love.

—

seo changbin doesn’t say “i love you” often —

but he carries it in his arms,

sings it through his laughter,

and shows it with every little thing he does for you.

and somehow…

it’s louder than words.

ways hwang hyunjin says “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

hyunjin loves with his whole soul —

but not always with words.

his “i love you” is painted in soft glances, long hugs,

pages of sketchbooks and sudden laughter.

if you listen closely,

you’ll hear it in the way he exists beside you.

—

he draws you when you’re not looking

his sketchbook has pages filled with soft outlines of your face.

your eyes. your hands.

tiny moments he tried to capture forever.

he won’t show you unless you ask,

but when you see it…

you’ll realize he’s been loving you in silence for a while.

—

he shares his umbrella, even if it means getting wet

hyunjin always holds the umbrella toward you.

your shoulder stays dry.

his doesn’t.

and when you tell him he’s getting soaked,

he just shrugs:

“you’ll get sick.”

but really, he means: “your comfort is more important than mine.”

—

he gives you one earbud, even when he wants both

he never hesitates to let you in.

into his music, his world, his bubble.

you sit beside him and he offers you his earbud,

presses play, and closes his eyes.

and in that silence,

you’re sharing something sacred.

—

he takes random pictures of you

you’ll see the gallery in his phone and it’s all you.

you laughing.

you sleeping.

you looking away.

and when you ask why,

he blushes and mumbles something like:

“you just looked really pretty in that moment.”

—

his hugs last longer than necessary

hyunjin hugs like he’s afraid to let go.

his arms wrap around you slowly,

tight, warm, safe.

he buries his face in your neck and sighs —

as if all the tension in him melts with your touch.

he doesn’t say it,

but his embrace whispers: “please stay.”

—

he lights candles when you’re over

he sets the mood, even for no reason.

a soft playlist, warm lighting, cozy blankets,

your favorite snack on the table.

he prepares the space like a love letter without words.

every detail is intentional.

every piece of it says: “i want you to feel at home with me.”

—

he tells you about his dreams

hyunjin doesn’t open up easily.

but when he does, it’s magical.

he talks about the dreams he had with you in them.

the places he wants to go with you.

the paintings he wants to create because of you.

his imagination is filled with you —

and that’s his most honest way of saying:

“you’re part of the future i want.”

—

hwang hyunjin may not say “i love you” in every sentence,

but he draws it,

sings it,

holds it in his silence,

and creates a world where you are the muse.

ways han jisung says “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

jisung is loud when he’s joking,

but so, so quiet when he’s feeling.

he hides i love you in the laughter,

in the stares that last a little too long,

and in the way his voice softens every time he says your name.

—

he always shares his food with you (even when he doesn’t want to)

he complains, sure.

“this is the best part, don’t touch it—”

but somehow it ends up on your plate anyway.

and when you say, “you didn’t have to,”

he shrugs, cheeks red, and mumbles:

“yeah, but i wanted to.”

—

he writes lyrics about you — and never admits it

he’ll play you a song and casually say:

“just something i was working on.”

but the lyrics sound too familiar.

the way he describes the person in them… it’s you.

and when you ask,

he’ll just look away and say, “maybe.”

translation: “yes. it’s always been you.”

—

he teases you like you’re his favorite joke

jisung jokes around a lot.

but with you, it’s different.

his teasing is softer.

more careful.

like he never wants to actually hurt your feelings.

he laughs, but watches you immediately after —

just to make sure you're still smiling.

—

he teaches you how to play his favorite games

he’ll act like you’re terrible at it,

but secretly loves having you next to him,

watching your fingers move,

your reactions, your excitement.

he just wants to share his little world with you.

that’s his way of saying: “i want you in every part of my life.”

—

he sends the most random messages, just to feel close

a blurry pic.

a dumb meme.

a voice note that ends in laughter.

he doesn’t even know what he’s saying sometimes,

he just wants to talk to you.

wants to make you laugh.

wants to feel like you’re close, even when you’re not.

—

he remembers the little things you say

you mention once that you like a certain snack?

he buys it.

you say you love a movie?

he watches it — twice.

jisung pretends to forget birthdays and appointments,

but when it comes to you,

he remembers everything.

—

he stays on the phone with you until you fall asleep

“i’ll hang up after you’re asleep, okay?”

he whispers,

but doesn’t.

he stays until your breathing slows down.

and only then does he whisper into the silence:

“i love you so much it actually scares me.”

but you never hear it.

not yet.

—

han jisung’s “i love you” isn’t loud.

it’s messy.

it’s chaotic.

it’s full of nervous laughter and fast heartbeats.

but it’s real.

so real it spills into everything he touches —

especially you.

ways lee felix says “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

felix is softness personified.

he doesn’t always say the words,

but his love shows up in smiles that reach his eyes,

warm touches, gentle check-ins,

and the way he looks at you like you’re his whole sky.

—

he bakes for you, just because

it doesn’t have to be a special day.

he’ll show up with cookies, brownies, banana bread…

and say, “i tried something new today, wanna taste it?”

but the truth is:

he made it with you in mind.

every time.

that’s his love language.

—

he texts you “let me know when you’re home safe”

every single time.

no matter how late.

no matter how tired he is.

he’ll wait for your message — and won’t sleep until he gets it.

sometimes he even sends:

“call me when you get in, yeah?”

that’s not just care.

that’s “i can’t rest unless i know you’re okay.”

—

he holds your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world

in crowded places.

on quiet walks.

in the car.

felix’s hand always finds yours.

sometimes he swings your arms together.

sometimes he rubs his thumb over your knuckles.

like he’s grounding himself in you.

—

he keeps polaroids of you in his phone case

not selfies.

not staged pics.

just you — laughing, blinking, living.

he doesn’t show them off.

doesn’t even mention them.

but they’re there.

because having your face near his heart just feels… right.

—

he sets the mood just to make you feel special

candles lit.

soft music playing.

blanket fluffed.

even if it’s just a regular day.

felix creates peace wherever you are.

and in that peace, he says:

“you deserve softness, always.”

—

he stargazes with you and says nothing

he lays beside you, hand in yours, eyes on the stars.

not talking.

just existing with you.

but in his stillness, you feel it —

like the silence is whispering:

“this moment is everything. you are everything.”

—

his hugs last forever and feel like home

felix doesn’t just hug.

he wraps you up, rocks you slightly, buries his face in your neck.

he smells like warmth and sugar and safety.

and when you try to pull away,

he tightens his arms and says,

“just a little longer, yeah?”

what he means is:

“i could stay like this forever.”

—

lee felix doesn’t need to say “i love you.”

he shows it.

with warm cookies.

with soft hands.

with gentle words and deep silences.

and in every little thing,

he’s telling you:

“you’re my favorite place to be.”

ways kim seungmin says “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

seungmin’s love is quiet, sarcastic,

hidden beneath teasing words and side eyes.

but if you listen closely,

if you look past the dry comments and fake eye rolls—

you’ll hear it.

you’ll feel it.

he’s been saying “i love you” this whole time.

—

he helps you with everything, even if he acts annoyed

“ugh, seriously? you can’t do this by yourself?”

he says…

right before sitting next to you and doing half of it himself.

no complaints after that.

just quiet help.

focused.

gentle.

and if you thank him, he just shrugs:

“whatever.”

but what he means is: “i’ll always help you, no matter what.”

—

he gives you his headphones without a word

he sees you a little overwhelmed.

you don’t even ask — he just pulls out one earbud and holds it out to you.

soft music.

shared silence.

and maybe his pinky brushing yours.

in that moment, it’s like he’s saying:

“let me be your calm.”

—

he brings you food and says “i had extra” (he didn’t)

“i accidentally bought too much.”

no he didn’t.

he planned it.

he knows your favorites.

and he bought it because he thought of you while standing in line.

but he’ll never admit that.

not with words.

—

he teases you nonstop, but defends you instantly

he calls you names.

makes fun of your laugh.

mocks your texting habits.

but the second someone else does it?

he goes silent.

then cold.

and then:

“watch your mouth.”

because he can joke with you.

but no one else gets that privilege.

—

he stays even when you tell him he doesn’t have to

you’re sick?

sad?

burned out?

you say: “you don’t need to stay, i’ll be fine.”

but he stays.

without a word.

just… sits near you.

scrolling.

breathing.

being there.

that’s his “i’m not going anywhere.”

—

he nags you like a grumpy husband

“don’t leave your socks there.”

“you’re not wearing that outside, right?”

“drink water. not coffee. water.”

it sounds like nagging.

but every complaint is soaked in love.

he’s paying attention.

he cares.

he just hides it behind sass.

—

he lets you distract him during games

he’s competitive.

he likes to win.

but when you crawl into his lap or start poking his cheeks,

he lets you.

he grins.

he loses.

and doesn’t care.

because he’d rather lose the match than miss a second of you being in his arms.

—

kim seungmin may not say “i love you” in big, obvious ways—

but it’s in the way he shows up.

the way he listens.

the way he nags.

the way he stays.

he’s not cold.

he’s just scared.

but when he loves…

he loves deeply.

truly.

and forever.

ways yang jeongin says “i love you” without actually saying “i love you”

jeongin doesn’t say it right away.

he gets flustered.

blushes.

smiles too wide when you look at him.

but still, somehow…

he says “i love you” in every tiny, unspoken moment.

—

he buys you little things “just because”

your favorite drink.

that snack you mentioned once.

a plushie that “looked like you.”

he hands it to you and says:

“i don’t know… i saw it and thought maybe you’d like it.”

but what he really means is: “you live in my mind. always.”

—

he lets you touch his cheeks when he’s shy

you call him cute and his ears turn red.

you squish his face and he groans,

but never pulls away.

he just hides behind his sleeves and says:

“why are you like this?”

but stays right there.

because your hands feel like home.

—

he teaches you things with the most patience

he’s competitive — but when it’s you,

he slows down.

he shows you how to play.

laughs when you mess up.

cheers when you do it right.

and whispers:

“you’re doing amazing.”

that’s his way of saying: “i believe in you more than anything.”

—

he texts you when something reminds him of you

a sunset.

a meme.

a dog in a sweater.

he sends it with a simple “look, it’s you”

or “this made me smile. like you do.”

he never says it outright—

but every message means: “you’re always with me.”

—

he leaves things at your place on purpose

his hoodie.

a beanie.

one sock (how???).

he plays it off like he forgot,

but when you wear them, he gets quiet.

blushes.

and smiles like he just won the lottery.

he wanted you to have a piece of him.

—

he watches you like you’re magic

you’re just talking — rambling, laughing, being yourself.

and you catch him staring.

softly.

with that dreamy look in his eyes.

you ask “what?”

he shrugs and says,

“nothing.”

but everything in his gaze screams:

“i’m so in love with you it hurts.”

—

he stays on call with you until you fall asleep

“goodnight,” he says.

but he doesn’t hang up.

he stays.

listens to your breathing.

smiles at every tiny sound you make.

and right before he falls asleep too,

he whispers — so quietly:

“i love you.”

knowing you won’t hear it.

not yet.

—

yang jeongin doesn’t say “i love you” easily.

he says it through blushed cheeks.

through clumsy gifts.

through soft eyes and hoodie sleeves.

but once you feel it…

you’ll know it’s the purest love in the world.

316 notes · View notes

joshujin · 3 days ago

Text

first move joshua inevitably has to stop ignoring his manager and get back to his responsibilities and the real world and start preparing for his stupid ass tour that he is now regretting ever scheduling.

he just had one last year then a festival run right after, and he convinced himself he wanted to get right back into it after a brief vacation in the maldives. but now, after several days pretending like the outside world didn’t exist with you—in his pool, on his deck, in bed, in the tub, everywhere another employee wouldn’t be able to see you and rat you out—he realizes that he only ever wanted to schedule his tour as a solution to his increasing loneliness. the dozens of stops around the world, always being followed around or nagged by someone on his team, the hundreds of thousands of fans that came to keep him company throughout the tour. it was impossible to feel lonely then.

he didn’t realize he was doing that until he forgot what being lonely felt like, here in the maldives—here with you. even before he was finally able to have you every which way he wanted, you were a reason to be excited for the day. you were filling his life with laughter, companionship, and… fun! and fuck, he hadn’t had fun outside of a concert in so long.

leaving the maldives even when you were still being overly polite and professional with him had felt heart wrenching, but leaving now, when you felt like some semblance of his… it felt impossible.

the morning of his checkout (something he kept having to actively try not to cancel for the nth time), he lets you sleep in in his bed, getting up early to pack his things away and get cleaned up. when he comes back out of the bathroom, you’re awake and already dressed in the uniform he ripped off you last night, seated on the edge of his bed looking like you just realized he’s actually leaving today.

he quietly kneels down in front of you, lifting your chin with a single finger to look at him. he doesn’t know what to say because he’s feeling as sad as you look, so he just settles for a kiss. it at least brings a smile to your face, so you stand and start helping him getting the last of his things packed into his luggage. maybe he lets you pick out his outfit. lets you pick which cologne you want him to wear (you pick the one he’s been mostly wearing this whole trip). lets you derail his progress a little when you get lost in his lips for a few minutes. tries to let you have your way with him one last time by luring you into bed with those crazy bedroom eyes. but you don’t bite, and he knows he doesn’t want you to—last night was already perfect, and if you two have a repeat of it, he’ll never be able to leave.

then, it’s time to check out. it’s time to exit this suite that’s been his home for nearly a month now, go to the airport, board his private jet… and leave you. you two don’t talk about what will happen from here. you don’t make promises you can’t keep. you just embrace for as long as you can hold onto whatever this is, and then you look at each other like you’re memorizing each other’s faces, and then he leaves.

you don’t accompany him out. you don’t trust yourself to refrain from crying in front of your employees as he checks out, and you both know from the several close calls where he was so sure he could act normal in public with you, he won’t be able to keep from sweeping you up in his arms and kissing you senseless right before he drives away. before he leaves for what could be forever.

so you stay in his empty suite, and you radio the staff to bring a boat out to escort joshua hong to the front desk.

joshua checks out without a hitch, and before he knows it, he’s seated in his luxury jet across from an infuriated manager, who spends the entirety of takeoff yelling at him about how he’d quit if they hadn’t been best friends their whole lives and how he owes him the fattest end-of-year bonus. the scolding eventually deescalates into jokes and questions about how the trip was (“better have been the best fucking vacation after you shaved decades off my life.”).

to his credit, joshua tries to laugh and smile in all the right places. he really tries, but he can’t because life is already feeling helplessly lonely again, and his manager—his best friend—notices and asks what’s wrong.

and it’s exactly that feeling when you’re barely holding it together and someone asks if you’re okay and you just kind of lose it. it’s that lol. immediately, a knot forms in his throat and he can’t even speak, so he just shakes his head as his eyes fill with tears, and his manager realizes for the first time that the superstar wasn’t just fucking around and shirking his responsibilities just for shits and giggles.

they can’t cancel the tour, though they do cancel a few shows with the biggest apologies and promises he’ll come back. and joshua loves his fans dearly so he’s honest—he tells them he needs even more time to rest and focus on his mental health, and that when he feels better, he’ll be back at the cancelled shows first before he does anything else. and bc this is a fake story and his fans aren’t entitled little assholes and are perfect, compassionate, understanding human beings, they are not-at-all mad and are very happy for him to take the time to get healthy.

joshua does get help as he continues the rest of his shortened tour, but he never tells anyone what happened in the maldives. all anyone around him knows is he changed there.

and whatever—whoever—changed him took all the excitement he had for performing and kept it there on the island when he left. the island is keeping the love and spark he used to have for his job and his life, and none of them (manager/best friend included) know how to give it back to him.

🔞 18+, minors do not interact • masterlist • submit a request 🚨 minors and blank blogs will be blocked

the first move

Your VIP guest needs help, and as his personal concierge, it’s your job to give him whatever he wants.

wc: 12.5k 🤢 tags: pwp (i say even tho it has a monster wc and i already have an entire story marinating in my head for these two) cw: maldives joshua, fem!reader, imbalanced power dynamic (reader is serving joshua as his personal concierge during his stay at the hotel she works at) but everything is consensual, joshua is a solo pop star (not an idol), whipped as usual (pls never expect anything else from me tbh i’m wholly incapable of writing a man who’s not completely and helplessly wrapped around a woman’s finger) smut warnings: dom!joshua, ish?, unprotected piv, semi-public sex? it’s a suite on a private beach but technically any boats could just zoom by i guess?, pool sex, kink negotiation, sir kink, color system (and use of the color red), hair pulling, light degradation, fingering, oral f. receiving, breath play, edging, spanking, dacryphilia if you squint, spitting and before you point out i’m beginning to make a pattern out of svt spitting into mouths idc leave me alone, hickies, doggy style, creampie, cockwarming, scratching hard enough to break skin, brief mention of blood, i think that’s it lmk if not a/n: i remember seeing an article about a couple who had to be hospitalized after having sex in the ocean bc the suction created some kinda vacuum and they got stuck together. so. idk maybe don’t have sex underwater but it’s your life! anyway. here it is. thanks to the anon that motivated me to work on this even if every second was complete torture :) tbh this is probably riddled with typos and mistakes. sorry not sorry bc i feel insane and i just want to be rid of maldives!joshua and i don’t want to have to read this over LMAO. have fun. i guess.

This VIP guest of yours has been quite the enigma for you. You’re used to receiving calls in the middle of the night, insisting you find pizza because your guest is tired of the “weird” (see: properly seasoned) food on the island. Or being forced to be a pack mule, lugging all of their unbelievably expensive belongings around as you follow them and watch them do random activities that don’t require any of the shit you’re carrying. Or being treated like an executive assistant, looking over your VIP’s schedules, fielding calls they keep forwarding to your desk, or even making calls on their behalf—both personal and professional. And you do it all with a smile since it means a tip almost twice your whole month’s pay because these people are so rich, they don’t even know what constitutes as an appropriate tip (and you’re not going to correct them).

But Joshua Hong is unlike any other VIP guest you’ve served before. He definitely demands almost all of your time the same way everyone else has in the past, but the difference is he manages to ask hardly anything of you at all. Which is bizarre because you’re the resort’s VIP concierge, and it’s literally in your job description to do whatever he asks—within reason, of course.

He doesn’t seem to care, though; the man is determined to simply monopolize your time and presence. It’s always the same: he calls for you with some vague variation of “I need help”, and you’ll make your way to his multi-bedroom water suite, where he’ll claim to have forgotten what he wanted but insist you stay in case he remembers (he does not). Or he’ll ask you for your opinion on something like his shirt and insist that’s all he needed but maybe you should hang around in case he needs an opinion on something else. Or he’ll ask you for a recommendation for dinner, something he could have asked you on the phone—or literally any staff member since the grounds are crawling with them. Then, he’ll ask if you can actually escort him there and when you arrive, he’ll insist on treating you to a meal (something you’ll never turn down, though if Joshua Hong continues to provide for you like this, you’ll have to stop doing groceries to refrain from throwing out uneaten food).

On multiple occasions, your help was requested to extend his stay, which should’ve been over after three days and is now approaching its third week.

And if your entire livelihood and career didn’t depend on your utmost professionalism, you wouldn’t mind being needed to this extent because to be frank, your VIP guest is the hottest you’ve ever had. You’re used to hosting men pushing 80 on vacation with their 20-something girlfriends. Or greasy incel entrepreneurs who don’t know how to keep their hands to themselves. Or asshole celebrities with personalities so ugly, you can’t for the life of you find anything attractive about them. You aren’t used to hosting quiet, kind, gentle, and heartbreakingly beautiful singers who ooze and drip sex appeal, leaving a trail of it everywhere they go. So you do mind being needed to this extent. Because every time Joshua calls you, it’s the fight of your life to stay professional. It’s a test of willpower to keep your eyes from wandering below his neck, and even then, his face is so goddamn breathtaking, your mind is constantly going blank. Every time he walks a little too closely and you get a whiff of whatever delicious cologne he uses, your mouth immediately salivates. One time, he brushed your cheek because he said there was a tiny bug on it. You almost fell to your knees right then and there.

You would do something about it in the real world, but it isn’t the real world; it’s your job, and it’s a job that pays stupid well considering the kind of people you tend to. So you have to stay on top of your game, and it would be so much easier to do that if you didn’t have to have direct eyesight of your sexy VIP—if he would just stop claiming to need you at his side virtually at all times.

Of course, that would be too easy, and that simply won’t suffice. Joshua Hong requires your presence, and now, as you stand frozen at the doors leading to his private outdoor deck, watching him watching you, you’ve never resented that fact about him more.

The singer is seated in his infinity pool, gloriously backlit by the brilliant pink and orange hues of another looming Maldivian sunset that feels impossible to appreciate with him right there. He has both elbows propped up on the wall he's resting against and both eyes glued to you.

You were used to letting yourself into his suite; he always told you whether or not you should whenever he called you. You were not used to finding him half naked in the pool with his hair wet and slicked back and a tattoo you weren’t aware he even had visible on his bulging bicep. He doesn’t greet you, soft and kind like he usually does; he doesn’t greet you at all. He simply continues to watch you, his fingers skimming and flicking the surface of the water casually like he hasn’t just put you into fight or flight mode.

As nonchalant as he looks, his face belongs to someone else right now—least of all to the pop star you’ve been assisting for the last two weeks. His now heavy-lidded eyes are devoid of any of the joy and warmth they’ve shown you, now several shades darker—not in color but in want. His usually angelic smile is curled into a barely there smirk that makes you feel like he’s taunting you, and something about his posture tells you that he’s entirely, completely done. With what, you’re not sure, but the sudden, dull ache between your legs makes it very clear it wants to find out.

He doesn’t speak, obviously perfectly content with staring you down like you’re prey. The only sounds come from the gentle breeze coming through his suite’s private beach, the tide of the ocean behind him, and the light splish splash of his fingers against the water. When it’s getting to criminally awkward levels of silence, you clear your throat and stiffly force yourself to step away from his room and onto the deck fully. Even then, you stand right by the door like it’s an emergency exit.

“Mr. Hong,” you greet him, bowing your head a little. His smirk only deepens. “You called for me. How can I assist you, sir?”

He hums in thought, the sound deep and rumbling coming from his naked chest. You want to press your hand up against it and see how the vibrations of his contemplation feel. You frown a little at your inner thoughts before schooling your face and forcing your brain to focus. Joshua Hong has made you a mini fortune staying at the resort as long as he has, and if you can manage to finish his trip strong, you’ll have more than enough to cover rent until the end of the year.

“I did call you,” he confirms, nodding slowly. “I’ve called on you quite a bit during my stay, haven’t I?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, Mr. Hong,” you lie. He’s called you more than any other VIP ever has, and you’ve hosted billionaires that made it their mission to ensure you didn’t get a wink of sleep on their watch. “I’m always happy to help you, sir.”

He snorts, smirk turning a little mean. It makes you feel entirely too warm despite the hotel’s lightweight uniform.

“Why don’t you take a seat?” he asks and gestures to the chair nearest to the edge of the pool opposite him with a nod.

“A seat?” you practically squeak, feeling a bit too out of control of your hormones to be any nearer to him than you already are. Your willpower already wavers dangerously on a good day. But today? When he looks like this? And is practically burning a hole into you with his eyes? You don’t trust yourself to keep your job if you’re not planted right here, by the exit. “I’m fine, sir. I—”

“Sit down.”

The command in his voice is something you’re not-at-all used to—not with him, and not with any of your other VIP guests. Most of your clients use their overly nice—if not totally inappropriate—schmoozing voice with you. Men who want to butter up their young, female host. Billionaires cosplaying as normal human beings so you feel more comfortable around them. For the entirety of his stay, Joshua Hong has exhibited nothing but an elegant and delicate demeanor, voice never louder than it needs to be. Always as soothing as the very breeze on this deck. Never sharp around the corners, never thick with dominance like it is now.

Your legs are moving, you’re pulling the chair out away from the outdoor table, turning it to face him, and your ass is meeting it before you realize what’s happening. As soon as you’re seated, you can see how pleased he looks and it surprises you to realize it makes you just as pleased to evoke that reaction out of him.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Hong?” you ask again, slowly this time so he hopefully doesn’t hear how labored your breathing suddenly is.

He narrows his eyes at you infinitesimally like he’s studying you, letting silence blanket over the both of you again. Finally, he answers: “I don’t need your help.”

You frown. “But… you called me, sir.”

“And every time I’ve called you for the past two weeks, I never needed your help,” he says frankly. He huffs a laugh out. “I’m a grown man. I don’t need you around to rattle off restaurants to me that I can Google.” He pauses before he apologizes for his snappiness. “Sorry. I seem to be at my wit’s end tonight.”

You believe it. He’s never been so direct and so serious with you before. You almost feel like you’re at the principal’s office getting scolded. You purse your lips a bit to keep it from turning into a confused scowl.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. Hong,” you say through barely concealed annoyance. What you really want to ask is: Then what the fuck was I coming all the way down to your suite and torturing myself for?!

“Well, what other reason would a man like me want a woman like you nearby?” he asks like he’s spelling it out for a child.

You fidget a little, as your panties get more and more soiled by the second. You can’t say you didn’t wonder if he called on you because he just wanted you near him, but like anybody else would, you convinced yourself your ego was too big for your own good and that while mind-numbingly sexy, maybe Joshua Hong was also just incredibly useless. Or lonely. Or both.

You clear your throat. “I… um…”

His laugh comes out as a scoff. “Let’s be honest with each other. I’ll go first. I’ve extended this hiatus of mine countless times just to be able to spend more days around you,” he informs you. Your eyes widen at him and he nods like he agrees with something you didn’t even say. “Yeah, I’m still here because of you. Insane, right? I have a world tour to prepare for and instead, I’m still here. In the Maldives. With my entire team’s numbers blocked so they can stop calling me, and I can be left alone to think about all the things I’d do to the hotel’s VIP concierge if given the chance and the time. But I can’t keep putting my life off. I have to get back, and I don’t have the time to wait for you to figure it out anymore.”

The words leave you with absolutely no air, and you briefly contemplate scrambling out of the chair and running back through the door, never to see the singer’s face ever again.

You are going to lose your job if you stay here, you horny bitch! your conscience screams at you. Against better judgment, you stay seated and settle for squeezing your thighs tightly together.

“I call on you day and night with zero requests for you, I make any excuse to be physically near you, I shower you with compliments and praise, I try to make conversation with you—try to get you to stay around me for as long as possible before you go running back to your office… so it’s either you don’t return my attraction or you’re choosing to ignore me.”

“It’s not that I don’t return your attraction,” you assure him so quickly, you can’t even stop the words before they’re out of your mouth. “I… um, you’re very, uh, kind, Mr. Hong. I thought that’s all that was,” you say honestly. He keeps staring at you so you fill the silence with a more straightforward answer to the question he didn’t ask. “It wasn’t clear to me that you… were staying here because of me.”

He tilts his head at you, drops of water sliding down his skin in that direction, and your intrusive thoughts assault you in a way they never have before. You want to lick the droplets right off his tan skin. You want to lick, suck, bite, and bruise that skin. You want to work hard enough that your sweat mingles with the water on him now. More than anything, you want to shrivel up and die.

You find it unnerving how well he can maintain eye contact. Your gaze keeps flitting from his face, to the ocean, to the floor, to the sky, and back, and each time, he’s still staring at you like you’re all he wants to waste time looking at.

“I’m at a bit of a disadvantage,” he says, voice so low, you almost miss what he says against the sound of the tide. He doesn’t wait for you to ask what he means. “I can only make my desires so clear before this becomes a client inappropriately harassing an employee who’s being forced to be in his proximity. I’m not going to do something that you’re being paid to grin and bear politely. I only want someone who genuinely wants me back.”

Your mouth opens to respond but you stop yourself. This is your job! the annoyingly responsible voice in your head shrieks. Do not get yourself fired! Your embarrassingly wet cunt is screaming very different things at you, though.

He wants you just as badly as you’ve wanted him this whole time. He wants to touch. He wants to taste. Let him!

“We’re in the grey area. If there’s a first move to make at all… I was never going to be the one to make it,” he states, eyes so deliciously carnal, you want to jump into the pool and eat him right up. “It’s your turn to be honest. So…” he trails off as his gaze rakes your entire frame painstakingly slowly. He only continues when his eyes meet yours again. “With the assurance that you won’t be punished or your pay withheld for turning me down… I want to know. Is there a first move to make?”

“I…” you start, having no idea where that train of thought is going. “I’m…” Joshua doesn’t rush your answer, but his intense attention doesn’t waver either. He patiently waits, eyes fixed on you the whole time as you muster up the strength to say the last thing you want to. “I can’t.” The ache between your legs is agonizing. “This is my livelihood. I’ll… I’ll get fired for doing this… I can’t.”

You think it’s something that should disappoint the singer, but instead, his smirk makes a return, curving up at one corner of his pretty, pink mouth. You realize it’s because even as much as it sounds like one, it isn’t a rejection; it’s a confirmation that you need this just as badly as he seems to. You’re just holding yourself back a tiny bit better than he is.

“You’ll only get fired if someone finds out,” he says, voice raspy with want. “Do you see anyone around that would find out?”

You inadvertently look around. He’s spending five figures a night to stay at one of the most expensive suites at the hotel. It comes with its own building, its own deck, its own dock, and its own private beach. The only boat driving by would be staff coming to his suite. There isn’t anyone here, and there won’t be—not as long as you are. The front desk knows you’re here, and you’d be called over your radio before anyone would dare to show up at your VIP’s suite unannounced.

“No,” he answers for you, sounding triumphant. Like he just won an argument. “You don’t. So let me ask again.” That dominance from before seeps back into his voice now. “Is there a first move to make?”

You know that realistically, you never had a chance. Resistance was dependent on Joshua Hong never wanting you the way you wanted him. Your willpower could only go so far and if a sexy singer wanted to fuck your brains out before he had to jet back to his unimaginably lavish life, who were you to stop him?

You swallow the dryness in your throat and you give him a small nod.

“I’ll only accept words as consent,” he tells you. The authority in his voice tightens the already wound up coil in your lower abdomen.

“Yes,” your mouth answers even as your brain struggles to fully register what he just said. “There’s a first move to make.”

“Good,” he says like there was always a right and wrong answer and you just chose correctly. “Then come here and make it.”

You’re up and out of your seat as soon as he commands it. Your hands tremble as you set your phone and the tablet you bring everywhere down on the table behind you. You take your earpiece out, unclipping the radio it’s connected to from the back of your skirt and putting it beside your tablet. You unplug the earpiece and turn the volume up on your radio so you can hear anybody who calls for you on your channel, and when that’s done, you pause to realize that this is truly the last chance you have to leave. After this, you’ll be stuck with any of the consequences you might face for sleeping with your VIP.

“You can change your mind at any time,” he assures you, obviously sensing your hesitation. “Even if you get in here, even if you let me have my way with you. At any point, if you don’t want this anymore, you can change your mind.”

You glance over your shoulder to look at him. His expression is just as desirous but you can tell he’s being sincere. It’s in the eyes—those eyes that you only realize now tell on him and every thought and feeling he has. You just haven’t wanted to really look at them until this very moment.

“I’m not changing my mind,” you finally decide as you turn away from the table. You walk slowly to the edge of the pool directly in front of him.

His eyes drop to your feet as you carefully toe off your heels, and you thank whoever’s listening that you decided to get a fresh pedicure over the weekend. You slowly undo the side zipper on your skirt and you let it slip to the ground, biting your lip when the ocean breeze meets the heat of your cunt through the thin layer of mesh covering it. Joshua’s stare never wavers and his blank expression never changes, but you know his tell now. You can see how badly you’re wanted through those big, brown eyes.

You unbutton your blouse, and when it’s completely undone, you shrug it off, letting it slip off your arms to join your skirt on the ground. You fight the urge to cover yourself now that you stand in front of him in nothing but your bra and panties (a mismatched pair because your luck ended with the pedicure).

Joshua hums like he’s mulling over a thought but whatever it is, he doesn’t vocalize it. “Well?”

You lift a foot out of the skirt and place it on the first step into the pool, the water the perfect temperature. Still, you shudder against your will, and you know it’s because you’re now a measly two steps away from a VIP who’s made it clear exactly what he wants to do to you tonight. Your fear of losing your job is quickly turning into an ugly, desperate, and uncontrollable need to be filled. Filled up by Joshua Hong.

You make it down the steps too soon, the water coming up to your waist as you stand in front of Joshua, who’s still as tall as you despite sitting on the seat that lines the infinity wall.

He leans back against that wall now, water lapping up against his arms and chest as he looks at you, one eyebrow quirked like he’s asking if you’re brave enough to take what you want.

Your answer is to reach forward and rest your hands on his shoulders—so tan and warm and hard—and pull yourself up onto the seat to straddle him, hungrily pressing your drenched, aching cunt to his pelvis. Your hands immediately venture down to his naked chest— so wide and built and solid—and despite the confidence he speaks with, you feel the way his heart beats wildly under your touch. He inhales deeply and slowly, but he makes no move to put his hands on you yet, knuckles turning white as they turn into fists.

“That’s the first and last move you get to make,” he informs you. “Tonight, you’re mine to do whatever I want with. If you agree to this…” his voice gives away how little control he’s holding onto, “I’m going to fucking ruin you.” He swallows before he asks, “You still want this?”

You don’t hesitate to nod. “I want this.”

He doesn’t smirk this time; his mouth is more interested in other things—mainly yours. He reaches up and cups a hand around the back of your neck, gently pulling your face to his. He wraps the other arm around your waist and maintains eye contact with you up until the moment your own eyes flutter shut. Then, his lips are parting yours, his tongue greeting yours, his moans mixing with yours. With how gentle the singer has been the past two weeks, you don’t expect his mouth to move the way that it does. Filthy and greedy. Possessive.

It ignites something in you—feeling like you belong to Joshua, like he’s staking a claim on you. You start to roll your hips into his, your clit aching for any kind of friction he’s willing to give you. You feel him hardening under you, and you try not to quicken your movements even more in excitement.

Suddenly, the hand on the back of your neck dives into your hair and his fist closes around it, not roughly but enough to tilt your head back and have you breaking away from the kiss to look at him.

“Is this okay?” he asks as he leans forward and plants open mouthed kisses up your neck, just barely tightening his fist to let you know he’s talking about the hair pulling.

“Yes,” you breathe. He has a tight enough grip on you that you don’t even try to nod. “God, yes.”

His dick twitches under you and you groan, rubbing your cunt against him.

“What about spanking?” he asks slowly, his breath hot on your neck. When you say yes, you feel him smile into your skin just before licking the spot. “Degradation?”

“Like what?”

He comes back up from your neck to kiss your lips gently, and when he smiles—genuinely smiles—you see remnants of the man you’ve gotten to know in the last two weeks shine through. “Like… can I call you… a slut?” You instinctively squeeze your thighs. He smirks when he feels you against his own thighs, and you nod.

“What did I say about consent?” he reminds you.

“Yes,” you say aloud this time. “You can call me a slut.”

He kisses you again and it feels like a reward for following directions. You crave even more.

“Whore?”

“I… don’t think so.”

“Okay,” he says easily. “Dirty?”

“Yes.”

“Any words off limits?” he asks, massaging your waist where his hand rests.

“Uh, can I… can I let you know?” you ask, blinking hard as he goes back to licking up and down your neck, nipping here and there. You can hardly process anything other than that right now.

“Of course, baby,” he murmurs, the vibration of his voice reverberating from his chest to yours. The sensation goes right to your nipples. “And how about… breath play?”

“Choking?” you ask to make sure. You’ve never done most of these; your one-night stands tended to be quick, straight-to-the-point encounters that usually didn’t even involve oral. He nods against you. “Um…”

“You can say no to anything,” he reminds you, relaxing his fingers just a bit to scratch your scalp. You sigh into the soothing sensation, and the hand not currently entangled in your hair drops from your waist in response.

It runs down your side, finding your ass, kneading the flesh there, and pulling your hips even closer to his. You gasp at the friction, and when you instinctively press your chest to his, he fully buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling like he’s been waiting for this.

“I want to try,” you finally answer, “but I don’t know if I’ll like it.”

“Okay,” he says. “Is there anything you like that you want to do?”

All you’ve wanted since Joshua walked onto the resort grounds was for him to be inside you. You never thought beyond that. You shrug.

“I don’t think so.”

He nods his understanding, hips bucking up into you as he rolls you onto him with his hand. “We’ll use colors.” All you can do is moan. “Red for stop, green for keep going. Be vocal, okay? I don’t know what you don’t like if you don’t tell me.”

“Yes, sir,” you exhale in a moan. Your eyes widen at the slip and you look at Joshua. “Ah, sorry, force of ha—”

“Don’t be,” he dismisses your apology quickly. “I like it.” He presses his fully hard cock against your clothed hole. “Do you feel how much I like it?”

You wince at how empty you feel. He’s right there. You just need to pull his shorts down, push your panties to the side, and sink down onto him. You nod frantically, pushing as far as the fabric of your panties will allow you to. “I feel it,” you bite your lip before you accidentally call him Mr. Hong. “Yes.”

His fist closes around your hair once more and a lot more roughly this time. You gasp as it causes you to flinch away. He raises his eyebrows at you expectantly.

“Yes, sir,” you immediately correct yourself. He smirks.

“You catch on so quickly, don’t you?” he asks, keeping you pulled off of him. “Such an obedient, little slut.”

His first use of the word sends a thrill down your spine that has you arching into him. But when you do, he tightens his hold on your hair, keeping you in place. He takes advantage of the little space it affords him, and he brings his free hand to your wet heat, two fingers pressing down on your clit hard.

You inhale sharply and when you try to move your hips further into his hold, he gives your hair a soft tug that reminds you of your place.

“Uh uh,” he mutters, eyes glued to where his fingers meet your pussy. “I was just calling you a good girl. You don’t want me to have to take my words back, do you, baby?”

You shake your head as much as his hold will allow. “No, sir.”

“Then stop moving and let me do the work.”

He rubs harsh circles into your clit and your eyes shut on their own accord, mouth falling open as your release builds swiftly and mercilessly in the bottom of your stomach. You hold onto his shoulders like that will help you from falling into the abyss of pleasure he’s pushing you into. Your nails start to dig into his skin but he doesn’t stop you; in fact, it seems to invigorate him because he finally shoves your panties to the side, sliding his pointer and middle fingers into you easily, his thumb continuing to work your clit as he pumps in and out.

You can’t help but cry out at the feeling of being full, even if it isn’t what you want to be filled with. Upon hearing the sound, his fingers reflexively tighten at the nape of your neck but immediately relax back to their previous grip, relieving your scalp of the sudden burn it brought on.

“And edging?” he asks suddenly, voice husky and mean. You open your eyes and look down at him to find him smirking up at you now, his fingers unrelenting as he speaks. “Green or red?”

“Oh god, please,” you whine, already knowing what’s coming next. You try to tamp down the need to grind harder—hide how close you are from him because if he knows, he’ll just stop.

“Green,” he repeats, voice dangerously calm, “or red.”

“Guh—” the word devolves into nonsense as he starts to rub the sensitive, ridged spot inside you.

“Words,” he grunts, hips inadvertently bucking up into your ass again.

“Gree-gr—” The word isn’t even fully formed in your mouth, or your brain for that matter, before Joshua is taking his thumb off your clit and letting his fingers go still inside you. You groan, this time in frustration, your hips relaxing against him as you fail to reach your orgasm.

Joshua releases his hold on your hair and you let your head loll forward, forehead resting on his bare shoulder as you breathe heavily.

“Mean,” you pant. He chuckles, running his free hand up and down your back soothingly like he didn’t just violently rip an orgasm out of your grasp.

He gently removes his fingers from your cunt, and before you can fidget and get your panties back into place, he’s pushing your hips away from him until you’re standing waist-deep in the water again.

“Are we… done…?” you ask dumbly.

Joshua laughs the same way he’s laughed at your polite jokes or the way he’s laughed at himself stumbling over his own feet while playing tennis. His eyes crinkle in the corners and his mouth opens in a big smile—far too lighthearted and cute for the current situation at hand.

“No,” he says when he finishes laughing at you. He stands along with you and cups your face before kissing you hard. When you break apart, he assures you, “We haven’t even started.”

His hands find your waist once more, but instead of holding you there, they immediately move on to your panties, shoving them down your hips and over your ass. When he can’t push them any further without dunking his head underwater, he settles for unhooking your bra, and even though you know there isn’t anyone around, you instinctively press yourself against him to keep yourself covered. He laughs again, wrapping an arm around you tightly, and you feel the vibration of his laughter against your breasts. You press your bare pelvis to his (still annoyingly clothed) at the sound.

“Mmm,” he hums as he reaches down and squeezes your ass again, welcoming the press of your heat against his. “Shy? I told you, no one’s here, baby.”

“I know,” you breathe, though you make no move to give him space.

“Though…” he trails off as he leans back enough to have a better view of your chest. His finger comes up to graze your nipple, smiling when he sees your reaction to it. “I bet a slut like you wouldn’t mind an audience, would you, baby?”

You blush fiercely imagining anyone seeing you get absolutely railed by Joshua Hong. You don’t respond at all because admitting that the idea of it excites you would be so dumb of you as someone who was just terrified of getting caught not even a full ten minutes ago.

“Bet you’d get off on the thought of someone seeing you getting fucked as hard as I’m about to fuck you,” he whispers, catching your nipple between two fingers now and tugging roughly. You hiss at the sensation. “Acting all shy, but I know you’d love for everyone to see how well you take me. How hard I’ll make you come.”

“Joshua…” you breathe.

His hold on you tightens and his eyes snap up to you, his teasing with your nipple completely forgotten. “Say that again.”

It dawns on you then that it’s the first time you called him anything beside Mr. Hong or sir.

Even though you get the feeling you should ask for permission to do anything at all, you can’t help but lean forward and catch his lips with yours, and thankfully, he doesn’t step away or tell you you’re not being good. He eagerly returns the kiss, tongue diving into your mouth like its second nature. When you part, you make sure to be as filthy as possible when you moan: Joshua.

For the first time, you see his control slip, his eyes suddenly wild and frenzied as he shoves his own swim shorts down and kicks them away from the two of you. You try to catch a glimpse, but he gets to work immediately, blocking your line of vision to his dick.

He starts kissing his way down. Down your neck. Across your clavicles. Down to your chest. Tongue swirling around your nipple as he cups his hand around you and pushes your breast up and into his mouth. Down between the valley of your tits, down your sternum. You think he’s done because any lower involves going underwater, but you’re proven wrong again. He takes a deep breath against your skin before he sinks under the surface of the water, and you jerk when you feel him kiss past your belly button, and down to just above your cunt. Without meaning to, your hands go into his hair, not to restrain him or pull the way he did, but to keep you from floating outside of your body, which you’re convinced will happen at any moment.

He doesn’t breach the surface even when your hands turn into fists, and you feel his fingers hook into your panties and pull them the rest of the way off, sinking deeper and away from your hold so he can kiss down your legs as he removes your underwear from each. And instead of coming back up like you again incorrectly predict he will, he wastes no time burying his face between your legs, his thick arms parting them and lifting up so that you fully come out of the water, squealing a little at the sudden movement and the bite of the breeze as it caresses your skin where the water was keeping you warm.

You sway to keep your balance, but Joshua doesn’t let you go anywhere. You’re seated right on his biceps, legs wrapped around his head as he presses his hands into the small of your back to keep you on his mouth. You gasp and arch your back before rolling it forward when you feel his tongue slide between your folds until it finds your clit. The movement sends your cunt further into his mouth, but he doesn’t stop or complain. He walks a few steps to the edge of the pool opposite the infinity wall.

He gently lowers you so that you’re seated on the concrete, your feet submerging back into the water. He pushes your legs open wider, until they fall off his shoulders and you’re leaning back on your palms to spread for him. Then, he’s devouring you like he hasn’t eaten in years.

Joshua’s mouth is delectably hot when it fully envelopes your clit properly this time, tongue spiraling around it feverishly. He makes out with your pussy just as well as he does with your mouth—maybe even better—and it quickly knocks you off your hands, forcing your back to meet the ground as it arches in sheer pleasure.

He pauses briefly to look up at you through heavy lidded eyes and with that voice that makes your legs quiver, he orders: “Say it again.”

You open your mouth to say his name but he continues putting his tongue to work and all that comes out is a depraved moan. He slips a finger in you and hooks it, rubbing the spot inside you once more.

“Say it,” he practically barks this time, refusing to return his mouth to your clit until you say it.

His finger rubs the spot aggressively, and you feel tears begin to run down the side of your face and into the concrete beneath you. It feels like he never edged you to begin with—like your orgasm had been building up that entire time and is now coming back tenfold.

“Joshua,” you whimper, thinking that’s not how he wants to hear it, all pathetic and needy like this, but he groans in response, pleased and bending back down to reward you. When the heat of his tongue is back on you, your hips buck into his face and you warn him, “Joshua… going to… I’m going to come.”

“Go ‘head, baby,” he mumbles without lifting his mouth off of you. He adds another finger and your hands close tightly around nothing. “I’ve got you. Come for me.”

You’re not sure what it is about being reassured that Joshua is holding you through it, but the safety you feel pushes you the final few strides, and your orgasm crashes into you like a violent wave.

“Joshua!” You’re not sure if it’s a shout or a moan, but either way, the man responds to his name and works you through the height of it, his tongue and fingers simultaneously slowing when your pussy starts to unclench, calming down to small spasms around Joshua.

When he’s sure it’s passed, he removes his fingers and pokes his tongue into your hole, causing your legs to tighten around his head. He doesn’t remove you, though, too lost in tasting your climax. You moan through it, tears still steadily streaming down your face as you start to venture into overstimulating territory. He seems to sense that, though, removing his tongue from you—but not before licking up and down your slit like your cum is a delicacy he doesn’t want to go to waste.

“Joshua,” you pant, chest heaving as you stare up at the sky above you. You can’t find the energy to sit up and look at him so you settle for closing your eyes and saying his name once more.

It isn’t until you feel the warmth of the water embracing your body again that you realize the singer has carefully brought you back into the pool with him, taking it upon himself to wrap your legs around his waist and keep you close to his chest. He kisses the tears in your eyes gently before going straight to your lips. He tastes like you and chlorine. It’s slow and sensual and not-at-all hurried or desperate the way the others have been, and somehow, that gets you even wetter. It feels like Joshua no longer fears not having enough time with you. It feels like he has the luxury of having too much time with you—like he can kiss you forever and not have to go anywhere or do anything or be anyone.

“You taste unreal, by the way,” Joshua mutters against your lips between kisses. “So much better than I thought you would.”

“You thought about this?” you ask, resting your forehead against his.

He looks at you with zero shame when he says, “Morning, noon, and night. If I wasn’t with you, I was thinking about you, dreaming about you, touching about you.”

“Me too,” you admit. “Wanted you so bad, I dreaded having to see you every day.”

“Oh? And why is that?” he asks even though if his smugness is anything to go by, he knows exactly why. You indulge him anyway.

“I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to control myself,” you say quietly.

“I’m glad you couldn’t,” he tells you before kissing you again.

Your hips move on their own, grinding against him except this time, you’re exhilarated to feel his dick sitting ready and hard just under you. You sigh and brazenly start to rock your hips back and forth, dragging your clit across the length of his cock, the remnants of your orgasm still sending shocks up your nerves. You continue anyway.

He hums, mouth turning up in a smile. “So needy, hm?”

“Yes, sir,” you openly admit. Now that you have one orgasm out of the way, you’re feeling less ashamed about expressing exactly what you want: more of him. “Needy for you. Want you inside me already.”

He grips your ass so tightly, you think it’ll bruise tomorrow. He releases briefly to deliver a hard spank to the cheek, quickly gripping the spot again to soothe the sting. You jerk into him, gasping as you do.

“Color?”

“Green,” you answer quickly as you continue to use his dick as a toy.

“You’re being a little demanding, don’t you think,” he states more than he asks. “I thought I was the VIP guest.”

“You are,” you agree, applying more pressure to your clit as you roll your hips up his cock. You suppress another sigh. “My VIP guest.”

You’re not sure if Joshua likes you staking your ownership on him because you get no visible reaction from him. All he does is ease his hold on your ass, rubbing slow circles into the flesh he just struck. “I’m going to fuck every last thought inside that pretty head out of you,” he says quietly. “Until all that’s left is my name.”

You clench around nothing.

He brings you back to the infinity wall, setting you on the seat where you first found him. He cages you in, one hand on the wall on either side of you.

“I’m going to ruin it for every man that comes after me,” he tells you, nose just barely grazing yours as he stares at your lips. “You’re never going to be loved the way I’m going to love you tonight.”

You know that “love” means something very different right now. You know that. And still, you see brief flashes of the Joshua you’ve gotten to know over the past couple of weeks and the word stirs something violently inside your chest.

“So then do it already,” you breathe, the anticipation killing you.

His hand is around your throat in a split second. He doesn’t squeeze, simply tapping his pointer finger against your jugular. “Don’t get mouthy with me now, baby. I’m ready to give it all to you.” He takes your hand and wraps it around his cock, and you moan at the size of him in your grip. “Are you going to be good?”

The hand around your throat squeezes lightly now, his fingertips applying pressure to the sides of your neck. Your breath hitches.

“Color?”

“Green,” you rasp.

He squeezes a little harder. “Are you going to be good?”

You nod, swallowing nothing. He smirks when he feels it under his palm.

“Words.”

“Yes.” It comes out more mouthed than spoken but he accepts it all the same.

Without sacrificing the pressure around your throat, he takes his free hand and hikes your leg around his waist, the other following naturally. You resist the urge to bring him closer to you, knowing it might push another button and make him decide you aren’t ready for him. So you lock your ankles together over the small of his back, but you don’t move a muscle.

“Tap my forearm twice if you want me to let up, okay?” he tells you, eyes going down to your neck. He lightens his hold just enough for you to whisper you understand before he squeezes again. You close your eyes, trying to breathe through your nose evenly. “We can always stop, baby.” He leans down to kiss your jawline before moving to the corner of your lips. “We can take it to the bed. We can fuck missionary. We can not fuck at all. Just say the word, and we do whatever you want to. Alright?”

The pressure lifts completely. “Okay. I trust you.”

He kisses you more fully. When he leans back, he brushes strands of wet hair away from your face. “I’m glad. Because I’m going to take such good fucking care of you, baby.”

Then, with both hands, he’s gently lifting your hips up and angling them to meet his. His eyes don’t leave your cunt as he watches the water-blurred shape of his cock start to push into your entrance. You grip his forearm as you stretch around him, and even though he’s not choking you right now, you find it hard to breathe as he inches into you.

He pauses when your hand squeezes harder. He leans forward to kiss your forehead, his right thumb massaging the crease of your hip. “Doing so well,” he mumbles, eyes shut as he, himself, adjusts to the tightness.

When he feels you relax a little, he opens his eyes and continues pushing, fully sheathed just moments later. You both exhale forcefully like you’ve been holding your breaths the entire time. He laughs a little at that, and you find yourself smiling too, even though you do feel like you’ve been impaled by his dick.

“You can move,” you whisper when you’re sure you’re not going to die in his arms. He doesn’t waste any time after that.

His cock slowly and carefully drags out of you, not quite all the way, before he thrusts back into you sharply. You gasp at the sensation, most of it a stinging burn rather than pleasure, but you know it’ll be a very different story once you acclimate to Joshua’s size. He keeps his movements shallow like this, only allowing for a slightly deeper thrust every time he feels you relax a little more. You feel like the wind is getting knocked out of you every time his hips slap flush with yours, his balls hitting your ass so forcefully, you think you might be able to come from that alone. By the time Joshua is pulling all the way out before slamming all the way back in, the pain has already evolved into a pleasure so foreign to you, you can’t even wrap your mind around what’s so different this time that you never received in the past.

All you know is that Joshua was right; sex is going to be absolutely ruined with every man that comes after him.

“Joshua!” you gasp as he fucks you relentlessly and recklessly now. His eyes flick up from your pussy to your chest, where your tits bounce in tandem with his every thrust. As if he’s listening to a voice inside his head, he releases his hold on one hip and grabs your breast, massaging it before leaning down to suck a bruise into it. “Oh god.”

Your moans turn downright pornographic as his fingers twist and tug on your nipple, his mouth immediately moving to another spot to bruise. His hips never lose their pace or rhythm as he paints your chest with blooms of purple.

“Joshua,” you repeat his name, though you don’t know why. He says your name right back at you and you feel it all the way down where your bodies are joined.

“Feel so fucking good,” he groans, releasing your tits and leaning up to bury his face in your neck. He kisses the skin there, merciful enough to refrain from leaving hickies that can get you in trouble at work. “I’ve waited for you for so long. Fuck. Fuck!”

“Joshua, please,” you whine, your nails dragging down his back desperately.

You aren’t even sure what you’re begging for; he’s as close to you as he can get, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. You want him buried inside you forever. You want to be so filled up with him, you can’t remember what it’s like to go without. You don’t think you’ve wanted anything or anyone else more, and you already have him right now. You don’t know what else he can do, but you know you need it.

“What is it, baby?” he asks, voice hoarse like it’s taking everything in him to have to speak right now.

“More,” you breathe, hips rising to meet his with even more force. You know your ass will be sore tomorrow. “Please, more.”

He doesn’t ask what you need or what “more” is. He just smirks as he gets impossibly rougher, thrusting into you almost violently, your shoulders getting pounded into the wall behind you. But you don’t care. You need more.

Just as your second orgasm starts to rear its head and you’re about to start chanting “yes” to the rhythm of his thrusts, he slows down considerably until he’s almost at a standstill. You shake your head.

“No…” you whine, trying to use your feet behind him to quicken his pace again. Of course, it doesn’t work.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he whispers as he rolls his hips torturously slowly, the water calming down to gentle ripples with his movement. “You weren’t about to come without asking, were you?”

“No,” you lie.

“No…?”

“No, sir.”

“Good,” he breathes, slipping his hand in between you to massage your clit gently. Your hips twitch and he smiles. “Because then we’d have to punish you, right?” You squirm under him, trying to keep from digging your heels into the small of his back to get him to thrust forward. “You want more?”

You nod frantically. “Yes, please. Yes.”

“Do you think you deserve more?” he asks, his fingers stilling against you as he sheathes himself all the way inside you.

“Yes, sir.”

“Really?” he asks, his free hand trailing down the side of your face as he continues slowly rubbing your center. “You made me wait almost three weeks… tortured me with that tight fucking skirt.” You groan as you tilt your pelvis. He leaves your clit to hold your hips still. “Uh uh.”

“Joshua…”

“Shouldn’t I make you wait too?” he asks, ignoring his name. The thought makes you want to sob. “Shouldn’t I show you how it felt? To want someone so bad—someone within reach—and be unable to do anything about it?”

“I wanted you too!” you remind him, voice embarrassingly dejected and helpless.

“Did you?” he tilts his head at you, staring you down like you’re food. Your nods are frenzied. “If you want more, you have to give me more, love.”

You clench around him at the pet name and he smirks.

“Tell me more, love,” he says tauntingly, his smile turning triumphant when you clamp down even harder the second time.

“Since I met you,” you say raggedly. He finally starts to move again—so slow and controlled, you’d be in awe of his restraint if you weren’t so desperate for release. “When I came to welcome you…”

“I remember,” he says with a roll of his hips.

You had been waiting for him at the boat with one of the drivers, ready to take him to another side of the island, where his private suite awaited. He was dressed in a linen button down and shorts, and as he came up to you, the wind blew his hair and his top back, exposing a little of his stomach. His smile was dazzling and for the first time in your career at this hotel, you were speechless. You stammered. You tripped getting into the boat. You stumbled through your tour of his suite. You forgot to list all the resources available to him. You were screwed from the start.

“Wanted you to take me right then and there,” you tell him. His pace quickens the tiniest bit at that, and you know exactly what you have to do to get your more. “You walked up to me looking so fucking beautiful—so sexy.” You moan at a particularly hard thrust. “I wanted you to bend me over in half right there. Take me in front of everyone. Fuck me like this and show them all who I belonged to.”

That seems to do it because he finally gives you more, his pace more vigorous, more unforgiving, and more brutal than it originally was. You’re glad he doesn’t ask you to keep going because you’re incapable of speaking when he’s ramming into you like this.

“I would’ve,” he grunts. “All you had to do was ask and I would have fucked you wherever you wanted it.” You gasp as his cock hits an especially sweet spot, and he angles himself to continuously hit it with each thrust. “All you have to do is ask, baby.” He plants a kiss on your lips. “And I’ll give you the fucking world.”

“Joshua,” you near sob.

“Yes?”

“Please,” you request. If all you had to do was ask, then you were going to. “Please let me come? Please.”

He kisses you again like he’s happy with your corrected behavior. You lean up to chase his lips when he parts with you, but he restrains you, grasping your jaw roughly with a single hand.

“Open,” he commands, his thumb reaching up to part your lips. You suck on it briefly and he exhales hard. He squeezes your cheeks to open your mouth even wider before he leans down, lining his mouth with yours, and you clench hard around his cock as you realize what he wants to do. “Color?”

“Green!” you practically shout at him. His smirk deepens and he leans back once more. His hand moves from your cheeks to your throat.

His lips purse and cheeks hollow for a moment as he swishes a few times. Then, he nods once at you, and you tilt your head up for him, opening your mouth wide, tongue out to make sure you don’t let anything go to waste.

Joshua’s eyes are glued to your mouth before he even does anything. He watches you with darkened eyes, his thumb pressing into the middle of your tongue as he fucks into your cunt harshly. Finally, he lifts his thumb and stretches forward, his hold on your throat tightening and restricting your airflow. His mouth twists into that irresistible smirk as he spits into your mouth. You catch all of it, and when you feel it hit the back of your throat, you both feel how happy it makes you in your pussy. He curses as your walls start to spasm. He presses more weight into his hand until you can hardly breathe, and between his hold on you and the spit, it’s all so filthy and degrading and possessive, it makes you come without warning.

You cry out as your hips jerk up abruptly. His eyes widen as he feels your orgasm replace his own hold on you. His hand releases you as he looks down where the two of you are joined.

“Oh fuck, did you just—”

His question is cut off by your broken moans and whimpers, tears once again springing from your eyes as your orgasm rips through your body, absolutely obliterating every nerve on its way up from your pussy.

“Fuck, fuck, baby, stop. Oh fuck,” he gasps, pausing his thrusts abruptly and breathing heavily as he collapses over your chest. He closes his eyes and frowns like he’s concentrating. “Stop squeezing, I’ll come. Stop, holy shit, please stop.”

It’s a far cry from how dominant he’s been this entire time, and it’s a shame the rare moment of power you feel you can’t properly acknowledge or enjoy because of the intensity of your orgasm.

“I’m trying,” you whimper, breaths coming out in short pants. “Joshua…” you either sigh or sob. You’re not sure. “Shua… feel so good. You feel so good.”

“Oh my god,” he groans miserably against your skin, fully resting his forehead on you now. You would laugh if you didn’t feel like your soul had just been ejected from your body.

You beg your heart to slow down, for your muscles to relax. As broken as your body feels, you’re not ready for this to be over with him. Even though this is already more than you could’ve ever hoped for, you don’t want it to end here. You want him to do whatever he wants with you late into the night. You want him to deprive you of sleep, food, water. All you need is him. You never want it to stop.

He slips out of you slowly and your tears slide down your face, half from your orgasm, half from the disappointment of being empty once again. Being empty too soon.

“Wait, no,” you whine as he tilts your hips back down so you’re sitting against the wall again. He shushes you with a kiss to your lips.

“Shhh,” he peppers your face with kisses. “We’re not done, it’s okay.” You realize you’re still crying when he presses his finger to the corners of your eyes, catching the stray tears there. “You’re so fucking pretty when you cry under me like this.”

He cups your face to look up at him as he stands over you. When you do, you’re astounded by how beautiful he really is. What you’re more astounded by is that he was inside you just moments ago. Joshua Hong, superstar singer due to start his sold-out world tour in a matter of weeks, was inside you trying not to fill you up with his cum seconds ago.

“I’d have you crying like this every night if you wanted,” he murmurs, thumb caressing your cheek as he holds you. He lets one slip into your mouth again, smirking as he probably thinks about how easy it was to make you come from just a little bit of his saliva.

“I’m sorry,” you grumble when he removes his thumb. He frowns.

“For what, baby? You’re doing so good.”

“For not relaxing,” you say, more tears slipping out of your eyes. “For not letting you continue.”

He snorts, hands going down to your waist. He lifts so that your legs are wrapped around him in the water, his hands rubbing your ass comfortingly. He kisses you slowly before leaning back and smiling.

“You don’t have to be sorry for that,” he assures you. “I just didn’t want to come too early.” He presses his erection into your ass to punctuate his words. You squirm a little. “We still have the whole night.” Your heart races. “The sun is barely setting.”

He glances behind you and you crane your neck around to see. The sun is finally beginning to sink into the horizon. He lets you down and turns you around to face the ocean, pulling you to lean back into him as his arms snake around your waist. You rest your head on his shoulder as you watch the sunset—not the first you’ve watched together, but it will definitely be the most memorable.

The time allotted for sunset viewing on his itinerary is apparently only a few seconds long because almost immediately, he leans down to leave open-mouthed kisses up and down your neck, and his hand comes up to cup your breast and massage gently.

He brings his free hand to your chin to turn you toward him. His lips are on yours as soon as they’re within his reach, his hand sliding from your face down to your cunt, where he slowly and way-too-gently strokes your clit. Your first moan seems to stir something in him, though, because his touch on your tit and clit both bear down harder.

You wrap your hand around his wrist, bringing his hand from your chest to your throat, wordlessly asking him for exactly what you want. He chuckles, breathy and disbelieving.

Without saying another word, he leaves your clit, fingers hooking into your hip to force you into a slight hinge. Then, his cock is pushing back into you in one smooth motion, giving you no chance to gasp when the hand on your throat squeezes simultaneously. He keeps his hand on your hip for leverage, wasting no time pounding into you.

Your thoughts disappear as fast as your breath, leaving you with nothing but the sensation of Joshua’s tip kissing your cervix, keeping you stuffed full of him.

“You wouldn’t believe my view right now,” he pants, rhythm quickly reaching a fever pitch. “So fucking pretty.”

You try to moan his name but realize you can’t, your airways completely blocked off, his grip on you unyielding.

“You like being spit on and fucked like this?” he asks, causing your walls to cave in on him. He doesn’t tell you to stop this time, though, his pace just quickening. “Such a dirty fucking slut for me, hm?”

You nod, mouth dumbly opening and closing as you gasp for air. You want to see it through. It feels so good and you want to see it through. You want the both of you to climax like this: literally breathless with his hand around your throat like he owns you as he empties his load into you. But it’s been too long now, and you’re afraid Joshua is getting carried away, too lost in the feeling of his cock dragging in and out of you to notice that your vision is starting to darken around the edges.

Hoping he remembers what he told you, you quickly tap his forearm twice, three times—actually, several times in a row with no intention of stopping—but it’s unnecessary because he releases you immediately. Without his hand to hold you in place against him, you fall forward, keeling over the infinity wall and coughing as air assaults your lungs once more.

“Red,” you rasp, brain barely catching up with the fact that you’ve already been released.

“Hey, hey, deep breaths, you’re okay.” His voice sounds far away but his hands are on your back, rubbing it gently.

You don’t know how long you two stay like that, him seated next to your body as it lays limp on the wall, attempting to catch your breath. By the time you finally do, the sun has fully set and the deck, though still doused in a shade of pinkish-purple, is considerably darker. You turn your head to look at Joshua, who’s angled toward you, one arm on the wall propping his head up, the other hooked around you, holding you close. He’s watching you, face carefully blank, but his eyes immediately give away how concerned he is.

“I’m okay,” you say quietly, throat feeling a bit sore.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and your heart squeezes at how guilty he sounds. You nod. “I’m so sorry, baby.” He scoots closer to you and wraps his other arm around you, burying his face in your neck. “I got carried away, but that’s not an excuse. It never should’ve gotten to that point. I know better, and it—”

“It’s okay,” you assure him, shaking your head. “I should’ve said something earlier. I was trying to wait it out.”

“Please don’t ever wait something like that out,” he begs, moving away to look you in the eye and show you how serious he is. “Next time, tell me immediately. You should still be able to breathe! You shouldn’t have to wait anything out!” He seems to realize he’s raising his voice because he pauses for a moment to collect himself.

“Joshua, I—”

“No, listen to me,” he interrupts, voice calmer now. “This can be really dangerous. I promise I won’t ever lose control like that ever again, but we’re not doing this next time unless you also promise you won’t wait it out. These things only work when we communicate.”

“Joshua, I’m fine—” he throws you a severe look and you hurriedly continue, “but yes, I promise. I won’t wait… next time.” You emphasize the last two words as you say them back to him. He catches on to what you’re doing but doesn’t address it, simply shaking his head and smiling. “Anyway. I’m so s—”

“If you apologize to me right now, you’ll never see me again.” You didn’t even know seeing him again was an option in the first place but you clamp your mouth shut anyway. He smirks. “Good girl. Now come on. Let’s dry off.”

“What?” You hate how whiny you’ve sounded this entire time, but you can’t stop either. “I don’t want to dry off!”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re taking a break and it’s not up for debate. Come on. I have some snacks. We can eat them and watch that movie you were telling me about yesterday.”

You look at him incredulously as he unwraps himself from you and stands. “Are you insane?! I’m not going to watch K-Pop Demon Hunters with you when you should be coming inside me!”

He pauses and looks at you with wide eyes as if he’s the scandalized one. You’re seeing more and more of the original Joshua you’ve been hanging out with the last two weeks now that your poor lung capacity has ruined the mood.

“Whoa, dirty, dirty,” he murmurs, shaking his head at you.

“Joshua.”

He raises an eyebrow at you and tilts his head slightly. You recognize it as a challenge. “Yes?”

You open your mouth but falter under his gaze. He grins before stepping toward you to kiss you all too briefly. When he pulls away, his smile is gone and he’s staring down at your lips with dark eyes.

“Stop mouthing off and get your cute ass out of the pool,” he says, voice low. He looks up into your eyes before he continues. “Or I’m going to edge the fuck out of you until the sun rises.”

You’re out of the pool and wrapped in one of his towels in seconds.

“Look at you,” Joshua mutters as he brings both of his large hands to each of your buttcheeks, spreading them apart just to let go, watching the way your ass jiggles. “Unbelievable.”

You’re on your knees, face pressed down into his pillows, already crying from being edged twice. It turns out there were still consequences from being “a whiny fucking brat” even though you did get out of the pool. Joshua runs his dick along your folds, making lewd sounds as he collects your pleasure on his tip. Your broken moans fill the room.

There’s something even better about sex with him after your brief movie break. Because in those two hours, it was clear he wasn’t just using you as a hole—though frankly, you’re more than happy to be Joshua Hong’s hole.

But no. He was a perfect gentleman. He dried you off and insisted on showering off the chlorine, gently massaging shampoo into your hair and cleaning you and peppering you with kisses without trying to pull a single move on you. Then, he got you into his clothes, blowdried your hair, and tucked you into his bed while he gathered snacks and drinks, surrounding you with everything that you’ve mentioned liking since meeting him (he was an incredible listener). And as you watched the movie, he held you and laughed at all the right parts, happily replayed your favorite songs, and he even promised he’d learn the songs to sing to you himself.

And something about those two measly hours was doing something to your cunt that you didn’t experience in the pool. It’s as if receiving confirmation that Joshua Hong would be the perfect boyfriend is making sex with him a thousand times more electrifying than it already was.

“What was that you said earlier, love?” he asks, feigning forgetfulness. “Something about wanting me to come somewhere?”

You try to scoff but it comes out as a pained sob. “Please.”

“Was it… on your stomach?” he asks, pressing his tip into your hole briefly before running it back down your folds. You groan. “Your face?” He must see you clench around nothing because he chuckles. “Huh, so you wouldn’t mind the face.”

“Joshua, please,” you pant.

“What?” he asks meanly. “What does my needy little slut want now?”

“You,” you answer simply. “I just want you.”

The silence that follows is so thick, you wonder if you said something wrong—if your desperation finally turned him off.

“Joshua?” you whimper, tears sliding down your face.

His cock pulls away from you and you fight the urge to immediately start complaining lest you get edged five more times. His hands are on you, gently turning you over onto your back. You’re naked from the waist down, but you’re still in his shirt since he insisted you keep it on—something about you looking like you belong to him while he fucked you. He fixes it when it twists around your body, then he lays on top of you, slotting himself between your legs.

He looks at you so tenderly, you feel a calmness settle over you—one that stops the flow of your tears. He brushes your hair away from your face and kisses the wetness on your cheeks.

“Are you ready?” he asks quietly, voice a lot more like the one that belonged to the man who just cuddled you for two hours. You nod. “Words, my love.”

“Yes, Shua,” you whisper. “I’m ready.”

He pushes into you fairly easily now that you’ve already taken him several times tonight. Still, you bite your lip at the sensation, closing your eyes like that will help you come to terms with how otherworldly having Joshua inside you feels. He wastes no time moving in and out of you, the sound of both of your moans, skin slapping skin, and the headboard hitting the wall filling the room.

His rhythm falters a bit when he pushes himself off you just so he can shove the shirt you’re wearing up and over your chest. He groans loudly when he sees your tits bouncing with his every thrust.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he sighs, fitting his hand between you to play with your clit.

His fingers are less collected this time, messily pressing into you with little finesse, and his thrusts are becoming unfathomably fast and rough. You realize he’s already close, and it pushes you even closer than you were after all the edging.

“Joshua,” you gasp as you feel your walls start to tighten and spasm around him again. He feels it too because he releases a series of moans that have you near screaming. “Joshua, baby!”

He watches you through heavy-lidded eyes, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose and onto you. You catch a few drops with your tongue. He curses as he immediately reaches up and squeezes your cheeks together, forcing your mouth open and spitting into it again before you can understand what he’s doing.

“Swallow it,” he grunts and you obey.

“Please,” you beg. “More.” You moan desperately. “I’m going to come… Joshua, I’m—please, one more.”

“Come for me, baby.”

He takes a longer time collecting his saliva and when he obliges, letting you have a piece of him once more, you come as soon as it hits your tongue, nails digging into his biceps so hard, you start to draw blood. He doesn’t care, though, his hips slamming into you mercilessly as he feels your orgasm’s death grip on him. You think you’re shouting but you’re not sure because all you can process are Joshua’s moans and curses and nonsense, and then you feel it.

A warm release inside you, warmer than anything you’ve experienced, and it’s coating every inch of your insides, claiming you and rewarding you and ruining you for every man after, just like Joshua promised he would.

“Fuck!” he chants repeatedly as he rolls his hips the last few times, making sure to pump every last drop of his cum into you. You lock your ankles together behind him, keeping him there so nothing spills out. He seems to be on the same page, though, collapsing onto you with zero plan of removing himself. “Oh fuck.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Fuck.”

He lays there for a long time, his cock already soft inside you, but you don’t dare move or say anything. It’s just a matter of time before you’ll have to leave—before he’ll have to leave—and you’re more than content with just laying here for as long as he’ll let you.

When he finally does show signs of life, he still doesn’t pull out, instead choosing to kiss you slowly and delicately, his tongue lazily tangling with yours until he smiles into your lips.

“What?” you ask, smiling back.

He leans back and looks at you. “I’m just glad you came over tonight.”

“Me too.”

“Maybe I should cancel my world tour,” he jokes.

You laugh and the sound of it makes him join in too. “Pussy so good, it makes you cancel a world tour.”

“Pussy so good, it makes me cancel a world tour, buy a home in the Maldives, and become your house husband.”

You laugh even harder. You try not to think too hard about his words because in just three days (assuming he doesn’t extend his stay again), he’ll have to leave and continue being everyone’s favorite pop star, and really, you are just happy and grateful to have had these last two, almost three, weeks with him. So you entertain the joke, and you two paint a picture of what life would look like if he weren’t a singer or you weren’t a VIP concierge set on running her own boutique hotel one day, and you try not to get attached to any of it.

When you fall asleep, right there in his bed, you dream of the man laying next to you. You dream of Joshua and are too deep in it—too lost in him—to stir awake when he untangles himself from you, unblocks his manager’s phone number, and texts him to tell him he’s staying on this island indefinitely, just to block him again.

He sleeps better than he has in his entire life that night.

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cece693 · 2 days ago

Text

I CAN READ THOUGHTS, REMEMBER?

pairing: batman x male reader synopsis: You can read minds—among other things—but it often gets overlooked for your more flashier powers. So, imagine your shock, when you accidentally overhear the Bat thinking sexually about you.

You never advertised your powers much. Sure, the League knew you could read minds, technically—it was listed in your official files, alongside your elemental control, teleportation ability, and minor healing. But everyone tended to focus on the flashier talents. Telepathy was something you only used in emergencies, recon, or when J'onn was unavailable and they needed backup on psychic shielding.

So over time, they forgot. They treated you like the teleporting brawler, not the guy who could peel open their skull with a whisper of thought. And you liked it that way.

Until the day you accidentally heard Batman.

You weren’t trying to listen. You never meant to dip into Bruce’s mind—not unless it was life-or-death or you were nudged in by psychic feedback. But it was hard not to hear someone when they were screaming at full volume inside their skull.

You sat across the conference table, elbows on the polished metal surface, legs casually crossed, half-listening to Diana as she gave a report on the clean-up mission in Themyscira. Bruce was beside her, silent. Observing. Classic.

Nothing unusual.

Until your powers—idly roaming the mental static in the room like they always did—locked onto him. And you heard:

“That suit is a crime. He knows exactly what he’s doing wearing that.”

Your head twitched slightly.

“Those arms—those thighs. Christ. If he stretches one more time, I swear to God I’m going to lose it.”

What? You blinked, pretending to check your comms, but the voice in Bruce’s mind continued, relentless, dark, and filthy.

“I want to bend him over that damn table and rip that uniform off piece by piece.”

You choked on your breath. Clark glanced over. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you coughed. “Just—dry air.”

But it didn’t stop.

“He’s too damn pretty. Look at that mouth. Those lips could ruin me. And he has the audacity to laugh like that? Around Diana? She’s getting too close. If she touches him again, I swear I’ll break one of her wrists—”

Your heart hammered in your chest.

Nope. Nope. Get out. Abort. Leave the brain, thank you, goodbye—

“Focus, Bruce. You’re Batman. This is a mission briefing, not a wet dream. But God, if he ever—if he ever made the first move, I’d pin him to the wall so hard it would shake the Tower—”

You stood up so fast your chair screeched across the floor. Everyone turned. “Emergency,” you blurted. “Huge. Big. Immediate.”

“Now?” Barry asked, blinking.

“Yes. I’ll call. Or teleport. Or whatever.” You vanished in a blink of light, leaving Bruce to slowly narrow his eyes behind the cowl.

You ghosted him.

Completely.

Every sparring session? Canceled. Every group mission with Batman? Conveniently swapped with Green Lantern. Every time he entered a room? You made a strategic exit like it was a damn war zone.

Bruce noticed.

Oh, he noticed everything. From the sudden stiff body language to the way you wouldn’t look him in the eye, like he’d committed some cardinal sin.

Had he said something wrong? Had he done something?

You used to joke with him. Nudge his arm. Let your fingers brush his when no one else was watching. Now you acted like he was made of acid.

He couldn’t handle it anymore.

You were in the Watchtower's empty locker room, just done rinsing off after a solo mission. Hair wet. Uniform clinging slightly. You were alone—until you weren’t. You looked up in the mirror—and there he was.

Bruce.

Cowl off. Eyes sharp. Jaw set. “Why are you avoiding me?” he asked, voice low.

You gripped the edge of the sink. “I think you know,” you muttered.

“I don’t. Tell me.”

You turned, finally meeting his gaze. “I heard your thoughts, Bruce. During that last meeting.”

His lips parted slightly—just for a moment. “...Shit.”

“I didn’t mean to! I wasn’t trying. But you—you were broadcasting like a broken dam.”

He stepped closer.

“You heard everything?” His voice was rough now. Dangerous.

You swallowed. “Every word.”

“Even the part about—”

“Yes!” you snapped. “Every. Single. One. You want to rip off my uniform, bend me over furniture, strangle Diana with jealousy—do you want me to go on?”

Silence.

Then Bruce said, very slowly, “I didn’t mean for you to hear that.”

You scoffed. “Obviously.”

“But I’m not going to pretend I didn’t think it.” You froze.

“I’ve been biting my tongue around you for months. You’re smart. Strong. And don’t even get me started on the way you look in that suit.” His voice was darker now. “You’re a walking distraction. And I can’t afford distractions. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to fuck you every damn time you smirk at me.”

Your brain short-circuited.

You knew Batman could be intense—but this?

You stepped back. “You could’ve just told me.”

Bruce followed. “Would you have believed me?”

“Not if you acted like normal. But that—” You paused, then chuckled breathlessly. “God, Bruce. You really thought about pinning me to the wall during a mission briefing?”

He didn’t even blink. “More than once.”

You stared. And then—you kissed him.

A hard, heated, messy kiss.

His hands immediately went to your waist, gripping you like he’d been holding back for years. The kiss was all tongue and frustration and months of pent-up tension. It wasn’t clean or pretty. It was hot and possessive and everything.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, you rested your forehead against his. “You’re not going to freak out and start brooding more than usual after this, are you?”

“I’m Batman,” he murmured. “I brood for sport.”

You smacked his shoulder. “Idiot.”

His hand slid down to your hip, grip firm. “Still want me to keep my thoughts PG?”

You hesitated. Then smirked. “Only if you act on them next time.”

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shuastar · 3 days ago

Text

of silks and steel (pt 3)

pairing: duke/commander!seungcheol x daughter of duke!reader (arranged marriage au) wc: warnings: 1 ankle injury, jealous cheol, some flirting w mingyu, oral (m receiving), fingering, cucking??? except you're in the other room..., orgasm denial, p in v sex, mirror while fingering, resolution? a/n: silks and steel is finally finished!!!! i started this late may and i cannot believe it took me like 3 months to finish this.. i hope you like this, even though the ending may be a little rushed... i may or may not add on a part 4 later :) thank you guys so much for staying with me for this!!

masterlist | prev (part 2)

y/n

The hall is dizzy with color – paper lanterns hanging in layered rows from the vaulted ceiling, glowing soft pinks and creams, flickering gently with the help of an open falme. The long banquet tables are lacquered crimson and gold, inlaid with ivory cranes and tiger lilies and rose of sharons. Courtiers in fine silk lean close to whisper behind delicately painted fans.

Jeonghan, resplendent in white and silver, sits next to the king.

As you and Seungcheol walk in, Jeonghan breaks out into a smile.

You have an itching urge to punch him.

“Fucking asshole,” you mutter under your breath, fingers pressing against the soft violet silk of your dress, the amethysts pinned in your hair jangling with every step you take.

Seungcheol, glittering in his full military formal, glances down at you, eyebrows furrowing. “What?” he whispers.

Your lips purse and you shake your head. “Nothing.”

You look down at your feet. And then at the way your arm interlinks with Seungcheol’s.

You look married. Polished. Unapproachable.

And it’s like the banquet hall doesn’t remember how tense it was when the northern estate sent word weeks late confirming you’d be in attendance.

To be honest, it’s all Jeonghan’s fault.

You received the letter from Jeonghan two weeks after the imperial house sent out invitations. Seungcheol was the one who told you that you didn’t need to respond to the imperial house’s invitation. Yet, when you opened Jeonghan’s letter, Seungcheol told you to send a response. That you were going.

It read:

Dearest Duke. Dearest Duchess,

The capital prepares to bloom. It would be quite the scandal if its most talked-about couple failed to appear for the Spring Festival. A united front is required — by the court, by the press, and by me, your beloved friend.

You may wear matching colors. I’ll pretend it was your idea.

All my threats are affectionate,

— J.

You had half a mind to burn it.

And yet, you found yourself sitting in the lacquered black and ivory carriage, creaking gently down the sloping road towards the capital, floral wind pressing through the narrow windows. The scent of fresh blossoms – white plum, pale apricot, something sweet and early, curling into your lungs and refusing to leave.

Which is how you’re here: being escorted to the middle of the high table.

Jeonghan stands to greet you with a kiss to your cheek.

“Lovely as ever,” he whispers, gaze slipping sideways towards Seungcheol. “Try not to make your husband too jealous tonight.”

If Seungcheol hears, he says nothing.

You get seated between him and General Kim Mingyu – someone you’ve seen on the estate a couple of times. Tan, tall, built. Cute smile. He’s also one of the youngest officers in the northern command, bright eyed, sharp jaw. Rumored to be dangerously good with a bow and worse with court women.

As soon as you sit down, Mingyu turns.

“Duchess,” Mingyu says with a grin, offering you a polite bow from his seat. “They say the north has frozen away the south from you. I see now it was just in time – before the capital lost all composure.”

You arch a brow, glancing at the rice wind jug in his hand. “Is this how you greet all married women, General?”

“Only the beautiful ones,” he shoots back, head leaning on his hand. “And only if they let me pour.”

So you let him.

And he pours.

When you raise your cup to your lips, you make sure to not look at the man sitting silently at your right.

Mingyu’s laughter is warm and just loud enough to be heard two seats down.

“Careful. Letting me pour too many might make the Commander start a war.”

“Let him,” you say, sipping your wine. “It’s what he’s trained to do.”

The conversation flows. Court gossip, military drills, upcoming trade shifts. You match Mingyu line for line, and you’re not too sure whether the blush on your cheeks is because of the alcohol or because of how Mingyu tips his head back as he laughs at your jabs. The man in front of you is distracting enough to ignore how Seungcheol hasn’t touched his food, his drink, or you.

Until suddenly, you feel a hand brush your lower back, too firm to be polite.

Seungcheol.

You feel his fingers tighten around your waist.

“Duchess,” he says, voice low. “You’re tired. We’re leaving.”

It’s not a question. Or a suggestion.

Your cup halts mid-air. A pause in conversation. You turn to look up at him, expression blank, chin tilted just enough to be defiant. “Am I?”

He doesn’t flinch as he leans over to murmur, “You’ve had more than enough.”

He offers you a hand. A peace offering. Or a threat.

You don’t take it, but you still rise.

The room quiets just slightly at the sight.

Jeonghan raises a curious brow. Mingyu watches you with an amused little bow of his head, all mock chivalry and mischief.

“Until summer training, Duchess,” Mingyu teases, turning back to the table.

You don’t answer, letting seungcheol lead you away. First out the banquet hall, and then through the side corridors gilded with moonlight, then into the carriage.

The entire time, he doesn’t speak a words, fingers gripping your wrist. When the carriages gives a start with the horses, he doesn’t speak. Not when the doors open. Not when he walks you up the steps to your shared Capital estate suite. And not when the servants rush to open the sliding wooden doors. And definitely not when the servants dismiss themselves, sensing the tension between the two of you.

The moment the doors close, you wrench your wrist out of his grasp, turning to face him.

“If you have something to say–” you start, turning on your heel, almost tripping over the silk hem of your hanbok.

“--don’t let him touch you like that.”

You blink. What the hell?

“And who are you to tell me what to do?” you snap, crossing your arms.

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens but he doesn’t say say anything. Yet the way his fists clench at his sides, the way he looks at you like you’ve betrayed him back in the banquet room itches the wrong part of your brain.

Finally he says, lowly, “You’re a duchess.”

As if that’s something you’re not aware of. As if that’s supposed to mean something to you.

So you laugh, bitter. “Thank god you remember! If not for you, I would’ve continued on not knowing.”

He ignores the jab. “You’re my wife.”

Even more so, like that’s supposed to mean something to you. Like you don’t know he’s regretting that fact ever since he signed his name on that paper.

“By order,” you say, “Not by choice.”

That makes him look at you – really look at you.

And for a moment, you think he might say something – admit something, maybe – but instead, he just turns his back, pulling at the collar of his formal jacket until it comes loose. His voice is like ash.

“You drank too much.”

“So? It’s a feast. You’re supposed to drink.”

Silence.

“So I’ve realized. Drink and let other men pour you drinks, right?”

You exhale, deep and sharp, fury trembling just beneath the surface of your skin.

“Why do you care who pours my wine? Just fucking act like yourself. Why do you return back to stupid excuses? Just say that you want me to sit still and act pretty and be a quiet little wife you can control because you–”

“--because I care, y/n!” He turns around, hair mussed, collar uneven and crumpled. “I care, y/n,” he repeats, stepping closer.

He’s close enough now for you to see the brown flecks in his eyes and smell the wisps of his cologne left on his silks and the rose water he washes himself with. You can see the way he swallows. You can see the way his eyes dart from your eyes to your lips to your throat and then back up at your forehead, only to settle somewhere in the middle of your face. You see the way his fingers twitch and the way his brows furrow.

Everything pisses you off. The fact that he pulled you out of the hall, the fact that he’s taller than you, the fact that he looks handsome under the dim candle light, the fact that he said those words, and the fact that you know he meant it.

You stare at him, heart hammering. You swallow. “I never asked you to.”

Silence.

And then.

“You think that absolves you?” Seungcheol’s voice hardens, cracking through the quiet like a blade drawn through rock. He steps closer. You take a stumbling step back. Apparently that was not the right thing to say. “That just because you didn’t ask, I’m not supposed to–”

“-Supposed to what?” you snap back, sharp and cold. “Care from a distance? Pretend to be indifferent in court and play the devoted husband in private?”

“I am indifferent in court because every single fuckin’ time I look at you, someone’s watching,” he growls. “You think I don’t notice? You think I want to make this harder for you–”

“-Then stop! Stop making it fucking harder!” you shout, suddenly, violently. You feel your throat close. “Why do you keep doing this?” you gesture wildly around you. “Tugging me in only to push me away like you’re the only one suffering from this– this arrangement!”

His jaw clenches. “You think I’m not?”

“You’re not!” you scream, tears blurring your vision. You sound hysterical, even to your own ears. Like something is seriously wrong with you. “At least you get fucking everything,” you cry, foot stomping down on the ground. “You got everything,” you breathe, “Your position, your title, your reputation, a new Capital estate, a southern duchy, a cunt to shove your fucking dick in when it gets cold, and a virgin wife.” Your words are sharp and cold and so very rushed, chest heaving.

Seungcheol is suddenly in your face, glowering. “I don’t fucking care that you’re a virgin. I don’t fucking care about the houses. Don’t fucking delegate a consensual night into something that you didn’t fucking want.”

You throw your hands up. “Okay, fine! Fine! Fine!” You slam your fist into your chest, tears finally overflowing down your cheeks. “Then what about me? Me? I got handed over to another man like some– some pet to be managed!”

“And you think that was my choice?”

The room rings with it.

Your breaths are ragged now. Yours and his.

You’re sure everyone has heard your fighting match, word for word.

He steps towards you, slow and deliberate, voice shaking with restraint. “You think I don’t hate myself for what I’ve become to you? For what this has done to us?”

You flinch. “Us?” you repeat, scoffing, mocking. “What us, Commander? What fucking us? You made sure there was no us.”

He exhales like the wind’s been knocked from his lungs. “That’s not fair, y/n.”

Your eyes sting.

You wish he would stop saying your name.

His voice drops, dangerously soft. “I watch you. Every day. I memorize your voice, your habits, the way your fingers twitch when someone says something stupid. And it kills me.”

“Then stop watching me,” you whisper.

“I can’t.”

Your fingers tremble at your sides. A tear drops to the floor between your feet.

“Don’t you get it?” he says, almost desperate now. “If I let myself feel anything more than duty, I’ll ruin you. I’ll ruin everything.”

The words crack through your ribs like thunder.

And then your hands are on his chest, shoving him back.

His back hits the wall with a dull thud, breath punched out of him, and you step in fast – heat and fury and grief all tangled in your limbs – and your mouth finds his, hands pulling at his hair.

It’s not soft or tender.

It’s raw and angry and laced with years of silence and sacrifice. You kiss him like you hate him. Like he’s a wound you’re digging your fingers into to tear open further. Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, pulling, biting down. His hands tangle in your hair, rough, helpless, arm winding down to your waist to pull you closer. His body collides with yours like it belongs there.

When he groans, it sounds like surrender. To you. To himself. To this shitty situation.

And when you finally pull back, breathless, trembling, back on your feet, looking up at him, you whisper, “Then ruin me.” Your hands fist the lapels of his robe. “Maybe then I’ll think you actually care.”

Seungcheol stiffens. His jaw clenches. His breath fans hot against your cheek.

“I–”

But the words die on his tongue.

Your hands slip beneath his robe, cold fingers trailing down – his chest, stomach, hips.

He exhales, head lowering, sharp and shallow, when your fingers tease the waistband of his pants, pulling down until they wrap around him, already half-hard and aching. You give him no time to react, no room to think. You drop to your knees on the polished wood floor of the hallway, lit dim by a flickering wall lamp behind the rice paper screen.

"Wait," he manages, but you’re already pushing the silk of his waistband down and taking him into your mouth, slow and spiteful and hungry.

His breath hitches. His head falls back against the wall with a thud.

"Fuck—"

You hollow your cheeks, dragging your tongue along the underside of his cock, slow and cruel. You let him feel the wet heat of your mouth wrap around him inch by inch — until your lips press flush against the base and your nose brushes skin.

He curses again, voice rough and cracking, his chest rising in sharp jerks. You hum around him, just to feel the tremor in his thighs.

Your gaze never leaves his face — narrowed, wet eyes glinting with something colder than lust. Not out of submission, but anger. And it shows. Every stroke of your tongue says this is what you could’ve had, and every swirl over his tip says but you didn’t want it.

He tries to touch you — a trembling hand reaches for your cheek, your hair, desperate for connection, but you slap it away without pausing. He groans, caught between pleasure and punishment.

“Let me—” he breathes out, but you sink down harder, deeper, making his hips jerk against the wall.

He’s trying not to fuck into your mouth, but you’re not giving him a choice. You grip his thighs tight, fingers bruising, and set a brutal rhythm — fast, slick, wet — dragging moans from his throat as you bob your head with precise vengeance.

Drool spills down your chin, and your tongue flattens and twists with purpose, tasting him, memorizing him. Your throat tightens around him as he hits the back again, again, until he gasps your name like he hates himself for it.

You feel him twitch, hips stuttering forward despite himself. His legs shake. He’s so close — you can feel it in the way his stomach tightens, in the ragged way he breathes, in the broken sound that tears out of him when you moan around his cock.

But just when you feel him start to unravel — right when he shudders and his hand fists at his side, trying not to beg, you stop.

You pull off with a wet, obscene pop, leaving him flushed and shaking, chest heaving, cock glistening with spit and still rock hard.

And when he looks down at you — dazed, ruined, aching — you just wipe your mouth, tilt your head, and whisper, “You don’t get to finish if I don’t. What happened to chivalry?”

He barely has time to process it when you grab his hand and shove it between your legs, right through the slit of your skirt, soaked underwear pressing to his knuckles.

You lean your cheek against his thick and straining bicep, lashes fluttering up at him, mocking. You give his shoulder a kiss.

“Do it,” you murmur. “Since you care so much.”

And gods, he does.

His fingers hesitate only a second before slipping past the ruined silk, parting you. The tips find your entrance, wet and pulsing, and slide in. Two of them — thick and unrelenting. The stretch makes you cry out softly, high and sharp into his chest, but you don’t stop him. You can’t. You won’t.

You ride the pain. You need it — the intrusion, the fullness, the raw friction of it all. Like something in you’s been starving and only this kind of hurt can fill it.

He presses his palm firmly against your clit, dragging maddening circles that make your thighs tremble, and your body lurches against him. Your forehead drops to his chest. You fist the front of his robe, gasping, whimpering, barely holding on as his fingers work deeper — curling, thrusting, relentless.

The sound of it is obscene — slick and wet, your breath catching with every pump of his hand, every grind of his palm.

“Fuck—” you whisper into his collar. “Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop—”

Your legs buckle. The wall is the only thing holding you upright — that, and the firm grip of his free hand on your waist, steadying you, grounding you as everything inside you spirals higher.

It builds fast, almost violently. The heat in your belly tightens to a breaking point, pleasure clawing up your spine, sharp and wild and terrifying. Your hips jerk against his hand. Your eyes squeeze shut. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream—

And then you shatter.

Your cunt clenches down hard around his fingers. Your whole body convulses — chest heaving, muscles locking, slick gushing out around his hand as you cry out into his skin. It’s raw. Ugly. Devastating.

You gasp for air like it’s been stolen from you. Your hands tremble as they clutch his robe. Your thighs are soaked. Your vision blurs.

He’s still inside you — still holding you like you might fall apart completely. You feel his pulse hammering where your cheek rests against his chest, feel the way his breath has turned shaky too, like he’s just barely holding himself back.

And maybe he whispers your name. Maybe he tries to hold you tighter. Maybe there’s a softness in him now, something tentative and real trying to reach you.

But you don’t let it.

Not now.

You peel yourself off his chest with shaking limbs, his fingers slipping out of you with a wet drag that makes you twitch.

Your fingers wrap around the wrist of his hand that just fucked you, bringing it up to your face. Before he can say anything, you lower your mouth until your tongue touches his fingers and then your lips envelop it, tasting yourself on his digits.

Seungcheol lets out a sound stuck between pain, awe, and disbelief.

You pull his fingers out of your mouth with a pop, letting go of his wrist.

He stares at his hand for a second before looking back at you.

You meet his gaze, lips still red and kiss-swollen, straightening your skirts.

You smile, bitter, and say, “Too late.”

Then you turn around, leaving him standing there in the entrance way into your two rooms, chest rising, cock still hard, fingers wet with your slick and spit, blushed cheeks, and wide eyes.

It’s a blur to your room.

You slam the sliding screen door shut harder than you mean to, hands laid flat against the handle.

The silence in your room is deafening.

Your skin tingles – from his touch, your mouth, the look of desperation in his eyes. The press of his fingers inside you lingers like an imprint beneath your ribs.

You groan, head in your hands. “What the fuck were you thinking,” you mutter to yourself, slipping behind your changing screen to undress, shrugging out of your heavy skirt, undoing the ties of your blouse, slipping into your nightgown. The rush of coll fabric against your skin barely helps calm the hum in your chest.

And then, just as you duck behind your sleeping screen, you hear it.

At first, it’s faint.

A soft creak. The sound of footsteps. A door sliding shut.

And then, a low grunt.

The unmistakable slick sound of skin against skin.

You freeze.

The walls between your chambers and his are paper-thin — old hanji stretched across wooden frames, meant for beauty, not privacy. And now you can hear everything.

Another moan. This time sharper, followed by a frustrated curse, his voice muffled but deep, feral.

It’s Seungcheol.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know they put you in the room next to his for the visit. He doesn’t know you can hear every breathless groan, every low murmur of your name on his lips like a prayer spat from the tongue of a sinner.

Your breath catches. Your thighs clench involuntarily.

You press a trembling hand between your legs before you can stop yourself. And when the next moan comes — ragged and broken, his pace quickening — you let yourself fall back onto the floor cushions and close your eyes.

It’s shameless. It’s humiliating.

And yet your fingers slip lower, easily, greedily. You touch yourself with shaking hands, matching the rhythm of his breaths, grinding against your own palm as the sounds on the other side of the wall grow louder.

You can hear how hard he’s fucking his fist.

You imagine his face. The way his brow furrows when he loses control. The way he must be thinking about you — mouth swollen, skirt bunched at your hips, legs spread in front of him. The way you looked when you left him trembling.

Your hips buck. Your breath turns choppy.

And when he groans — loud, desperate, and then shudders through his release with a rough, guttural sound — your name ghosting out of him like a dying ember—

You fall over the edge with him.

Your body tightens and shudders, fingers buried deep, head thrown back as pleasure takes you like a flood. You bite your knuckles to keep from crying out.

And then it’s quiet again.

Just the sound of your own breathing. Of your heartbeat thudding in your ears. Of the faint drip of cooling oil from the lantern on your desk.

You lie there behind your screen for a long time, dazed and trembling.

—

The lanterns above the Capital’s main avenue glow soft and golden, swaying gently in the spring breeze. Music spills from every corner – drums, flutes, the laughter of children. The scent of street foot curls through the air: sweet rice cakes, grilled meats, steaming dumplings, soft tofu.

You should’ve been back at the estate by now, but you didn’t want to face the empty halls yet.

So you told him, simply, “I want tteokbokki,” and began to walk towards the stalls like you hadn’t noticed how long he hesitated at your words.

To his credit, Seungcheol said nothing. He just followed behind you, one hand resting on the sword strapped to his hip like a soldier on watch. Since two nights ago, his silence continued, tense and rigid, drawing a thick line that you’re both too stubborn to cross. And tonight was no different. He hasn’t looked at you since breakfast at the palace.

You would enjoy the sudden distance if he at least looked you in the eyes for more than point five seconds. You would enjoy it if it didn’t hurt.

You squeeze through the crowd, the back of your silk hanbok trailing just slightly behind you. You look back once in a while to see if Seungcheol’s behind you, and all five of those times you see him reach for your skirt as if to keep it from being stepped on or touching the ground. If it wasn’t here, you would have laughed at how he looks with your cup of sweet rice balls in one hand and another on his sword.

You navigate past a pair of laughing teenagers when you look back. You can’t see him for a second, separated by the group coming from the side.

When you look back in front of you, you see a flash of fabric from your left.

A burly man barrels into you from the side: drunk, probably, and loud and careless. His shoulder slams into yours and his elbow jabs your side. Your eyes go wide and before you know it, you feel a foot stomp down on the back of your skirt, a hand from the same shoulder shoves your back, knocking you off balance entirely. You feel it in slow motion: your foot twisting wrong against the uneven stone walkway as you stagger forward.

It’s almost immediate: you hitting the ground hard, pain radiating sharply from your ankle to your knee, hands scraping against the dirt floor.

Your hands fly to your ankle as a gasp bursts out of you, face scrunching in pain as you lower your head. You feel dirt under your legs, skirts ripped in some places.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The street seems to come to a standstill.

You look up, eyes blurring with tears.

Seungcheol.

His voice is ice – cutting. You glance up to see his hand slam into the stranger’s chest, the cup of rice cakes gone from his hand, tucked in somewhere into the folds of his robes. He shoves the stranger back hard enough to nearly topple him.

The man stumbles back, confused. “What– wha’s yer pro’lem?” he slurs, swatting the air a few seconds after Seungcheol’s hand leaves his chest.

You blink as Seungcheol gets into the man’s face. “You just knocked over a woman in the middle of the street and didn’t even glance back.” His voice is dangerously quiet, the hand by his sword twitching at his side like he wants to do more. “Are you blind or just fucking slow?”

The man raises his hands, blinking at Seungcheol’s face. “I-I didn’t mean to-! How was I supposed to know she’s your–”

The man pales before he finishes his sentence. His eyes widen as he seemingly registers Seungcheol’s face, stumbling into a bow.The weight of exactly who he just shoved to the ground, maybe.

Only then does the man give you a weak and awkward bow, laughing weakly. “My deepest apologies, madam – duchess! – I didn’t see–”

You’re barely listening to him because the pain pulses up your leg like a heartbeat, and your hands shake from the shock of it, head spinning. You try to stand, hands pushing up against the ground, but wince, ankle giving out beneath you.

You wave away hands when a crowd of women swarm forward.

In a flash, Seungcheol’s crouching beside you.

“Don’t,” he says softly, and for the first time in days, he looks you in the eyes. “Don’t try to walk on it. Let me see.”

You open your mouth to protest, to say anything, but he’s already pulling off one of his gloves with his teeth, gently pushing up the hem of your skirt to assess the swelling. You flinch at the warmth of his hand, calloused and careful.

He exhales slowly, lowering your skirt. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “It’s twisted. You need to elevate it.”

And without asking, he lifts you, one arm under your knees, the other around your back.

You almost jump out of your skin. “Seungcheol–” Your eyes go wide.

“Shut up,” he mutters. But there’s no heat in it. Just panic and guilt, as if you falling was his fault.

When he rises, your hand instinctively goes around his neck, hands tight on his shoulder.

You can feel it now. His jaw is clenched tight, his grip trembling. Everyone is staring and whispering and bowing and staring. Your cheeks warm at the sudden attention on you.

When he parts through the crowd, arms firm against your weight, you lay your head against his shoulder, swallowing.

He looks down at you briefly, the hand on your shoulder coming up to move you hair from your face.

He looks so worried, so guilt-stricken that the words escape you before you even know it: “I’m fine.”

“I know. But I’m not.” His voice is thick and low, vibrating against you.

And the silence resumes, his arms never shifting, his pace steady despite your protests that you can walk just fine.

“You’ll make it worse,” is all he says, jaw still tight. He doesn’t look at you once.

When you reach the residence, the servants scatter at his glare, you in his arms, and a single command: “Bring bandages and a cold compress. Now.”

By the time he lays you down gently on your floor mattress, the sun has long dipped beneath the rooftops, the lantern light glowing soft against the rice paper walls. You’ve discarded your outer jeogori behind the screen, clad only in your skirts that hang from your shoulders, one of the straps of your skirts slipping down your shoulder. The spring air feels heavier than it should as you sit there, quiet, fiddling your fingers.

Seungcheol kneels in front of you, sleeves rolled past his forearms, brows furrowed as he carefully presses the cold cloth against your swollen ankle. You flinch at the sudden change in temperature. So he moves slowly, as though he’s afraid to hurt you more. Or maybe afraid of what he might do to you.

When he begins to wrap the bandage, your foot resting on his thigh, you whisper, “Do we have anything for the pain?”

He pauses, looking at you. “You should sleep.”

“I said for the pain,” you repeat, already knowing what you want.

You see the instinctive answer flash in his eyes before he says it: no.

But you tilt your head and murmur, fingers lightly brushing the back of his hand. “Please?”

So he sighs, disappearing briefly, only to return with a familiar bottle of sake – pale glass, expensive, the same from your academy days. He brings with him two cups, though you’re almost 100% sure it’s just for formality or some weird respect for your wishes. Whatever it is, he only pours in one cup – not much, just enough to warm your chest.

You down one cup.

He pours one more

You down the second.

Another.

You down the third.

You lean back on your palms, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded as the warmth of the drink settles into your bones.

He watches the third with a frown and a shake of his head.

“That’s enough.”

You pout. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m not supposed to be fun. I’m you–” he cuts himself off before he can finish the word, the air between you turning tense. He averts his gaze. In this lighting, he looks so handsome.

“You know,” you say slowly, swallowing, “you never came to find me.”

His brows furrow. “What are you talking about?”

“The entryway,” you say, dragging the syllables, teasing. “After I left. That night.”

His entire body stills, frozen.

You keep going, powered through by the alcohol or maybe just some weird sort of bravery. “I thought you’d maybe knock on my door. Drag me back – finish what I started, you know,” you say, tilting your head, mock-innocent. “But you didn’t.”

Seungcheol looks away, jaw flexing, hands in his lap.

Your shift on the mattress, your bandaged foot tucked just under your crooked good leg. “So you either didn’t want me that badly–”

Seungcheol’s head whips back, brows furrowed. “--Don’t.”

But you continue, grinning. “--or you helped yourself.”

You see your words hit him, registering his brain as well. His gaze flicks to you, sharp and dangerous, and you can almost see the way he’s searching for the right words. “You really want to know?”

Your smile is already crooked. “I already do. The walls are made of paper, remember?”

He goes quiet. Then, almost too lowly, he says, “Should I have said your name?”

Your breath catches in your throat.

He stands slowly, forcing your head to tilt up. “That night,” his voice is hoarse, rough, “I–” he stops himself, looking down at you like he’s trying to memorize the sight of you, all confused, staring up at him with parted lips and tight chest. “I should have come to you.”

That sounds like a statement rather than a question.

You blink once. The sake in your veins buzzes louder than your few coherent thoughts.

He takes another step closer. “But if I had, I wouldn’t have stopped,” he whispers, leaning down. “And you deserve much more than that.”

You laugh – soft, bitter, and disbelieving. “I don’t even know what I deserve anymore.”

He kneels, the bottle between you. The past between you. Your breaths between you. His hands, careful as they rest beside your hips on the mattress.

“If I may be so bold,” he murmurs, eyes flickering down to your lips, “I know what I want.”

And suddenly, like the oxygen’s been sucked out, the room feels very, very small.

You can hear Seungcheol’s breath – shallow, caught somewhere between restraint and collapse.

The silence stretches.

You can hear the faint rattle of spring wind against the hanok’s wooden beams, the hiss of your own exhale as you blink slowly – still tipsy, but too aware. Of him. Of the heat beneath your skin. Of the fact that he’s still kneeling between your legs, bandages long forgotten.

“You always come back when I’m hurting,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “Is that all I am to you?”

“No,” he answers. Too quickly. Then quieter, hoarser: “It’s the only time you let me near you.”

Your breath stutters.

And maybe it’s a mistake – maybe this is all a mistake – but your fingers curl into the bedding. Not to push him away but to steady yourself.

“You always want,” you say quietly, the alcohol loosening your tongue just enough. “But you never take.”

He flinches like you’ve struck him.

“I take what’s offered,” he says after a moment. His gaze dips to the curve of your collarbone, the undone lacing of your undershift. “And you–” his voice breaks, just slightly. “You never stay long enough to give.”

You tilt your head, a smile playing at the corner of your lips. “So take, Commander.”

It’s a dare – threatening – slurred with the remnants of three cups of sake and years of resentment. Yet there’s something else in it too – something more dangerous.

You reach for the bottle from the side and take one last sip before crawling forward, your movement forcing him back onto his heels. You swing a leg over his lap and settle there, straddling him lazily. The silk of your nightdress rides up your thighs, exposing bare skin. Your palms brace lightly on his shoulders. You can feel his breath stutter beneath you, can feel the tight coil of his thigh muscles tense where your body meets his.

His hands hover near your hips, not touching, but shaking, almost.

You reach behind you without breathing eye contact, dragging your floor mirror towards the two of you. He watches, confused at first. But when the lacquered wood clinks into place and your reflection blooms between you both – your flushed skin, your tousled hair, the loose shift of your clothes – his lips part slightly.

“Let me teach you,” you murmur, fingers drifting down the center of his chest. “How to tease properly.”

Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. “You’re drunk.” Yet his fingers grip against your waist.

“Tipsy,” you correct with a sly grin. “And honest.”

His voice comes out low, face too close to yours. “You think you know how to tease?”

“I know how to make you look,” you say.

And then you start to move – barely a roll of your hips, but it’s enough. Enough for the friction to make his hands finally – finally – travel up your back.

“You shouldn’t play with things you don’t understand,” he hums, nose brushing your cheek.

“Oh, I understand just fine.” You glance at the mirror, letting your gaze rake over the way he’s holding you, the way his knuckles go white where he grips your skin. “You’re the one who’s out of his depth.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose. There’s a storm that you can feel building in his chest. You can see it in the mirror – his jaw clenched, his throat working around a swallow, his arms flexed from the effort of holding back.

But then he moves.

One swift motion, and he pulls you flush against him, your back pressed to his chest now, thighs caging you in place between his legs. Your gasp is sharp, shocked, and then his hand is wrapping around your wrist and dragging it down to rest on your own thigh. His palm covering yours in the reflection.

“You want to tease?” his breath ghosts along the shell of your ear, low and dangerous. “Then watch what it does to someone.”

He spreads your legs just slightly with a firm nudge of his knee. The shift is subtle but electric. His hand on yours begins to move, slow and deliberate, guiding your fingers beneath the hem of your thin shift. The air hits your inner thighs and you shiver.

“I want you to see what you do to me,” he murmurs. “I want you to feel it. Hear it. Know it.”

You’re breathing hard now, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythms, your eyes locked on the mirror – on the raw, molten thin between you both that has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with what you’ve never let yourselves say.

His other hand comes up, threading into your hair, tilting your head so your gaze can’t stray from the reflection. “Keep watching,” he says. “Don’t look away.”

You watch as his hands skim up your thighs, slow and patient, thumbs brushing soft circles into your skin. His gaze doesn’t leave yours, not even when he leans down to press a kiss to your temple, forcing a small, sharp gasp as his hands move lower.

And yours do too.

Your breath catches the moment your fingers brush over his, both your hands moving in tandem, sliding low over the curve of your hip. His palm is hot beneath yours, his touch deliberate and grounding. The image in the mirror is almost too much: your flushed skin, your parted lips, his broad frame curled behind you like something just barely kept at bay.

He presses his mouth to your ear, voice low and dark.

“Baby,” he mumbles, mouth to your ear, “slower.” He guides your fingers with his. “Let it ache, yeah.”

You try to resist – just to be difficult and just to prove that he doesn’t own you – but the second he rolls his hips forward, the weight of him pressed against your back, that willpower disappears. You inhale sharply.

Two fingers slide through your folds, gentle at first, testing. You flinch at the sudden intimate contact but fall back into his embrace as his other arm comes to wrap around your middle, pulling you tighter against him. His breath stutters, and he leans closer, one hand bracing himself beside your hip while the other works you open with excruciating slowness. The slick sound that follows is obscene.

He watches your face as he curls his fingers inside you—every twitch of your mouth, every shift of your brows. He adjusts to the rhythm that makes your thighs tremble, makes your breath stutter in your throat.

“Say something,” he breathes, like he needs proof this is real. “Say anything.”

You don’t.

You reach for him instead—his collar, his hair, something to hold onto—because your voice will betray how much you missed this.

Missed him.

When you bring his lips down onto yours, he whispers, “Good girl,” against your pout.

The words tremble through you.

You jolt, knees drawing up instinctively, but his legs trap yours open and trembling. You make a small, strangled noise as he presses harder—fingers circling, teasing, just shy of giving you what you want.

“You asked what you deserve?” he murmurs. “This. To be touched slow. Worshipped. Ravaged.”

“Then why—” your voice cracks as he slides one finger inside you, dragging it out agonizingly slow, “—why do you only do this when I’m broken?”

His rhythm stutters. The pain in his expression ripples across the mirror before he controls it again.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly, pressing another finger inside, pushing deeper. “Maybe because I know you’ll let me break with you.”

Your throat tightens around a sob you don’t let out. He begins to move faster—not cruelly, not punishing—but there’s a simmering desperation behind it now. A silent apology. A confession without words.

You arch against him, your palm gripping his wrist as your breath turns into whimpers. “Seungcheol—”

“Let go,” he says, biting at your shoulder. “Don’t hold back. You never do when you hate me.”

The words are a challenge, a punishment, an invitation. You break the second he crooks his fingers and leans in to whisper, “Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you do. With a cry muffled into his throat, you fall apart like a dam finally giving way. You twitch, tremble, collapse against his chest as your body clenches around him, pulse loud in your ears. He doesn’t stop—not yet. He works you through it, past it, into it again, until you’re sobbing into the crook of his neck, hiccuping and writhing in his lap, trying to twist away from the overwhelming sensation.

But he holds you in place. A hand at your navel, firm. “One more.”

“Seungcheol—” Your voice is wrecked. “I can’t—”

“You can.” He sounds wrecked, too. “I’ve got you. Just one more.”

His fingers are slick, relentless. You try to crawl away, but he only presses you tighter to him, whispering your name like a prayer, like a curse, like everything he never got to say in that hallway eight years ago.

You’re still shaking when he finally slows, fingers slick and buried to the knuckle inside you. Your breath hiccups against his collarbone, chest heaving, face hot and wet and buried in his neck.

“Shh,” he whispers. “I know. I know, baby.”

You want to push him away. You want to pull him closer. Your legs twitch with the aftershocks and your throat is raw, but you still cling to him, like drowning people do to the thing that’s dragging them under.

His hand finally withdraws, and you whimper at the loss. He doesn’t let you go far.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. You nod, barely. Your muscles are boneless, useless, but when you feel the heat of him—his cock pressed hard and aching into your backside—you realize just how much restraint he’s been holding back with.

Too much.

You turn your head slightly, enough to see him in the mirror again. His pupils are blown, lips red from your kiss, hair falling messily over his brow.

“Cheol,” you breathe. Your voice is hoarse.

He hesitates—but only for a moment.

“Tell me to stop,” he says. “Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll—”

“I want it,” you whisper.

He exhales hard through his nose like something in him finally snaps loose.

And then he moves—fast, but not rough, shifting you gently onto your hands and knees across the vanity bench. He makes sure you’re steady, one palm splayed against your lower back, the other curling around your hand on the bench as he lines himself up behind you.

You’re still so wet it doesn’t take much. The head of his cock slides through your folds, teasing, nudging—and when he finally pushes in, slow and deep, the stretch makes your entire body lock and quake.

Your mouth falls open with a broken gasp.

“God,” he chokes, forehead dropping to your spine. “You feel the same. Still the same—tight, warm—fuck, I missed you.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. All you can do is shudder as he sinks all the way in, slow and sure, letting you feel every inch. He bottoms out with a groan, hands gripping your hips like they’re the only things anchoring him to this world.

He stays there for a moment, buried inside you, breathing hard.

You think he might pull out and slow it down again—but he doesn’t.

He pulls back and thrusts in once, deep, and your whole body jolts forward.

You cry out.

Again—harder this time.

And again.

Your hand scrabbles for the floorboards, for anything, but he doesn’t let you fold forward. He keeps you upright with a hand splayed across your belly, the same way he did when he made you come on his fingers.

“Keep watching,” he growls into your ear, his rhythm picking up. “You deserve to see what you do to me.”

You catch your own reflection: flushed and wild-eyed, lips parted, hair clinging to your sweat-damp face. And him—behind you, over you, inside you—like he’s been waiting years for this moment. Maybe he has.

“Tell me again,” he pants, slamming into you. “Say you want this.”

You can barely think. But you manage it—wrecked and slurred and desperate.

“I want you,” you cry, eyes glassy in the mirror. “I always did.”

That breaks something in him.

His thrusts grow erratic, almost frantic, like he’s trying to bury himself into you so deep he could stay there forever. Like if he just fucks you hard enough, he can rewrite the years between you.

And when you fall apart again—louder this time, his name a raw, sobbed whisper—he lets go too, right after you, spilling into you with a groan that’s all teeth and guilt and grief.

He doesn’t pull out.

He doesn’t move.

He just slumps over you, breath stuttering, hand still clutching yours.

You feel your head loll and tears flow down your heated cheeks, face buried in Seungcheol’s arms.

He doesn’t speak at first.

Neither do you.

The room is still, save for the sound of your uneven breathing and the quiet creak of the wooden floorboards beneath the both of you. You're half-slumped in his lap, your body spent and trembling, his chest pressed to your back as he holds you with both arms wrapped firmly around your waist.

His touch isn’t greedy anymore. Just warm. Anchoring. Like he’s afraid that if he lets go, you’ll vanish with the night.

Your body aches. Your thighs are sticky with a slow warmth that’s beginning to cool against your skin. The silk of your underskirt is bunched around your hips, half-soaked, and there’s a dull, pulsing soreness blooming between your legs that makes it hard to even think about moving. You should clean yourself up. Fix your clothes. Pull away.

But you don’t.

Maybe you don’t know how.

Maybe you don’t want to.

“…Are you going to stay?” you ask, your voice hoarse and small. It barely carries through the room.

You feel his breath hitch before you hear his answer. His nose brushes against the damp strands of hair at your nape, his grip tightening just enough for you to feel the way your question sinks into him.

“Only if you let me,” he murmurs.

You nod—so slightly he might not have felt it, if not for your hand fumbling back to find his. Fingers still sticky with what you did together, trembling faintly, but you find his palm and pull it over your chest. Right over your heart.

He laces your fingers together. Keeps them there.

Neither of you speak after that. Not when he shifts to sit up straighter, not when he gently moves you off his lap and onto the low sleeping mat set atop the wooden floor. His touch never strays too far. You feel him rise to his feet beside you, feel the draft of the room as he pulls on his under-robe loosely and walks over to the basin.

The sound of water pouring into a shallow bowl is faint, but it echoes in the stillness. You turn your face into the pillow. It smells like herbs and starch and a little like him. There’s a whisper of cloth being wrung out, a quiet sigh, and then the softest touch at your knee.

“Can I?” he asks.

You nod, barely lifting your head, eyes fluttering shut.

He’s gentle.

A warm, damp cloth runs along the inside of your thighs—slow and tender. Never rushed. He doesn’t speak while he cleans you, but he works with the kind of reverence that makes your chest ache. He holds your ankle to shift your leg just slightly, dragging the cloth up through the mess between your legs, wiping you down until it no longer feels raw, but soothed.

Every pass is careful, like he’s trying not to wake whatever fragile thing exists between you now.

When he finishes, he presses a dry cloth between your thighs to pat you clean. Then he tugs your underskirts back down and pulls the blanket over your body.

You expect him to leave.

Instead, he crouches beside the mat again and lies down next to you, easing onto his side.

The words escape you without warning: “Do you regret it?”

“Regret? Regret what?” seungcheol gives you a confused look, eyebrows furrowed.

The distance between you is small—just enough to feel like it’s deliberate. As if he’s still giving you the chance to send him away.

But you don’t.

Your eyes are hooded with sleep. “This. Sex. Fucking me. Whatever you want to call us.”

Seungcheol is quiet before he speaks again. “I will never regret anything with you. Even more so, since we’re married.”

You huff out a breath, eyes fluttering shut. You can hear the rustle of fabrics as Seungcheol climbs into the bed with you. “Not even the marriage? You don’t regret that?” Your voice sounds so meek, even to your own ears. You’re not too sure why – maybe because you’re afraid of the truth? Of his truth? Or perhaps because you already knew the answer to the question and the fact that it would be articulated with Seungcheol’s own mouth scared you shitless.

Seungcheol’s body is firm and warm behind you. And it just stays like that – behind you, not touching, not brushing, his breath barely whispering across your neck.

“Storm,” Seungcheo murmurs, and the sudden nickname you haven’t heard in a while makes you flinch, “if anything, I regret that the least.”

Quite literally, you’re at a loss for words. What does a woman reply to that anyways?

So you fall asleep like that. Facing the wall, the scent of clean linen and the echo of his touch on your skin.

–

When you wake, the light seeping through the paper windows is pale and silvered, like mist. The brazier has long gone cold, and the air has taken on a sharpness that bites faintly at your skin where the quilt has slipped down your shoulders. The ache in your limbs makes itself known slowly—your hips, your thighs, the inside of your legs still tender. A dull soreness radiates through you, layered with a kind of sweet, aching fullness.

You’re not sure what woke you—whether it was the cold, or the emptiness of the space beside you.

Then you feel it. A presence. Still. Solid.

He’s still there.

You shift slowly under the quilt, your pulse catching as your eyes adjust. He’s lying flat on his back, arms folded behind his head, his gaze distant as he stares at the ceiling. His robe has loosened in the night—parted slightly to reveal the clean line of his collarbone and the faint shadows of old scars, pale against his skin. His hair’s come undone, loose strands brushing the side of his face, his expression unreadable.

You wonder if he regrets it.

Or worse (better?) — if he doesn’t.

You watch him in silence for a long moment. You’re not sure if he knows you’re awake until his eyes flick over to you. Just once. Brief.

You don’t look away.

Neither does he.

“…You’re still here,” you say quietly.

There’s a pause. His lips part as if to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, he turns his head more fully to look at you. His eyes soften just slightly.

“I said I would stay,” he says, voice low.

“I wasn’t sure if you meant it.”

“I wasn’t either.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Your throat tightens with something too complicated to name—something that sits between hope and pain, old wounds and older want. You shift onto your side, slowly, and reach for him. Not with purpose, not seduction—just need. Your hand finds the edge of his robe, your palm coming to rest gently against his waist.

His whole body tenses. Not because he doesn’t want you close—but because he does.

You inch closer.

You drape your leg across his, your hand over his chest, and your forehead presses against the slope of his shoulder. The space between you vanishes, and you feel the exhale escape from his chest like he’s been holding his breath for months.

He doesn’t say anything. But he wraps an arm around your back, his palm pressing between your shoulder blades. You hear the rustle of the quilt as he tucks it more securely around you both.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” he murmurs. The confession is so quiet it almost disappears into your hair.

Your voice is softer than his. “What do you mean? You don’t have to do anything.”

“That’s not true,” he says after a moment. “I—” His voice falters. Then steadies again. “I thought keeping my distance would protect you.”

You swallow. “From what?”

He hesitates. His hand stills against your back. “From everything. From court. From rumors. From me.”

You lift your head slightly, just enough to look up at him. “You think I needed protection from you?”

His jaw clenches. “I didn’t want to be the reason people started whispering about you again. After what happened with your father… after the court…”

You flinch at the mention of it, but don’t pull away.

“I thought,” he continues slowly, “if I stayed out of your way, if I said nothing, I could forget how much I—” He stops.

The silence rushes back in too fast. It almost makes your ears ring.

“You could forget?” you echo, staring at him. “Is that what you’ve been trying to do all this time?”

He doesn’t answer. But the answer is written all over him. In the bags under his eyes. In the way he grips the back of your nightclothes like he’s trying to make up for months of not touching you. In the way he hasn’t left.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond right away.

But when he does, it’s not with words.

His hand lifts to your cheek, warm and shaking slightly. His thumb brushes along your jaw, and then he presses your forehead gently to his. Eyes closed. Brows drawn. As if he’s trying to will everything into place just by touching you.

“I’ve been missing you this whole time,” he says. “Even when I tried not to. Especially then.”

You close your eyes.

“I hated you for it,” you murmur. “For pretending like I didn’t matter to you.”

“I hated myself more,” he says simply.

There’s a pause.

“You never said anything,” you say. It comes out quieter than you mean it to.

“I didn’t think I had the right,” he replies. “Not after I waited too long. Not when you’d already started not to care.”

Your heart cracks open in your chest.

“I didn’t stop caring,” you breathe. “I just stopped letting myself hope.”

His hand slides into your hair, curling there. He kisses the top of your head. Just once. Just enough to shatter you a little more.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For waiting. For making you doubt. For—”

You stop him with a soft shake of your head. You press closer, curl your fingers into his robe, and let your breath even against his skin.

“Don’t leave,” you whisper. “Even if we don’t know what to do.”

He holds you tighter.

“I won’t,” he murmurs. “Not unless you ask me to.”

You don’t ask.

You stay like that. Twined together in silence, bathed in the quiet light of the morning you never thought would come. The ache in your body has dulled, but something deeper still throbs inside you. A yearning. A grief. A hope.

But for the first time in a long while, you’re not alone in it.

And neither is he.

: ̗̀➛ of silks and steel

@gyuguys ; @theidontknowmehn ; @gyuhao365 ; @heelariously ; @asyre ; @peachytokki ; @chisskaa ; @vnstennis ; @armycarat2612 ; @living0livia ; @hanniehq ; @minhui896 ; @Syluslittlecrows ; @reiofsuns2001 ; @madywoopz ; @sillygoosegoose ; @idubiluranghae ; @seniorbarbie ; @arshiyuh ; @denimtangerine ; @cherrymoonchild ; @jungkookisthetypeto; @dutchelfandkpoplover ; @nahyuckism ; @so-da-1 ; @arshiyuh ; @lukeys-giggle ; @fayhaflyyy

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linoxpudding · 2 days ago

Text

Fiercely Yours- Hwang Hyunjin

summary: he tempts you to cross the line every time he looks at you — but as his consigliere, you're caught between duty and desire

pairing: mafia!hyunjin x consigliere!fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, mafia au

word count: 3188 words

warnings: mentions of violence, weapons, slightly suggestive

a/n: this was requested ♡ hyunjinnie really gave off mafia prince vibes in this look (I'm obsessed and in love)

Mafia!SKZ Masterlist

images taken from pinterest

~°~

The air was thick with tension as Hyunjin walked into the estate’s private lounge, the long tail of his black coat billowing behind him like the wings of a raven. You didn’t look up from the pile of reports until his cologne, a blend of citrusy fruit and something unmistakably expensive, reached your nose. You always knew when he entered a room. Like the sudden stillness before a storm.

“Trouble in Macau?” you asked, flipping to the next page without missing a beat.

He sank into the leather seat across from you, loosened his cufflinks with slow fingers, and finally met your gaze.

“Not trouble,” he said, voice amused. “An inconvenience. Handled.”

You arched a brow. “Handled like that parking garage in Venice? Or handled like that embassy party in Dubai?”

Hyunjin smirked. “Somewhere in between. No bodies.”

You clicked your tongue and set the file aside. “Well, at least that saves me from another diplomatic call.”

For most people, Hyunjin was untouchable. The youngest mafia boss in South Korea to ever rise so ruthlessly, known for his handsome face, unpredictability, and charming personality. But for you — his consigliere — he was just the man who left espresso cups in your office, secretly read poetry, and painted like it was the only time he could breathe.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You didn’t sleep last night.”

You blinked. “Neither did you.”

He didn’t deny it. “You were working on the Busan deal?”

You nodded. “The chairman’s daughter is in love with a pianist. If we keep pretending you're interested in her, we get the warehouse contracts.”

“You want me to pretend I’m falling for someone else?” he gasped dramatically.

“Two dates. Maybe three. Smile, say ‘you look beautiful’ once, and I’ll handle the rest,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“I don’t mind smiling,” he said, his eyes lingering on you. “But only if you’re the one watching.”

Your breath caught for half a second. He said it so casually, so quietly, you almost missed it — like he hadn’t meant to let it slip.

You recovered quickly. “Don’t flirt with your consigliere, Hyunjin. HR might get involved.”

He gave a low laugh. “You are HR.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart fluttered. “If you don’t want to do it, I’ll call Yang Jeongin.”

He scowled instantly. “He’s in his rebel era and allergic to pressure. No.”

You crossed your arms smugly. “Exactly.”

Silence settled again, only broken by the ticking of the antique clock. Hyunjin’s eyes softened as he looked at you — not the consigliere, but the girl who once covered for him when a deal went south in Istanbul, who stitched up his bullet wound in Paris with trembling hands and a tear-streaked face.

“I never thank you,” he said, voice low.

You tilted your head. “For what?”

“For keeping me... human.”

You blinked, heart faltering for a split second.

“Don’t get sappy on me, boss. It’s bad for business,” you muttered.

“You’re the only one who can talk to me like that,” he chuckled.

“Good. I’ll keep doing it until you stop being dramatic and eat something. You’ve had coffee and vengeance for breakfast all week.”

He stood, walked around the desk, and looked down at you.

“You worry about me too much.”

“And you don’t worry enough.”

He leaned down suddenly, hand brushing against your shoulder lightly but deliberately. “Don’t fall for me, consigliere.”

You smirked, though your chest betrayed you with how tight it suddenly felt. “I’d never fall for a man who wears silk shirts to gunfights.”

He grinned, voice barely above a whisper. “Liar.”

And maybe you were but you'd never admit it.

*********************

The next day, as the sun dipped below the skyline, casting long shadows across the estate’s private study. You were scribbling final notes onto the Bangkok weapons deal, already calculating backup plans if the supplier decided to get clever. The soft knock on the glass doors made you glance up.

Hyunjin stood there, two iced americanos in hand.

“Thought you might need this,” he said, nudging the door open with his shoulder.

You sighed. “Are you bribing your consigliere with caffeine again?”

He set your drink on the table, then leaned his hip casually against your desk. “Not bribing. Courting.”

You looked up sharply. “Excuse me?”

He grinned. “I mean — technically, yes, I am buying your love. But I’m doing it one coffee at a time.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“I prefer irresistible.”

You ignored the flutter in your chest and reached for the contract draft. “If you’re here to charm me, I suggest you wait until I’m done saving your arms deal from collapsing.”

He tilted his head. “You really don’t fluster easily, do you?”

“Not when it comes to you.”

“Ouch,” he said, pressing a hand to his heart. “Cold and brutal? Totally my ideal type.”

You looked up with a deadpan expression. “Was that all?”

“No. I also came to ask if you’re free tonight.”

Your pen paused. “Why?”

“There’s a gallery opening in Gangnam. They’re showcasing political paintings. You like art. I like you. Felt like a good excuse.”

You stared at him. “Is this business or pleasure?”

His voice dropped a little, lower and softer. “Do you want it to be business?”

You chose not to answer. Instead, you handed him a copy of the revised contract, keeping your tone level. “This needs your signature before midnight. If you can manage that, then we’ll talk about galleries.”

He took the paper, lips twitching. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re avoiding me.”

“I’m doing my job,” you said. “You’re the one playing games.”

His smile softened. “Only with you.”

You hated how easily that made your heart skip, how he could say the most dangerous things with such devastating gentleness.

You stood, brushing past him toward the bookshelf. “I’m not one of your missions, Hwang. You can’t charm your way into getting what you want from me.”

He followed, close but not touching. “Who says I don’t already have it?”

You turned, eyes narrowed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. “Careful, boss. That sounds like a confession.”

He stepped even closer, his voice quiet now. “Would that be such a bad thing?”

You stared at him, the man who could command rooms with one word, who had every weapon at his disposal and still chose to win you over with coffee and smiles.

And still, you smirked coolly. “Yes. Because I’d have to report it to HR.”

He exhaled a breath of laughter, eyes crinkling. “Still you.”

“Yeah, me.”

*********************

The strategy planning room lights were dimmed, save for the cool glow of monitors tracking satellite feeds, encrypted texts, and movement logs. You were at your usual seat, fingers moving rapidly over the files in front of you. The data containing information of routes, trades and traps. It was a delicate equation you solved every night — one misstep, and someone would bleed.

Hyunjin sat across the table, legs kicked up, twirling a pen like it was a dagger in disguise. “You know,” he said lazily, “you look criminally good when you’re doing math.”

You didn’t even look up. “And you look criminal when you don’t.”

He grinned. “Touché. But admit it. You missed me while I was in Hong Kong.”

“Missed your paperwork, sure. You forgot to sign three arms deals and I had to ghostwrite your apology to a man who once shot a diplomat over a late shipment.”

“I’m lucky you love me,” he said under his breath — too low, too fast.

You froze briefly, before pretending you hadn’t heard. “I tolerate you. Big difference.”

He didn’t respond, just smiled like he knew he’d lost that round but didn’t mind playing again.

You glanced up, catching him watching you. It wasn’t the look of a boss admiring his consigliere, it was… something softer. As if he was memorizing you.

“You always stare like that?” you asked lightly, feigning indifference.

“Watching you in focus mode is kind of hot.”

You flicked a file at him. “Try that again, and I’m assigning you to Cairo.”

He snorted. “That’s cruel. Isn’t that the one where agents pretend to be antique rug dealers?”

“Exactly. 84 year olds, bingo nights, no air conditioning, and your only contact is a guy named Uncle Moh who never answers his burner.”

He winced. “Okay, damn. Message received.”

You smirk, continuing your work.

He leaned forward suddenly, folding his arms on the table. “Seriously though. How do you always know what I’m about to do before I do it?”

You finally looked at him. “Because I think like you.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“No,” you said, more softly this time. “It’s efficient.”

He didn’t speak for a moment, just stared at you with something unreadable in his gaze. Admiration, maybe or something heavier.

“You never let anyone get close to you,” he said.

You shrugged. “That’s not true. I let you.”

Silence stretched. Then, faintly, he said, “You don’t even let me in.”

Your heart stuttered.

Before you could reply, Seungmin’s voice crackled through the intercom. “Hyung, we’ve got a situation in Itaewon. Black sedan just circled our safehouse twice.”

Hyunjin was up immediately. “Send Chan the footage. Consigliere and I are on our way.”

You raised a brow. “Since when do I go on field checks?”

“Since I don’t like going anywhere without you.”

He said it too easily, too lightly, like he didn’t mean anything by it. But the way his hand brushed your lower back as you passed him — subtle, but possessive — told a different story.

You and Hyunjin stood behind the safehouse, rain was pouring in Itaewon. Your coat was soaked, hair sticking to your forehead as you reviewed camera angles. He stood beside you, jaw clenched.

“They did a full circle,” you muttered. “Scouting patterns. They know something’s in this building.”

Hyunjin cursed under his breath. “We will move the shipment tonight. What about the docks?”

“Warehouse twelve,” you confirmed. “Minimal traffic, guards are ours. We’ll use the gala next week to draw their attention away from the port.”

He sighed. “Great. Back to suits, champagne, and being arm candy to the chairman’s daughter.”

You smirked. “You make a good date.”

He side-eyed you. “You jealous?”

You shot him a warning look. “Focus.”

“I’m focused,” he said quietly. “Just… not on her.”

The words hung between you for a moment, heavy and sharp You turned to go, but his hand reached out, fingers curling gently around your wrist.

“Why don’t you stay over at mine tonight? At the guest room,” he said with quiet insistence.

You looked at him, his eyes were steady, his jaw set like he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

You sighed. “Fine.”

The hallway back at his mansion was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of electricity and the slow drip of rain from your coats. You both stood by the entry, not quite ready to say goodnight.

Hyunjin pulled a towel from the closet and tossed it to you. “You’ll get sick.”

“I’ll survive.”

He hesitated, leaning against the wall, watching you towel off your hair. There was something softer in his expression now like the cold rain had melted whatever masks he wore in daylight.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured.

You turned, eyebrows raised.

“I don’t like going anywhere without you.”

You hesitated for just a moment, and then said, voice barely audible, “You don’t have to.”

For the first time all night, he didn’t flirt. He didn’t smirk or tease. He just looked at you like someone realizing something too late but clinging to the chance he might still be on time.

“…Goodnight, Y/N,” he said quietly.

*********************

One week later, you were getting ready to go to the diplomatic gala in Seoul.

You adjusted your black velvet gloves and gave yourself a final once-over in the mirror. The slit in your gown was strategic, the smile on your face calculated, and your loyalty to Hwang Hyunjin unwavering.

He was waiting at the bottom of the staircase, dressed all in black — suit, shirt, and tie — all perfectly tailored. Every line was sharp, every movement effortless, and his face so breathtaking under the chandelier’s soft glow. He looked unreal, like a prince stepped out of a dream.

His gaze found you and held for just a second too long. You blinked, steadied your breath, and composed yourself. You had a role to play. And he, as always, was the most dangerous part of it.

You descended with grace, heels clicking softly. “Don’t tell me you’re nervous,” you teased.

“I’m regretting this,” he muttered.

You slipped your arm through his. “The pianist is waiting. You smile, she gets starry-eyed, her father signs the Busan contract. Everyone wins.”

Hyunjin stayed quiet as the car took you to the gala, his gaze out the window. But his hand was resting dangerously close to yours on the leather seat.

Inside, the venue was filled with diplomats, heirs, high-ranking lieutenants and a few underground mafia leaders. Amidst the polished smiles and crystal glasses, Hyunjin’s sharp eyes scanned the crowd. When they settled briefly on the mafia leaders, he gave a subtle nod—an unspoken acknowledgment that spoke volumes in the silent language of power.

You led the way, every move designed for effect. When the chairman’s daughter arrived in a red chiffon dress, Hyunjin did exactly as instructed — he smiled, offered her champagne, and complimented her earrings.

Perfect and flawless. Until you had to step away. Hyunjin’s smile faded the second you walked off to speak to the foreign investor from London. You leaned in slightly, laughed at something he said, and tucked your hair behind your ear.

It shouldn’t have bothered him. You were doing your job. But his hand clenched around the champagne glass, jaw ticking.

When the investor’s hand ghosted your lower back, Hyunjin moved.

“Excuse me,” he said flatly as he stepped in between the two of you. “We’re due for a meeting.”

You blinked, playing along, lips curving. “Are we?”

“Now,” he said sharply, leading you out to the balcony without waiting for a response.

The door closed behind you, leaving only the moonlight and the buzz of music inside.

“You’re overreacting,” you said softly.

“He touched you.”

You looked up at him, studying the tightness in his eyes. “Isn’t that the point of tonight? Appearances, strategy and getting deals?”

His voice was low. “Not with him.”

You stepped forward, crossing your arms. “Why does it matter?”

He was quiet, then slowly said, “Because I hated it.”

You stared. “Hyunjin…”

He ran a hand through his hair, stepping away like it physically hurt to be near you and not say this.

“I’ve spent years pretending it didn’t bother me. When men flirt with you at deals. When you go undercover and don’t answer your phone for hours. When you smile at people the way you only smile at me.”

Your breath hitched.

“I thought I could ignore it. That being your boss meant I had to shut it down. But I can’t anymore. I—” He exhaled. “I don’t want anyone else touching you. Or making you laugh. Or getting to look at you the way I do.”

Your voice was barely a whisper. “And how do you look at me?”

He turned to you, his gaze was fierce. “Like you’re mine.”

The silence felt deafening, your heart was pounding and you were torn between duty and desire. But for once, you want to let your heart win.

“Then say it,” you whispered. “Say what you’ve been holding back.”

“I’m in love with you,” he said, stepping closer. “Have been for a long time.”

You searched his face for a lie, for anything that would allow you to retreat back into safety.

But there was only Hyunjin, raw and honest, with a sincerity so intense it was almost frightening.

So you took his hand, soft smile breaking through.

“Took you long enough.”

The tension didn’t break immediately. It held for one more breath, one last second of restraint

and then Hyunjin kissed you like he was afraid the moment would vanish if he waited any longer.

It wasn’t soft. It was fire.

It was the heat of years of stolen glances, late-night missions, stitched-up wounds and stitched-up hearts. His hand gripped the back of your neck, drawing you impossibly close, his mouth claiming yours with a hunger that had been caged too long. You melted into him, hands fisting the lapels of his suit, gasping into his mouth when he backed you against the marble railing of the balcony.

“Say it again,” you whispered between kisses.

“I’m in love with you,” he growled against your jaw, then again, and again, like a vow.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless and flushed, he rested his forehead against yours, lips barely brushing.

“You ruined me, you know,” he murmured. “I was fine until you made yourself impossible to live without.”

You smiled. “Good. Now you know how I felt every time you got shot.”

He chuckled, low and soft. “You’re mine now.”

“I always was.”

*********************

The next morning, you woke up in his bedroom, the sheets tangled around your legs, your body still humming from the night before. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, catching the edges of his face where he slept beside you, his lips parted just slightly. He looked so peaceful, so real. And somehow that made your heart race even more. You shifted slightly, cheeks flushing as the memories returned in waves. The closeness, the whispered words, the way he touched you like he knew you.

His arms were wrapped securely around your waist, but as you tried reaching for your phone on the nightstand, his arm tightened.

“Don’t move,” he murmured, voice gravelly from sleep.

You stilled, then chuckled. “Hyunjin, I have thirty missed texts from Bang Chan and two encrypted messages from Dubai. I need to—”

“No,” he mumbled, eyes still closed, hand moving up to cup your cheek.

His thumb brushed softly along your jaw as he finally looked at you. And you swore you’d never seen someone look at you like that.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, “how long I dreamed of this.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his raspy voice.

“You, waking up next to me. Me being able to touch you like this, talk to you like this. Without hiding it. Without pretending I don’t want everything.”

He leaned up, just slightly, pressing a sleepy kiss to your forehead, then your nose, and finally your lips — gentler this time, like a man savoring what he’d almost lost.

“You’re not allowed to leave this bed,” he said.

You raised a brow. “Says who?”

“Says your boss. And your boyfriend. And the man who’s hopelessly, irreversibly in love with you.”

You laughed softly, burying your face into his chest. “Well then, I guess I’m stuck.”

He smiled against your hair. “Good.”

---------------------

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