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aria-reblogs · 1 day ago

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Silence Isn't Golden

Saja boys x reader

Warnings: Omegaverse, poly relationships, female reader, eventual smut, MDNI 18+

*Italicized is for the reader's thoughts. A/N: I know, I know- It's not the heat chapter quite yet. I'm sorry! I had some things I wanted to get out of the way with Rumi before that chapter. Next chapter will be the Reader's heat, I promise! And I've already started writing it so, soon! Not proofread! Sorry if there are any mistakes!

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Chapter 5.

Rumi walks down the quiet streets, her hoodie pulled all the way up so no one recognizes her, but she wouldn’t care if they did. Not right now. All she can think of is how you were probably with the demons now, how it jeopardizes the Honmoon. Everything feels so wrong like her life was falling apart. She wants you to be happy, really she does, but to jeopardize the Honmoon… and her chance to be normal? She won’t let that happen. She fiddles with a bracelet on her wrist; one you made her way you guys were kids and one of the only things Celine let her have that was remotely connected to you.

She growls to herself, her patterns pulsing along her arms. It was all falling apart. She watches the Honmoon flash red and continues down the street. The instant the girls found you were gone; they all immediately set out to find where the Saja Boys live though none of them had any luck yet. She startles when her phone rings and she quickly answers it. “Any luck yet?” Mira’s voice comes over the phone, irritated and tired. “No… Rumi we need sleep, the fan signing is tomorrow, we can look again after.” Zoey’s joined the call on Mira’s end. “Yeah Rumi, we’re going to be useless if we’re exhausted.”

Rumi really doesn’t want to agree, she wants to continue, but they are right. “Alright… Let’s head back to the tower for now. I’ll see you guys there.” She hangs up the call and takes a deep breath. She will find you and then she’ll keep you safe and away from the demons. She heads back to the apartment, taking down several demons on her way. She stops halfway back and detours. Her patterns are too noticeable right now, too alive. It makes her feel disgusting and useless. She can’t protect the Honmoon when she has the very things that make her the enemy.

She climbs up several houses and sits down on a rook overlooking the city. It’s gorgeous, the way the lights reflect in the night sky. “I want you to be happy ___... I really do, but your happiness… It’s the very thing I’ve been told is evil, the thing I must destroy for the good of the word. To banish Gwi-ma and all demons forever, to be rid of my patterns… I know you’ll hate me, I know and I’m so sorry… S-so sorry for what I must do.” She curls up on herself and sobs, her shoulders shaking as she cries. Her happiness will cause one of her sisters to suffer and that weight is so heavy on her shoulders.

She cries and cries before her sobs dissolve into sniffles. She looks at the city again, her eyes puffy from crying. The Honmoon ripples blue, but the large red spots show the weak spots caused by the demons ___ is bonded to. She sniffles again, wiping her face with her sleeve, she will do what needs to be done and it will hurt. She knows it’ll tear her and ___ apart, but for the safety of the world and… selfishly herself, she’ll do it. She finally stands and casts one more look at the city view before hopping off the roof. She takes her time heading back to the tower, relishing in the quiet night, allowing herself to think about everything she must do. “Alright, fan signing tomorrow… idol awards… I can do this; we can do this.” Though her tone was confident, a flicker of doubt flickered in her heart. When she finally enters the tower it’s past midnight and she quietly slips in, hoping Mira and Zoey are asleep. They’re not. She winces when she sees them sitting up on the couch like angry parents when their teenager comes home too late. “Where the hell have you been? It’s past midnight and we spoke over two hours ago.” She sighs and sits next to them. “I know… I just need a minute to process everything.” They could see how heavy something was weighing on her shoulders. Zoey and Mira each take up a spot on either side of her and squish her into a hug. “Yeah, but the great part is, you don’t have to do it alone.” Zoey whispers quietly, resting her head on Rumi’s shoulder. “We’re here for you Rumi. I may be gruff around the edges, but you know I’ll always listen to what’s on your mind.”

Rumi usually never shows her emotions in front of them, it makes her too vulnerable, and her patterns always act up. She can’t help herself this time though, she starts crying. “I… I d-don’t want to hurt ___... E-everything we’ve been working for… i-it’ll tear her in pieces…” Mira and Zoey look at each other and hug Rumi tighter. “Maybe we can find a way to undo the bond? Maybe Celine would know?” Zoey suggests quietly, rubbing circles on Rumi’s back. Mira gives Zoey a flat look. “We know what she would say. Your faults and fears must never be seen. She’d tell us to ignore all distractions and do what must be done to complete the golden Honmoon.”

Once Rumi calms down Zoey moves to make some warm tea, setting the kettle on the stove. “Don’t worry, Rumi. We’ll figure something out.” Mira nods, agreeing with Zoey. “Yeah, maybe there’s even a way to break the bond?” Rumi pauses, thinking about something for a moment. “You know, there might be something at Celine’s house. There was always an attic room she never let me in, saying it was too dangerous and full of old stuff. Maybe she kept something up there?”

Zoey walks back over to the couch, balancing three cups of tea. “Great! We should go visit her after the fan signing tomorrow. I’m sure we’ll find something.” She sets Mira’s and Rumi’s tea on the table before sipping her own. They sit in silence before Rumi stands. “We should get some sleep; it’ll be a bust day tomorrow.” She gives them both a half-smile and heads to her room.

Once her door closes, Mira and Zoey look at each other. “There is more she’s not telling us.” Zoey nods, sipping her tea again. “Yeah… I don’t know why she won’t just tell us.” Mira scoffs, standing. “She doesn’t trust us with it… whatever it is. But it doesn’t really matter, we can’t do anything about it. Let’s just get some sleep.” Mira heads to her room as Zoey cleans up the tea before also heading to her room.

Rumi sighs, walking out onto her balcony. “Breaking the bond… I wonder if it is possible. That way, it’ll save ___ the pain of being separated from those demons when we seal the golden Honmoon.” She leans on the railing, glancing down at the weak spots in the Honmoon. “Just a little bit longer… then I’ll be normal. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “Hey! That’s my spoon.” Baby snaps, lunging at Mystery over the counter. Abby stands in front of the stove, stirring some rice in a pot. “It’s just a spoon you two.” Romance glances over at the drama as he cuts several different vegetables for the soup Abby is making. “No, it’s war.” Baby growls, trying to grab the spoon from Mystery.

Mystery just smiles and moves over to you, gently slipping the spoon in your mouth. “Good?” He asks softly. The flavors of the soup blend into a rich and creamy taste. You nod, smiling at him. “V-very.” Abby grins in pride, turning to face you. You nearly fall off the stool you’re on from laughing. He’s wearing a pink apron that says, ‘Mr. Good Looking Is Cooking’. “You hear that? She likes my soup!” “Your apron is stupid, and it’s our soup. We’re helping too.” Baby scowls at Abby, grabbing a new spoon from the drawer. Romance shakes his head, a smile on his face as he dumps the veggies from his cutting board into the pot, while Jinu measures the amount of seasoning needed. You sit on a stool by the fridge, watching them all in amusement and love. The bickering, the simplicity, you can feel the bond thrumming in happiness. If only the stupid suppressants would wear off, then the bond can truly be complete. You shake yourself out of your thoughts when you hear a crash. Baby had successfully crashed into Jinu who was putting seasoning in the soup… now the soup is on the floor. You blink in shock; Baby is squished under Jinu who looks absolutely pissed at Baby. “NOT THE SOUP! “BABY!” “WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU DO THAT?!” Romance, Jinu, and Abby all yell out as their hard work ends up on the floor. You wince, covering you ears as they all yell at once. Mystery appears behind you and covers you hands with his "Enough!"That’s enough for everyone to stop. Mystery never raises his voice. As soon as they see you with your ears covered, they immediately look like a bunch of kicked puppies. “Sorry…” Jinu looks like he might cry. He walks over and hugs you, pressing your face to his shoulder. “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have yelled like that.” Mystery steps back and helps Baby up, letting Jinu have his moment. You wrap your arms around Jinu and inhale his scent. He smells like a library. “I-it’ss… okay..” You stutter out, not wanting him to feel guilty. “Let’s just order pizza. We can make soup another day.” Abby picks up the soup pot, setting it on the stove before tossing a cloth at Baby. “You’re cleaning up the mess though.” “What? Hell no-“ He starts protesting, but Romance makes a ‘tsk’ sound and walks away. “Nope, not helping you. You made the mess; you clean it up.” Mystery sits on the counter, dialing the number of a random pizza place and you sigh, relaxing into Jinu’s embrace. ‘He’s comfy…’ You think to yourself and before you can stop it, you yawn. With a smile, Jinu picks you up and moves to the living room. “You can take a nap baby. We’ll wake you when the pizza gets here.” All the boys move into the living room after Baby finishes cleaning the kitchen. They all just gravitate towards you. “Look at her, so peaceful.” Mystery purrs, the sound echoing in the room as he sits down next to you and Jinu. Baby plops on the other side and lays over, his head resting on your lap. “No fair.” Romance whines, pouting as he sits on the floor close to you. Abby just chuckles and sits in the chair opposite the couch, stretching out.

It's only half an hour before the pizza arrives, but when the pizza delivery driver knocks everyone jumps. You shift, yawning softly as you wake, glancing over as Romance answers the door and pays for the pizza. “Foods here.” He came back with 5 boxes of pizza. You look at it with wide eyes. “F-five?” Abby winks already opening a box. “What can we say? We need our fuel.” Baby is off to the side of the room looking intently at his phone, not even paying attention to the pizza. Mystery snatches three pieces of pizza from Abby’s box before disappearing again, smirking to himself. You shift and look to see what kind of pizza they have. “Ch-cheese.” You mumble softly as you open the box and take a piece out. As you eat you keep looking over at Baby, wondering what he has on his phone that’s so interesting. He eventually notices you look and walks over. “So, HUNTR/X is having their fan signing tomorrow.” They all go still. The plan had been to crash it, but now... They all glance at you then back at each other. “It’s fine, we can skip it. It won’t make much of a difference.” Until it did. Suddenly with a flash of light all the boys were gone. You drop your pizza and freeze, glancing around. The bond tugs painfully, almost panicked. “W-where…” You look around in a panic, fear creeping up your spine. They were gone. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Far below the Honmoon. “You dare defy me, Jinu?” Jinu freezes, slowly turning to face Gwi-ma. “You think your little mate is safe from me? I want the Honmoon broken, you will go to that ‘fan sign’ you will take more of HUNTR/X fans. Do I make myself clear?” Jinu glances behind him, the other boys are at the bottom of Gwi-ma’s altar looking just as distraught as he feels. “Do not think I cannot reach your mate. She is bound to you, and you are mine.” Jinu’s mind was racing. It’s true, they had all forgotten their purpose for being in their human disguises when they found ___. If Gwi-ma hurt one hair on her head… “Alright. We’ll go, but don’t touch her. Please.” Gwi-ma chuckles, his flame growing brighter. “Ah, Jinu. Reduced to begging. Do not forget what happened to the last people you loved. You. Left. Them.” Jinu cried out, clutching his head as visions of his mother and sister flash through his mind. “Do as I wish, destroy the Honmoon, the hunters, and she will be yours. Fail me, and I will feast on her soul.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As quickly as it happened, they were back. All of them gasping, cheeks wet as they shudder. The visions Gwi-ma forced into their heads were anything but pleasant. They all take a long moment to get their bearings again before they realize you’re gone. “Where did she go?!” A thud from the other room causes all of them to rush down the hallway. After they disappeared, you started searching every room in panic. “Darling?!” “Sweetheart!?” You stumble out of a storage room, looking at them with wide eyes like they were your whole world.

You immediately rush towards them, Baby darting forward and pulling you into a crushing hug closely followed by the others. You tremble in the middle of the group hug; when you realized your hearing was gone you had been so scared they had left you. Abby wraps around you from behind, cocooning you between him and Baby. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I know that was probably really scary, but we’d never leave you, okay?” Abby presses several kisses to the top of your head while Baby nuzzles into your neck. Romance takes one of your hands and presses kisses to each finger. “Your ours darling. We’ll always keep you safe.” Mystery scoots closer and just starts purring, hoping to sooth your nerves. Jinu stans off to the side, eyes looking at you, but his mind is miles away. ‘Gwi-ma… the fan signing so close to her first heat, it’s asking for trouble.’ Jinu growls under his breath, running a hand through his hair as he quietly slips away to think. “It’ll be fine… The fan signing will only last a few hours and then we can come right back. ___ won’t be left alone very long.” He looks out the penthouse window, his human disguise falling away, leaving him with glowing eyes and purple skin with his demon patterns. “I won’t let anything happen to her. Not so long as I’m alive.”

The next morning is slow and lazy. Abby makes some eggs for breakfast, Romance makes some heart shape toast, Baby gets several different drinks for everyone to choose from, Mystery keeps himself close to you either purring or just lightly brushing his shoulder against yours. After everything that happened last night, they refuse to leave you alone, not that you’re complaining. When everyone sits down for breakfast Jinu enters, looking tired and drained. When breakfast is ready and everyone sits down to eat, Jinu stands. “So, ___... Me and the boys are going to have to leave this afternoon. It’s only for a few hours, but… you must stay here, okay? With only twenty-four hours max until your heat starts, we don’t want you wandering around.” Baby leans on the table, poking his eggs. “We don’t want to go either, but we have to.” You look at all of them, there was something different. ‘They’re not telling me something… I don’t want to push though; they might get angry.’ You take a deep breath and nod. “O-okay. Be safe?” Abby leans over and kisses your cheek, before cupping your face in his hands. “We’ll be fine, sweetheart. It’s you we’re worried about.” Romance whimpers quietly, scooting his chair closer so he can hug you. “We’ll feel if you need us darling. The bond is strong enough now, anything you feel, we also get twinges of.” “Just… stay in the penthouse. There are other demons who… who would want to try and get to you when your heat starts.” Mystery whispers in your ear, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. With a surge of warmth, your cheeks flush at their concern and you nod. “Promise.” Everyone goes back to their breakfast, Baby and Romance bickering about the last piece of toast, Abby watching them in amusement as Mystery takes the last piece of toast from them. You smile at their antics before looking for Jinu. ‘He must have slipped out…’ You quietly stand and move to the living room, where Jinu sits by the window. You quietly pad over to him and sit down next to him, your head leaning on his shoulder. You want to say something, but harder words still won’t come easily. So, you settle for taking his hand and intertwining your fingers together. Jinu squeezes your hand and rests his cheek on the top of your head. “I love you. I hope you know.” He whispers softly into your hair. You gasp softly when you feel something wet on your head and try to move. “No… please… let’s stay like this for a little longer…? Please…?” There was something in his voice, so soft and broken, that made you agree. “Yeah.”

You don’t know how long you both sit there, but the bond thrums contentedly. Eventually Baby quietly enters, pausing when he sees you both. “…Not to interrupt, but it’s time to go Jinu.” Jinu tenses, slowly letting you go and not letting you see his face. “Okay.” He presses one more kiss to the top of your head before heading into the other room. You look over at Baby who’s staring right at you, there is an intense look in his eyes. “You really don’t know how important you are to us.” You tilt your head, patting your chest over your heart. “The bond...” Baby shakes his head. “It’s more than that. Something far more intimate, more vulnerable. You think Jinu would cry in front of anyone else?” Baby gives you another look before popping a sucker in his mouth and heading to the other room. ‘Something more than the bond? What am I to them? I thought I was just their mate, but now…’ You stand and head into the other room to see them off. “There she is!” Abby sweeps you into a big bear hug, inhaling your scent. “Mm, well see you soon sweetheart. Remember to stay inside.” He gently sets you down and lets Romance drape himself over you. “My darling, my precious. Promise me you will stay inside?” He gives you a look, almost like he has hearts in his eyes… “Back off.” Baby shoves Romance’s face out of the way and pulls you in for a kiss. “Be safe. Don’t do anything stupid or I’ll kick your ass.” “Baby!” Romance scolds, trying to smack him. “What? I will.” He looks at you with a smirk before heading towards the door. Mystery hugs you from behind, nuzzling the back of your neck. “Be safe. Call us if you need anything. We’ll feel it.” He gently spins you and pulls you into a gentle kiss. Before you can turn again, he lifts his hair lightly for you to see. Gorgeous golden eyes stare back at you, a small gasp leaving you, his eyes are the most beautiful things. “Stay here. We love you… I love you.” His lips twitch into a smile and he steps back like nothing happened.

Jinu waits by the door; eyes locked on you. You smile and walk over to him and pull him into a kiss, earning a whistle from Abby. Jinu’s ears go pink, but he kisses you back. When you pull back and look up at him you whisper quietly in his ear. “..I.. l-love.. you..” He freezes, his whole face flushing slowly. “I love you too…” He presses a kiss to your nose before they all leave. You wouldn’t trade them for anything.

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“Alright team! I know everything is Saja, Saja, Saja, but we’re going to turn into HUNTR/X, HUNTR/X, HUNTR/X Yay!” Bobby looks at the girls, excitement in his eyes. “Some of these fans slept on the sidewalk. Overnight!” Mira, Zoey and Rumi look at each other, taking a deep breath and nodding. “Happy fans, happy Honmoon!” Bobby gestures for security to let the fans in, waving his arms for them to calm down. “Hey, hey, hey! Single file, no pushing.” Rumi pulls a poster out of her pile, looking up at the person in the sleeping bag. “And who should I make this out to?” Silence. Then a smirk. “To our biggest fans.” All the sleeping bags drop and show the Saja Boys, who pose. The crowd goes wild. “The Saja Boys!!” Bobby takes a deep breath; he can handle this. “It’s an honor! Table, now!” Half the fans move over to the second table, causing Rumi to gasp. “We loose have the fans…” She thinks for a moment before wincing, dreading what she’s about to say. “The Saja Boys will sit with us!” Mira and Zoey look at her in horror.” What?!” No!” The crew moves the second table closer to where the girls are sitting and brings more chairs. Romance sits on Mira’s right, looking at her with a smirk. “We keep meeting like this~” Though internally he’s cringing in disgust, flirting with anyone who is you. Abby sits on Mira’s other side, making impressions of his abs and signing them for the fans, though he’s not really enjoying himself without you. Baby sits on Zoey’s left and just rolls his eyes and drinks his soda, while Mystery sits on her right and ignores her attempts to show interest.

Jinu sits next to Rumi who glares at him from the corner of her eyes. “Where the hell is ___?” She hisses at him and he just smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Sorry, she’s ours now.” Rumi snarls, before grinning back at a fan and signing a poster for them. “She’s our sister, she’s not yours to possess.” Jinu smirks and signs something for a fan. “Well, I’m afraid that’s not true. The bond links us all together. She is ours.” “Are you two whispering?” A fan asks and they both laugh nervously and sign a poster for the fan, who just smiles and points at her shirt. Rujinu. “Your secret is safe with me.” They both cringe internally but just smile. On the other end of the table Romance, Mira and Abby were arguing over who was going to sign a fan’s cast. “I’ll sign first~” Romance purrs and tugs the fan’s cast towards him. Mira snatches It back. “No, I’ll sign first.” “No, I will.” Abby grabs it with a smirk. Down the line, Zoey smiles at a fan. “Thank you for coming!” The fan tries to reach and touch Mystery, so he barks at them. Zoey gasps and smacks him with a pen.” No! Bad Saja Boy!” Mystery growls under his breath at her, not liking that she hit him. A small girl approaches Jinu. “Mr. Jinu? I made this for you.” She hands her drawing to Jinu, who freezes, staring at the drawing. Rumi glares at him, still wondering where they’re holding you. Jinu stands abruptly. “Unfortunately, the Saja Boys have to run. Thank you everyone!” The boys all bow before heading off stage, their shoulders dropping in exhaustion after they’re out of sight. “That was horrendous. I hated every second of flirting with anyone who isn’t out precious ___.” Romance gags, looking like he might fall over. “She hit me.” Mystery growls, rubbing his head where Zoey had smacked him. “We should get back now.” Jinu stares at the little girl’s drawing ‘Jinu, you have a beautiful soul.’ He sighs and tries to say something when the bond suddenly tugs. Hard. They all freeze when suddenly they feel it. Heat. Intense and bordering painful. “She’s in heat!” “Let’s go.” In a poof they were all gone. They weren’t going to let you go for a moment without the love and care you deserve. Especially not on your first heat. They would be sure to take care of you.

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#kpop demon hunters #saja boys #saja boys x reader #kpdh #kpdh x reader #im not normal about this fic 😭😭

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aria-reblogs · 2 days ago

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The one time that MC wanted a peaceful fansigning... And I'm giggling at the caterpillar, it was def planned with the sleeping bags LMAO

The Artist Who Lives for the Plot𓂃🖊

Warning/s: Fem!Reader, Mild language/swearing, Still Chaotic™, Verbal bullying disguised as flirting, petty drama, reader still very much suffering (comically), Unwilling reverse harem(?), Reader is done with them all (not really) [A/n]: Guess who's getting greedy. Hard? or Easy? 😈

Days passed in a blur of noise, spice, and sass.

Somehow, living with them had become... normal. Like brushing your teeth in the morning, or screaming into a pillow before bed. Just routine.

A bizarre, chaotic routine where someone always wanted to be drawn in the sketchbook like it was some sacred text.

And also where someone threatened to fight you by 9 AM, and you countered by staring them dead in the eye while eating cereal. With a fork.

A prime example of a bizarre morning? You stumbled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and half-awake, only to find Jinu—shirtless, abs on full display, still glistening from a fresh shower.

You yawned.

He blinked. "…Did you just yawn while I'm shirtless?"

"Sorry for being sleepy?" You squinted, unimpressed. Half. "Did you want applause?"

Jinu, poor boy, looked offended. Like his abs had been personally betrayed. It was the first time your eyes had ever seen his, and they couldn't even be bothered to sparkle.

"Are you even looking properly—?"

"Oh, I'm looking alright." You shoot back, shameless, eyes scanning his figure. Not in a perverted way. No.

His cheeks flush. For a second, he's flustered—caught off guard because you're looking at him like that. But the illusion shatters quickly.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him with the clinical intensity of someone committing every line and shadow to memory. Not flirty. Not flustered. Just… focused.

Like an artist cataloging references.

Jinu blinks. The tiniest pout forms. Still…he supposes he's glad he has your attention. But the moment he's started to bask in it you just had to say—

"Hold that pose." And then you left. Literally ran back to your room and came back wielding a sketchbook like it was a sword.

"Left shoulder up a bit. Chin down. Yep. You're a lamp now."

"…A lamp?"

"Shh. Lamps don't talk."

Cue Abby walking in, dramatically shoving Jinu aside and throwing off his shirt like a magician's cape. "Ahem. Now gaze upon perfection."

You didn't even flinch. Pencil flying, you said, "Yeah, yeah. Move a little left. I need contrast."

Jinu stood behind Abby like a sulky Sims character. His tail would've been wagging when you called his name—but instead of a solo spotlight, he got posed next to Abby like a backup dancer.

It had only been five days since you officially started living with the boys, but at this point, you could predict their shenanigans like a weather app.

And just like weather apps, they were only accurate 50% of the time and still managed to ruin your day. It's safe to say, you had adjusted.

Kind of.

Sometimes you wondered if this was some ancient masochist tradition. Like, was teasing their roommate a new form of meditation for them? (You feel a sense of déjà vu...)

Your wound was healing up nicely—thanks to the boys' thoughtful decision to buy you ointment and cream. Both for hands and the scratch. You had a growing suspicion they'd argued over the brand like a bunch of aunties in a pharmacy aisle, but hey, it worked.

Romance was the first to start it, because of course he was. His skincare obsession had blossomed into a nightly routine with you. Sheet masks, serums, him judging you for using 3-in-1 products (you're still offended). It was a bonding experience. One that also made your skin stupidly soft.

Sometimes he'd knock on your door with a, "It's hydration o’clock," and you'd be forced into another twenty-minute "spa night" that ended with him holding a jade roller like a wand. He called it "beauty sorcery."

The gochujang, however, was a sore spot.

Literally.

You made it from scratch, okay? Handmade with love. For dipping. Because guess what. You weren't imagining it then when it felt like it was touched that night.

Baby was indeed eating it. Like. Fucking. Soup.

You opened the fridge one day and it was just... gone. Evaporated. Atomized. You stared into the fridge, hand still on the door, eyes dead.

"…What."

You turned slowly, like a horror movie protagonist about to discover the killer in the hallway. "WHO—"

"Yo, this is fucking bomb." Baby said through a mouthful of toast, lips a little too red from the suspiciously familiar sauce. "You made more, right?"

You didn't respond. You just blinked. Then blinked again. Then looked at him like you were witnessing the fall of humanity in real-time.

This was the same man who, on the night of their debut, won the hot sauce-chugging contest streamed live. You've been replaying it because it haunts you.

Was his tongue even real? Did it have taste receptors? Was his digestive system made of metal?

And now he'd chugged your gochujang like it was orange juice.

You were too stunned to be mad. Maybe even a little flattered he liked it so much. Aside from the sauce theft, life had settled into a strangely sweet groove.

Movie nights became a thing. You introduced them to anime. Abby was instantly hooked on the flashy ones with explosions.

Mystery liked the chill slice-of-life shows but denied it. Baby preferred horror, because of the jumpscares.

They got so into it, it became law. So of course when a jumpscare happened during one screening, and you instinctively grabbed Baby's arm, it was over.

He didn't brag. He just coasted on the high for the whole damn day—smirking like he knew something you didn't. Which, to be fair, he probably did.

"No big deal." He'd say, lips twitching with that almost-smile he does when he's particularly pleased with himself. "You can grab me again next time. I won't bite."

He paused. Then grinned, just slow enough to be annoying.

"Unless you want me to."

Abby picked you up before you could jump on Baby. The smug cat only whipped his phone out.

Ever since, the boys played rock-paper-scissors to fight for the seats next to you. It was war.

Clothes? Covered. Each of them had bought you one piece, like it was a team-building exercise. They said you didn't need many. That you could just borrow theirs.

You decided not to think too hard about what that implied. It was better for your sanity. Besides, you also had a few spare clothes from your friends anyway.

Your motto these days was: "Let them be weird. I have money to make."

Your friends not only gave you clothes, but also underwear (thank you, God), a USB fan shaped like a frog, and a Huntrix shirt. You sent proposal emojis. They said yes.

Your room now looked lived-in. There were comics stacked in the corner, a small plant you named Minty, and your sketchbooks safely tucked into your drawer like national treasure.

Ever since Romance had gifted you high-end art supplies, you were lowkey doting on him. Everyone noticed. Everyone suffered. Romance had three of your drawings framed in his room now. You claimed it was a "test run."

He claimed you were in love with him.

Mystery disagreed. He laid on your lap like a smug bastard every time he got the chance, glaring at Romance from under your sketchbook.

There was also that day.

A short trip to buy kitchen utensils—originally supposed to be you and Jinu. But the second you two walked into the store, the other four magically appeared.

Jinu didn't hide his pout.

Mystery, meanwhile, barked at a man who'd been staring at you too long. No words. Just— barked. Then turned to ask your opinion on whisks like nothing happened.

"Silicone or nonstick?" He asked, holding up a spatula as if he hadn't just gone full German Shepherd two seconds ago.

Jinu was not amused. You? You kind of were.

There's also a new thing. They picked up your lingo. Randomly calling outfits "straight from Pinterest." You caught Baby calling someone "a walking mood board" and nearly fell out of your chair due to laughing too much.

Your suspicions have started to rise though ever since that stupid misunderstanding about the 'lucky guy' (You still make fun of them with it).

The boys were weird. They've been going out lately, understandable considering they're officially idols. But it's a coming-home-late-at-night weird or disappearing suddenly weird.

Jinu sometimes sneaks out, but the others weren't particularly bothered or the slightest bit curious.

You feel like you're missing something but didn't want to pry. You rubbed your forearm where the thin scar was still fading.

Tonight, you were enjoying peace (for the time being). Phone to your side, webtoon book in hand, blanket over your shoulders, earbuds in as you sang along to Soda Pop. Shoulders dancing. Swaying.

"Cool me down, you're so hot—"

Then came the banging.

You blinked and removed one earbud. "What now…"

You stood up and opened the front door. The boys stood there like a K-pop group at the end of a war film. Clothes torn. Handsome faces scratched. Strands of hair standing like they were lost in the wild.

They stared.

You stared.

"...What the fuck happened."

All five men, cleaned, bandaged, and pouting in various parts of the room.

You had played nurse because someone had to. They refused to help each other. Mystery sulked because you bandaged Romance first.

Baby pouted because you didn't dab his scratch with the same 'gentle touch' you gave Mystery. Which was a lie. You were careful with all of them.

Abby complained about not getting the same brand of bandaids.

And Jinu? Well, he was quiet.

Which was weird.

Not the dramatic-sighing, doorway-lurking kind of quiet—more like the processing-an-error-in-his-code kind. His eyes hadn't left the floor for five minutes straight. You almost checked if his batteries died.

Finally, you asked what happened. Like a teacher asking who started the food fight in the cafeteria while standing ankle-deep in mashed potatoes.

"We were ambushed." Romance said grimly, like someone who once started a kitchen fire trying to microwave eggs.

"…By who?" You asked slowly.

Jinu didn't hesitate. "The Huntrix."

The what?

Your brain flatlined. It did not compute. You looked at them, all bandaged but still weirdly attractive—ugh, focus—but then came the next intrusive thought: Was this the world's most elaborate inside joke? Were you being gaslit with lore?

For a moment, you felt like that woman in the math meme, blinking at floating equations.

"The Huntrix?" You repeated, like you were trying to unlock a hidden language.

"Mira was ruthless." Abby muttered, rolling his shoulders like a soldier recounting the battlefield.

Wait. Mira?

. . .

Is this their new way of messing with you? Based on the fancomic they caught you reading last night? Seriously?

Well, two can play that game.

You gasped. Loudly. "WAIT. YOU FOUGHT MINA?! THAT'S SO COOL." This is what they get for not being honest.

Romance looked like he'd just been hit with emotional whiplash.

"She almost took my arm off!" Abby snapped, gesturing to the aforementioned limb. He was also, suspiciously, flexing. Priorities.

"She stole my favorite jacket." Baby growled, like it personally wounded his soul. (ironic)

You bit back a laugh and opened your webtoon comic, casually flipping through the pages.

"You mean," You playfully start. "the one with pink hair, dual scythes, low-key murdery but looks hot while doing it?"

"Yeah— why?" Romance asked, squinting warily.

You stared for one long second and came to a conclusion with yourself: they were absolutely screwing with you. Wouldn't be the first time.

You beamed—and you swore you saw his expression shift, just a little. You almost broke character. "I LOVE HER."

Silence. Deafening.

Mystery let out a single bark—sharp, betrayed. Baby's face was scrunched up beside him.

Jinu looked personally offended, his eye twitching. "You… stan the person trying to kill us?"

You looked at him, unbothered. "First of all, she's not trying to kill me."

Romance groaned and buried his face into a couch pillow. Abby gave you the kind of stare people give when their ice cream falls face-down in the parking lot.

"Second," You said, dead serious. "have you seen her character design? It's iconic. That color palette? Flawless. Her backstory? Deep. The drama? Delicious. The trauma? Real. And the hair—"

You sighed dreamily, like a poet in love with a deadly muse.

"She's everything I wish I could draw." You whispered like you were in a theater and had a spotlight on you.

Abby stood, done. "You're sleeping outside."

You replied back instantly, "No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"Don't touch my blanket."

And then, as the silence crept back in, you stared at them.

"…Okay, but seriously." You leaned forward, dead serious. "Have you guys been doing drugs?"

The way they all froze made you hum.

Baby's stared at you. Abby gave you another look of betrayal. Jinu's eyebrow twitched like a lie detector.

Romance just laid down on the floor like this conversation was a personal attack. Mystery turned away, ashamed.

Their expressions said everything. Subtitles not needed.

You stared at their collective performance. You could feel the bullshit. It radiated. It glowed.

Something just wasn't adding up, and you didn't like that. Not one bit. You weren't just messing with them. You were worried. You were confused, and no one was being honest with you.

They were acting like extras from a spy movie, and no one was giving you the full plot.

And for some reason, your brain went back to those glowing eyes.

What if that wasn't supernatural? What if it was some government tech?!

You narrowed your eyes. Were they secret agents? There's so many possibilities! And that thought alone was enough to give you an headache but more excitement. Life can be full of surprises, after all.

You didn't say it out loud. But you knew they felt it—your suspicion, the tension.

You could tell because Baby and Mystery shared a look, Romance looked away, and Abby leaned towards Jinu then whispered, "She's onto us."

Which meant two things.

One: They were definitely hiding something from you.

Two: They were going to annoy you on purpose now to make you forget about it.

The 'recovering patients' were lounging around the living room like a bunch of overdramatic war survivors.

Who knows where they got those injuries from. A bar fight? A rooftop duel at midnight? A tragic run-in with a very territorial goose?

Whatever it was, they weren't talking, and you weren't about to star in a soap opera interrogation scene. You let it go. For now.

Romance had claimed the other side of the couch with his dramatic sprawl, hand over his forehead like a widow mourning her third husband.

Abby had kicked his feet up on the table with the grace of a man who just got punched, then called it a 'war trophy.' Jinu was twirling a bandage around his finger like he was proud of it.

Mystery had the audacity to use your fuzzy blanket and curl up near your feet. You definitely heard him say something about your scent.

And Baby was pretending to wince every time he turned his neck too far to the left, only to look you dead in the eye to check if you noticed.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, sketchpad balanced on your knees, doing your best to focus now—after all the chaos of checking their life-threatening scratches and whipping something up for them to eat before they dramatically withered away.

You had just started to enjoy the silence—

"Ow."

You didn't look up. "No."

"Ow." Jinu repeated, somehow louder and more tragic this time.

Your brows knit. "No."

"My hand hurts… Would you mind feeding me?"

You turned your head just slightly. Jinu was pouting. Genuinely pouting.

"I'll feed you my fist."

"That is not how you treat your patient." He said solemnly, voice suddenly raspy. "You're supposed to hold my hand and whisper that I'm so brave."

Before you could blink, he added—dramatically wiping at his cheek with the back of his hand, as if shedding a tear, "Do they not teach bedside manners at art school?"

You blinked. Then slowly squinted at him, expression blank. Unamused. Maybe even disappointed in the medical system. "Do you want a sticker?"

He looks at you, lips curled up into a smirk. "Depends. Do I get to choose the design?"

Your eyes rolled, slow and theatrical, but the smile that followed softened the gesture. Quiet, indulgent. The kind that said you're lucky you're cute without needing a single word.

Romance, as always, took the opportunity to reclaim attention. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think our pretty artist has fallen for us."

You didn't look up, not bothering to verbally react.

"I mean," He continued, fingers grazing through his hair in the most obviously staged casual way possible. "who could resist the charm? The tension? The mysterious aura of tragic men with excellent jawlines?"

"Mysterious?" You echoed flatly. "You threw a rock at a squirrel this morning because you were scared it was following you."

Romance blinked. "It was following me."

"It was chewing."

"Exactly."

You stretched your neck and tilted your head lazily. "Besides. If I was falling, I'd pick the one who hasn't traumatized wildlife."

That shut him up. Romance laid and stared at the ceiling, thinking what kind of lines will positively work on you. Really bruising his ego, you know?

Mystery, silent as ever, had somehow nuzzled against your arm while you were distracted. You flinched slightly when his forehead bumped your shoulder.

He tilted his head, lips curled in a subtle pout, hair still veiling his eyes—like he was daring you to ignore him. Pretending to be pitiful again. Like a stray dog that knew exactly how to act tame to get picked.

You sighed and patted his head, slow and cautious. He leaned in closer, pleased that it turned out the way he wanted.

"That's what I thought." Jinu whispered like a narrator in a nature documentary. "The mysterious wolf-dog hybrid wins again."

Mystery flipped him off without looking. Baby watched in amusement.

Romance stared then went into a deep thought as if he's calculating hard math. "...Maybe I should copy him."

Abby, not to be outdone, cleared his throat loudly. Then louder. Then even louder.

You sighed again. "Yes?"

He wiggled his arm with a single, lonely bandaid on it.

"It stings." He said, voice way too soft and hopeful for a guy who could probably lift a refrigerator if you asked nicely.

You looked at him, absolutely done for this day. You missed when you were at peace earlier. Now, it's nothing but peace of shit. "…It's a papercut."

"But a very deep papercut." His eyes shifted to the side as if thinking of a very reasonable excuse. "The paper was emotional."

"Abby."

"I need a kiss to recover." -> Shameless.

You tossed a pillow at him. "Go to sleep."

He caught it dramatically and hugged it. "You heard her, boys. She's worried about us."

And just like that, the amusing night continued on.

Romance had taken it upon himself to dramatically limp into the kitchen, despite having absolutely nothing wrong with his leg, and lean on the fridge like he was in the middle of a war flashback.

"My blood sugar's low." He murmured, eyes fluttering shut. "Can't survive like this. I need… something sweet. Preferably delivered by someone soft and caring."

You didn't even pause while slicing apples. "Eat the apple. Choke if you have to."

He left after you shoved a piece of apple on his mouth. He bragged to the others you hand-fed him.

You felt their presence behind you, scheming. But before they could say their words, you turned and smiled sweetly as you held a very sharp knife. They slowly backed away.

"That's what I thought." You cackled evilly, just as Baby appeared behind you.

"Wash the dishes if you wanna spend time with me."

He raised a brow, laughing in that dry, mocking way of his. Their confidence must've grown on you. "What makes you think I'll do something like that?"

Still, Baby stood at the sink, twirling the fork like it was a cigarette and he was pondering mortality.

"These hands were made for delicate things." He muttered, eyeing the soap suds like they'd personally offended him.

You didn't even glance up as you wiped the plates. "Like making heart fingers? Yeah, you needed the upgrade." You felt him give a stink eye, not that it bothered you. "You dried one spoon."

He hummed, taking a step forward away from the sink. "Then I've done my part."

You finally looked up. He was smiling at you smugly before turning his back.

You catch the back of his collar, wow. He really does remind you of a cat. A very evil one. "Get back here."

He huffed. "Unless I get a kiss for this chore? No."

You blinked at him, slow and unimpressed. Lately, everyone’s been asking for kisses—even Jinu.

Baby smirked like he'd just checkmated you. "Is what I thou—"

You took his hand and rolled his sleeve down to cover it again. He blinked. Then blinked harder as you pressed your lips lightly to the fabric over his wrist.

"There. Now get back and finish washing."

Baby froze. The Windows loading icon was practically spinning above his head. "That—That doesn't count." He grumbled, glaring.

You stared at the plate you just wiped dry. "Well, you only said a kiss." You turned your head slightly, wearing the sly little smile he usually wore after annoying you.

Baby didn't respond right away. He just stood there, glaring at the plate like it was somehow responsible for his emotional damage.

Then, with a sharp inhale through his nose, he turned back to the sink, rolled his sleeve back up and resumed washing dishes—slow, deliberate, passive-aggressive strokes like he was plotting the soap's downfall.

You might've won this round, and worse, he knew it.

His brows furrowed deeper, jaw ticking as he scrubbed harder than necessary at a spoon that wasn't even that dirty. He refused to look your way again, mostly because his face had gone pink and the blush was climbing traitorously down his neck.

Not that it meant anything. No. He was just... overheated from the hot water.

Totally.

"I'm injured. You should be taking care of me not making me do the stupid dishes." He muttered under his breath, glaring at the suds like they'd mocked him.

You hummed, barely hiding the grin tugging at your lips. "Oh? I didn't know you wanted to be babied."

The kitchen was warm with steam and triumph.

Baby stood hunched at the sink, sleeves rolled up, pink in the face—not from embarrassment but fury. He scrubbed the dishes with the violent grace of someone imagining they were Jinu's face.

You, on the other hand, were calmly drying a plate. The satisfaction in your eyes? Unholy.

That's when Jinu appeared—no door to open, just his quiet, smug entrance as if summoned by the sound of attention slipping away from him.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, gaze flicking between the two of you. First Baby, then you, then back. His brows twitched faintly.

"…Well," He said, voice dripping casual amusement, "if I knew domestic servitude was the way to your heart, I would've worn an apron days ago."

You didn't glance at him. "Too bad. Pink suits Baby more."

Baby gave a soft huff through his nose—pretending to be unimpressed, but the slow, smug curl of his lips betrayed him. He was eating it up.

Jinu sauntered forward, deliberately slow, deliberately cool, and plucked a clean fork off the drying rack. He turned it in his hand like it was something precious. Like he was.

"Tell me," He purred, "do you reward all your little helpers this generously? Or is this one just your favorite today?"

You turned and met his gaze with faux innocence. "What are you hoping for? A sticker? A gold star?"

He clicked his tongue and grinned. "Nah. Something shinier."

From the sink, Baby snarled under his breath. "He's gonna throw a tantrum in three minutes, tops."

Jinu didn't even look at him. His eyes stayed on you, head tilted. "Only if my feelings continue to be cruelly neglected."

You tossed him a dish towel. "Then dry. Make yourself useful."

Jinu caught it one-handed, pouting slightly. "You wound me."

But he moved closer. Close enough to bump your shoulder as he took the next plate from your hands.

"I'm helping." Jinu said sweetly, then proceeded to wipe the same spoon for the fourth time—gently, like it was fragile porcelain. Eyes still locked on you. Not the spoon. Not the towel. You.

You didn't even blink. "That's the same one."

"It's got emotional residue." He said with a straight face. "I'm cleansing it."

Baby slammed another plate onto the rack. "You're stalling."

Jinu gasped. "I'm perfecting."

"You're hovering." You added, nudging him aside to dry another plate.

He floated back into place like a boomerang. "It's called quality control. Someone has to supervise Baby before he melts the dishes with that anger."

"I welcome it." Baby smiled, that mocking look flickering in his eyes. "One less thing for you to fondle."

"Oh, come on." Jinu leaned over the sink like he was inspecting a crime scene. "You call that rinsing? I've seen rainstorms with better work ethic."

"Wanna test that theory?"

"I might. If you promise to sob afterward."

You stepped between them with a sharp clatter of cutlery. "Children. Play nice."

Jinu sulked into the dish towel. "Only if I get a sticker."

"No." Does he really want a sticker? Or is this just him playing you, again.

"Gold star?"

"No."

He narrowed his eyes. "Hug?"

"…Next joke, and you're on mop duty."

He paused. Then picked up another spoon. Started wiping it with slow, reverent circles. "This one's seen things." He murmured. "This one knows pain."

You reached for the mop bucket behind you.

"I'm done! He's clean!" Jinu held up the spoon like Simba.

Baby flung soap bubbles at him.

The three of you emerged from the kitchen—You snickering at the person beside you; Baby, sleeves still damp and jaw tight; and Jinu trailing smugly behind like he hadn't spent the last ten minutes polishing a spoon while monologuing about its tragic past life.

The living room was far from calm.

Romance was sprawled dramatically across the couch, head thrown back like he was awaiting a tragic death.

Abby sat shirtless on the other side of the couch, good thing it was L shaped, icing a cut so small it was barely visible unless you squinted.

Mystery leaned against the window frame, arms crossed, eyes sharp and unreadable behind all those hair.

They all looked up as You entered. And then Baby, who still hadn't let go of the soap-based betrayal, opened his mouth and dropped the bomb with all the grace of a ticking grenade.

He points at you, lips curled up into a smirk. "She kissed me."

Silence.

Like someone pressed pause on the whole damn simulation.

"WHAT." Abby thundered, already halfway to his feet.

You glared daggers at Baby, hoping to burn a hole on his stupid face.

"No way—where? When? How long? Was there tongue?" Romance snapped upright like he'd been struck by lightning. He squinted accusingly at you. "Aren't I your favorite?! Shouldn't it be me first to get your kiss?!"

Mystery turned to Romance, a clear frown on his lips. "I'm her number one favorite." Then he looked at you, tilting his head with a sickeningly sweet voice that didn't match the dangerous glint in his eyes. "Aren't I."

You stared at them blankly, wishing for this night to end quickly. "It was—"

"Where?" Jinu interjected, eyes locked on Baby like he’d uncovered a conspiracy. "When?! I was right there—did I black out??"

Baby, cool as ever, tilted his head. "My wrist. Very classy. Very intimate."

He didn't bother himself to answer any more of their questions. Just let the chaos cook itself. This is what happens when you outsmart him. He hopes you have a hard time.

He'll step in when he thinks they've got enough of your attention.

You blinked once. Then again. Slowly, deliberately, you turned to Baby—face unreadable, gaze steady. Without a word, you reached up and pinched his cheek. Hard.

The boys stared, all frown and pouts visible. They want you to see them upset.

Even Baby looked momentarily stunned. He blinked at you, eyes twitching slightly, the corner of his mouth pulling into something dangerous. That was not part of his calculated move. Not the cheek.

No one pinches his cheek.

Fingers still on his face, you addressed the others. "I kissed the fabric of his sleeve so he'd wash the dishes. Sit down and shut up."

Baby glanced down at your hand still pinching him. In smooth retaliation, he caught your wrist and tugged you closer.

Your noses nearly brushed. His voice dropped to a slow, soft drawl. "That's not a kiss either, Sunshine. You wanna try again?"

Before you could clap back with a dry remark or knee him, Abby lifted you. Literally swept you up by your armpits like you were a feather. Nothing new actually.

"Alright." Abby announced flatly, arms wrapping around your waist like a human bear trap. "You've had your fun. She's mine now."

"Abby—!" You wriggled as you frowned.

"I'm injured. I need cuddles. It's basic triage."

You poked his cheek and snarled. "Your injuries aren't serious, you overgrown fridge—"

"Shhh." He whispered, one arm, firm and tightening around your waist while the other on your back, like a clingy boyfriend with zero boundaries. "It's cuddle o'clock."

Your face hit his chest—Ohh. You could get used to this and ignore whatever's happening. You muttered into the fabric, "Very nice."

Abby brightened instantly, smug rising like a tide. Perfect. Just when he was planning to ease you both onto the couch and solidify his position without minding the burning glares, Mystery swooped in like a shadow and snatched you away.

"I'm injured too." He said, arms sliding possessively around you from behind. His chin rested on your head, and his golden eyes glared straight at Abby.

Golden eyes locked with Abby's.

Abby's smile flattened. "Greedy dog."

Mystery smirked without shame. "She lets me be."

Abby scoffed. "You're abusing the favorite child privilege. You've glued yourself to her since Wednesday and won't let go."

"She didn't stop me did she?" Mystery shot back.

You could practically hear the claws scratching the floorboards as they squared off.

Abby tilted his head, lips curling into a slow, devilish smile. "Please. She holds me like a sin she knows she'll commit again."

He didn't even look at you—just stared past Mystery like he was already celebrating the win.

"You're just background noise, mister."

Mystery didn't even blink. He smiled—slow, languid, lethal. "Then repent." His voice dropped to a velvet drawl. "But don't expect her to stop sinning."

His gaze flicked to you—pointed, certain. If Abby was the sin… He was the indulgence you never could give up. And he knew it.

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It throbbed.

Abby's grin faltered just slightly. Mystery tilted his head, golden gaze unwavering, like a warning etched in sunlight.

You could hear the electricity crackle between them. Glaring so hard, the air felt like it might combust—if not from tension, then from sheer ego.

You slapped a hand over your mouth—not from shock, but to muffle the unholy giggle bubbling up. Your eyes sparkled. This was the first time you'd heard Mystery speak so much.

Oh no.

You were having fun.

This wasn't just petty. This was theatrical. Divine. Like watching a high-budget, slow-burn romance where the enemies were too hot for their own good.

A live-action shoujo anime. No, better. You were the main character.

Reverse harem arc: unlocked.

Somewhere behind the chaos, the other three froze mid-complaint, glancing between each other like: Were you analyzing this as an artist or were you actually enjoying this?

God help you.

You were doomed.

But what a way to go.

Romance was first to recover, of course, gliding over with that unbearably perfect smile. Too perfect. Suspiciously perfect.

"All I got was a single slice of apple earlier." He said, full offense in his tone. "You shoved it in my mouth."

You stared at him, deadpan, Mystery still hugging you from behind like a sentient weighted blanket, Abby gripping your wrist like he was claiming a prize.

"You nearly bit my fingers."

"But you looked at me when you did it."

"I was aiming for your throat."

Romance gasped—genuinely gasped. Then lowered his voice with full dramatics. "So soft. So kind."

That did it.

The ridiculousness pierced straight through your filter like a spear of divine retribution. This wasn't just dumb. This was operatic.

You buried your face in your hand (Abby was still holding the other one) with a groan. You were awake now.

Romance took your hand, bringing it to his lips like the absolute menace he is. "I'd like my kiss now."

"On the hand, huh?" Your smile was sweet, too sweet. The kind that made Romance stare with those foolishly hopeful eyes.. "Romantic."

"I do have a brand to uphold." He said with that signature wink, oozing confidence like it cost nothing.

But your smile turned sharp, laced with something wicked—the kind a villainess might wear right before ruining someone's career. "Then you'd better work harder, Valentine."

Romance staggered back like you'd stabbed him straight through the heart. "Ah! Cruel."

But not for long. He popped back up with another one of those devastating grins that made fangirls scream and artists weep.

"I like 'Rome' much better, princess." The words rolled off his tongue with practiced ease—lazy and flirtatious, the way only someone unbearably pretty could pull off.

The vibe was there. The seduction. The kind that usually worked.

Just… not on you. Never on you. You'd been a tough opponent since day one. Immune. Unmoved. Was his charm really defective around you?

At this rate, he might really have to adopt Mystery's personality. He'd even let you put a collar on him if that's what it took.

Or better yet—limited-edition art supplies. That trick worked once. Who’s to say it wouldn't again?

Desperate times.

You tilted your head slightly, the weight of his words rolling off you like mist off marble. His efforts, though impressive in their flair, had no real chance of landing. Not tonight. Not ever, if you had anything to say about it.

"Oh?" Your tone was languid, amused, dangerously indulgent. "Then I guess Mystery's right."

There was a flicker in his eyes. Brief, cautious. "…About what?"

Your gaze didn't soften. If anything, it sharpened—like the edge of a blade being drawn, slow and deliberate.

"You really do only fall for the mean ones."

You caught the exact moment of his smile twitch. Somewhere behind you, Mystery let out a low, smug snort. Abby cracked up with all the subtlety of a grenade.

Romance pressed a hand to his chest in a melodramatic display of betrayal, like the ceiling might open up and cast divine judgment. "Et tu, princess?"

But then, just as quickly, he straightened—composed, chin lifted, eyes gleaming with something dangerous.

"Well," He said, smiling like the blade didn't sting, "it's not my fault cruelty wears you so well."

His voice dropped half an octave, smooth and decadent as sin. He took your hand again and brought it to his lips, slow and deliberate, flashing that signature smirk—equal parts charm and threat.

"I'd fall again just to see you look at me like that."

You returned his smile—the same smirk you'd given Baby in the kitchen. The kind that promised nothing good.

"I told you," You said softly. "I was aiming for your throat."

There wasn't a single ounce of mercy in your voice. Just cool detachment layered over a touch of theatrical cruelty, the kind that kept him spinning in circles and asking for more.

This had been fun. But it was time to end it.

"Alright, you big babies." You paused for a second. "Head to your rooms and give me my deserved peace."

With a single swift motion, you slipped free from both Mystery and Abby's grips. It was effortless, almost fluid—like you'd been humoring them all along.

You swore you heard them whine like a bunch of wet puppies behind you. Whether it was out of protest or pathetic affection, you didn't care.

Your fingers moved instinctively, rubbing at your wrist where they'd been holding you. The pressure had left no marks, but their warmth lingered. So did the ghost of their touch.

You kept your expression steady, carefully neutral. But it was hard not to replay the scene in your head—how they'd all fought over you like a pack of dogs.

"If I sweep this entire room, will you give me a kiss?" Romance tried again, ever the optimist. The moment your gaze snapped to him, he deflated instantly. Balloon. Popped.

Thanks to him, both Abby and Mystery knew better than to also try again.

Baby, lounging like a smug little devil on the armrest, tilted his head with a grin sharp enough to slice ego. "Don't waste your breath. I'm her favorite. Like it or not."

Your glare could've curdled milk.

He made a lazy motion of zipping his lips, but that cocky smile? Still stuck to his face like a cursed sticker.

Rolling your eyes, you plucked your sketchbook from beside Jinu—who had gone suspiciously quiet amidst all the chaos.

"Ow." He muttered, rubbing his hand where yours barely even brushed.

Right. Of course. He wasn't above the drama. You really should've known better.

"Ow." He groaned this time before holding up his hand dramatically. "There it is again. The pain."

"You dried two plates and a spoon." You said flatly. He's basically doing the same thing he did earlier.

"I overextended. He replied, wincing as he waggled his fingers. "It hurts so much."

"You bragged about having perfect wrist strength earlier."

"That was the pride before the fall."

"Jinu." You said, turning to him fully. "I literally watched you duel Baby in the kitchen with dish soap. Quit faking your injury." It was aimed at them all.

Jinu pursed his lips. "I deserve sympathy."

"You deserve chores."

"I deserve love."

You flashed a smile. "I deserve peace."

With that, you gave them a gracious nod, like royalty tolerating the annoying, but unfortunately very attractive officials for far too long.

"Goodnight, children." You said, voice velvet and final.

Then you turned on your heel—graceful, unbothered, the embodiment of a woman clocking out from emotional labor and into freelance burnout.

You had commissions to finish, money to make, and frankly, self-satisfaction ranked higher than babying grown men with too many feelings and not enough shame.

The door shut behind you with poetic finality. For three seconds, silence reigned.

Then Abby huffed and squared his shoulders like he was about to charge into battle. He marched to your door.

"[Y/n]?" He called, tone soft, carefully pitiful. "I think I have a fever…"

"My hand still hurts." Jinu chimed in from beside him, popping into frame like a jumpscare. He cradled his wrist with the dramatics of a martyr. "Can't hold anything. Not even a single spoon."

Romance appeared a heartbeat later, predictably. "My cut burns." He sighed, clutching his chest like he was seconds from ascending. "I think I need kisses to cool it down."

Across the room, Mystery and Baby remained where they were, watching the chaos unfold like it was theater made just for them. Three men squabbling like baby birds, pecking for scraps of attention—hardly dignified.

Mystery didn't speak, not when it wasn't worth it. Instead, he turned, took the blanket you left on the couch, and padded toward his room.

Halfway down the hall, he paused. He could just teleport into your room. Quick, clean, unnoticed. But he scratched the thought as fast as it came.

You didn't know yet. Right.

Besides, it seemed like you wanted to be alone tonight. His smile faltered for a short second then it quickly fixed.

He'll leave you alone. He was considerate like that. You'd praise him for it tomorrow, wouldn't you?

You liked him best, after all.

Baby lingered behind, arms loosely crossed as he watched the others bicker over their so-called injuries.

He scoffed quietly. Pathetic. He wasn't like them.

Obviously.

Then again… he glanced at his arm, the one you treated earlier. The scratch was shallow, barely even broke skin. It didn't hurt, not really. Nothing worth mentioning. But it was there. A small thing.

Courtesy of Huntrix—maybe the only thing those fools had ever done right.

The way you leaned in without hesitation, fingers brushing skin, eyes sharp with concern that you tried not to show too much. There was something about the way you touched them, without flinching, without fear, that made even the pettiest wound feel worth keeping.

He looked at the mark again, then at his phone. Thought about it. Not seriously. Just in passing.

Still, he rolled up his sleeve, shifted the angle, snapped a photo where the scratch looked just a little more dramatic than it was. The lighting hit right. Just enough to draw worry. Not enough to make you suspicious.

His thumb hovered over the message box.

He wasn't 'desperate.' He didn't need to 'fight' for your attention like the others. But he did want it. Not split between the others. Not shared. Just yours, all on him.

If this got you to come check on him—then good. If not, he knew where just to find you.

—

From the other side of the room, you gripped your pen like it was the last thread of your sanity.

Even with your volume maxed out, their voices still managed to break through—shouting, arguing, one-upping each other over bruises and bandaids like a bunch of children on a playground with superiority complexes.

Then, your phone buzzed. You glanced down, expecting some promo email or a commission inquiry—anything, really. Instead, you saw it. A photo.

From Baby.

Your brow ticked up. The angle was perfect, lighting too calculated. His arm looked worse in the photo than it actually had been the last few hours. You knew. You treated it yourself.

"GO TO FUCKING SLEEP!!"

There was a beat of silence. Then quiet shuffling, half-hearted muttering, a door closing too softly to be innocent.

You sighed, a quiet one. You tried to bury it under a scoff, but a smile gave you away anyway.

—

The next morning, you woke up to the soothing hum of the AC, face half-smushed into your pillow and blanket tangled like it fought you in your sleep, and won.

You reached for your phone with the grace of a Victorian ghost, blinking blearily at the screen. 10:19 AM.

Perfect. Time to go back to sleep.

At least, that was the plan… until you saw your group chat absolutely combusting. A flurry of missed calls from Minji. Your username popping up like it was trending for the wrong reasons.

Still half-asleep, you stared at the screen, trying to process.

‼️HUNTR/X fansign. 🔥Today. 🤩This afternoon. 🩷💜🩵

You opened your calendar, praying it was just a weird dream.

It wasn't. There it was. Marked. In your handwriting. With sparkles.

You slapped your forehead so hard you saw stars. How did you forget this? The one event you'd sworn to never miss—even if you were half-dead, broke, or abducted by aliens. Sure, the announcement came just yesterday, but still. No excuse.

You shot up like a horror movie jump scare, thumbs flying across your screen as you panic-texted the group. The girls replied instantly—equally dramatic, deeply unserious, and already plotting outfits like this was a red carpet event.

You couldn't help grinning. God, they were ridiculous

Speaking of them, you really should make that group chat before they all virtually ambush you again. It was getting annoying having to reply to each of them individually when they were literally always together anyway. With or without you.

So you did. Gave it a silly name. Something stupid on purpose. With that done, you realized you were hungry. And thirsty. And—

Wait.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

You sat up fully, rubbing your face, half-bracing for one of them to burst in to immediately demand attention, including to be used as an inspiration for one of your characters because apparently you needed it. Dramatic. Clingy. Loud.

But nothing. Sometimes, silence in this apartment scares you.

You padded out to the kitchen and spotted a note stuck to the fridge, written in a mix of uppercase, lowercase, and suspiciously inconsistent spelling. A group effort, clearly.

It read:

Be back later don’t miss us too much (we know you will) we’ll bring gifts. maybe. unless we forget. – 🐛

You stared. Then stared harder. Jinu's handwriting for sure, but the doodle of a caterpillar wearing sunglasses? Unmistakably Abby's.

Respectfully, the caterpillar was vibing way too hard to criticize.

You stuck the note back and gave it a little salute. Idol stuff, probably. You glanced at the time again—10:22 AM. Plenty of time to get ready.

And maybe drink three cups of coffee.

You had a fansign to prepare for.

—

A little over an hour later, you gave your reflection one last look.

Lips glossy, eyes sharp, cheeks brushed with a color that said "I woke up like this, but better." You had your Huntrix shirt tucked into a cute bottom, one that matched just right—not too try-hard, but just enough to get a double-take.

The finishing touch? A necklace Minji gave you along with her clothes. She called it "lucky." You just thought it looked expensive.

You met up with her outside the station, where she stood with her usual iced drink and two others beside her—Sooah, who had already taken thirty-seven photos of her outfit from different angles.

And Dabin, who was vibrating with unholy energy like she had snorted sugar instead of eating breakfast.

"Okay but seriously." Sooah said as the four of you headed toward the venue, "What if Mystery actually signs my forehead?"

"Be honest." Minji deadpanned. "You'd never wash it."

"I'd tattoo over it." Dabin nodded solemnly, like she'd rehearsed the idea.

You laughed, already bracing for chaos. "Please don't let this become a medical emergency."

It took two hours to get in. Two full hours of shuffling in a human snake of overstimulated teenagers, snacking on someone's emergency crackers, and arguing over who'd faint first if Abby winked at them (Dabin lost by preemptively collapsing when someone mentioned his name).

The fansign hadn't even started yet, but the air was high on anticipation and overpriced perfume. Banners waved. Staff paced. Photocards were clutched like sacred relics.

And then—

They entered. Well. Waddled in.

Five mysterious blobs in full caterpillar sleeping bags shuffled across the stage like cryptids migrating toward a light source. Rumi stood there, blinking like she, too, had not been briefed on this particular genre of unhinged.

You and your friends paused mid-banter.

You stared, a little amused. "Be honest. If I tripped them right now, would I go to jail or heaven?"

Minji choked on her drink. "Why is that your first thought?"

Sooah, without missing a beat, held her hand out for a high five. "Heaven. No doubt."

You slapped her palm. The unholy alliance was forged instantly.

Dabin stared at you both like you'd grown extra heads. "You guys need supervision."

And then—

The caterpillars shed their skin.

One by one, the sleeping bags dropped with dramatic flair. Out stepped the Saja Boys in all their smug, synchronized, smug glory, striking poses like they'd just crawled out of a Gucci cocoon and evolved into problems.

"It's the Saja Boys!!" Someone shrieked.

The crowd detonated. Screams went off like confetti cannons. Phones flew into the air like offerings to the fandom gods.

Your friends were losing structural integrity—Minji nearly dropped her drink, Sooah slapped herself just to be sure it was real, and Dabin was muttering, "I'm not ready, I'm not ready," like a warning.

You blinked, stared, tilted your head.

"You gotta be shitting me."

#kpop demon hunters #kpdh #saja boys x reader #saja boys #reader insert #female reader #reverse harem

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aria-reblogs · 2 days ago

Text

DRIVING ME BACKWARDS ୨୧ || clark kent x fem!reader || oneshot

summary: Clark Kent is usually calm under pressure—he writes award-winning articles, apparently interviews Superman on a daily basis? But when it comes to you, he becomes a walking disaster. He fumbles with his coffee. Trips over nothing. Forgets how doors work. Jimmy tries not to tease him about it, Lois rolls her eyes, and Perry White, all-knowing and omnipotent, decides to assign you both a story— specifically an issue on Superman... Inevitably, you grow closer.

word count: 11k

author's note: tbh i made clark more pathetic than usual, but that's just me indulging in my own fondness for sad little men. anyways, i watched superman, and david corenswet somehow made me want clark kent and his stupid little glasses, ugh. henry cavill wouldn't have known how to spark such whimsy onto this character, only david knew how to truly inspire this sense of raw patheticness — which, btw, i'm eating tf up!!!!

warnings: sub!clark, sort of switch!clark, service top!reader, spit as lube, dirty talking, handjob, oral m!receiving, mild dacryphilia, mild language, size kink, clark is HUNG, dom/sub dynamics, and i kinda blue ball you towards the end, sorry...

It all started about a week after your first day at the Daily Planet—an office full of chaos, newsprint, and the faint hum of old typewriters mixed with the chatter of determined reporters. You had just settled in at your new desk, trying to carve out your little space in the madness when Clark Kent, all glasses and nervous energy, came barreling toward you with a coffee cup in hand. You barely had time to look up before hot liquid spilled across your papers and the wooden surface, the rich scent of coffee filling the air like an awkward apology.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry! I don’t know what happened, I—” Clark stammered, eyes wide and embarrassed, already grabbing napkins and paper towels as if trying to erase the very moment. His face was a soft shade of red, and you couldn’t help but notice how utterly clumsy and pathetic he looked in that instant, fumbling like a rookie instead of the calm, mild-mannered reporter you’d imagined. You barely made much of it—accidents happen. “It’s fine,” you said, waving him off with a small smile. “Really.”

But that was just the beginning.

Over the next few days, you noticed Clark acting…odd around you, and not in the usual shy, office-cute way. It was like he was walking a tightrope between wanting to get closer and being scared to take even a single step. Sometimes, you’d catch him staring at you from across the room, the faintest crease of worry on his brow, only for him to look away so fast you wondered if you’d imagined it. Once, when you passed by the coffee machine, he offered to get you a cup, but his hands trembled so much you ended up grabbing the pot yourself, smiling awkwardly at his flushed face.

“Clark, you okay?” you asked lightly, amused.

“Yeah! Just… uh, just fine. Thanks,” he said, clearing his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets like that would somehow hide his jitteriness. “I mean, no problem.”

Sometimes he’d stand too close when you worked late on a deadline, hovering just on the edge of your personal space, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. Other times, you caught little things: the way his glasses fogged up when you leaned over to look at his computer screen while discussing an issue, or how his voice stumbled when he tried to ask you anything at all. It was subtle, but it was there—and it made you smile.

One afternoon, as you were digging through a stack of papers, Clark shuffled over nervously, holding a crumpled piece of paper. “I, uh, wrote a story. Would you want to—maybe—read it? And tell me what you think? I'm not so sure about it...” His voice was soft, almost hopeful. You looked up, met his uncertain gaze, and felt your heart skip.

“Of course,” you said, reaching out to take the paper. “I’d love to.”

He smiled, that shy, clumsy smile that made the whole office seem quieter somehow. And that’s when you realized: Clark Kent might be the most awkward person on the planet, but he was also the only one who seemed completely and hopelessly human in this whole damn office.

A few days later, you found yourself leaning over the cluttered desk of Jimmy Olsen, the newsroom’s resident charmer and self-proclaimed ladies’ man. You were deep in discussion about a tricky story idea—a feature on Metropolis’s urban development that could either make or break your footing in the Daily Planet. Jimmy, with his easy grin, was trying to convince you that the flashy angle was the way to go, while you argued for something more nuanced and honest.

“Trust me, you want the splash, the drama. People eat that up,” Jimmy said, his voice smooth as he clicked through photos on his screen. “Plus, you know I have a knack for making stories sexy.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled nonetheless. “Sexy isn’t exactly the word I’d use for city planning.”

As you spoke, your attention drifted briefly to the side, catching a movement behind Jimmy. There, just a few feet away, was Clark Kent. His usual calm demeanor was replaced by something else entirely—a crease in his brow that you didn’t remember seeing before, subtle but sharp, like a storm cloud hanging over his features. His eyes flicked rapidly between his computer screen, Jimmy, and you, like a silent witness to the conversation. You almost caught the way his chest puffed out slightly, the faintest sign of tension in the otherwise quiet room.

Before you could ponder it further, Lois Lane, ever sharp and always one step ahead, slid her chair beside you with a sly smile. She leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper, “Looks like someone’s a little jealous.”

You blinked, glancing back toward Clark, who had quickly masked whatever emotion was crossing his face with a careful smile. But the faint flush rising in his cheeks gave him away.

“Jealous?” you echoed softly, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Of Jimmy Olsen?”

Lois just shrugged, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Well, you know, Jimmy’s kind of the office heartthrob. But Clark’s the one who’s all awkward and nervous whenever you’re around.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I think you’re imagining things.”

Before Lois could even answer, Perry White appeared beside you, his usual commanding presence filling the corner of the room. His sharp eyes swept across the desks, quickly surveying the hustle and bustle of reporters typing away, phones ringing, and the occasional shout from the bullpen. He cleared his throat, a sound that immediately drew a little more focus.

“Alright, people,” Perry announced, “I’m making my rounds to see that everyone’s on top of their stories. No slacking today.”

You seized the opportunity, glancing up at him. “Perry, what do you think about the story I was debating with Jimmy? The corruption piece or the human-interest one?”

Perry nodded thoughtfully, about to answer, when you leaned in a bit, dropping your voice. “Actually, there’s an even more interesting lead—something about Superman. Some new developments, maybe worth pursuing.”

His eyes flicked over to Clark’s direction, and a knowing smirk crept across his face. “Well, if you’re chasing Superman stories, it’d be ideal for you to work with Kent. He’s been getting exclusive interviews lately. No one else has that kind of access.”

Clark, who had been quietly typing away at his computer, seemed to catch the mention of his name. He didn’t look up, but you could have sworn his cheeks instantly turned an awfully bright shade of pink—like someone just turned on a spotlight directly on his face. He was clearly trying hard not to look like he was eavesdropping, but the subtle shift in his posture betrayed him.

Perry’s voice cut through the low hum of conversation, sharp and unmistakable: “Kent! You’re working with her on this one. Get your notes together, and no slacking off, got it?”

Clark jerked slightly at the sudden call, fingers hovering awkwardly above his keyboard before he forced himself to look up. His eyes met Perry’s briefly, then shifted toward you. For a moment, the pink flush in his cheeks deepened, betraying the storm of nerves swirling beneath his calm exterior.

“Yes, sir,” Clark managed, voice a little tighter than usual. He quickly averted his gaze, fiddling with the edge of his glasses as if to steady himself.

You smiled, trying to mask your own flutter of excitement. “Looks like we’re partners,” you said, leaning forward. “Guess I’m stuck with your coffee-spilling antics for a while.”

Clark’s lips twitched into what might have been a nervous smile. “I’ll try not to ruin the story this time,” he said softly, though you caught the hint of earnestness in his tone.

As Perry moved on, casting one last sharp glance around the room, Clark stood up, gathering his papers with a sort of determined clumsiness that only made him more endearing.

The very next day, the usual clatter of the newsroom was punctuated by a sharp thud as Perry White slammed a hefty stack of papers down on your desk, his expression all business and barely contained frustration. “Here,” he barked, eyes narrowing over the rims of his glasses. “This is your next big assignment. You two need to get to the bottom of it—fast.”

You flipped open the top sheet and began scanning the headline and notes: “Rising Movement to Place Superman Under Government Control.” The article outlined a growing faction arguing that Superman’s immense power was too dangerous to be left to his own judgment—that the world would be safer if he operated strictly under government orders rather than acting independently. The report highlighted heated debates in political circles, public protests, and the concerns of civil liberties groups.

Your heart skipped a beat as you glanced up to see Clark quietly approaching your desk, curiosity already written on his face. You tapped the papers with your pen. “Perry wants us on this one. They want to control Superman, make him accountable to the government instead of him just… doing whatever he thinks is right.”

Clark’s eyes flicked over the pages, lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s… complicated,” he murmured, voice low. “It’s not just about control. It’s about trust. And freedom. If Superman is tied down by bureaucracy, what happens when there’s a threat the government doesn’t recognize? Or worse, a government that abuses that control?”

You nodded thoughtfully. “Exactly. And the public’s divided, too. Some think he’s a hero who can do no wrong; others see him as a threat. We have to find the middle ground, the real story beneath the headlines.”

Clark shifted on his feet, glancing up at you. “We’ll need to talk to experts, politicians, maybe some of those protesters. And maybe, if we’re lucky, someone close to Superman.”

You caught the flicker of something in his eyes—you weren’t really sure of what, nor where you able to pinpoint it, something he wasn’t saying out loud. But you didn’t press. Instead, you smiled. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

Both of you settled back into your respective desks, the din of the bustling newsroom slowly fading as reporters finished their stories and started filing out for the day. The clatter of keyboards and ringing phones gave way to a quiet stillness, broken only by the occasional rustle of papers or the hum of the overhead lights. One by one, desks were abandoned until only yours and Clark’s remained illuminated, the soft glow of your lamps casting long shadows across stacks of notes and crumpled drafts.

The hours slipped by unnoticed as you each dug deeper into your leads, following threads through interviews, anonymous tips, and public records. You scoured news archives for any sign of organized opposition, while Clark cross-referenced political statements and campaign funding reports. The story was more tangled than you expected—nothing straightforward or easily pinned down.

Just as the clock hands crept toward midnight, Clark’s voice broke the silence, tentative but urgent. “Hey… come look at this.”

You pushed back from your desk and made your way over to his, where his screen displayed a series of financial reports and internal documents that looked like they’d been buried intentionally. “LexCorp,” Clark said softly, eyes flickering between the screen and you, “is behind the campaign to control Superman. They’re funneling money and influence to politicians and media outlets pushing this agenda.”

Your breath caught. It was the kind of lead that could shake the city—and maybe the world—but Clark’s next words tempered the shock. “Still, the numbers show that only a very small percentage of the population supports this. The majority of the country—people who see Superman as a symbol, a beacon of hope—stand firmly against it.”

You nodded slowly, feeling a mix of relief and unease. “That makes sense. People want to believe in him, in what he stands for. But it’s worrying. A campaign like this—rooted in fear and control—can still breed hatred and division.”

Clark’s gaze met yours, the weight of it hanging between you. “We need to show the truth, not just the noise.”

Without a word, you gathered your papers and notes into a somewhat organized pile, lifted your chair, and walked it over to Clark’s desk, dragging it just close enough so your knees brushed the edge of his. He blinked up at you, surprised but not displeased, and you could almost hear the subtle stutter in his thoughts as he adjusted his glasses quickly—a nervous habit you’d come to recognize.

The second you sat down beside him, Clark shifted in his seat like someone caught doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing, though all he’d done was sit perfectly still. His hands hovered above the desk uncertainly, fingers curling slightly, as if unsure where to place them. He clearly didn’t want to invade your space, even though it was you who had crossed into his.

“I figured we’d work faster if we pieced this together here,” you said, sorting through your notes as you leaned in to glance at his screen again. “Also, my desk lamp is starting to flicker, and I value my eyesight.”

Clark let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh—but his smile was soft, a little shy. “Yeah, sure. Of course. Makes sense.”

Still, he sat stiffly for a moment, as though his very presence beside you might be too much. His shoulders were drawn slightly inward, and he was clearly trying to take up as little space as humanly possible. You, on the other hand, had spread your pages across the edge of his desk without hesitation, your elbow brushing his now and then as you gestured toward the evidence.

His knee accidentally bumped yours under the desk, and he jerked back like he’d been shocked, muttering a soft, “Sorry—wasn’t trying to—”

You just smiled and shook your head. “Relax, Kent. I’m not going to bite.”

That earned you another small laugh—quieter this time, but more genuine. He seemed to settle slightly after that, his posture loosening bit by bit as the conversation drew back to the story at hand. You discussed the implications of LexCorp’s involvement, the ethical concerns around power and influence, and the danger of letting fear shape public perception.

You worked in silence for a while after that, the occasional exchange of thoughts passing between you and Clark like smooth ripples across still water. Pages shifted, keys clicked softly, and the atmosphere between you warmed—not from proximity alone, but from a shared sense of purpose. The weight of the story wasn’t just journalistic anymore. It felt personal. Important.

Eventually, you leaned back in your chair, rubbing at your tired eyes and speaking aloud what had been forming quietly in your mind. “I think the best move is to break this in two parts. First, a direct response to the growing fear—the rhetoric trying to paint Superman as a threat. We need something that calms the public down, brings back some clarity.” You glanced at Clark, who looked up at you, attentive. “A brief interview with Superman. Something measured. Controlled. Honest. People still trust him—most of them, anyway. If we lead with him, everything else that follows will hit harder.”

Clark nodded slowly, but you could see the flicker in his eyes—the guarded tension that always came with the mention of Superman. He adjusted his glasses, more composed this time. “And after that?”

You turned your chair slightly to face him fully, the pages spread between you like a puzzle finally coming together. “Then we go after LexCorp. Publicly. Thoroughly. We use the second piece to expose how this entire campaign—this whole attempt to regulate Superman like a weapon—is being run by a company with a known history of corruption.”

You tapped your pen against the notes, where you’d highlighted several lawsuits and whistleblower reports. “LexCorp has a decades-long track record of endangering the environment through illegal waste dumping, of committing large-scale corporate fraud, of lobbying its way out of accountability. And now, they want to play puppet master with the one person on this planet powerful enough to stop them from getting worse. They’re selling the idea that regulation means safety, but what they’re really selling is control. Control of him.”

Clark didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the papers for a long moment, his jaw tight, expression unreadable. You let the silence stretch, giving him space to process. Finally, he spoke, voice quiet but firm.

“Superman was never meant to be a weapon,” he said. “That’s not who he is. He’s supposed to be a symbol of peace. If he starts answering to governments—especially ones with corporate strings attached—he stops being that. He becomes something else. Something… dangerous.”

You nodded, grateful that he’d said it out loud. “Exactly. And that’s what we have to make clear to people. This isn’t just about Superman—it’s about what happens when fear is exploited by people who want power.”

The conversation drifted into silence after that—comfortable, if a little heavy. The two of you sat quietly, side by side, eyes scanning the notes and articles sprawled across Clark’s desk like pieces of a conspiracy no one else had dared to connect. Outside the windows, the city hummed in a low, sleepy rhythm; only the soft tapping of the building’s old radiator and the muted street sounds below remained.

You leaned back in your chair, gaze softening as you looked over the scattered sheets between you. It felt like a moment suspended in time—two overworked journalists sitting in a room half-lit by stubborn desk lamps and mutual exhaustion. And something about that stillness made you brave.

“I think,” you began slowly, “we’ve earned at least one conversation tonight that doesn’t revolve around corruption, lawsuits, or Lex Luthor.”

Clark blinked, eyes drifting away from the papers to glance at you, a little startled. He looked so genuinely caught off guard that for a second you thought he might ask who you were talking to.

But after a pause—and a small, sheepish laugh—he adjusted his glasses and nodded. “Right. Yeah. Of course. I just—wasn’t expecting…”

“A human moment? Wow, you really think so little of me?” you offered, half-smiling.

He returned it faintly. “Something like that.”

You shifted slightly in your seat, turning more toward him, your voice easy. “So. What do you do, Clark Kent, when you’re not hunched over this desk pondering your next angle? What exists outside the bylines and bad coffee?”

He looked at you for a long moment, clearly searching for an answer—or maybe just still recovering from the shift in tone. “Well,” he started slowly, “I guess I’m… kind of boring.”

You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“I mean it,” he added a little nervous now, like he was trying to prove something to you. “I read a lot. I walk a lot. I like old radio broadcasts—sometimes I help my mom with stuff around the farm when I have time to get back to Kansas. I, uh… I don’t really have hobbies that impress people at parties.” He trailed off and his brows furrowed for a second as if he himself didn’t believe a word he said.

You laughed softly, leaning your elbow on the desk. “Not everything’s about being impressive.”

He looked at you again, glad you had changed the subject, more fully this time. “What about you?”

You tilted your head. “Are we flipping the question back on me already?”

Clark gave a little grin, almost teasing, but there was warmth in his voice when he said, “Well… you started it.”

You leaned back in your chair, stretching slightly, your body cracking in protest after sitting for so long. “Well,” you said, considering his question, “outside of investigating shady billionaires and defending Superman’s honor in print... I like sleeping. A lot. When I can get it. And late-night takeout. And really bad movies.”

Clark’s brows lifted, intrigued. “Bad movies?”

You nodded with a mock-serious expression. “Oh, I’m talking truly bad. I’m talking alien-invasion-budget-of-twenty-dollars bad. Practical effects made of paper plates bad.”

He chuckled, the sound low and surprised. “So, you’re saying if I brought over, say, ‘Attack of the Radioactive Squirrel People,’ you wouldn’t turn me away?”

You narrowed your eyes, playing along. “Only if you bring snacks and don’t ask logical questions during the film. Logic ruins the experience.”

Clark feigned deep thought. “Would I not be able to ask why the squirrels are radioactive?”

You gasped dramatically. “Absolutely not. That’s part of the mystery.”

He laughed again, fuller this time, shoulders relaxing as he leaned a little closer. “You know, I never would’ve pegged you for a bad sci-fi lover.”

“And I never would’ve pegged you for someone who listens to old radio shows,” you shot back with a grin. “You hide it well. You’ve got the whole ‘mild-mannered’ thing down to an art.”

Clark made a face. “It’s not an act, you know.”

You hummed, skeptical. “Mmhm. Sure. You just happen to be the only person in the office who never yells, never swears, and always holds the elevator even if it means missing it entirely.”

“That’s just manners,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed now. “I wasn’t raised in a barn.”

You tilted your head at him. “Weren’t you, though?”

He paused—then gave you a half-smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Okay, maybe a little.”

You both laughed, the tension from earlier fading further with each second. The newsroom was almost completely dark now, lit only by your two lamps and the glow of the city outside. The silence between you felt different this time—not weighted by stress or urgency, but warm, companionable.

“I’m just saying,” you added casually, “if we end up working together more often, you might need to brush up on your bad movie tolerance.”

Clark raised a brow, teasing right back now. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

You smirked. “Depends. How do you feel about sequels that make the original look like a masterpiece?”

He mock-shuddered. “Terrified. But intrigued.”

You leaned back again, your eyes catching on the scattered papers across the desk, but your focus had long drifted from newsprint and ink. Clark was still sitting beside you, uncharacteristically relaxed—well, sort of. His shoulders were tense, and he was very obviously trying not to look at you too directly, which only made your curiosity grow stronger.

“You know,” you said, keeping your tone light, your voice laced with just enough teasing to make him look up, “you never answered the question.”

Clark blinked. “What question?”

You rested your elbow on the arm of the chair, chin in your hand. “What you do outside of work. Like—really outside. People. Dating. A girlfriend, maybe?”

His reaction was immediate, if subtle—his hand, which had been draped stiffly on the arm of his chair, flexed so hard his knuckles whitened, and the veins along the back of his hand stood out like cords. His glasses slipped a little down the bridge of his nose from the sudden shift in posture, and he pushed them back up with a quick, nervous tap of his finger.

“What?” he said, far too quickly.

You bit back a smile, watching him carefully now—not just his face, but his whole frame. The way his body filled the chair, broad shoulders and long limbs all seemingly trying to shrink and fold in a little. Like he was trying to make himself smaller in a space he very clearly couldn’t.

Your knee was pressed up against his—had it always been that close? You weren’t sure. But now that you’d noticed, it was impossible not to notice. Especially when his didn’t move. Didn’t twitch or pull away. Just... stayed there, warm and solid against yours.

You tilted your head again, letting your voice drop just a little lower. “It’s a pretty straightforward question, Kent.”

He cleared his throat. “I—uh—I don’t. I mean. No.”

You turned slightly toward him, lips curving into a slow grin. “No girlfriend? That’s surprising.”

“What—Why’s that surprising?” he asked, clearly trying to sound casual, but his voice had gone scratchy, like his throat had decided to betray him.

You let your eyes trail down, briefly, taking in the way his forearms were tensed now too, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing more of those oddly strong hands. The tendons moved with every subtle grip and shift along the chair’s arms, like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. His fingers had curled so tightly over the edge now that you were sure he’d leave dents in the wood.

You shrugged, still watching him from the corner of your eye. “I don’t know. You’re kind of charming in that nervous, buttoned-up sort of way. Some people are into that.”

Clark’s brows drew together slightly, his lips parting like he was going to respond—but no sound came out. Just a breath. Just a little, flustered exhale like he couldn’t believe you’d said that out loud, like his brain had stopped functioning at the suggestion that someone might be into him.

His glasses slid further down his nose, and in his fumbling attempt to fix them, he knocked them a little sideways. His hands were big—awkwardly precise—and the way he pushed them back up just made it worse. He cleared his throat again, too quickly this time.

“Well, I—uh, I think that’s… that’s nice of you to say,” he finally managed, voice half-pitched and apologetic, like you were the one who had just walked in on him in a compromising position.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Not cruelly, not loudly. Just a soft, delighted kind of laugh that bubbled up from your chest because God, this man was endearing. Six and a half feet of solid muscle and broad shoulders, and yet here he was—blushing like a schoolboy because you’d complimented him. Barely. Lightly.

Clark looked down, probably trying to hide the growing flush on his neck, which had started to crawl past the collar of his shirt. “I’m not… I mean, it’s not like people are lining up.”

“Oh, come on, Kent,” you said, voice teasing now, elbow brushing his lightly. “Don’t play modest. I’ve seen the way some of the women in this office look at you. Even the new girl from research couldn’t remember her own name when you brought her coffee last week.”

“That was just because I brought the wrong order,” he mumbled quickly.

“Uh-huh. Sure it was,” you said, grinning. “And when she said she’d ‘never tasted anything sweeter’? Totally about the coffee.”

Clark groaned softly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand as if he could physically rub the embarrassment away.

He finally looked at you again—really looked—and the corner of his mouth twitched upward in spite of himself. His eyes were warm behind the lenses, full of something quiet and boyish and undeniably fond.

“You’re kind of mean,” he said, but there was no heat to it.

“And you’re kind of fun to fluster,” you replied, nudging his knee with yours again—deliberate this time.

He froze for a heartbeat. Just one.

Then he smiled, soft and crooked.

“I’m starting to think you like making me nervous.”

You tilted your head again, letting the silence stretch for a second too long. Then, with a little shrug, you whispered, “Maybe I do.”

Clark swallowed hard, then, with a kind of bravery you hadn’t expected, he let one hand slide gently to rest on the armrest closer to you—as if testing the boundaries, trying to be near without crossing a line he wasn’t ready for.

Your pulse sped up. You wanted to reach out, to close the gap, but something held you back—a delicate balance of respect and something else, something tender and new.

Before either of you could say anything else, the distant sound of footsteps echoed through the quiet newsroom. The moment shattered like glass.

Clark’s hand jerked back quickly, and he adjusted his glasses with a nervous chuckle. “Looks like we’re not as alone as we thought.”

You laughed softly, the tension easing just a bit. “Guess the newsroom’s ghosts don’t like to miss out.”

He smiled, eyes still warm as he packed away some of the papers between you.

“Tomorrow,” you said quietly, “we’ll finish this. And maybe… talk about other things, too.”

He continued right after that, standing up and stretching. “I’d like that. Maybe you can come over tomorrow to write the piece after work. If you want of course— Unless you have something else to do? ”

"Yes, Clark, I'd like that. I'll give you a call." You sent him a smile, trying to prove to him he had nothing to be nervous about anymore. But something told you that this act wouldn't be easy to drop. The poor guy was a lost cause.

As you gathered your things and headed for the door, you glanced back once more. Clark Kent—the man who was a mystery and a friend, awkward and brave all at once—gave you a small, hopeful smile.

The next day flew by in a whirlwind of stories, calls, and chasing down leads. The newsroom buzzed as usual, but beneath the noise, your thoughts kept drifting back to last night—the quiet moment with Clark, the way his nervous smile had stayed with you.

As the afternoon wore on and people began packing up, you were sorting through your notes when your phone buzzed softly. You glanced down and saw a message from Clark. You looked up and, almost without thinking, spotted him sitting across the room, his glasses slightly crooked as he fiddled nervously with a pen.

The message read: “If you’re still up for it, my place. 7 PM?”

You smiled to yourself and quickly typed back, your fingers flying over the screen: “You know you can talk to me like a normal person, right?”

Almost immediately, he glanced your way, cheeks flushing just a bit, before he sent a quick thumbs-up from across the room.

A little while later, as the last of the reporters packed up and the newsroom began to empty, Clark appeared at your desk with a hesitant smile, glasses slightly askew as usual. He glanced down at his phone, then back up at you.

“Ready to head out?” he asked, voice soft but steady. “It’s not far from here. We can walk—it’s a nice evening.”

You nodded, gathering your bag and slipping on your jacket. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Together, you stepped out into the warm glow of the evening, the city buzzing softly around you. The streets weren’t crowded, just a few pedestrians and the occasional hum of distant traffic. Side by side, you walked—easy, natural—sharing bits of small talk that felt surprisingly comfortable.

Clark occasionally stole glances at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips when he thought you weren’t looking. You noticed how the city lights caught the flecks of blue in his eyes, making him look a little less like the nervous, awkward guy at the office and more like someone who belonged here—right here beside you.

You found yourself smiling more than you realized, drawn in by his quiet earnestness, the way his eyes lit up when he described simple pleasures. It was a side of Clark Kent few got to see—behind the glasses, behind the awkwardness—a man who cherished the ordinary moments.

At one point, your knees brushed again, and this time neither of you moved away. Instead, Clark’s smile deepened just a little, shy but genuine.

As the outline of his apartment building came into view, nestled between a bookstore and a cozy café, the streetlamps cast a warm halo over the doorway. Clark pulled out his keys, fumbling slightly, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly at his endearing clumsiness.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said with a grin after taking the elevator and settling before his door, pushing the door open and holding it for you.

Inside, the space was simple and inviting, with shelves lined with books, a few framed photos, and a soft couch that looked perfect for late-night talks or movie marathons.

You both dove into the writing like something had possessed you—pure adrenaline and sharp focus, the kind that only came when the stakes were real and the story mattered. The laptop passed feverishly from one lap to the other, sometimes mid-sentence, sometimes with a flurry of half-laughed instructions and half-bitten curses about formatting or sourcing. You’d never worked this quickly on any project, not even under deadline. But this—this felt different. Urgent. Important.

Clark had thrown off his suit jacket the second you'd settled into his apartment, letting it drape carelessly over the back of the sofa. His tie was askew now, loosened at the neck and clinging faintly to one side like it had given up trying to be proper. His white shirt was rumpled with the kind of lived-in texture that came from the day dragging on and on—and you couldn’t help noticing how the fabric clung in places. His shoulders looked even broader without the layers hiding them, and when he rolled up his sleeves again, the definition in his forearms was downright distracting.

Every now and then one of you would catch a typo or notice something off in the phrasing, and you’d lean in to fix it together. Once, you’d missed a whole line—your fingers hesitating over the keys—and without saying a word, Clark had reached over. His hand engulfed yours easily, warm and solid, his fingers dwarfing yours as he corrected the sentence himself. He didn’t move your hand—he just covered it, guiding it with a quiet, gentle pressure, his touch firm but careful.

You were sitting side by side on the couch, your thighs touching, pressed flush together. It wasn’t a small couch, not by any stretch—but Clark somehow still managed to take up half of it. More than half, if you were being honest. His long legs sprawled slightly, the muscle clearly visible beneath the fabric of his pants, shifting every time he adjusted. You could feel the strength in him, just sitting there, all that quiet power contained and careful and... close. His thigh next to yours was solid heat, twice the size of yours, pressed from knee to hip.

His fingers lay sprawled casually across his own thigh, thick and unhurried, veins prominent against the backs of his hands. You watched them for a second too long, eyes tracing the way they twitched occasionally with thought—how one hand flexed when he leaned forward, the fabric of his shirt stretching over his back, drawing your attention to places you probably shouldn’t be looking.

After a while—maybe the fourth round of proofreading between the two of you—you sat back with a satisfied hum, eyes scanning the final draft on the screen one last time. It was perfect. Crisp, clear, bold. Every line landed. Every quote hit. The tone, the flow, the weight of it—dead-on.

Clark was rereading a paragraph you’d rewritten when you looked at him and grinned. “I think we did it.”

He glanced at you, then back at the screen. “We really did.”

Without even thinking, you held up your hand. “Fist bump.”

He blinked at it like it was a foreign concept, then chuckled and tapped his knuckles lightly against yours. There was something deeply satisfying about it. Not just finishing the piece, but finishing it together. You slumped back into the couch with a dramatic sigh, and Clark followed suit, both of you sinking into the cushions like deflating balloons.

It wasn’t even that late—maybe just past ten. The soft hum of the city drifted in through his windows, and for once, there wasn’t anything left to worry about. The story was done. All that remained was… whatever this was.

And well, you couldn’t let a moment like this go to waste.

You turned your head toward him, voice light. “So… as I was saying yesterday—no girlfriend?”

Clark let out a quiet groan, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really don’t let things go, do you?”

“Absolutely not,” you said sweetly. “Especially when I see an opportunity to make a certain someone all red in the face again.”

“I wasn’t red,” he mumbled.

You tilted your head, grinning. “You so were. Somewhere between strawberry and a ripe tomato.”

He let out a quiet huff of a laugh, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes. “It’s not a crime to be single, you know.”

“No, of course not. But it is curious. Clark Kent, charming, gentle, built like he could bench press a building—and not a single soul to call his own?” You gave a dramatic sigh, leaning back further into the cushions and tilting your head toward him. “It’s practically a scandal.”

His hand came up to cover his face for a second, and you heard him mumble behind his palm, “You’re relentless.”

You nudged your knee against his. “I just think the people deserve to know. The truth is out there.”

He peeked at you through his fingers. “You’re making this weird.”

“I’m making it fun,” you corrected. “And I haven’t even started with the follow-up questions.”

Clark gave you a look like he was trying very hard not to smile, but you could see the corners of his mouth twitching—and more importantly, the way his shoulders had hunched up slightly, like he was trying to disappear into the couch. As if that was even remotely possible with how big he was.

“I mean, it’s not like I haven’t—uh—dated before,” he stammered, eyes suddenly fixed very intently on the ceiling. “I’ve just been… focused. On work. And other things.”

“Oh? Other things?” you echoed, eyes gleaming. You leaned a little closer, chin propped on your hand like you were very seriously conducting an interview. “Mysterious. Do these things wear lipstick and heels or—”

“No—God—no! Not like that, I mean—” He fumbled, his voice jumping an octave, ears turning red now. “I meant like… just life things. Family. Writing. Coffee. The weather. Taxes. Normal things.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “Taxes.”

He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face with a low groan. “Can we pretend I said literally anything else?”

“Nope,” you said cheerfully. “Clark Kent: tax enthusiast. Definitely the sexiest answer I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t know how to talk to you,” he muttered under his breath, shifting slightly like he wanted to vanish into a fold of the cushion. His shoulders were so wide that when he tried to hunch them, it only made them more obvious—like a mountain trying to duck under a table. His thigh was still pressed to yours, firm and warm, and when he moved slightly, your whole leg moved with him. The man was gravitational.

You tilted your head slowly, letting the silence stretch between you, a teasing glint sparking in your eyes. “You don’t?” you repeated, voice low and rich with mock innocence. “Do I make you nervous, Kent?”

It hit him like a sucker punch. Clark’s mouth parted as if to reply, then faltered. Closed. Opened again. Whatever he wanted to say, his brain wasn’t cooperating. His gaze darted to your face, lingered on your mouth just a second too long, then snapped upward toward the ceiling—like maybe salvation was written somewhere in the paint.

“Nervous isn’t… the word I’d use,” he finally muttered, voice deeper now, rough at the edges. “More like… wound up.”

You blinked.

The shift in the air was immediate—like someone had struck a match and held it between you. The words settled in, thick and full of implication, and you didn’t miss the way Clark immediately stiffened once he heard himself. His body locked up, like the realization hit him two seconds too late.

Your eyes met, and you watched it register behind his glasses—the double meaning, the subtext, the blush already blooming beneath his collar. His pupils dilated just slightly, and for a moment, he genuinely looked like he wanted to rewind time.

You smiled. No, you grinned. Slow and amused, dangerous in the way only a woman who knew exactly the effect she had could be.

“Wound up, huh?”

His ears turned bright red. You didn’t think you’d ever seen that happen to an actual adult man before. It was adorable.

“That’s… that’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, the words tumbling over each other. He sat up so fast the cushions shifted, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose. “I meant like—tense. Stressed. Not like that. That's— you're so dirty-minded.”

“Oh, no no no,” you said, turning toward him fully now, the couch creaking just slightly beneath your combined weight. You lifted a brow, voice thick with faux concern. “You already said it. Wound up. It’s okay, you don’t have to backtrack. It’s really bad for the human body to stay that way, y’know?”

He coughed—hard—into his fist, as if his lungs were trying to eject him from the situation entirely.

You inched in a little closer, chin resting in your hand like you were very seriously interviewing him. “When’s the last time you let off a little steam, anyway? That kind of tension? It’s terrible for your health. Builds up. Makes you twitchy. You could explode, in more ways than one.” You joked, clearly enjoying how flustered you were making him

His mouth opened, then immediately snapped shut. Again. His whole frame looked like it was short-circuiting—eyes wide, neck stiff, hands suddenly very still on his lap like he didn’t trust them to move. The tips of his ears were crimson now, and his knee gave a visible twitch where it touched yours.

“I… I don’t know,” he said finally, voice hoarse and absolutely not helping himself. “It’s… it’s been a while.”

You leaned in just a bit more, your voice dripping with playful condescension as you arched an eyebrow. “No one at work, then? No girls sneaking around, taking care of you? Or outside work? Surely someone’s keeping you from turning into a walking ball of tension.”

Clark’s face flushed deeper—if that was even possible—and he shifted awkwardly, trying to make himself smaller in the already cramped space. His broad shoulders hunkered down like he wished he could disappear entirely into the couch cushions. His fingers gripped the edge of the sofa tightly, veins standing out from the strain. His leg twitched where it pressed against yours, betraying how flustered he truly was.

“I—I don’t think that’s really... how it works,” he stammered, eyes flicking away, unable to hold your teasing gaze. His voice cracked just slightly as he added, “I’m not really—uh—good at that sort of thing.”

You softened your tone just a little, letting the teasing linger but adding a hint of genuine curiosity. “Alright,” you said, your eyes locking with his, “setting aside how things are—which, let’s be honest, isn’t exactly thrilling—would you want that? For someone to take care of you? To take real good care of you, Clark?”

His breath hitched, and you caught the sudden catch in his throat. His body tensed for a split second, fingers tightening a bit more on the sofa’s edge. He swallowed hard, eyes darting away for a moment before he met your gaze again—this time softer, more honest.

He hesitated for a moment, then finally looked down, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah… I think I’d like that. Someone to—take care of me. To make me feel… wanted. To help me relax. I don’t really know how to ask for it, but… I want it.”

His fingers twitched nervously on the edge of the sofa, and he shifted slightly, as if trying to make himself smaller—almost like he was half-expecting you to laugh it off. Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on yours, vulnerable and honest in a way that caught you completely off guard.

“I just… I don’t know how to say it out loud. But I want to be held. To be touched… And—Um, well, yeah.” His voice faltered, thick with something unspoken, as he glanced up briefly, cheeks flushed and breath shallow.

You looked at him softly, your voice gentle but steady. “Would you let me help you with that, Clark? To… take care of you the way you need?”

He blinked, clearly taken aback by the question. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked almost speechless—like he hadn’t expected you to ask.

“I… I—” he stammered, words catching in his throat. “Y-yes. Please.”

As he spoke, his voice low and whispery, you couldn't help but notice a sudden shift in Clark. His broad frame tensed subtly, shoulders stiffening like a wire pulled taut. Your eyes flicked downward, and there it was—an undeniable bulge pressing insistently against the fabric of his pants. It hadn’t been there earlier, not when you first began talking, but now it had made its unmistakable presence known.

The sight hit you with a raw intensity. Was he really this pent up? This desperate, maybe? The way his hands clenched and unclenched on the edge of the couch, the quick, shallow breaths rattling in his chest—it all spoke volumes. His steady composure shattered, replaced by a vulnerability so fierce it almost scorched the air between you.

Clark shifted awkwardly, trying to adjust himself, covering the imprint of his twitching cock, like it would somehow disappear or at least be less obvious. One of his hands wrapped a hand around it, looking to shield himself from your view, trying to not seem like some pervy teenager. His thigh pressed a little harder against yours in the movement, muscles flexing under his pants, taut and commanding. Every subtle twitch, every tiny flex of those long fingers gripping the sofa’s edge, betrayed the storm raging just beneath the surface.

Your gaze flicked to his clenched hand resting just above the unmistakable tent, and without hesitation, you reached out gently, sliding your fingers around his wrist. His breath hitched, and his eyes widened as you slowly pulled his hand away, freeing the evidence of his need from its grip.

“You’re trying to hide this from me now, huh?” you tease, your eyes flickering between the bulge straining against his pants and the glaze settling over his eyes. “Can’t have that.”

Clark’s breath catches, and he swallows hard before meeting your gaze with a shaky, “Um, No, I’m not.”

As you take his hand from his lap, you finally place a hand over his cock. He was radiating heat, and from what you could feel as you rubbed your hand gently up and down the length of him, he was huge and ridiculously girthy.

Clark’s breath hitched sharply, a soft, barely-there noise escaping his lips—half gasp, half moan. His face flushed crimson, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before snapping open, wide and vulnerable. His jaw clenched tightly, as if trying to hold back whatever words or sounds threatened to spill free.

Clark’s breath hitched again, his eyes darting nervously as your hand traced slow, deliberate circles. His voice was shaky, barely above a whisper, thick with a mix of disbelief and desire. “You’re… you’re really mean, you know that? You can’t just—do this to me,” he murmured, cheeks flushed deeper, words stumbling over each other as he struggled to keep control. “It’s… unfair.”

"Can't I? You want me to stop touching you? Because I can do that." You began, looking right into his eyes. Most of the time, the poor thing couldn't keep eye contact; his eyes flickered from your eyes to your hand, or to the ceiling. As you stared him down, the motion of your hand limited itself to his tip, feeling around the wet spot he had begun to make on his pants.

His breath hitched, voice shaky but earnest. “No! please don’t stop… I want this.”

A shaky sigh escaped him as his body tensed under your touch, every muscle stretched tight with anticipation and need. Despite the vulnerability in his eyes, there was something fierce simmering just beneath the surface—an unspoken surrender that made the air between you crackle with electricity.

Your hands stopped stroking him for a second, your fingers wandering around the strap of his belt, shuffling under the fabric of his dress shirt. "Then what do you want? I can't just do whatever I want with you, can I?" You raised a brow teasingly, pushing for an answer.

Clark’s voice trembled as he finally found the courage to speak more directly, eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. One of his hands found the back of your head and cradled it, brushing soft circles against your scalp. “Um— well, you can… You can use me. You can use your hands on me too, if you want,” he murmured, his cheeks flushing deeper as the words slipped out, raw and unguarded.

You smirked, leaning in with a playful glint in your eyes. “That’s very unspecific, Kent. What exactly would that imply?”

Clark’s cheeks flared bright red, his breath catching as he swallowed nervously. “Don’t—come on, you’re really gonna make me ask for it, just like that?”

You chuckled softly, voice low and teasing. “Yup. Tell me what you want, big boy.” One of your fingers curled just below the hem of his pants, making him suddenly shiver from the unexpected contact. His abs and the muscles on his torso jerking suddenly.

The hand resting lightly on your head suddenly stilled. Clark shut his eyes briefly, as if gathering every ounce of courage to say what he felt but barely dared to voice. When he finally tilted his head toward you, his brows knit together and his eyes glistened with a vulnerability that made your heart ache. He looked so raw—so close to breaking—and for a moment, you almost felt sorry for him.

“Please, baby, jus’ touch me,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Can you—God.” He cut himself off abruptly, blinking up at you, clearly torn between shame and need, unsure if he could even say the words that were burning behind his lips. Yet, there you lay, watching him, waiting.

He swallowed hard, voice rough and desperate now. “Jesus… you’re really driving me backwards. Look at what you’ve got me saying…” His breath hitched. “Can you please jerk me off, baby? Put me to good use. Do something. Whatever…”

Your fingers fumbled almost instinctively at the buckle of his belt, heart hammering as you slid his pants down his thighs just below his knees, leaving him in his boxer briefs, feeling the tension release with the sound of the clasp. Calvin Klein— you weren't even surprised, he even looked like the models in the magazines. Without hesitation, you moved over him, settling on his lap, heat radiating from your bodies as you leaned in to capture his mouth with a hungry kiss.

His breath hitched when your legs came into contact with the flesh of his thighs, hands gripping your waist as the space between you vanished.

There was no gentleness here—only the raw need that had been building between you, unleashed in a rush of heat and urgency. His mouth opened beneath yours, inviting, desperate, and you wasted no time slipping your tongue inside to explore, tasting the sweetness of his tounge and the tremble of his lips.

His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, making you drag the heat of your clothed cunt against his leaking cock as if trying to make up for lost time. Your fingers pressed firmly against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath the fabric. You began humping him, and so did he. He whimpered into your mouth every time his tip caught the seam of your jeans, serving him as some sort of satisfaction. His hips rolled hungrily against yours as he kept shamelessly moaning into your mouth, sounding like a desperate man, each whimper more needy. The kiss was possessive and wild, a fierce claiming that left no room for doubt about the fire burning between you.

You broke the kiss suddenly, something which thankfully lent you the view of his soft, plump lips now swollen and red, his cheeks and ears rosy as ever, and his glasses, as always, lying askew on his nose. You latched onto his neck, and he let out a high-pitched noise. He's so cute. As your tongue lapped against the skin of his neck, your hands wandered down to the hem of his boxers and slowly snaked themselves under them. As your hands wandered further, you could feel how soft the skin of his abdomen was, and later, just below, you could also feel he was trimmed, and then, just further down—

Jesus. Christ.

He was fucking huge. Your hand wrapping around the base of his cock basically counted as a miracle; you almost couldn't clasp your hand into a fist around it. He was long, too, your hand wrapped tight around him, and you stroked him once, earning a shiver from him. Even without looking at it, you could feel the ridges of the veins running along the side of his cock as you stroked him. God bless this man, truly.

"Mhmph." He flinched as he clearly had tried to say something, but that was the only thing that came out of his mouth. A pathetic sigh.

Just as your lips left a blooming mark on the side of Clark’s neck—deep, flushed, and unmistakably yours—a flicker of something wicked sparked to life in your mind. You let your tongue trace the edges of the bruise for one last second before your hand, which had been steadily working his cock beneath the waistband of his boxers, suddenly stilled.

He gasped, a breathless whimper catching in his throat at the loss of contact. You slowly withdrew your hand, dragging it out deliberately, your fingers slick with proof of just how far gone he was. He let out a soft, pitiful noise, equal parts frustration and pleading, as if you’d stolen the only thing keeping him grounded.

You leaned back just enough to meet his eyes—wide, glassy, stunned—your own gaze dark and commanding. Then, you lifted your hand, palm up, just beneath his face.

“Spit on my hand, Clark,” you said, low and deliberate, your tone a perfect blend of authority and challenge.

His breath hitched. He blinked once, twice, as if trying to determine whether he’d heard you right. His lips parted, trembling slightly.

“I—wha…?” he stammered, voice thready and wrecked. “You want me to…”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” you murmured, voice like velvet and sin.

His Adam’s apple bobbed hard as he swallowed. You could see the war in his head—modesty clashing with the overwhelming desire to please you. Finally, he nodded, barely perceptible, and whispered:

“O-okay.”

Clark’s breath hitched audibly, chest rising with a sharp inhale as you pulled your hand back and held it in front of him. His eyes—already wide and glassy—darted to your fingers, then up to your face. You could see the war inside him, flickering right behind his glasses. Some part of him still wanted to be composed, respectable. The other part, the one unraveling at your words and touch, was clawing its way to the surface.

His jaw tensed like he might say something—but then he didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, lips parting just a bit. His breath brushed against your palm. And then—

Spit.

It was small, and hesitant as he let it drip from his mouth to the palm of your hand, but it was there. His cheeks flushed instantly deeper, as if even the action startled him. He didn’t look away, though. No—his gaze held yours, almost defiantly now. There was shame in his expression, yes, but also something else. Want. Trust. Hunger.

You let a smirk tug at your lips. “Good boy,” you murmured, low and warm like velvet. The way he shuddered at just that made your pulse kick up. His fingers were still clenching the fabric of your pants, like he was holding himself back from... something.

With your other hand, you reached down and tugged at the waistband of his boxers, fingers fumbling slightly against the elastic. Finally, you hooked them properly, intent clear in your movements. Clark let out a shaky breath, lifting his hips in a silent invitation, and his own hands moved to help, pushing the fabric down with an urgency that betrayed just how far gone he already was. For a second, the waistband caught his shaft, making it even harder to pull down.

What a sight.

This was probably the first time you'd ever seen a man having a hard time taking off his boxers from how utterly huge he was.

Finally, in an act of desperation, he yanked them down, freeing his cock from under the fabric. It sprang out, slow and steady, oscillating back and forth from the front of your jeans to his belly button. Jesus. His tip was a deep shade of red, leaking with eager drops of precum, coasting hungry down the very slit. He was thick, like oddly girthy. His shaft was very faintly a darker shade of skin than the rest of his body, something tending towards pink or light mauve. Veins, humming with desire, painted the sides of his shaft, making it all the more intimidating. Clearly, you had been staring for too long because his breath hitched, and his whole cock twitched before you, swaying towards him. His eyes darted away for a moment, glancing anywhere but at you—as if the weight of your gaze made him suddenly self-conscious.

He shifted slightly, the vulnerability of the moment pressing on him, and yet there was an undeniable softness in the way he looked back, hesitating but trusting. “You’re… really looking at me, aren't you?” he joked quietly, letting out a soft nervous laugh.

You became aware of the look on your face, and your eyes darted towards him. "Yeah, well, I don't know if you're aware of how big you are, Clark." You let out a breath as your hand, still slick from his spit, slid down to stroke him once and for all. Your hand glided down effortlessly, making wet and sloppy noises under you.

Clark blinked, clearly caught off guard by your words. His cheeks flushed deeper, and he shifted uneasily, sucking in a breath and puffing his chest the second your hands started working on him. “I—uh, dont give it much thought…” he murmured, voice soft and a bit breathless. “You really think so? It’s not like I’ve been hiding it on purpose.”

That made you scoff, but your hand kept working at the same pace. You wanted to put your mouth on him so bad, but considering how he was reacting now, he'd probably implode from just having your tounge on him. But then again, wasn't that the whole point? So then you decided to do so. You got off his lap, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock, working him oh so sweetly, and as soon as your knees found the carpet, you brought your tounge to his tip, swirling the slick around it.

Clark flinched suddenly, muscles tensing like coiled springs beneath his shirt. You had begun to stroke his cock faster, your mouth taking him deeper into your mouth, you kept one hand at his base helping yourself with what you couldn't take fully. The flesh of his thighs tightened and strained, every movement charged with raw energy. His head fell back against the cushion of the couch, eyes closing briefly as a low, guttural sound escaped from deep within him.

Without hesitation, his hand shot up to your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. Despite the strength behind the motion, his touch was soft and soothing, cradling you at the base of your skull and tracing slow, comforting circles along your neck.

You arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as your hand continued its slow, deliberate motion. “That feel good?” you teased, voice dripping with mischief. Your grip tightened just slightly, testing his reaction, fingers sliding with purpose along his shaft.

Clark’s breath hitched again, eyes fluttering open to meet yours—wide, vulnerable, and shimmering with a mix of surprise and something deeper. His voice came out husky, uneven, betraying how much your touch affected him. “Y-yeah… Fuck,” he cursed. He cursed?

That was the first time you had ever heard Clark Kent curse, really curse.

That only ignited you. Your mouth and hands began to work at new speeds. You kept yourself coordinated, sometimes pulling away to spit on the very tip, or to pull away for a second to look at him from under your lashes. The poor man was done for; you could tell he was close by the way he had begun to hold onto the back of your head tighter, pushing you down onto his cock.

Clark’s breath came in shallow, uneven bursts as his eyes darkened with something raw and unguarded. The usual calm that defined him seemed to melt away, replaced by a flicker of desperate yearning that made his entire body tense and shiver.

His gaze locked onto yours, glazed and unfocused for a moment—as if the world had narrowed down to nothing but the heat of your touch and the magnetic pull between you. His lips parted slightly, breath hitching as if he struggled to find the right words, but none came.

Then, something completely and utterly unexpected happened: he spoke—without being coaxed, prompted, or begged. His voice, low and certain, cut through the air like it had always belonged there. He furrowed his brows, lips pulling into the faintest pout as he locked eyes with you, unblinking. And then, like some quiet ritual had reached its climax, he reached up and slid his glasses off, tossing them onto the table behind you with a casual flick of his wrist.

In an instant, he changed. Not in a subtle way—not in a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of way. It was seismic. Gone was the quiet, anxious boy who shrank into himself. He rolled back his shoulders like he’d just remembered he had them. His knees spread wider, his posture now dripping with a kind of authority that hadn’t been there a minute ago. It wasn’t just confidence—it was control. Power. Presence.

He looked like a completely different person—no, he was a different person. And you were choking on that realization as much as you were on him.

What the actual fuck just happened?

"Yeah? Y'taking me so good, you know that? Jesus— your mouth's so warm, baby." Then the hand on your hair pulled your hair into a makeshift ponytail. He was close, you could tell. His hips bucked involuntarily, making you take him completely, and for a few seconds, he held you there, nose nestled against the trimmed hairs of his pelvis.

"Taking care of me so nicely. Just like— just like that." He tilted his head to get a good look at you. "Atta girl," that sent shivers down your spine, only fueling you further. Your head bobbed with your newfound speed, only making him groan louder.

He began once again, "I’ve been trying to be good. Trying not to think of you like this— always so nice to me. But you've made it so hard— God." You moaned around him, and that's when you began to feel his cock twitch around your lips, so you sped up. "Hell, you made it so hard. Tried not cummin' in my pants like a teenager every time you walked with one of those tight little pencil skirts."

"Tried not to think of you like this. Never touched myself—God, never, not once. I felt so bad thinking of you this way after you had been nothin' but nice to me. Such a sweet angel. Nothin' but a good little girl to me." You smiled as you bobbed your head faster, helping yourself with your hands every now and then. He really was such a kind, pure-spirited person (putting away the fact that his cock was shoved down your throat). Even if you had begun to guess how he felt about you the first few weeks, it was still sweet hearing him say it. Spit had begun to pool around the corners of your mouth, making the noises coming from your lips even filthier. They were wet and sticky, echoing around the room, sometimes interrupted by a sudden pop when your mouth slipped away from his cock.

"Oh, baby, you're drooling everywhere." He brought a single knuckle to your lips and cheeks and began brushing off spit. "M'gonna cum in your mouth, honey, can I?" His finger then caressed your cheek as his breaths began to grow rapid and unsteady. You nodded with a small hum.

His hand stayed pressed against your head, still holding your hair into a ponytail. Even now, knee deep in such filth, he was still such a gentleman. But then, his grip shifted—tightened. A low, instinctive reaction. His eyes, darkened and wide, dropped down to meet yours. The soft blue was now nearly eclipsed by pupils so dilated they looked black in the dim light. His chest rose sharply with each breath, muscles tight under his shirt, as if his body couldn't quite decide between tensing up or melting down completely. And just when you thought he might say something—anything—he tilted his head back again with a low, stuttering whimper, shoulders twitching like he’d lost the strength to hold back.

"M'gonna— God, taking me so well, such a messy girl. Fuck me, fuck me, fuckme, fuckme, fuck-" His words died out on his throat, and his throat closed up. Your mouth continued to lap at him up and down, forcing him into your throat and bobbing your head to meet the snapping of his hips. Suddenly, with one last thrust, he moaned, and you felt the warm sensation of cum trickling down your throat. He held you there by the back of your head, pressed flush against the skin of his pelvis. His hips stuttered and his muscles flexed as he let out a string of incoherent words.

As he continued to paint your throat, he tried to excuse himself and be the gentleman that he is once again. He sounded like he was about try cry, and for a second you were sure he was when you saw a tiny speckle of light catching a tear on his cheek. "I'm not usually like this—Oh!" You tried not to cough or choke, but eitherway the sounds of your throat closing up on him were nothing but quiet. "M'sorry, I'm so sorry, baby. So good to me, making me feel so good..."

Finally, he let go of the grip on your hair, and you swallowed everything he gave you. You pulled away from his cock with a small pop as a string of saliva followed your lips. He looked so genuinely fucked out, his breaths came in uneven rhythms, your cheeks were flushed red, some tears had gathered right around the corner of his eyes, and most definitely in yours too.

You sat beside him, curling a hand around his shoulders, gently combing through his damp hair as he softly opened his eyes. His lashes fluttered like he was waking from some fever dream, and for a moment, he just stared—like he wasn’t sure you were real. Then he blinked a few times, the last of the tears clinging to the corners of his eyes, and let out the softest, shakiest breath.

"Hi," you whispered, your thumb brushing a stray lock from his forehead. God, what a ridiculously gorgeous man—even flushed and undone, or maybe especially then.

"Hi, right back at you," he managed, voice breathless and rough-edged. He giggled—just a short, embarrassed sound, like he couldn’t believe himself. His hand found your thigh, grounding himself.

You leaned in, your forehead brushing his temple, lips ghosting the shell of his ear. “You know…” you murmured, voice all soft and teasing, “You’ve still got to get that Superman interview.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stammer. Didn’t blush like he usually did when you got close. Instead, he turned his head slightly, just enough that his mouth nearly brushed yours, eyes shining with something sharp and knowing.

“Oh, absolutely. You’ve got the right person for that.”

The way he said it—low, smug, a little amused—sent a flicker down your spine. There was a glint in his eye that hadn’t been there before. Not the bashful gleam of Clark Kent fumbling with his words. No. This was something else entirely. A secret he was daring you to notice.

Clark’s eyes darkened with playful mischief after that as he suddenly shifted, moving with surprising speed to pin you gently against the corner of the couch. His broad frame hovered over you, breath warm against your skin.

A slow grin spread across his face. “But I think,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “It’s your turn now. Pa always said a gentleman knows how to return a favor.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, that mischievous smile still playing on his lips. Then, with a soft chuckle, he leaned in just slightly, the space between you charged with unspoken promises.

And just like that, the moment hung suspended—waiting, electric—before the world around you slipped away, leaving only the two of you in that quiet, perfect pause.

MINI AUTHORS NOTE: would yall believe me if i told you i got my period while writing the smut bit…

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aria-reblogs · 3 days ago

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The Lost Sister 3

Pt.1 <- Pt.2 <- Pt.3

Warnings: Mild language, light teasing/flirtation, intense stares, underlying tension, creative process under pressure. No graphic content.

W.C: 4000+

N/A: YOU GUYS ARE NOT READY FOR THIS CHAPTER SO PLEASE BUCKLE UP! And please if you already ask me to add you to the tag list check if you user is already there, if no lmk 🫰🏻

When the elevator doors slid open, you stepped out into a spacious floor that smelled faintly of cologne and wood polish.

You clutched your sketchbook to your chest, expecting to see a manager or maybe a coordinator—but instead, five tall figures stood scattered across the room, like they’d just paused mid‑practice.

Your brows knitted. Wait… where’s the manager? Why am I seeing… them?

One of them—dark hair tucked slightly behind his ears, calm presence radiating from him—stepped forward first. His voice was smooth, assured.

“You must be Y/N. I’m Jinu.”

Leader‑like. Solid. He held your gaze with an intensity that made you straighten your posture without thinking.

Before you could even process that, another figure approached—broad shoulders, sleeveless training tank showing off ridiculous arms. He grinned wide, unashamed, hand extended.

“Abs—uh, Abby. Nice to meet you!”

Your eyes darted, just briefly, to the way his biceps shifted when he moved. Holy—okay, focus, Y/N. Focus.

To your right, a softer laugh chimed in. Pinkish hair fell in delicate waves, eyes warm and mischievous.

“Romance,” he said with a little flourish of his hand, almost like a bow. “It’s an honor.”

He lingered just a second longer, gaze sweeping your face like he was already memorizing details.

Another presence hovered at the edge of the group. His hair—silvery lilac—fell over his eyes completely, hiding them from view, leaving only the angle of his jaw and the faint curve of his mouth visible.

“…Mistery,” he murmured, voice low and almost reluctant. He gave a small nod, hands hidden inside the sleeves of a faded lavender crewneck.

Last was the mint‑haired boy leaning casually against a chair, arms crossed over a simple tee and training jacket. There was a boyish curve to his lips, but something sharper behind his eyes.

“Baby,” he said simply, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as if he already knew something you didn’t.

You blinked, gripping your sketchbook tighter.

“I… wow. I thought I’d be meeting with a manager, not…” You gestured vaguely at them. “…you guys.”

Romance chuckled, leaning closer with that teasing smile. “Surprise. We like to be… hands‑on.”

Abby let out a short laugh. “Sorry if we caught you off guard.”

Jinu tilted his head, tone steady. “We wanted to meet the person they said could design something special for us.”

And just like that, five sets of eyes were on you, each different—curious, amused, analyzing. You swallowed, nerves fluttering in your stomach, but you forced a smile.

“Well… I guess I better not disappoint, then.”

You opened your sketchbook, fingers brushing across the blank page.

“So… you said you’re debuting soon, right? Do you have the track ready?”

Jinu exchanged a glance with the others before nodding. “We do.”

Romance gestured toward a nearby speaker, his tone lilting. “Do you want to hear it now?”

“Yes, please. Music is everything when it comes to design. I need to feel it.”

Baby arched an eyebrow, that little smirk tugging at his lips again. “Feel it, huh?” His tone was light, but there was something behind it—something unspoken, something watchful.

You ignored the way your stomach flipped. “Yeah. Clothes have to move with the beat. They need to… tell the same story.”

A low hum came from Mistery. “…Story,” he repeated softly, almost like tasting the word.

Romance tilted his head, eyes glittering. “I like that.”

They played the track. The first notes burst through the speakers—bright, electric, full of pulse and color. Your pencil moved almost before your mind caught up, sketching silhouettes, lines flowing with the rhythm.

“Stand up,” you said suddenly, glancing up at them.

“Hm?” Abby blinked, halfway through stretching his arm.

“I need to see you,” you explained, already waving your pencil. “How you carry yourselves, your proportions, how you move.”

They stood. Jinu’s posture was relaxed, confident in the simplest way. Abby adjusted his sleeveless tank, stretching his arms in a way that very obviously showed off the sculpt of his abs and biceps. You bit back a laugh, cheeks warming. Romance shifted with a dancer’s grace, fingers brushing the hem of his hoodie, always with a touch of flair. Mistery stayed still, shoulders slightly hunched, his arms still hidden beneath long sleeves—he clearly didn’t like them exposed. And Baby? Baby was effortless, leaning back in his joggers and loose T‑shirt, projecting comfort and ease but with eyes that followed every stroke of your pencil.

“Okay…” you muttered, letting yourself fall into the design.

Soft pink under white layers for Jinu—clean and straightforward, like him.

A bold Hawaiian print for Abby—because of course he’d want to show skin, a little edge, a little fun.

Flowy yellow for Romance, with hearts stitched into places no one would expect—playful and poetic.

For Mistery, layered textures, turtlenecks and arm warmers, giving him privacy yet presence.

And Baby—oversized softness, pinks and aquas, jeans with structure but not tight.

Your pencil flew, and soon colors filled the page, every detail dancing to the beat still echoing in the room.

Fifteen minutes later, you turned the sketchbook around, heart pounding.

“There,” you breathed. “Your debut.”

For a heartbeat, none of them spoke. Then Abby let out a low whistle. “Whoa.”

Romance leaned in, his smile curling. “You caught the vibe…”

Jinu’s eyes met yours, dark and steady, and a slow smile spread across his face. “You caught the song,” he said softly, “and you caught us.”

Something in the way he said it made your pulse jump. It wasn’t just about the music or the designs. It was like he was telling you, in that layered tone, that you had their attention now—completely.

Baby’s smirk deepened as his gaze flicked from the sketchbook back to you, something unreadable in his expression. Mistery gave a quiet nod, a murmur slipping past his lips, “…Good.”

Romance straightened, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve, his eyes sparkling with a teasing glint. “Well, designer, looks like we’re in good hands.”

Abby grinned, flexing just slightly as if to check how the drawn sleeves would look. “These are sick. And hey—thanks for not putting us in skinny jeans.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’d hate me forever if I did.”

For a moment, the room was easy, lighthearted… but behind their smiles, those five pairs of eyes watched you with a curiosity that ran deeper than you could imagine.

Your chest swelled with pride. “Thank you.”

Baby’s fingers tapped lightly on the table, that smile never fading. “I think… we’re going to enjoy working with you.”

You met his eyes—and that smirk did it again, made your stomach flip. You looked away quickly, gathering your pens.

Romance chuckled, leaning closer as he brushed an invisible speck off your shoulder. His voice dropped low, warm. “Careful, sweetheart… we might not let you go after this.”

Your breath caught. You shot him a look, half amused, half flustered. “I think you’ll have to, at some point.”

“We’ll see.” The way he said it made the air feel warmer, thicker.

You packed your things, your mind still buzzing with adrenaline and… something else.

Jinu walked you to the elevator again, his steps quiet, his presence steady.

“Thank you for today,” you said softly.

“Thank you,” he replied, eyes holding yours a second longer than necessary. “See you soon, (Y/N).”

The doors closed, and you leaned back against the elevator wall, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

As the doors shut behind him, the group remained around the table, the light from the windows catching on their features.

Abs crossed his arms, grinning. “She’s good. And she’s got guts.”

Romance hummed in agreement, his long bangs swaying as he tilted his head. “She sees people. That’s… rare.”

Mistery let out a low sound—half chuckle, half hum—his mouth curving faintly.

Baby tapped a finger on the table, his smile gentle but eyes glinting with thought. “She doesn’t know.”

Jinu lowered himself into his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. His voice was calm, almost thoughtful. “No. She doesn’t. Not yet.”

Abs leaned back, chair creaking. “That might be better. For now.”

Romance’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Yes… for now.”

They fell into a quiet rhythm, each lost in their own thoughts, each feeling the subtle pull of something new, something dangerous—or perhaps, something they didn’t yet understand.

---

The elevator chimed softly as you stepped into the apartment, the city lights spilling in through the tall windows like melted gold. Your tote bag was heavier than usual, filled with fabric swatches and folded receipts, but your chest felt light. Today had been good—really good.

The faint scent of ginger and soy drifted down the hallway, guiding you to the kitchen. Mira’s long pink hair, falling in a silky curtain down her back, swayed as she stood at the stove. She was focused, stirring something in a large pan, her sleeves rolled up. Zoey sat cross‑legged on the counter, swiping pieces of cabbage from a plate, and Rumí leaned back against the fridge, scrolling through her phone.

You adjusted the strap of your bag and stepped into the warm light.

“Hey, I’m back ” you greeted softly.

Mira’s head lifted, her smile immediate, warm enough to banish the fatigue in your shoulders. “You’re back.” She set the spoon down and turned slightly, the length of her hair sweeping like a pink river. “I was starting to think the fabric shops kidnapped you.”

A little laugh escaped you. “They tried, but I escaped with the loot.” You placed the bag down and began pulling out swatches—soft cottons, layered sheers, textured knits—arranging them on the table.

Zoey let out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s… a lot.”

“Just in case,” you murmured, running your fingers over a lilac fabric to calm the restless energy building in your chest. Too much attention on you always made your stomach tighten.

“Are you working on something new for us?” Mira asked, curiosity light in her voice, not accusatory.

You hesitated, your pencil already in hand out of habit. “Maybe. Just… some ideas.”

They seemed satisfied with that, Zoey nodding as she popped a piece of carrot into her mouth.

“Tomorrow’s going to be crazy,” Rumí said, setting her phone down. “The stage team texted Bobby. Everything’s locked in.”

“Lighting’s ready, and Bobby already double‑checked the accessories.” Zoey tapped the counter rhythmically. “We’re actually ahead of schedule for once.”

“Costumes look amazing under the new rig,” Mira added, pride softening her voice. “You’ve really been a miracle worker, Y/N.”

Your cheeks warmed, though you kept your eyes on your open sketchbook. “Thanks…”

The pencil glided across the page almost on its own—long limbs, layered fabrics, shapes that matched the rhythms you’d memorized from the boys’ demo track. You blocked out details, lines sweeping into a flowy blouse with heart‑shaped accents, wide sleeves, layered textures. Your mind flickered back to earlier: Jinu’s quiet attentiveness, Abby’s confident grin as he’d stretched and unconsciously flexed his arms, Mistery’s way of subtly pulling at his sleeves as if to hide his skin, Baby’s lazy slouch hiding that sharp glint in his eyes, Romance’s deliberate little gestures that dripped style.

Your heart jumped suddenly at the clang! of a pan dropped into the sink. You flinched before you could stop yourself, shoulders tightening, breath catching. Mira glanced over, concern flickering across her face, but you forced a smile. “It’s fine,” you whispered, lowering your pencil.

It wasn’t just the noise—it was the memory it triggered, that instinctive jolt in your gut. Too many nights growing up when a sudden slam meant raised voices, things breaking, hunger twisting through you because you hadn’t eaten, because control felt safer than food. You pushed those thoughts away, focusing on the graphite in your hand.

“You’re zoning out,” Zoey teased lightly, drawing your attention back.

You closed the sketchbook a little too quickly, hugging it to your chest before they could see. “Just doodles,” you said softly, trying to sound offhand. “Nothing important.”

Rumí tilted her head, but her smile stayed easy. “You’re always drawing something…”

Mira nodded, her long hair slipping over her shoulder as she turned back to the pan. “That’s Y/N for you. Let her have her secrets.”

They brushed it off, going back to their chatter about tomorrow’s rehearsal, and relief seeped into your lungs. You excused yourself quietly, slipping down the hallway to your room.

Inside, you sank onto your bed, sketchbook still in your arms. The soft hum of the apartment surrounded you, but your thoughts spun.

Why didn’t I just tell them?

You could see Mira’s proud smile in your mind, but also her protective frown. Better to wait. Let the boys debut, let the work speak for itself.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, snapping you out of it. You reached for it, expecting some update from Bobby—

Unknown Number: Thank you again for today. You really impressed us. :)

You blinked at the message. Your heart kicked once, sharply.

You: Who is this?

A second later:

Unknown Number: It’s Jinu. From earlier. :)

A laugh slipped from your throat, surprising even you.

You: How did you even get my number?

Jinu: I have my methods.

You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips despite the warmth in your cheeks.

You: Suspicious… and kinda creepy, don’t you think?

Jinu: Okay, okay. Your card was in the folder they gave us. But “methods” sounds cooler, right?

Your smile deepened—he was sweet, unexpectedly so. Before you could reply, a new notification popped up: a voice message.

Curiosity bubbling, you pressed play.

“Wait, don’t press—hey! It’s recording—” That playful tone was definitely Romance, followed by a loud laugh—Abby’s, without a doubt.

“Move over—Y/N, hi! This is—” A scuffle, a grunt.

“Don’t say our names, you idiot!” snapped a sharper voice—Baby’s, soft but cutting underneath.

A low murmur followed—Mistery, quiet, indecipherable. “Stop crowding the phone—seriously—” Jinu’s steady voice rose above them, then another ripple of laughter before the audio cut off entirely.

You burst out laughing, pressing the phone to your forehead. They were chaotic. And weirdly endearing.

Y/N: You all are ridiculous

An idea struck you.

You: Hang on. Send me their numbers too—I’ll make a group chat. Easier for everyone to yell in one place.

Jinu replied almost immediately with four contacts, each with a tiny emoji. You created a group titled, Work in Progress 🎨🎤 and dropped them all in.

You: Hi… I thought this might be easier than emails for fittings and updates

Jinu: Told you she’s cool. You’re quick, Y/N. Appreciate it. :)

Romance: Ahh, now we can talk to her directly? My day just got better.

Abby: So, when do we get our first fitting, boss?

Mistery: …hi.

Baby: Group chat. Dangerous. I like it.

Romance: I like the name… it feels artistic. Did you pick it yourself?

YN:…Yeah. It was the first thing that came to mind.

You sat cross‑legged on your bed, staring at the screen as messages pinged one after another. For the first time in a long time, your chest felt light.

Jinu: We just wanted to say thanks again. Today was… impressive.

YN: You’re welcome. I’m glad it helped.

Abby: Helped? You literally sketched five full outfits in like… fifteen minutes. With color.

Baby: Do you have superpowers or something?

YN: …No. Just practice.

Romance: Or maybe you were inspired by us? 😉

You hesitated, biting back a nervous laugh.

YN: Maybe by the song. It has a clear vibe.

Romance: A vibe and… maybe a little more? You caught the song and you caught us.

For a second you stared at the screen, unsure what to say. Your heart gave a small, startled jump before you typed carefully:

YN: I just do my best to read the concept… nothing more.

Jinu: Still, not many can do that so fast. It got our attention, that’s all.

Baby: Attention is good. It means we’re working with the right person.

Mistery: …mm. (a simple sound, but enough to make you imagine him nodding)

Abby: Can’t wait to see what else you’ve got.

YN:…Thank you. I’ll try to live up to that.

Their words filled your little room with laughter you didn’t know you needed, and as you hugged your sketchbook close, you let yourself believe—just for tonight—that you could do this. That you were more than your past, more than your scars. And that maybe, just maybe, this new thread you were weaving might turn into something beautiful.

Romance: Oh, we don’t doubt it. But no skinny jeans, right? My knees like to breathe.

YN:…Don’t worry. I wouldn’t do that to you.

You noticed the three laughing emojis that followed and couldn’t help a small smile.

Jinu: Rest up, Y/N. Big days ahead.

YN: Goodnight, everyone.

Abby: Night!

Romance: Sweet dreams, Muse.

Mistery: …Night.

Baby: Goodnight.

Jinu: Night, Y/N. :)

You set your phone aside, a warmth settling low in your chest.

They were playful, yes, but there was no pressure, no sharp edge in their words.

For once, the chatter didn’t feel like noise—just soft threads weaving into something new.

—-

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aria-reblogs · 3 days ago

Text

— let go ; clark kent

pairing ; clark kent x fem!reader

synopsis ; you and clark have been seeing each other for a months now, and clark is constantly thinking about the time when he gets to let go with you.

themes ; fluff, implied smut

warnings ; implied smut, but nothing graphic

author’s note ; CLARK FIC 2!!!!! i love this man, can you tell??? also, quick psa for anyone who’s been here for a bit: i know i’ve written smut before, but i don’t know how i feel about it anymore. every time i try and get the words out, they’re just so cringe and it makes me uncomfortable?? i just can’t seem to do it! which is so annoying! so for now, i’ve decided implied smut only??? we’ll see how that goes lol

main masterlist request a fic!

The Daily Planet newsroom was quiet in the late hours, save for the faint hum of computers and the sound of Clark’s pen scratching across paper. You’d stayed late with him before, chasing deadlines, swapping bad coffee for whispered conversations, but tonight felt different.

Clark wasn’t working — not really. He was leaning back in his chair, glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose, eyes fixed on you in that way that made you feel exposed. Not in a bad way — but as if he could see past every layer you kept up.

“You’re staring,” you said softly, raising a brow.

“I’m thinking,” he replied, setting his pen down.

You smiled faintly. “Dangerous.”

His lips curved. “Maybe.” He hesitated, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his desk. His voice dropped to that low, warm rumble that made your skin tingle. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure,” you replied.

He exhaled slowly, looking momentarily conflicted before speaking again. “I’ve been wondering what it would be like to really let go with you.”

The words hit you like a soft blow, heat curling in your stomach. “Let go?” you echoed.

His gaze didn’t waver. “You know I… hold back. All the time, with everything.”

Of course you knew. He was Superman — he had to hold back, or the world could crumble under his strength. But this — the way he was looking at you now — wasn’t about lifting cars or outrunning bullets. It was about you. “What exactly are you saying, Kent?”

His voice was huskier now. “I’m saying I’ve been curious about just how much stamina I really have. And, what it would be like to find out with you.”

The air between you seemed to hum. You forced yourself to speak even as your pulse quickened. “And you think I’d survive this little experiment?”

He smiled faintly, though it wasn’t entirely innocent. “I think you’d more than survive it.”

The ride back to your apartment was silent but thick with unspoken words. Clark’s hand brushed yours on the subway platform — an accidental graze that sent a jolt through you. By the time you reached your door, your heart was pounding like you’d run a marathon. You unlocked it, stepped inside, and Clark followed, closing the door behind him. He didn’t waste time — his hand came to your cheek, warm and steady, guiding you into a kiss that was soft at first but quickly deepened. His other hand slid to your waist, drawing you closer until you could feel the solid strength of him against you.

You broke away just long enough to whisper, “Clark…”

He pressed his forehead to yours. “I don’t want to scare you. But I need you to tell me if this is something you want.”

“I wouldn’t have let you in if I didn’t,” you murmured. That was all he needed. The next kiss was heat, then fire. You could feel his restraint — the same way you always could — but now it was fraying at the edges. His fingers threaded into your hair, his mouth trailing along your jaw to your throat. Your hands found his shoulders, solid as stone beneath the cotton of his shirt, and he smelled faintly of rain and clean air, as if he’d flown through a storm just to get to you.

“Still holding back?” you teased against his ear.

He chuckled low in his chest. “You have no idea.”

Your laugh caught in your throat as he lifted you effortlessly, your feet leaving the floor. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, gripping the broad line of his back. “Clark—”

“Shh,” he murmured, kissing you again as he carried you toward the couch. When he set you down, his eyes searched yours. “I’ve imagined this, but I don’t think imagination does it justice.”

You touched his jaw. “Then stop imagining.”

From there, everything blurred into heat and sensation — mouth was insistent, his hands sure but careful, every brush of his fingertips sent sparks down your spine. He moved over you, but you never once felt overpowered — only cherished, as if he was savoring every second. Yet underneath it, there was something restless, something powerful, that famous Kryptonian stamina he was just barely letting leak through. You kissed until your lips ached, until breathing was secondary to the feel of him. His shirt hit the floor, revealing skin and muscle carved like something out of myth. You traced the lines of him with your fingers, marveling at the way he tensed under your touch.

His voice was a low growl now. “If I really let go…”

“Show me,” you whispered.

The look in his eyes shifted into something dangerous, but beautiful. He kissed you hard, hands gripping your hips, pulling you against him with a strength that made your head spin. You could feel it then — the difference. The way his body moved without the constant leash of control, the heat of him, the sheer endurance simmering beneath the surface. It was overwhelming, addictive.

Time stopped meaning anything. You didn’t know how long you stayed like that — tangled together, moving from couch to wall, from wall to bedroom. Every time you thought you’d reached the peak, he’d find a new way to make you shiver, to coax another breathless sound from you. Clark’s stamina wasn’t just physical — it was in the way he looked at you, as if there was nothing else in the world worth seeing, in the way he kept finding ways to touch you even when you thought you couldn’t take any more.

Hours seemed to pass in waves. You lost track of how many times you’d collapsed against him, breathless and laughing between kisses; you lost track of how many times he whispered your name like a prayer. The only constant was him, always there, always steady — but now, finally, unrestrained.

By the time the first streaks of dawn filtered through your curtains, you were sprawled in the sheets, head resting on his chest. Clark’s arm was around you, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin. “You okay?” he murmured, voice still husky.

You laughed weakly. “I think I forgot how to walk.”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Guess that answers my question.”

Tilting your head, you look up at him. “About stamina?”

That smile of his was slow and satisfied. “About whether I could let go with you.”

“And?” you asked softly.

“And…” he brushed your cheek with his fingers, “I’m never going back to holding back with you again.”

You woke to the faint golden light of morning spilling through the curtains, painting the walls in soft amber. The air was warm, the world still wrapped in that perfect quiet that only came before the city truly woke.

But, the best part wasn’t the sunshine, or the stillness.

It was him.

Clark was beside you, his broad frame stretched out along the length of your bed, one arm draped loosely across your waist. The weight of it was reassuring, protective — as if even in sleep, he was shielding you from the world. His breathing was slow and even, each exhale ruffling your hair ever so slightly. His skin was warm — impossibly so — and the heat radiating off him had kept you comfortably cocooned all night without even needing the blankets.

For a long, luxurious moment, you didn’t move. You just lay there, letting yourself sink into the comfort of it, the feel of him, the scent of him — that faint, clean, rain-kissed smell that you swore no cologne could imitate — the subtle weight of his hand where it rested at your hip, fingertips just grazing the bare skin above the sheets.

But, when you finally shifted, trying to stretch your legs… you immediately regretted it.

A dull, aching throb pulled at your muscles in a way that was both humiliating and far, far too telling. You froze, eyes closing in defeat. “Ow,” you whispered under your breath, wincing.

The sound was soft, but not soft enough.

Clark stirred instantly. His head turned toward you, lashes fluttering as those ridiculous blue eyes blinked open. They focused on you slowly, hazy with sleep but already warm. And then, the corners of his mouth lifted in the kind of slow, easy smile that could stop your heart.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice low and still rough with sleep.

You tried to match his casual tone, but your voice came out a little too careful. “Morning.”

His arm tightened slightly around your waist, fingertips brushing your side in a lazy, unhurried stroke. “Sleep okay?”

You gave him a look. “You’re asking me that after last night?”

That smile of his deepened — a little too smug to be entirely innocent — though he made a valiant effort at keeping his expression neutral. “What? I’m just making sure you’re alright.”

You rolled onto your back, groaning dramatically and draping an arm over your face. “Clark Kent, I can’t move without thinking about you. My legs are still shaking.”

His grin widened in a way that told you he was not even pretending to hide his satisfaction anymore. “Guess we answered the stamina question, huh?”

You swatted weakly at his chest — though even at your strongest, you doubted it would have made much difference against someone like him. “Oh, you think you’re so funny.”

“I don’t think,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “I know.”

You lowered your arm enough to glare at him half-heartedly. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he teased, brushing his lips feather-light along the shell of your ear, “you don’t seem to mind.”

Your mouth twitched, the beginnings of a smile threatening to betray you. “If I’d known that ‘letting go’ meant you’d keep going until sunrise, I might’ve reconsidered.”

His brow quirked in mock offense. “Might’ve?”

“Might’ve,” you repeated stubbornly, even though your lips were already curling into a smile you couldn’t quite suppress.

He shifted onto his side, propping himself on one elbow so he could look down at you properly. The sight of him in the morning light was unfair — hair slightly mussed, eyes warm but glinting with mischief, the strong lines of his shoulders cutting against the golden glow. His other hand settled at your waist again, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin.

“So,” he drawled, “what you’re saying is, I should’ve gone longer.”

You stared at him in disbelief, a laugh bursting out of you. “Longer? Clark, if you’d gone any longer, I’d be a permanent part of this mattress.”

He chuckled low in his chest, clearly pleased with himself. “Noted.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “are still blushing.”

“I am not,” you shot back instantly — which was a mistake, because you could feel your cheeks heating in direct betrayal.

“Sure you’re not,” he said with a soft, knowing laugh. “You were making those same faces last night.”

Your mouth dropped open in mock horror. “You did not just say that.”

“I did,” he confirmed, looking entirely unrepentant. “And you know what? I think I could make you make them again right now.”

You shoved lightly at his shoulder, laughing despite yourself. “No. Absolutely not. I’m calling a moratorium. A… cooldown period. My body can’t handle you twice in twelve hours.”

Clark tilted his head in faux thoughtfulness. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“It’s not a challenge,” you insisted quickly, though the way your voice cracked mid-laugh completely undermined your authority.

“Mhm,” he hummed, the sound rich and skeptical. He leaned in, lips ghosting along your jaw in the lightest, most maddeningly slow kiss. “Because I could swear I’m hearing ‘prove me wrong.’”

You groaned, a mix of embarrassment and reluctant temptation. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you,” he murmured against your skin, “are very, very easy to read.”

You buried your face in the pillow to hide the smile threatening to break free. “Fine. But, if I can’t walk tomorrow, you’re carrying me to work.”

His hand smoothed slowly up your side, palm warm against your bare skin. “Deal. But only if we get to test just how far that stamina question goes.”

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. “Clark Kent, I swear—”

But, he was already leaning down again, kissing you softly this time, without the teasing edge. The kind of kiss that stole your breath not because it was hungry, but because it was careful, reverent, like he was reminding you that last night wasn’t just about proving a point — it was about you.

When he pulled back, his thumb brushed lightly along your cheekbone, his expression softened but still carrying that telltale spark of trouble. “You really okay?”

You nodded, even though you still felt like every muscle in your legs had gone on strike. “Yeah. I’m… more than okay.”

“Good,” he said, settling back down beside you and tugging you gently into his chest. “Because I wasn’t kidding about testing my stamina again.”

You groaned into his shoulder, but your laughter betrayed you. “I hate you.”

“You don’t,” he said easily, his voice already dipping toward that low, lazy tone that told you he was perfectly comfortable staying here for as long as you’d let him.

And truthfully? You didn’t. Not even a little.

You just knew you were never going to live this morning down.

By the time you finally made it into the Daily Planet building, coffee in hand and your bag slung over one shoulder, regret was already crawling its way up your spine like an unwelcome chill. The bitter aroma of the coffee was a small comfort, but every step you took across the polished lobby floor reminded you sharply of the exact reason you’d hit the snooze button an extra twenty minutes this morning — and the infuriatingly smug Kryptonian who’d been the catalyst for your current state. The cool, glass doors slid open before you, revealing the familiar hustle of reporters and editors weaving through the morning chaos, and you took a deep breath, hoping to steel yourself for the day ahead.

The elevator doors dinged open, and you slipped inside, thankful for the brief moment of quiet as the metal walls reflected your tired expression back at you. You rested your forehead against the cool surface for a second, trying to block out the dull ache settling in your muscles. When the doors slid open, the bustle of the newsroom hit you full force. Phones rang, keyboards clicked, and the low murmur of conversations filled the air — all under the giant globe that had seen a hundred stories break over the decades.

You took a tentative step forward and almost immediately caught the sharp, teasing voice you’d come to recognize and simultaneously dread: “Morning, sunshine. You look… sore.”

You froze mid-stride, the coffee cup hovering precariously as you turned toward Lois Lane’s amused grin. She was perched in her usual spot behind the desk, clipboard resting casually in one hand, eyes sharp and playful. The smirk on her face was the kind that spelled trouble.

“Excuse me?” you said, trying to keep your tone neutral, but failing to mask the flush creeping up your neck.

Lois leaned back in her chair with the unmistakable air of someone who’d just caught an exclusive scoop. “Don’t ‘excuse me’ me. I can spot a limp from a mile away. What happened? Run a marathon last night?”

You coughed lightly into your coffee, cheeks burning. “Something like that,” you mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Clark at his desk, slipping off his jacket and pretending to be absorbed in his computer screen, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him instantly — he was listening. He was definitely listening. And, enjoying every second.

Lois wasn’t done. “Well, whatever it was, you’re walking like you fought a war. Or—” She paused, the slow, gleeful grin spreading across her face almost painful in its smugness. “Oh my God.”

You pivoted on your heel, desperate to escape the teasing barrage. “Nope. No. Don’t ‘oh my God’ me.”

Lois’s gaze flickered between you and Clark, who had just settled back in his chair, arms crossed, the very picture of innocent amusement. “You and Smallville, huh?”

Clark raised an eyebrow in mock confusion. “Me?”

“Don’t play innocent, Kent,” Lois snapped, pointing a finger at him. “I’ve been a reporter for fifteen years — I can read body language like an open book.”

Clark’s lips twitched into a sly smile. “Can you?”

You shot him a warning look, silently pleading: Don’t say anything. Not one word.

Lois folded her arms, narrowing her eyes at you with unmistakable amusement. “Well, I don’t know what farm-boy cardio routine you two have going on, but it’s clearly intense. And, frequent.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could get a word out, Jimmy Olsen appeared at your side, file in hand, looking concerned. “Hey, you okay? You’re moving like you… uh… pulled something.”

Lois let out a loud, unapologetic laugh. “Oh, she pulled something all right.”

“Lois!” you hissed, cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

Clark leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, his smile widening just enough to let you know he was basking in your discomfort. “I think she’s fine,” he said smoothly. “Just… maybe a little tired.”

Your glare could have melted steel. “Tired?” you mouthed, shooting him a pointed look.

He just smiled — slow, knowing, and way too pleased with himself.

Lois tilted her head, eyes narrowed in mock pity. “Honey, if you ever need to borrow my heating pad, you know where my desk is.”

You didn’t hesitate. Grabbing your notebook, you made a beeline toward the archives, muttering under your breath about your “impending doom” and how you were going to kill them all if the teasing didn’t stop. As you passed Clark’s desk, you caught the soft, low chuckle only you could hear.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you said, without looking at him.

“I’m not enjoying it,” he murmured, leaning close so his voice was just for your ears. “I’m remembering exactly why you’re sore.”

You bit back a gasp, heat rushing to your cheeks as you hurried down the aisle, determined to get away before Lois could zero in on your flushed face. Behind you, Clark’s laughter lingered, soft and smug — a private promise that this was far from over.

You settled into the quiet of the archives, flipping through old files and trying to focus, but every movement brought a fresh reminder of last night’s events. Your legs betrayed you with a small, stubborn ache that refused to fade, and you adjusted your position several times, trying to find a way to sit that didn’t send jolts of discomfort up your spine. You could almost hear Clark’s teasing voice echoing in your head.

A buzz in your pocket pulled you from your thoughts — a text from Clark.

Need a rescue on your next bathroom trip?

You smiled, fingers flying over the screen as you typed back: Only if you’re carrying me.

The response was almost immediate.

Deal. But I’m billing for overtime.

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face as you tucked your phone away, cheeks warm with a mix of embarrassment and something else — something tender, something intimate.

Back in the bullpen, the day rolled on. You moved cautiously, determined not to let your discomfort slow you down, but it was obvious to everyone who watched you closely. Your strides were shorter, more deliberate, and your usual confident posture was replaced with something a little more guarded.

It wasn’t long before Lois caught up with you again, this time in the middle of a busy conference room just as the morning briefing was winding down.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked casually, but the twinkle in her eye told you she was far from fooled.

You bit your lip and gave her a tight smile. “Just a little out of sorts.”

Clark was nearby, pretending to be engrossed in his notes, but you could feel his gaze burning right through you. He didn’t say anything, but the barely suppressed grin on his face was impossible to miss.

As the meeting broke up, you found yourself walking slower than usual back to your desk. Each step was an effort, and you silently cursed Clark for turning what should have been a simple morning into a marathon of sore muscles and wobbly knees.

He caught up with you halfway there, falling into step beside you. “I’m thinking you might need a standing ovation. Or, at least a massage,” he said, voice low and teasing.

“I’m going to kill you,” you muttered, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

Clark’s eyes gleamed with affection. “Maybe. But you survived — and, that’s what counts.”

By the time you left the office that evening, your legs felt like jelly, but beneath the exhaustion was a warm glow — a quiet reminder that last night wasn’t just some reckless fling. It was something you both wanted, something real and worth every ache and playful jab.

You met Clark outside under the golden wash of the city’s evening light, the streets glowing amber in the sunset. His hand found yours easily, fingers curling around yours like they belonged there.

“So,” he murmured, voice low and intimate, “ready for round two?”

You laughed breathlessly, leaning into him despite the lingering soreness. “Maybe after I walk again.”

He grinned, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “Challenge accepted.”

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aria-reblogs · 3 days ago

Text

Silence Isn't Golden

Saja boys x reader

Warnings: Omegaverse, poly relationships, female reader, eventual smut, MDNI 18+

Chapter Warnings: LOTS of kissing, making out, biting, suggestive, It gets hot but no smut yet

*Italicized is for the reader's thoughts. A/N: Okay, so I lied. I'm way too obsessed with the Saja boys to stop writing. So here, the reader finally gets some time with her boys! Enjoy!

Previous - Next

Chapter 4.

Warmth and softness were the first things you became aware of, followed by the blend of scents from the boys. But one scent in particular was stronger, sweet but tangy. You stir, blinking your eyes open slowly, a soft gasp leaving you as Mystery leans close to your face, a soft purring sound coming from him. A little smile twitches at the corners of his mouth as he leans closer, listening to the sound of your heartbeat flutter. “Mate…” He whispers softly, shifting to pin you beneath him. You splutter, your cheeks flush but you don’t resist. The uncomfortable tugging in your chest is gone, replaced by warmth only your alphas could give you. Mystery leans down to your neck, inhaling before pressing a kiss to your pulse point. A quiet whimper leaves you and you shift slightly, but he gently keeps you pinned. A small grin makes its way onto his face, his fangs peeking out as he leans down to the crook of your neck. A soft breath brushes against your skin as he kisses the spot before biting. A startled sound leaves you, a mix between a gasp and whine. He growls lightly, his purr getting louder as he leaves his mark on you. It’s not a permanent one, no that would come later but this would do for now. He only pulls back when the door opens and he looks over his shoulder at Romance, who’s standing in the doorway like he just walked in on a scandal. “She’s awake and you didn’t tell us?!” The volume of his voice makes you wince, your ears highly sensitive to sound still.

Mystery gets off you and slips off the bed. “Shut up. You’re loud.” He mutters as he grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers. You slowly sit up, smiling shyly at Romance. Mystery smirks proudly at the red bite mark on your neck, seeing the way Romance squints on him with jealousy. “No fair… you got to kiss AND bite her first.” His lips push out in a pout, but he lowers his voice. As you watch the exchange between them you can’t help but giggle. The sound catching both their attention. “Oh, my darling, you are precious.” Romance peeks his head out of the room, calling down the hall at the other three. “She’s up, get in here!” He turns back to you with a smirk, a certain look in his eyes as he sidles up on your right side, gently pulling you to his chest. His scent catches your attention; he smells like roses and… desire. Your cheeks flush as he leans down to nuzzle your neck. “R-rom-“ Your voice trails off, unable to form words you’ve never needed to before. “Shh my sweet. We’ll teach you to speak, but for now…” He starts kissing down your shoulder, shifting the sweater for more access. “Damn, you guys really are impatient.” Baby rolls his eyes and glares at them, walking into the room with Abby and Jinu right behind him. You shiver, all their scents blending into one overpowering and intoxicating smell. You love it though; it’s only for you. They would only ever let you be this close to them. “Yeah, quite being so selfish.” Abby plops himself at the end of the bed, but something dark flashes through his eyes when they meet yours. Jinu leans on the end of the bed. “We should introduce ourselves before we smother her in our attentions.” “Why? She knows who we are. She can feel it.” Baby scoffs, moving closer and sitting by the headboard. Romance hums, kissing your shoulder, mumbling against your skin. “You know my name darling…” he finishes by biting into your shoulder. A strangled whimper leaves you. You can feel the air thicken when you make the sound, Mystery purring on your left. He presses a kiss to the space right below your ear, nipping it slightly. A shiver goes down your spine, they’re all too much yet not enough.

Baby swoops in, pulling you from Romance and laying you on his lap. He looks down at you, not even hiding his demon eyes. “You’re addicting…” His eyes narrow and he captures your lips in a kiss. It’s not gentle, but not rough either. His fangs nip at your bottom lip before he trails to your jaw and then to the side of your neck, where he bites. This time heat flared in your belly, only to be stamped down by the suppressants you took the afternoon before. All the boys could smell the sour scent of the suppressants, keeping you in check like a caged animal. They didn’t like it, but they could only wait it out. Abby scoops you from Baby’s lap and onto his. You’re facing him, your legs straddling his hips as you brace yourself on his chest, your fingers digging into his shirt. “You’re so touchy, sweetheart.” Your whole face is flushed as you pant softly, an ache in your body. Abby kisses down your left shoulder before biting, his hands slipped under your sweater to gently caress your sides. Your hands slide up to his shoulders and dig as you tremble, he growls softly against your shoulder before pulling back and licking the spot. “You’re such a good girl…” Your eyes meet Jinu’s over Abby’s shoulder and a shiver goes up your spine at the look in them. He gives you a lazy grin and moves around the bed, Abby slides you off his lap so Jinu can lift you. His hands slide under your butt and hoist you up, your arms going around his neck and your legs locking around his waist. He hums with approval and starts kissing up the column of your throat, dragging his fangs over your pulse politely. “So sweet… so perfect.” His lips trail to your collarbone where he presses several kisses and then bites before lavishing the bite with his tongue. He pulls you close and hides his face in your neck, inhaling and trying to calm down. “You don’t know what you do to us baby…” You gulp, feeling your own emotions running wild and the heat straining to break through the suppressant. Everything was so hot, so overwhelming. The sound, the feel, the scent. It all made your head spin and pleasant tingles go down your spine. With a sigh you leaned your head on Jinu’s shoulder, a shower would be nice right now to help cool you down. “What do you want, pretty girl? You gotta tell us.” You shake your head, you can’t speak well, and it would do you no good to sign, they can’t understand it. Jinu shifts so you can sit on the bed and they all crowd around you. “We’ll teach you; you just need practice and you’ll be talking, singing, all of it.” Though you doubt it, you decide it wouldn’t hurt to try. “Shhhh…” You bite your bottom lip and concentrate. “..ss-s-show..er..” You pause and look at them with wide eyes. “S-show-wer..” You smile and say it repeatedly as though you can’t believe you just said the word. They all look at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world, before Jinu moves to get the bathroom ready. “Alright pretty girl. A shower it is.” You stand shakily, overwhelmed by all the attention and emotions running through you right now. Mystery takes your hand from Jinu and gently leads you to the bathroom. “In there…” He pauses, staring at you from under his hair. “…here, clothes.” You turn to look at him and gasp. He’s holding one of his hoodies and a pair of shorts. You gently take the clothes and give him a little smile before heading into the bathroom, closing the door behind you. You stood on the other side of the door with wide eyes, everything felt so right. From the bond thrumming in happiness to the scents, the feelings, all of it. ‘Holy shit this… this is what I’ve always wanted…’

You step forward and look at the mirror on the wall, you face flushing all over again as you see the five bite marks on your shoulders and neck. ‘They… they marked me. They really do want me.’ Your heart flutters and as you stare at yourself in the mirror, you realize you’re happy. You just met these demons, but they’re your demons and the bond ties you all together. You nod your head at yourself. ‘I’m happy. So, so happy and I never want this to end.’ You think to yourself, a soft smile on your lips. Back in the bedroom, the boys were having a bit of a problem. Romance groans, dramatically putting his hands over his heart. “She doesn’t realize what’s she doing to us, does she? I was barely holding back…” Baby growls, eyes fully turning gold as he grips the sheets so tight he rips them. “You were barely holding back? I wanted to devour her.” Abby grunted in agreement, doing some pushups in the corner to distract himself. “Could barely keeps my hands off her.” Jinu lets out a low growl, running his hand through his hair. “It’s all so much, so right. I can feel the bond pulsing, wanting to be completed.” While they are all distracted, Mystery slips from the room and heads to the kitchen. He stops by the sink and runs his fingers through his hair before gently lifting it. He splashes some water on his face, the window barely reflecting gold eyes back at their owner. He is just as worked up as the others, but he knew you’d probably be hungry, so he makes a tray with a piece of toast, some warmed soup, and a glass of water. He heads back to the room and steps back in, setting the tray on the dresser. He turns and sees them all staring. “…she’ll be hungry.” Is all he says before going to sit in the corner of the room. Eventually you step from the shower, drying off and slipping into the clothes Mystery gave you. You close your eyes and inhale, the hoodie is Baby’s and the shorts are… Romance’s. You smile to yourself and dry your hair, thinking about them. How would they react when you go back out to them? Would they still want you? How do alphas react when they want their omega? How are omegas supposed to act around their alphas? You have so many questions, questions that Celine never answered. You were always worried they wouldn’t want you, that one day when you met your alphas, they would reject you. The bond tugged in a pleasant way, and you know that isn’t true. ‘No, that’s not true. They want me, they wouldn’t have marked me like this… I can do this. I want this.’ So, with a deep breath you open the bathroom door and step out.

You softly walk back into the room and suddenly everyone goes still. You squirm a bit under their gazes, unsure what to do. Yet, you’re completely unaware how seeing you in their clothing has wrecked them so badly. You spot the tray of food and your stomach growls, making the boys chuckle softly. You duck your head with a sheepish smile and move over to the tray, gently picking up the piece of toast and taking a bite. Baby slips from the bed and walks over behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his head on your shoulder. “You’re the most beautiful thing we’ve ever seen.” He mumbles into your shoulder.

Your heart flutters in your chest, warmth spreading through you. This was all you ever wanted, to be loved and accepted. It was all you needed. You finish the piece of toast and sip the water, barely setting it down before Romance is pulling you back in for another kiss. His hands slip down to your waist and lift you up, your legs going around his waist as he carries you to the bed.

He doesn’t break the kiss until he moves to set you down, although very reluctantly. Mystery crawls up next to you and gently grabs your chin, turning you to face him. Your lips part slightly as though to attempt to say something, but he steals the words with a kiss. One of his hands trails up the side of your neck as he leans closer to deepen the kiss.

A whimper escapes your throat as he finally pulls back, nipping your bottom lip with his teeth again. You watch him pull back, wondering if his fangs were any sharper than the other boy’s or if you were just imagining it.

Jinu didn’t let you dwell on it for long before he was pulling you onto his lap. “We have things to talk about, pretty girl.” He shifts you so your back against his chest and his chin is on your shoulder. “But the most pressing one at the moment is your heat. Your suppressants are going to wear off in the next forty-eight hours and when they do… We won’t be holding back. You’ll need us to take you, need us to mark you.” He rumbles quietly, nuzzling into the nap of your neck, inhaling your scent.

You glance around the room and see all their attention is focused on you. You snatch a piece of paper from the bedside table and gesture for a pen. Baby tosses you a pen and you catch it, immediately starting to write. “I don’t really know how my heat is going to go… I know what heats are, but I’ve never had one. Ever. My… the person who raised me told me that my condition is a curse, a blight. So, she made me take suppressants from the time I was 16. I’ve never had a heat, so I don’t know how I’ll react, how I’ll feel.” You finish writing and hand the paper to Abby who is sitting across from you. Abby reads through the note silently before freezing, his eyes widening. “Oh my gosh, baby…” He quickly reads the note for the others, leaving them all equally shocked. “Never had a heat? That’s… that’s dangerous for an omega. You’ve been taking the suppressants so long…” Jinu whispers against your ear, his voice horrified. “___, baby, you can’t be left alone at any point when your heat starts.” Baby plops down on the end of the bed. “An omegas body temperature gets extremely hot during a normal heat, but if you’ve never had one…”

“It’ll be dangerous if you don’t have an alpha with you at all times.” Romance gently rubs your ankle with a soft smile. “Lucky for you, you have not one, but five alphas eager and willing to help you.” Mystery gently takes one of your hands and presses a kiss to it, smiling at you softly. Jinu presses a kiss to the back of your neck, gently caressing your waist. “We’ll help you through it darling, no matter how intense it gets.” In that moment you take a deep breath, holding back tears. You believe every word they tell you, but your chest aches with hurt at what Celine has done to you. You squeeze Mystery’s hand back and pat Romance’s arm, but you know you’ll be fine. They’ll keep you safe. After all, they are your demons.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

taglist(closed):

#tweaking out #this fic is so good #kpop demon hunters #saja boys #saja boys x reader #kpdh #kpdh x reader

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aria-reblogs · 3 days ago

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𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔏𝔬𝔠𝔨𝔢𝔡 𝔇𝔬𝔬𝔯

A/N: So... no judgment. I get it. It's locked, but what if...?

Rules: You have five tries to try and unlock the true ending. After five failed attempts, that's a permanent game over. Each door will lead you to several options. Choose wisely. And most importantly, have fun!

Summary: Five doors stand before you. Each door will either lead you to your salvation...or your doom.

<- PREV || FROM THE BEGINNING

Your eyes were drawn back to the sixth door.

Not just drawn, but dragged, like something deep and unseen had wrapped a hook around your chest and was pulling you toward it. It breathed malice. A heavy, ice-cold hate seeped from its seams, curling into the sterile air like smoke from a cursed altar. You swore your heart twisted, shrivelled in your chest the closer your gaze lingered.

The other doors stood in their silence, each one strange, mysterious, dangerous, yes. But this one?

This one wanted you dead.

And yet… you couldn’t look away.

Your gaze flickered across the others, just to be sure, just to convince yourself that any of them might be safer, more welcoming. But it was no use. You kept looking back. Over and over. That door, the shadow of it, called to you like a whisper at the base of your skull.

You were afraid.

Truly afraid.

Your whole body felt it, down to the marrow. Every instinct inside you screamed—Don’t. Don’t go near it. Don’t disturb what’s sleeping behind that veil. Don’t awaken the hatred, the rot, the thing waiting in the dark.

And still… you stepped forward.

Because somewhere...buried beneath the terror clawing at your ribs, there was something else.

A pull.

Not just fear, not just dread.

Duty.

The word surfaced like a heartbeat beneath the panic. Strange. Foreign.

Duty?

Why had you thought that?

You didn’t know who you were. You didn’t remember your name, your face, your past.

But that word felt carved into your bones.

You swallowed hard and turned your full attention back to the sixth door. You could barely call it a door, not anymore. It was a silhouette, a void carved into reality, dark and shifting, soaked in ink and shadow. Even now, your body screamed in protest. Your legs trembled. Cold sweat clung to your spine. Your fingertips felt frozen. Every breath you took tore through your lungs like glass, and your chest ached, too tight, like something inside was breaking.

But still, you reached out.

And, as before, your hand passed right through. No resistance. No sensation. Just emptiness. A ghost reaching for a ghost.

But this time… you remembered.

You didn’t know how, only that it was the same knowing that guided birds to fly, or rivers to run. Something primal. Spiritual.

You closed your eyes.

You focused.

Breathed in—deep, trembling.

You drew energy from your lungs, through your heart, down your arms, flowing into your fingers. You imagined it like sunlight, radiant and alive, crawling through your veins. The warmth built slowly in your chest, wrapping around your ribs like a quiet fire.

Your fingers began to glow.

When you opened your eyes again, iridescent light shimmered across your skin, pearlescent, divine, soft and humming. The malice recoiled, flinching away like a shadow retreating from dawn.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not yet.

You pushed harder.

You grit your teeth, drawing on more, on something deeper, rawer, more you than anything had ever been. The light flared brighter, flickering gold, silver, violet. You strained, heart hammering, lungs burning, willing it to purify the stench of rot, the ancient hate that oozed from the door like poison.

But even as the light swelled, something inside you cracked.

Pain bloomed behind your eyes, sharp and sudden.

A scream caught in your throat as you staggered, back arching with the force of it. You clutched your face, nails scraping down your cheeks as wet warmth spilled over your hands. Your vision blurred, swimming in red. Your knees nearly buckled.

A sob broke free. Raw. Uncontained.

But you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

Just a little more, you told yourself, breath hitching.

Just a little more.

Your left eye was gone. You knew it. The world was red-tinted, fractured. You could barely see through the haze of blood and tears. But it was fine.

You had your right.

Still shaking, you raised your crimson-stained hand again. Your fingers trembled as they hovered over the ink-shadow of the door. Your vision warped, like staring through stained-glass soaked in heartbreak.

Your breath roared in your ears.

And yet, you whispered, almost without sound:

“I’m not done.”

Not yet.

Not until it opens.

Not until the truth reveals itself.

Not until your purpose is fulfilled. Whatever the cost.

Once more, you summoned everything.

From the pit of your chest, where warmth still flickered, barely alive, you called it upward, coaxing the dying light down your arms, into your fingers. The glow returned, yes, but it was different now. Dimmed. Fragile. As though even the energy inside you was hesitating.

Like it didn’t want to go through this again.

But you did. You had to.

The radiant light trembled faintly at your fingertips, pulsing like a dying heartbeat. You stretched yourself thin, taut like an elastic band drawn to its breaking point. Your body screamed for relief. But you ignored it.

A single bead of sweat carved a cold path down your cheek, slipping over the crusted blood already dried there.

Again, your instincts begged you to stop.

Don’t go further.

You won’t come back from this.

But you were close. So unbearably close. The shadowed door was beginning to coalesce, forming grain by grain out of the void. You could see it now, forced into existence by sheer will.

Your will.

A grin broke across your face, pained and manic, as you let out a ragged yell. It wasn’t just effort, it was agony, the kind that came from dragging something sacred from the beyond.

You pushed harder, teeth grinding, breath catching in your throat.

But the door, it fought back.

You felt it in the air. That weight. That dread.

Like a great invisible hand pressing back against your soul.

Then it came.

Death.

Cold, patient, and familiar. It slid up your legs like silk soaked in ice. It snaked around your spine, wrapping slow, possessive fingers around your throat. Your breath caught, but you didn’t stop.

Your scream rose, higher, louder, until it scraped your throat raw. Until your body shook, knees nearly buckling.

And then—

Like a flame snuffed out by a cruel wind—

Darkness.

Total. Absolute. Suffocating.

The light was gone.

And you were alone.

No, not alone.

Your one good eye scanned the pitch-black, wild with fear. Despite the darkness, you saw shadows stretched in every direction, layered over each other like a living nightmare. Your muscles refused to stop trembling. Your blood ran cold.

You took a step back. Then another. Every inch of you shaking like a leaf in a storm.

And then something touched you.

Cold. Wet. Wrong.

A tendril coiled itself around your shoulder, and with a gasp, you turned—

—and your scream died in your throat.

It was a man. Or the memory of one.

A shadow, barely formed, but his agony screamed louder than words ever could. His eyes were hollow sockets, black holes that stared through you. His mouth hung open in an eternal, silent scream of raw, endless suffering pouring from him like smoke.

You stumbled back.

But something inside your skull snapped.

Memories—thousands of them—stabbed through your mind like shrapnel. Faces you didn’t know. Voices screaming. Laughing. Begging. Blood on your hands. Yours? Theirs? You couldn’t tell.

You reached for one—just one—but it slipped past your grasp, sliding through your fingers like sand in a storm.

All you could hold on to was the feeling.

Grief.

Such unbearable, smothering grief that your knees hit the ground, the weight of it crushing your ribs, your lungs, your soul.

“No… please…”

A sob tore from your throat.

But the shadows didn’t care.

Another appeared.

Then another.

The second one grabbed your throat tight, its grip iron, unmoving. You clawed at it, choking, gasping. Your pulse thundered in your skull, each beat screaming for oxygen. More shadows emerged, grabbing your wrists, your ankles, your waist. Pulling.

Invading.

Each time they touched you, more memories detonated behind your eyes like knives, like fire, like heartbreak made flesh.

Your mind couldn’t take it. It fractured. Splintered.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

Your lips couldn’t form words anymore. Only gasps. Only panic.

You were drowning in it.

Blood and tears mingled, running down your face like the last remnants of who you were slipping away, lost in the dark.

And then, like a prayer you didn’t know you remembered, the words came out of you.

“I’m sorry.”

You didn’t know why.

You didn’t know who you were saying it to.

But it spilled out of you, over and over and over again.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Even when your body finally collapsed, too weak to fight. Even when the darkness began to retreat, and the pale white light returned, gentle, almost merciful. Even when the shadows vanished into nothing—

You kept crying.

Uncontrollably.

Brokenly.

Your lips still moving around those words.

“I’m sorry.”

As if they were all you had left.

As if they were all you ever were.

It was your fault, wasn’t it?

It was.

The thought slithered through your mind like poison, cold and acidic. You didn’t resist it. You let it consume you.

Why you were here.

Why everything happened.

Why they’re gone.

It was always you.

The pain.

The destruction.

The betrayal.

All of it—you.

Your fingers dug into the flesh of your cheeks, nails pressing so deep you felt blood rise beneath them. You welcomed the sting. It was proof that you were still here. That you still had a body to punish.

And your voice, your own voice, turned against you.

Low at first, then louder.

You are unloved.

You are a failure.

You are the rot in everyone’s happiness.

You are the burden no one asked for.

Tears streamed down your face, carving hot, wet paths as they mingled with saliva pooling at the corners of your trembling mouth. The agony bloomed in your chest like a violent flower, blooming, blooming—tearing everything inside you open.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, again and again, like a child desperate to be forgiven. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Your voice broke, turning into high-pitched whimpers.

If only you had died.

Then maybe they could’ve been happy.

Maybe they would’ve smiled.

Maybe someone else would’ve been enough.

You curled in on yourself, fists clenched, nails sinking deeper into your skin, drawing thin rivulets of blood. Your body shook violently with every breath.

You’re unwanted.

You always have been.

Why are you still here?

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

The voices grew louder.

Then louder still.

A cacophony. Tinny, overlapping, screaming, whispering, like a thousand broken mirrors all echoing your shame at once. Each syllable a blade. Each whisper a stone.

You dropped your head against the floor.

Once.

Again.

Make them stop.

The wet sound of bone meeting stone echoed through the silence. Squelching. Sickening.

Again.

And again.

You slammed your skull against the floor until all you saw was red, until the voices blurred into silence, until something gave—in your head, in your soul.

Until…

Darkness.

You opened your eyes.

Your breath caught, and you sat up slowly.

The light was blinding. The silence deafening.

The world was white again. Pristine, perfect, empty.

You were kneeling on a polished white floor, untouched. Your robe was whole. Unbloodied. Your skin unmarred. Your nails clean. No pain. No voices.

But something was wrong.

So wrong.

Your body trembled, not from cold, but from a deep, bottomless loss. A void where something had been...something essential.

You didn’t know what it was.

Only that it was missing.

A piece of you was gone.

Stolen?

Broken?

Abandoned?

And when you looked ahead, your breath caught again.

Six doors.

All stood before you as they had before: majestic, carved, waiting.

But your eyes locked onto the sixth.

Its presence oozed across the floor like ink in water, staining everything it touched. Malice clung to it like rot in a wound. And as your gaze met its formless shape, your body shook violently.

Terror clawed through your chest like a beast. Every nerve ending screamed to run.

Something inside you remembered it.

Not in words, not in images...just the fear. The aftermath. The cost.

And yet...

You knew you had to choose.

You knew you couldn’t stay here forever.

Even broken. Even incomplete. Even if it killed you.

You had to move forward.

So—eyes wide, heart quivering in your chest—you asked the only question left:

Read More? 👀 || NEXT ->

Follow #Vexi's Saja Boys Interactive Story 2025 to never miss an update! This story is uploaded every Wednesday @ 12:00 P.M EST.

#bro aint no way people are STILL voting locked door #theyre literally tied with Jinu's percentage #im literally bout to ignore this event becauss of this 🤡#i love interactive fics but if its always haha funny what if thoe type sh #nah 😭 not even #aria-rants

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aria-reblogs · 3 days ago

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Secrets

“You have no idea how many nights I’ve jerked off thinking about your mouth on me… imagining you saying my name like it’s a prayer.”

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem! Reader

Genre: Smut

Word count: 4.6k

Summary: Moaning the wrong name in bed finally gives your friendship with Clark the push it needed.

Warnings: Unprotected sex, p in v, fingering

a/n: This is honestly my personal best I think, i really enjoyed this concept lol. But as always, send any requests you have my way!

You don’t make mistakes. Not ones this bad at least.

But today? Today, you royally fucked up.

You’d been dating this guy Chase, just for a few weeks and when you finally made it into bed? You moaned fucking Clark Kent’s name.

The secret crush you’ve had on your friend since *forever* has never gotten this bad before. I mean at least you’d never moaned out his name when you were in bed with someone else before.

That’s not it though. After the whole ordeal you just wanted to forget it, forget the shame and forget him. But of course it wasn't that goddamn simple.

No, Chase had to transfer over to the Daily Planet.

“Holy fucking fuck,” You whine, hiding behind Lois and Jimmy earning an eyebrow raise from her.

“Y/N?” Her voice is concerned yet amused, a grin plastered on her perfectly pink lips.

“That guy I was dating,” You give her a look, earning an awkward expression from her, “You know, the one? He’s suddenly working here now and I totally told him about my job here.” You’re worried.

Beyond just worried. Clark can not know about what happened, you can’t even tell a lie when confronted without getting so flustered you tell double the incriminating information. If he were to ask about it?

For all you know you’d admit to fucking yourself with an oversized pink dildo imagine it was his cock filling and stuffing you until you begged him to stop. Or you’d tell him that you probably moaned his name because at night when you can’t sleep you use a rose toy screaming his name as you cover your bed sheets in cum.

Lois pats your back gently. “Y/N, I doubt he’d tell him anything.” You wince, the way he reacted doesn’t tell you his bruised ego will let it go.

“Lois… He was so offended,” She gives you a sympathetic shrug.

“Y/N, if he tells Clark.” She spins in her chair, taking a sip of her coffee. “If he tells him maybe it’d be a good thing.”

“Ugh! Good how?” You press your forehead to the desk. “It’ll just screw up our friendship. He’s my best friend, Lois. I love him, I don’t want to lose him because I’m too much of an idiot to not think of him like *that*.”

Jimmy ruffles your hair, “We all know he’s understanding, plus I doubt the guy will say a word to Clark. Who wants to admit to a thing like that?” He laughs, but it does nothing to ease the ache in your stomach.

“Yeah, yeah.” You sigh, standing up from your hiding spot. “Anyone need more coffee?”

"Not me, but Clark definitely does," Lois says with a smirk, eyeing the two across the bullpen. "And knowing him, he'll ask *you* to get it." She snorts. "Poetic justice, really."

You groan. "If I walk over there right now, I swear my face will combust. Like actual spontaneous human combustion."

Jimmy grins. "Worth it just to see Clark’s face when Chase inevitably says something passive-aggressive like 'So *you're* the guy she screams for?'"

"JIMMY!" you hiss.

Lois cackles into her coffee cup before setting it down and leaning in. "Look, sweetie—if fate’s gonna throw your dirty little secret into the office breakroom like confetti? Maybe stop hiding behind desks and own it." Her eyes twinkle mischievously. "...Or at least wait till he's holding hot coffee to confess."

You sigh, walking to the break room to fill your cup. Eyebrows furrowed as you get lost in the thoughts of what ifs. You don’t even notice as Clark comes in with his empty cup, a small grin on his lips as he sees you.

"Hey, Y/N," Clark says warmly, leaning against the counter as you fumble with the coffee pot. His sleeves are rolled up just enough to show his forearms, strong, dusted with dark hair, and he's got that easy smile that always makes your chest tighten.

"You look like you've seen a ghost. Rough night?" He tilts his head slightly, eyes soft with concern. "Or did Jimmy finally break the printer again?"

You laugh, too high, too fast, but manage to stammer out, "N-no. Just... bad sleep. Weird dreams." Oh God. Why did you say dreams?

Clark doesn’t seem to notice anything off. He just chuckles and holds out his mug, a chipped blue one that says “World’s Okayest Reporter.”

"Coffee heaven is the only cure for weird dreams," he says lightly. "I had one last night where I was late to work because I was flying around Metropolis saving cats from trees and someone kept yelling about copyright infringement." He grins sheepishly. "Make no sense?"

You nod fast, gripping your cup like it's a life raft. "None at all."

He steps closer, just casually close enough that you catch his scent—the oh so familiar musk of him.

Chase comes in, the surprise of him being back in your presence causing you to drop your mug. "Oh shit!" Your heart pounds angrily in your chest, head spinning, and stomach acid prickling the back of your throat.

Clark's hand darts out fast, *too* fast, as the mug smacks toward the floor, catching it mid-air with a soft *clink*. He blinks at it, then at you, eyebrows raised. "Whoa. You okay? That was... nearly catastrophic for my caffeine hopes."

Chase smirks in the doorway, arms crossed. "Clumsy and jumpy? Huh." His voice is light but pointed.

You flush from neck to scalp.

Clark steps slightly in front of you, just a shift of weight, subtle as a breath, but suddenly there’s this solid wall of warmth and height between you and Chase. He gives Chase a polite but distant smile.

"Chase, right? Welcome to the Planet." His tone is friendly enough, but his posture says mine, without him ever claiming anything out loud. "Y/N here once spilled an entire pot on Perry’s lap during a breaking news rush, we keep mugs on probation around her."

A laugh escapes you—real this time—at how absurdly he just defused it.

But it doesn't change the way Chase glares at you, sending uncomfortable shivers down your spine.

Your fingers press lightly into the small of Clark’s back, just a whisper of contact, but it’s like touching a live wire. He goes still for half a heartbeat, then shifts slightly into the touch, warm and solid under your hand.

"Anyway," Clark says, voice smooth but deeper than before, "we should probably get to work. Deadlines wait for no man… or coffee addict." He grins at you over his shoulder, eyes soft.

You swear his back muscles tense under your palm like he’s holding himself in check.

Chase clears his throat. "Yeah. Right. Guess I’ll… see you two around." His tone is tight as he turns to leave, shooting one last look at you that makes your skin crawl.

The second he's gone, Clark exhales and turns fully toward you, concern washing over his face like waves smoothing sand.

"You good?" he asks quietly, searching your eyes now that they’re alone again. His voice drops an octave: "Really good?"

And damn it all, he reaches up without thinking and brushes a loose strand of hair from your forehead.

His fingers linger just a second too long on your skin.

"Mhm, yeah, totally." You laugh awkwardly, eyes on anything but him.

Clark watches you for a beat, too long, too soft, before clearing his throat and stepping back, suddenly fumbling with his coffee mug like it holds the secrets of the universe.

"Right. Cool. Great." He smiles, but it's a little lopsided now, nervous in a way that doesn’t suit him. "Just… you know. If something’s off? You’d tell me, right? Best friend rules."

He taps the rim of his mug twice, an odd little habit he’s had since forever and finally glances up at you through those unfairly long lashes.

You’ve seen him dodge bullets in print form (metaphorically), charm sources out of silence with that crooked grin... but right now? He looks like he’s bracing for rejection without knowing why.

And across the room, Jimmy mouths “D R A M A” at Lois while pretending to type.

Clark doesn’t notice. He only sees you.

Still waiting for an answer that isn’t *“I almost came on my thigh last night imagining your hands on my hips.”*

"He and I just have history, sorta." You blurt out, from the pressure that was never there, your skin flushing beet red as you shift your weight between your feet. "He like totally hates me."

Clark's gaze forces more words out of your lips. "A few nice dates and then, you know, I offended him or something." You giggle like someone's squeezing the sound out of you.

Clark’s jaw tightens—just a flicker, gone in a blink—but his voice stays smooth, easy. "Huh. Funny way to show it. Dude looked at you like you stole his lunch and kicked his dog."

He takes a slow sip of coffee, eyes never leaving yours over the rim of the mug. Warm, probing.

Then he shrugs, feigning nonchalance like he's not mentally filing every syllable you just spilled. "But hey—if he can't handle that you're brilliant, chaotic, and flail at inanimate objects? His loss."

A beat.

His thumb brushes the side of his mug where your fingers almost touched earlier.

"And for the record?" He leans in slightly, close enough you catch the faintest hint of spearmint on his breath. "Best friend rules mean I get to veto anyone who makes *my* person squirm like they’re standing on hot coals."

Your breath hitches.

He doesn’t notice.

Or maybe—he notices everything.

"Ha!" You laugh awkwardly again, eyes wide open as if you watched someone murder your whole family in front of you, then ask if you wanted ice cream.

Thankfully, Lois comes to your rescue, interrupting the tension between you.

"Alright, boys and girls!" Lois announces, striding in with her signature I-run-this-place energy. "Perry wants us in the conference room, alien cult sighting downtown, and no, Jimmy, they’re not just LARPers this time."

She pauses beside you, gives your shoulder a squeeze, firm, grounding, and side-eyes Clark with a smirk that says *I see everything*.

"Coffee break’s over, Kent. Try not to trip over your own feet this time." She tosses him a pen. He catches it one-handed without looking.

"Only if Y/N promises not to drop anything else," he teases softly, but his eyes are warm when they meet yours.

You nod too fast again.

As you turn to follow Lois down the hall, Clark falls into step just behind you, close enough that every so often his elbow brushes yours like an accident.

It isn’t one.

Finally, the day ends without any more events, but the way Chase has been glaring at you tells you he's planning something, and the thought of what makes you sick to your stomach.

Clark ran out to get some late-night snacks before you go back for Friday movie nights at his place, leaving you in the empty office typing away at your computer. That *was* until Chase interrupted your peace.

"So he's the one, hm?" You glance up, eyes meeting his glaring ones. "Kent’s the one you imagined fucking you, when I was fucking balls deep in that ran through pussy?"

Your eyes feel watery, lips trembling as he insults you. Neither of you noticing Clark's figure in the background.

"It's not like that, Chase..." You sigh, voice barely over a whisper. "Look, I didn't mean it."

"Fuck if I care what you meant," He slams his hands on the desk, causing you to jump out of your seat.

Clark moves before sound catches up.

One second, Chase is looming over your desk—tense, furious—and the next, a firm hand grips his shoulder and spins him around with controlled force.

"Whoa. Personal space, man." Clark’s voice is calm. Low. *Dangerously* steady. His eyes are dark, jaw set like carved stone. He doesn’t raise his voice, he doesn’t need to. "She said she didn't mean it. You heard her."

Chase scoffs, trying to pull away. "Back off, Kent. This is between me and—"

"No," Clark cuts in smoothly, not letting go. "This ended when you decided yelling at someone half your size was a good way to handle ego bruising."

He steps slightly in front of you—again—not shielding you completely but making it clear: *You don’t get near her.*

"Clark..." You bite your lip, "Chase and I need to talk." Your eyes fall to the desk, hands trembling as you realize his interference could cause more trouble than necessary.

Kent doesn’t move. Still a solid wall between you and Chase, his fingers slowly uncurl from Chase’s shoulder—but only after locking eyes with him one last time.

“Talk?” Clark asks, voice quieter now, almost amused. “This doesn’t look like talking. It looks like intimidation.” He glances back at you, just a flick of his gaze, and something in his expression softens. Then hardens again when he turns back to Chase.

“You want to talk? Fine. Tomorrow. In the bullpen. With witnesses.” He crosses his arms, towering just slightly more than usual in that effortless way of his. “But tonight? We’re done.”

"No!" Your eyes are wide and cheeks flushed, "No, there can't be witnesses." You bury your face in your hands knowing *exactly* what Chase will do: embarrass you in front of the entire office, and make Clark look at you with disgust.

Clark turns to you, his voice dropping, suddenly gentle, like he’s found a frequency only the two of you can hear.

"Hey," he murmurs, hand lifting like he wants to touch your shoulder but stopping just short. "Look at me."

You peek through your fingers.

His eyes aren’t disgusted. They’re *furious*, yes,but not at you. Never at you. There’s something else in them too… something warm and fierce and protective in the worst possible way.

He turns back to Chase slowly. "Then she decides when and where," Clark says, calm as steel wrapped in velvet. "Not you. Not ever."

And then—quietly, dangerously—he adds:

"If what happened between you two is so damn important… I'd hate for it to get misunderstood. Wouldn't want rumors flying about how you couldn't handle being compared to someone else."

A beat.

Chase pales slightly.

Clark doesn’t blink.

And just like that, the power shifts.

“Go home, Chase,” Clark says finally, voice firm but no longer sharp. “This is over.”

Your heart drops into your stomach at Clark's statement. He knows, he overheard. Chase leaves, grabbing his stuff and angrily slamming the door.

"Clark." Your tone is firm, shameful, and annoyed. "What did you hear?"

Clark turns to you slowly, the fight draining from his posture like water. His hands flex at his sides—like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your face in this broken light.

Then, soft as a confession: “Enough.”

“I heard ‘he’s the one.* I heard my name.” He swallows hard and looks down, suddenly unable to hold your gaze. “And then… I heard him say something vile and low that made me want to throw him through a wall.”

"Clark, it's not. It's not like that." Your eyes are wide, cheeks reed as you lean back against your desk, arms crossed protectively over your waist. He can tell you're lying; he always can.

Clark takes one slow step forward. Then another.

The office is quiet now—just the hum of the lights, the distant echo of Chase’s anger fading down the hall.

He stops a breath away from you, close enough that when he speaks, his voice wraps around you like something warm and heavy.

“Don’t,” he says softly. “Don’t lie to me. Not about this.”

His eyes flick up to yours, hesitant, almost afraid, and then away again, like looking at you too long might burn him.

“I’ve spent two years pretending I don’t notice how your laugh hits me like sunlight.” He lets out a shaky breath. “How you steal my coffee and wear my hoodies when it rains… how you fall asleep on my couch with your face smushed into a pillow like some kind of exhausted cartoon character.”

A pause. His fingers twitch at his side.

“And yeah,” he whispers, “maybe I should’ve been mad hearing someone else was in your bed… but all I could think was—wait, she moaned my name? Like… me? Regular old Clark?”

He laughs once, low, disbelieving, but there’s no humor in it.

"Clark..." You stare up at him, eyes scanning his face as if you're attempting to read his thoughts. "It's not the first time," The words spill out, heart racing.

"I'm always moaning your name, thinking about you-" You cut yourself off, shocked by not surprised at your confessions.

Clark goes very, very still.

Like the air itself just froze.

His breath hitches, audible, raw, and his eyes flood with something so hot, so tender, you feel it in your bones.

“You… what?” His voice is barely a whisper. Throat tight. Like he’s afraid to hope.

You squeeze your arms tighter around yourself, chin dipping low. “I don’t even mean to,” you mutter, half-laughing at your own ruin. “It’s just, nights when I can’t sleep… when I’m alone… It’s always you. Your hands. Your voice. The way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

Clark exhales like he’s been punched beautifully.

Then, without warning, he closes the distance between you in one step, cupping your face gently but firmly in his hands.

“Look at me,” he says softly. Roughly. Like a prayer and a demand all at once.

You do. And what you see in his eyes stops time: awe. Hunger. And years of quiet longing finally breaking free like light through clouds.

"Clark, I'm sorry..." You breathe out, eyebrows knitted together, eyes glossy. Clark’s thumbs brush your cheeks, soft, grounding, and he shakes his head, voice low and fierce.

"Sorry? Y/N… don’t you *dare* apologize for this." He lets out a breathless laugh, half-awed, half-disbelieving. "I’ve spent the last two years jerking off in my apartment thinking about the way you bite your lip when you’re concentrating on a story."

Your eyes widen.

He *smirks*, rare, crooked, devastating, and leans in until his forehead rests against yours.

"I’d lie awake imagining it was my name you whimpered when you came. And now you're standing here telling me it was?" He shivers—actually shivers—"Christ. I’m the one who should be sorry. For not saying anything sooner."

Silence fills the air before whispering, “Can I kiss you now? Or do I have to wait till we’re both fired for workplace indecency?”

"Fuck," You grab his face eagerly, pressing your lips to his hungrily. The passion of the past heavy in your embrace.

Clark groans the second your lips hit his, like he’s been holding this in for years, like he’s drowning and you’re air.

His hands slide from your face down to your waist, pulling you flush against him with a strength that makes your knees weak. Not Superman-level—no desks broken, no walls dented—but solid, real, his.

The kiss is messy. Hungry. Teeth clashing, breaths fumbling, hands desperate.

He tastes like coffee and spearmint gum and something uniquely Clark, warmth wrapped in restraint, barely holding on.

When he finally breaks it, just enough to breathe, his forehead drops to yours again, eyes closed, voice ragged:

“God… I’ve wanted to do that since the day you spilled orange juice on my laptop and said ‘I’ll lick it off if you want.’” He laughs breathlessly. “You have no idea how hard I had to work not to say ‘deal.’”

You giggle against his lips.

He kisses you again, slower this time. Deeper. Like he's memorizing the shape of you.

And somewhere in the distance… A slow clap begins.

You both whirl around. Jimmy stands there.

"Fucking Friday movie nights," You sigh, looking at Jimmy and Lois standing at the door with grins on their faces.

Jimmy claps once more, slow and dramatic. "And scene! Took you two long enough. I was starting to think I’d have to fake a kidnapping just to get some momentum."

Lois steps forward, smirking, arms crossed. "I gave them six months after the whole ‘almost dying in the elevator together’ incident." She shakes her head. "I underestimated their stubbornness."

Clark flushes bright red—actually glows pink from neck to hairline—and mutters, “You guys have got to stop sneaking up on people.”

“Oh, honey,” Lois says, patting his arm, “we didn’t sneak. You two were just too busy making up for three years of sexual tension to hear us walk in.” She turns to you with a wink. “Worth the wait?”

You hide your face against Clark’s chest. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, tight, proud, and drops a soft kiss on top of your head.

"Hell yes," he murmurs, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

Jimmy fake-sobs into his sleeve. "I'm so happy I might puke glitter."

And just like that, your biggest mistake turned into the best thing that ever happened to you. Sitting in Clark’s apartment, wrapped in his arms as some action film plays in the distance, it all feels perfectly right.

Once midnight hits, Jimmy pulls Lois out the door, mumbling about needing a ride back or something. Maybe it’s all just an excuse to get out of your guys hair before things got heated in front of them.

You nuzzle your face in Clarks lap, lips parted, eyes shut. Kent’s fingers trace slow circles in your hair, his other hand resting warm on your hip as the glow of the TV flickers across the room.

The action movie’s loud explosions go unnoticed—both of you are miles past plot.

When midnight passes and the door clicks shut behind Jimmy and Lois, he lets out a soft, breathy laugh.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, voice low and sleepy-sweet, “I used to pretend we were doing this just so I could fall asleep without feeling like a creep.”

You tilt your head up slightly, lips brushing his thigh. “And now?”

Now,” he says softly, then shifts suddenly, gently lifting you until you’re straddling his lap on the couch. One hand cradles your face; the other rests low on your back like an anchor.

“Now I get to do it for real.” He kisses you, slow, deep, and pulls back just enough to whisper:

“No more pretending.”

"Theres another thing we can do for real now." You nip his bottom lip, hands holding his neck gently. "No more late nights, touching ourselves, wishing it was the other..."

Clark lets out a ragged breath, half-groan, half-confession, as your lips trail his jaw.

“You’re killing me,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You have no idea how many nights I’ve jerked off thinking about your mouth on me… imagining you saying my name like it’s a prayer.”

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, dark with want, but still so Clark: tender, careful.

“Only if you’re sure,” he whispers. “No pressure. No rush.”

You answer by grinding down against him, just once, and the way he shudders, like he’s barely holding on?

“Y/N,” he breathes, forehead pressing to yours. “God… I’ve wanted this so damn long.”

His hands slide under your shirt, warm palms on bare skin, and suddenly it's not just fantasy anymore.

It's real.

It's yours.

And for the first time?

So is he.

Clark’s eyes darken, his pupils blown wide with desire as he takes in the sight of you straddling him. The way your chest rises and falls with each shaky breath, the needy whine that escapes your lips as you grind down, it’s like watching a dream come to life right in front of him.

His hands move to the hem of your shirt, tugging it up, his fingertips grazing the soft skin of your waist before you lift your arms to let him remove it completely. Your bra is the next to go, and his eyes feast on the sight of your breasts, full and heavy with desire, your nipples peaked and begging for his attention.

He doesn’t waste any time, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive tips, watching as your eyes roll back and your mouth falls open in a silent moan.

You lean in, capturing his lips again, your kisses growing more desperate, more demanding with each passing second. His hand slides down to your waistband, unbuttoning your pants with a flick of his thumb, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot, breaking the quiet tension that had been building between you.

He pulls them down, along with your underwear, and you can feel the heat of his cock pressing against you, thick and hard and ready. You’re already so wet, so fucking wet for him, and when he finally slides a finger into your pussy, you almost come on the spot.

He groans, the sound vibrating through your chest, and you know he feels it, too—how much you want him, how much you’ve needed this. His finger moves in a slow, deliberate rhythm, and your hips rock against him, chasing the pleasure that’s just out of reach.

You can feel it building, like a storm gathering on the horizon, and you know you’re going to break apart in his arms. But before you can, Clark pulls back, a smirk playing on his lips. “Not yet,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

He stands, lifts you off the couch, and carries you to his bedroom, laying you down gently on the bed. You watch him strip out of his own clothes, his body a work of art in the soft glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds.

And then he’s over you, his body pressing into yours, his cock sliding through your wetness, and you know you can’t wait anymore. You wrap your legs around his waist, silently begging him to fill you, and when he finally pushes inside, it’s like coming home.

He stretches you, fills you completely, and you arch up to meet him, desperate for more, for all of him. His hips move in a steady, deep rhythm, each thrust pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

You’re both lost in it now, the world outside fading away until it’s just the two of you, your bodies entwined in a dance of passion and lust that’s been building for years. And when you finally come, it’s with his name on your lips—not a whisper, not a moan, but a scream that shakes the walls.

You feel him tense, his grip tightening on your hips, and then he’s coming too, his cock pulsing deep inside you, marking you as his in the most primal, claiming way possible.

As he collapses beside you, his breathing ragged and his heart hammering against your back, you know that from now on, every time he hears your name, every time you moan in the throes of pleasure, it will be his doing.

And that thought sends another wave of desire crashing through you, making you want to do it all over again. Because now that the secret’s out, there’s no going back—only forward into a future of endless passion and need that you’ve both been craving for so long.

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aria-reblogs · 3 days ago

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Saja Boys - Jinu, Abby, Romance, Baby ,Mystery

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aria-reblogs · 3 days ago

Note

Hi, this request is for the Saja Boys x Rumi’s Sister! Reader. Ever since I’ve heard ‘Forbidden fruit’ by Tommee Profitt, I can’t get the scenario out of my head.

Request: the Saja Boys and her (reader) sing ‘Forbidden fruit’ by Tommee Profitt together.

It might fit in between the series or after the series, whenever you see fit. If you’re not interested in writing it, you can just ignore this. 🥰🥰🥰

Forbidden Fruit

Saja Boys x Rumi’s Sister! Reader

A/N: Today is a spicier day because I may or not be going on vacation and it’ll be harder for me to write with just my phone but I will still do my best. It just may be some shorter works than usual for the next week or so.

Synopsis: You and the Saja Boys collab for the first time, digging up memories of that night on the roof for inspiration while you shoot the music video. (But don’t need to have read the series for it to make sense.)

Disclaimer: I do not own any songs or other media I use in my works.

CW: Nothing much, sexual tension, intimacy, kissing, etc.

Word Count: 1.8k

Master List || Request Master List

(Reminder: Baby = Jum, Romance = Chungae, Mystery = Hyeon, Abby = Kwan)

It was the set of the music video for your first collaboration with the boys—hopefully, the first of many. You had already collabed with the girls since they had called dibs on it and won the rock-paper-scissors tournament and you had then spent a couple of weeks with the boys, going back and forth about themes, lyrics, visuals, melodies, and everything in between. It had been awesome to clash your creativities against each other like that.

It had culminated into a song that you felt very proud of and were very happy to have written it with your boys. You were also very excited to shoot this MV.

The concept was very dark romance and the main shot would be taken all at once from different angles with various cameras. You and the boys had wanted it to feel more raw and the production team had agreed with the concept you all wanted so they let you all take the reigns on the project.

The boys hadn’t even seen you yet today as you had gotten ready in a dressing room with a small team. While they did your makeup, you closed your eyes and took several breaths as you sank into your memories of that night. For this shoot, you and the boys wanted to capture the feelings you all had when you had come to them after the catastrophe at the Idol Awards. The back and forth pull of seduction and corruption. That you still felt in some moments even now.

When you opened your eyes to meet your gaze in the mirror, you saw the faintest glow of amber in your eyes before it was gone. Your makeup was dark with silver accents. Elegant. Sultry. Your hair was wild yet contained in a way that made you look carelessly beautiful, like a dagger with a delicately bejeweled handle. Over your eyes was a delicate white and silver masquerade mask. It perfectly matched the floor length white dress you wore, a slit going all the way up almost to your hips so that your bare leg and bare feet would flash if you moved a certain way.

With the team covering you, walking on each side of you with a screen, you made your way onto the set and to your entrance. The dancers, you and the boys had practiced for a week, even doing a final practice that morning before you had to get into wardrobe to ensure that this shot could be taken flawlessly on the first try.

Meanwhile, the boys were already on their marks in the middle of the set, an opulent ballroom made out of marble, long swaths of cloth hanging from the ceiling with dramatic lighting and sharp shadows. The dancers around them wore different shades of gray, matching masquerade masks on their faces. Each of them were in a simple white button up shirt, matching slacks and had bare feet, their faces covered by white masquerade masks. Their hair was mussed and styled to look slightly wind blown or careless around their faces. There were little differences to each of their outfits, just in the way they wore them: Jinu had his sleeves bunched up, a silver chain hanging from one of his ears. Hyeon had his shirt untucked, the sleeves rolled up messily. Kwan had his shirt almost completely unbuttoned, creating a deep V that showed off his toned abs. Jum had only one side of his shirt untucked, but his sleeves were down, just slightly covering his hands. Chungae wore a silver chain necklace, the sleeves only partially rolled up his arms, his shirt untucked and the bottom buttons undone.

They were quiet, solemn looks on their faces as they put themselves back in the headspace of the night you came to them. Back into the minds that knew they shouldn’t want you because they would just stain your innocence with every press of their fingers. But that didn’t stop them from pulling you in, or you from diving in. They stood in a circle, their backs to each other as the music began.

The dancers around them began a dramatic waltz, not yet built up to its climax. The camera circled the boys as they sang.

“Every inch the fire gets closer~ It's in my blood, it's never over~ Like a twisted tangled rope, can't let go~”

The cameras around you filmed you looking down, slowly looking up, most of your face in shadow.

“I feel my flesh, it's getting weaker~ Every breath takes me deeper~ It's not hard to lose control, no~ I try to run but there's no hope~”

The door slowly opened, sending light across your features as the ballroom opened up to you and you slowly strolled in and to them. They turned to face you as you did and they didn’t have to fake a single expression of the pull they felt towards you. Their light.

“Temptation, I can't escape you, escape you~ Desire, you're my forbidden fruit, forbidden fruit~”

You reached them and they reached for you, pulling you into their arms as you all began to dance. Jinu pulled you into his arms first, the others beginning to circle around you as you danced, waltzing in the small circle with the eyes of the other boys on the two of you. There was a tension between you as your eyes were locked, your faces inches apart as you breathed the same air from each other’s lungs.

“I've had a taste there's nothing sweeter~ On my lips I've kissed the reaper~ Is it worth losing my soul, no~”

Abruptly, Jinu spun you and Chungae took his place, Jinu fading into the circle of boys around you as the dance continued without faltering. Chungae held you close to his chest, dipping you and sweeping your head to the side, following you closely.

“We dance inside a burning room~ There's no way out, there's no way through~ I've reached the end of every road~”

Chungae spun you into Jum’s arms, the maknae holding you softly as he pressed his forehead against yours as the two of you took this line. Then he lifted you into the air, looking at you as if you were the only thing keeping him to this earth.

“It's so much stronger than you know~”

Then you were passed into Hyeon’s arms, the dance picking up speed with the intensity of the song. He pressed his face into your neck and you rolled your head back to let him as your clothes began to change. The white of your dress and their outfits, slowly graying.

“Temptation, I can't escape you, escape you~”

Kwan was finally allowed to have his moment with you as your clothes continued darkening, further and further. Kwan’s hand was on the back of your head, pulling you closer and closer to him as your lips brushed with the words you sang.

“Desire, you're my forbidden fruit, forbidden fruit~”

For a moment, the dance slowed as the song did. By then, the dress you wore, the masks, the clothes the boys wore were all black as obsidian. But you and the boys did not falter or stumble in your dance. You didn’t pull away or push each other away, you merely gravitated closer and closer.

“Oh~ You're my downfall (Downfall)~ Downfall~”

Then it became a flurry of movement, the waltz moving even faster as you were passed between the boys within seconds of you landing in their arms. And each time, your eyes were solely on whoever held you while the boys who circled never once wavered from their gazes on you.

“Oh, temptation, I can't escape you, escape you~ Desire, you're my forbidden fruit, forbidden fruit~”

It ended with the boys posing around you, each of them as close to you as they could get, their eyes only on you. And you were in the middle of them all, your gaze locked with Jinu who was the closest to your face. Your chests were heaving with your heavy breathing and you were so close to pulling Jinu into a kiss so you could feel his lips against yours but you didn’t. Not until the cameras called cut anyway.

Jinu pulled you closer by the back of your neck, his mouth moving against yours greedily like you were the air his lungs needed. Then you were pulled from Jinu’s lips into Kwan’s, his hands tight on your hips as he devoured your mouth, stealing what little air in your lungs you had. And then you were in Hyeon’s arms as he pulled you close, his arms wrapping around your waist so every inch of you was pressed against every inch of his as he kissed you like a man starved. Chungae then pulled you to him, his hands cradling your face as he pressed his lips against yours again and again, your hands bunched in his shirt as he kissed you again and again and again. And finally you were in Jum’s arms, the greedy maknae taking your kiss swollen lips in his and not releasing you for anything as his tongue mapped every crevice he had long since memorized.

By the end of it, you were dizzy from the lack of air and your heart was racing, but you didn’t care.

“Alright,” Bobby called, stepping onto the set, “Come on guys, we need to get the last few shots and then we can call it a day! Save the kissy stuff for when you’re back home!”

You blushed but followed after the manager. Kwan pressed one last kiss to your cheek, a smirk on his face, “You heard him, babe. Be prepared for a lot of ‘kissy stuff’ when we get back to the apartment.”

You chuckled, swiping his lip, “You guys have lipstick on your lips.” And it was obvious to see where it came from, matching the deep, rich shade on your own lips.

“Good,” Hyeon merely said, licking his lip.

“You should keep the color on so it’ll be all we have on later,” Chungae teased flirtingly and you flushed a little, smacking his shoulder.

Jinu just chuckled and smirked at the antics of his friends and their girlfriend, “Come on guys, the faster we do this, the faster we can take our pretty girl home.”

“Jinu!” You chided the man but it didn’t work with the smile on your lips. The boys hurried ahead of you, chuckling as they avoided your soft wrath.

As he passed you, Jum pressed his lips against you for a lingering second then pulled away with a little smirk, his eyes glinting mischievously, “Last one. Don’t tell the others.” He jogged to catch up with his members.

You shook your head in amusement at your boyfriends but hurried to catch up with them. You still had to shoot the segment of you all actually in a burning room and one of you and the boys on the steps of a marble dias, and a few solo shots but…

You kinda couldn’t wait until you got back to the apartment either.

A/N: Yeah you and the boys are completely gone for each other. And Bobby has seen you guys making out so many times that he no longer cares.

Outtakes:

Editor: *watching the shots of the Poly Pride*

Poly Pride: *being the slightly possessive/obsessive polycule that it is*

Editor: “Is this even legal to put on YouTube…?”

…

Rujinu Fan: “Man, it’s so good the boys and (Y/n) get along so well!”

Zoeystery Fan: “I know! They’re so comfortable with each other and the boys are always supporting her!”

Miromabby Fan: “Yeah, and they have so many inside jokes like ‘(Y/n) marry me’ and everything!”

Rujinu Fan: “Yeah, I can’t believe some fans think they’re in a relationship!”

The Forbidden Fruit MV: “…”

Poly Pride Fan: “Guys.”

Polytr/x Fan: “Guys.”

…

*while practicing for the MV*

Poly Pride: *staring into each other’s eyes, eye fucking each other*

The Dancers: *side eyeing each other*

The Dancers: “…”

The Dancers: “So, how long do we have to deal with the sexual tension?”

Bobby: “At least you’re not their manager.”

…

Tag List: @brights-place @itmechaosartist @reni502 @chin-chii @cultish-corner @enerofairy @mama-m1na @akariis4snowball @gremlinartstudio @shynotded @shadowmoonlight0604 @omgsuperstarg @neigesprincess @sleep-7372 @hurts-my-brain @kiwibackie @gh0stied3ath @naysha140 @theferretkids @lelantyuu @sexyindependentdowntospendit @hornehlittleweeblet2 @moonymoo1 @moochiwoochi @cheolright @crescent-z @prorpy @mey-archive @cami1qx @nerdalicios @xxsadlovexx @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @blackheart34 @anonymousewrites @scarletrosesposts @justanindiangirl12 @beexboo @tatsuri-zomushiki @call-me-nyxx @queenofviolenceandnerds @randomfan218-blog @jaybbygrl @unholycheesesnack @ocean-mochi @iviorienne @confusedparticle @otakusimp1 @nosbaby07 @fries11 @ri-eveowe @1950schick @libdarkheart @yourjustassaneasiamx @the-bookish-artist @anduinandwrathionlover @eternallyrosyfire @lysira340 @lansy-4 @strayharmony943 @maximumtrashchild @bleufu1 @minepugs @valeriele3 @arieslucy @nisarelle @suzieq1948374 @esposamultifandom

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aria-reblogs · 3 days ago

Text

Mercy

“I’m gonna make sure every breath out of that mouth is mine.”

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem! Reader

Genre: Romantic smut

Word count: 7.4k

Summary: You’ve always had a one-sided feud with the ever charming Clark Kent but when he comes to your rescue and nurses you back to health, you finally let your facade go.

Warnings: Vomiting, oral f&m receiving, unprotected sex, sweet kent aftercare

a/n: This is a long one lol! But, I really loved how this came out and hope you feel the same <3 If you have any requests feel free to send them to me!! Lots of love

Within the vibrant Daily Planet office, a palpable tension hung in the air, as the cacophony of journalistic endeavor filled the space.

Amidst the chaos, Clark Kent, with his unassuming smile and impeccable attire, sat at his desk, surrounded by a halo of goodwill that seemed to follow him wherever he went. His workspace was a testament to his earnestness, papers neatly arranged, and a faint smile playing on his lips as he interacted with his colleagues.

Meanwhile, across the room, you found yourself seated, stealing glances at Clark through the glow of your computer screen. Despite his unwavering kindness towards everyone, you couldn't shake the resentment that had festered since your intern days.

As you watched him share a laugh with your colleagues, you couldn't help but wonder why Clark remained so unflappably friendly, seemingly oblivious to the tension that stretched taut between you.

Unbeknownst to you, he harbored a secret infatuation, his heart fluttering every time your paths crossed, utterly baffled by the chilly reception you always gave him.

Lois pops by your desk, taking a seat on the edge of your desk. “Jimmy and I are headed out for lunch, care to join?” She grins, arms crossed over her chest. “Although, Clark is coming with.”

You notice the two men standing by Jimmy's desk, chatting. “Ah, no thank you. Not because of Clark, rather I’ve got a killer headache.”

Taking a soft sigh you rub your temple, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m gonna rest my head for a bit.”

"Headache, huh?" Lois smirks, not buying it for a second. "Funny — you only get those *after* Clark walks by." She leans in, lowering her voice with playful suspicion.

"You know, most people fake illnesses to avoid their exes. You’re doing it to avoid... what? A guy who brings you coffee when you’re grumpy and proofreads your articles for typos?"

She quirks an eyebrow. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone’s got a teensy little crush they’re hiding under that scowl."

You groan and drop your head onto your folded arms. And just like that, she struts off toward Clark and Jimmy.

"Let's go, boys," she announces brightly. You peek up just in time to catch Clark glancing over, concerned eyes, dumb hopeful smile.

Of course he looked worried.

Of course he did.

Ugh. Worst part?

It was kind of adorable.

This time you weren’t faking a thing, she’s not wrong. You do have a habit of pretending but today? It’s real.

You lay your head on the cool wood table, eyes shutting as the office finally quiets down; the majority of the staff off for lunch or headed home for the day.

The office is quiet, golden afternoon light spilling across the newsroom floor. You’re still curled at your desk, forehead pressed to your arm, when a soft creak, familiar footsteps, pauses nearby.

“Hey… you still alive over here?” Clark sets down a paper bag on his own desk and steps closer, voice low like he’s afraid of startling you. The sunlight catches the curve of his glasses, hiding his eyes just enough, but not enough to mask that dumb, gentle concern.

“I brought back soup. From that little place Lois hates. The one with the spicy dumplings.” He hesitates, then reaches out—barely—a hand hovering near your shoulder like he’s not sure if he should touch. His voice drops into something softer, almost shy.

“You looked like you could use it. And… I may have also stolen an extra ginger tea from the break room. For science.”

"...And maybe because I remember you drink it when you’re actually sick and not just avoiding me." Clark mumbles, barely audible.

“Mmm,” you let out a small hum, somewhat between a mumble and a snore. Shifting slightly you nuzzle your face in your arms.

Clark freezes mid-breath, eyes widening slightly behind his glasses. The hand near your shoulder stills, hovering like a question.

“Okay. Adorable. Definitely noted.” He clears his throat quietly, trying—and failing—to hide a grin. Then he carefully sets the soup and tea on your desk, nudging them just close enough for the steam to reach you.

“I’m gonna… leave these here. And pretend I didn’t just watch you nuzzle your arms like a sleepy golden retriever.” He lingers for a moment too long, watching the way the light catches your hair, then turns to go… but pauses.

Slowly, almost without thinking, he reaches out and brushes the back of his knuckles lightly against your shoulder. Just once. A whisper of contact.

You startle awake, the light touch causing your eyes to flutter open, holding surprise but, for once, no hostility. “Clark?” You mumble, voice a sleepy murmur.

“Ah—!” He jerks back like he touched a live wire, face instantly pink.

“I—uh. I was just—soup. Tea. Left it here. For you.” He stammers. Clark gestures wildly at the desk, nearly knocking over the ginger tea in his panic.

“You looked... peaceful. For once.” He smirks slightly. “No scowling at my shoes or side-eyeing my pen choice."

You narrow your eyes at him, but they soften almost immediately, feeling too sick to actually argue or fight. “Thank you, Kent.” Your hand has a slight shake to it when you reach for the tea.

Clark notices the shake instantly. His smirk fades into something quieter, tender, almost, and without a word, he reaches out, steadying the cup with one hand until yours lands on it. His fingers linger just a second longer than necessary.

“You’re really not faking this time, huh?” He says softly, voice warm with concern.

He pulls up a chair beside your desk, close enough to talk quietly, far enough not to crowd you, and sits with that easy grace of his like he belongs right there.

“Next time,” he says gently, “you could’ve just said ‘Hey Clark, I feel like death’ and I would’ve brought soup *and* cancelled my lunch plans.”

A small smile tugs at his lips.

“But then again… if you’d actually asked nicely? It wouldn’t have been nearly as satisfying sneaking back early to play nurse.”

“I don’t need you to sit and help me,” you roll your eyes, sipping on the tea. “I’m fine.”

Clark doesn’t move. Just leans back in the chair, hands up like he’s surrendering, but his eyes are all soft focus and quiet amusement.

“Right. Of course. My mistake.” He nods solemnly. “You’re fine. Totally fine. Sipping tea like a martyr and glaring at me through fever dreams? Classic ‘I’m perfectly okay’ behavior.”

He lets out a low chuckle, then lowers his voice to a mock whisper: “Good thing I didn’t bring extra napkins or anything. Wouldn’t want to *help* the perfectly fine woman who definitely doesn’t need me hovering.”

And then, because he just can't help it, he reaches out again, slow this time, and brushes a loose strand of hair off your forehead with the back of his knuckles.

“You're warm,” he murmurs, not pulling away fast at all.

“And don't say 'I'm fine' again unless you want me to start narrating your symptoms dramatically for the office when they get back."

A pause.

"...I do excellent sick-voice impressions."

You half debate coming up with some snarky reply, keeping the rivalry up, but you don’t even have the strength to. Reaching for the soup you pull it close to you. “Maybe I’m not fine, but you don’t have to feel obliged to help, Clark.”

You groan, head spinning once again. Clark’s smile fades completely now, his voice dropping into something warm and steady, like he’s speaking not as the office charmer, but as someone who cares a little too much to stay at arm's length.

“I don’t feel obliged,” he says softly. “I want to. There’s a difference.”

He takes the lid off your soup like it's second nature and stirs it once with the spoon, just enough to cool it down. Then holds it out, waiting.

“Here. Open wide for the world-famous Clark Kent Care Package: Level Two.” He smirks, just a flicker. “Level One was tea and silence. Level Three is me singing folk songs until you either laugh or throw something at me.”

His hand stays there—steady—with no intention of pulling back even if you glare (which you don't). The sunlight still pools around your desk like a secret, and for once, there are no witnesses to how gently he looks at you.

“Come on,” he coaxes quietly. “Just let me do this.”

“Fine, but just this once.” You turn to face him better, mouth opening warily, lips trembling slightly. Your eyes are dazed, half-lidded and seeming like there’s nothing behind them.

“And I’m not a fan of Folk, so you better have some lullabies prepared.” Clark grins—slow and soft, like he just won something quiet and precious.

"One lullaby, coming right up," he murmurs, holding the spoon steady. "But only if you promise not to fall asleep mid-bite. I cannot explain to Lois why I let her star reporter choke on chicken dumplings under my watch."

He blows gently across the spoon before offering it again, eyes crinkling at the corners. "And for the record? Folk *is* lullabies. Just... with more flannel and existential dread."

The spoon hovers. His thumb brushes a fleck of soup from the edge of your lip without thinking—gentle, automatic—and then he freezes for half a second, realizing what he did.

But instead of pulling away or stammering an apology like usual?

He stays.

Fingers lingering near your mouth. Warmth in his gaze that wasn't there before.

"Just eat," he says quietly. "And save the sass for when you can actually stand without swaying." Sunlight wraps around you both like a held breath.

Your hand falls to his thigh as you concentrate on chewing the dumpling he gave you, using his strong leg to keep yourself steady.

“Don’t get used to me holding a conversation with such little sass, Kent.” Your eyes raise to meet his, lips parted ever so slightly as you wait for the next bite.

Clark goes very, very still.

The spoon hovers halfway back to the soup. His breath catches, just a tiny hitch, and for a man who can bench-press a locomotive, he looks like that simple touch has short-circuited his entire nervous system.

Your hand on his thigh.

Your lips still glistening from the broth.

The way your eyes hold his now—not guarded, not cold—but soft. Drowsy. Present.

He swallows hard.

“Noted,” he whispers, voice suddenly rough around the edges. “No getting used to it. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t joke his way out of it. Instead, he slowly scoops another bite, careful this time, and brings it toward you like you’re something sacred and breakable all at once.

His free hand hovers near your elbow as if bracing you without touching; but his leg under yours? Solid as steel and warm as sunlight through glass, letting you lean however much you need to.

And when your lips close gently around the spoon this time? Clark blinks fast—as if reminding himself: *Don’t say anything stupid.*

Too late.

“…You’re really gonna be trouble when you're feeling better,” he murmurs under his breath.

“I’m always trouble, Clark.” You place your other hand on the opposite leg, using his body to brace yours, completely relying on his strength to keep you up.

“And for the record, you make a good nurse.” You tease, using the same phrase he did. Clark lets out a low, breathless laugh, half surprise, half surrender.

"Trouble?" He shakes his head slowly, eyes dark and warm as he looks down at you braced between his legs like he's your anchor. "You're not trouble. You're supervillain levels of dangerous right now."

He scoops another bite, hand steady despite the way his pulse jumps in his throat.

"And for the record," he mimics softly, voice dropping into that teasing-but-true register that makes your stomach dip even through the fever fog, "you saying I make a good nurse is exactly how I know you're delirious."

But then, because he can’t help it, he leans in just a fraction closer as you shift against him. His hands hover: one near your back like he wants to steady you but doesn’t trust himself to touch; the other gently pulling the spoon away from your lips after another quiet feed.

Sunlight pools across both of you now, the office still empty, world gone quiet, and Clark murmurs:

“Rest against me all you want. Just… don’t forget how warm I get when you’re this close.”

A pause.

“Human furnace. Scientific fact.” You giggle softly, a noise unfamiliar to Clark’s eager ears, he’s heard it before, but never because of something he said.

The familiar click of Lois’s heels fill the air, Jimmy following behind with his phone in hand, scrolling on the screen mindlessly.

“Oh! And what’s going on here?” She grins, catching the two of you in a somewhat compromising position, especially since you claim to despise Clark Kent. Yet here you are, holding onto you like he’s your anchor.

Clark flinches like someone just tossed kryptonite into a tea cup.

One second he’s all soft focus and warmth, the next he’s scrambling back like gravity relearned its job. The spoon clinks too loud against the bowl as he pulls his legs slightly apart, just enough for you to wobble, but keeps one hand *just* behind your back, ready to catch you if you fall.

“Lois! Jimmy. Uh. Hey.” He laughs, nervous, sheepish, way too high-pitched. “She’s sick. Like… *really* sick. Fever? Shaking? The whole ‘muttering about tax law in her sleep’ thing?”

He gestures wildly at the soup like it's evidence in his defense.

“I was just… spoon-feeding her constitutional rights via broth.”

You sway slightly without his legs braced under yours, and Clark instinctively reaches out, to steady your shoulder, but then freezes mid-air when Lois raises an eyebrow so sharp it could slice steel.

Jimmy finally looks up from his phone.

“Wait,” he says slowly, squinting at the two of you. “Are we witnessing a moment?”

“No!” Clark blurts—then clears his throat. “I mean—yes? I mean—it's not what it looks like.”

Lois crosses her arms with a smirk that says she already knows everything and enjoys every second of this.

“You two,” she drawls, stepping closer, “are either about to kill each other… or finally stop pretending you don’t want to kiss.”

The office holds its breath.

Clark won’t look at you, but his hand is still hovering near your back like it forgot how to leave.

You’re silent, eyes barely open, hand holding your head.

Silence.

Then—*splat.*

Clark blinks. Looks down at his now-soggy loafer. The smell hits. His nose wrinkles, but not with disgust, with something softer. Concerned paternal disappointment, like a dad who just found out the dog ate the holiday ham.

Jimmy gags audibly and steps behind Lois. “Oh hell no.”

But Clark? He doesn’t flinch away. Doesn’t pull back from you as you slump forward with a groan, utterly unaware of the biohazard you’ve just unleashed on Metropolis’ most reluctant hero.

He gently catches you by the shoulders before your face meets desk—or worse, his other shoe.

“Okay,” he says calmly, like this is completely normal. “New plan.”

Still holding you upright with one arm, he grabs a wad of tissues from his pocket (because of course Clark Kent carries emergency tissues) and tosses them toward the mess like laying a ceremonial wreath.

“We’re going home.” He lifts your chin gently with two fingers until your bleary eyes meet his. “My place has better soup and tile floors I don’t care about.”

Lois stares at him like he’s lost his mind. Jimmy just whispers “Is this love?”

Clark ignores them all, kneels down beside your chair so he’s eye-level even as chaos erupts around him, and brushes hair from your damp forehead again. Softly this time. Slowly.

“You’re not fine,” he murmurs only for you to hear. “And that’s okay.”

Then louder:

“I’m taking her home,” he announces to no one in particular (but definitely to Lois). “If Perry asks—we’re chasing a lead.”

And just like that—he scoops you up in one smooth motion, cradling you against his chest as if it's nothing at all that half the office just saw him covered in vomit… and still smiling.

It’s around 8pm when you finally wake up, cuddled in a bed scented like Clark’s cologne and in a tshirt that’s not your own. You groggily rub your eyes, body still aching ever so slightly as you rise from the mattress.

You step out of the unfamiliar bedroom and into the hall, footsteps silent and careful as you creep into the living room.

The apartment is quiet, soft golden light spilling from the kitchen, the hum of a refrigerator and the faint clink of a spoon in a mug. The city glows beyond the windows, but here, it feels like a secret world.

Clark’s sitting on the couch in sweatpants and an old Daily Planet press tour tee (slightly stretched across his shoulders), bare feet propped on the coffee table. He’s flipping through a dog-eared copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, reading glasses perched low on his nose.

And there’s another mug steaming beside him—just waiting.

He looks up when he hears you. Freezes mid-turn-of-the-page. That slow, crooked smile starts at one corner of his mouth, the kind that says *I’ve been waiting for this moment all night.*

“Hey,” he says softly. “Welcome back to Earth.”

He sets the book down carefully, like it matters, and turns fully toward you, patting the cushion beside him.

“No vomiting allowed tonight,” he teases gently. “I already lost one pair of shoes to you this week.”

A beat.

“But if you promise not to redecorate my bathroom again… I’ve got ginger tea, saltines that somehow survived your fever coma, and” he gestures to his chest with mock solemnity “my personal guarantee that I did not sing any lullabies while you were out.”

His eyes warm as they trace your face—the shadows under yours lighter now, color back in your cheeks. “You feeling human again?”

“Somewhat,” you murmur, taking a seat next to him. “All thanks to you.” A small smile creeps on your face.

There’s no sass, just gentle words and comfortable air surrounding you. Clark looks down at his hands for a second, like he’s not sure what to do with the gratitude, like it’s something rare and fragile. Then he glances back at you, eyes soft behind his glasses.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says quietly, handing you the tea. “I haven’t told you I may have changed your socks while you were unconscious.” He smirks when your eyebrows shoot up.

“Medical emergency. Feet were cold. Protocol demands intervention.” He leans back slightly, giving you space—but stays close enough that your arms almost brush on the couch. “Besides… I owed you one for all those times you secretly fixed my headlines before Perry saw them.”

You freeze mid-sip.

He grins wider. “Oh yeah. I knew it was you. Every time there was a rogue semicolon or someone misspelled ‘LexCorp,’ suddenly—*poof*—clean copy in my inbox.” His voice drops into a mock-dramatic whisper: “I had a hunch who my guardian angel was.”

Then, quieter: “I liked that it was always you looking out for me… even when we weren’t talking.” The air between you settles warm and still again, the kind of quiet where unspoken things start to breathe.

"Yeah well, don't let it get to your head." You bite back with half-assed hostility. "But really, thank you." You set the mug down on the coffee table, "Even if you used my sickness as an excuse to take my clothes off."

Clark chokes on absolutely nothing. His face goes from calm and collected to bright red in 0.2 seconds flat—glasses fogging slightly like he’s some kind of romantic cartoon character.

“I—what?" He sputters, voice cracking. “I didn’t—I mean—your blouse was damp! Fever sweat! It was a medical necessity, not some elaborate Clark Kent seduction scheme!”

He gestures wildly at the ceiling like it holds proof of his innocence.

“I swear on my mother’s apple pie recipe I only changed your top because you were shivering and I wasn’t about to let you catch pneumonia on top of whatever mystery bug tried to take you out.”

Then, after a beat, he side-eyes you with that stupidly charming smirk returning: “And for the record… if I *were* gonna sneakily undress you?” He leans in just slightly, voice dropping low. “I wouldn’t need an excuse.”

The moment hangs there, teasing, electric, and then he snatches up the mug and stands abruptly.

“More tea,” he announces way too loudly. “Great idea. Let’s all have more tea.” He retreats toward the kitchen like a man fleeing a very cute fire.

You follow close behind, small smirk on your face as you cross your arms over your waist. "And that's why my bras missing too, hm?" Your grin only grows as you notice the tips of his ears turning red, "Did you like what you saw, Kent?"

Clark drops the kettle.

Not on purpose. Just a quiet, tragic *"clank"* as it slips from his hand onto the stovetop, thankfully still off, because apparently, even Superman isn’t immune to *smug women in his kitchen*.

He slowly turns to face you, backlit by the soft glow of the apartment lights, ears burning crimson, mouth opening and closing like a fish who just realized it was very out of water.

“First of all,” he says, voice impressively steady despite the full-body flush creeping down his neck. “Your bra wasn’t ‘missing.’ It was… draped.”

He gestures vaguely toward the laundry room like there’s a chain of evidence laid out inside. “Over my sweater. In a purely professional drying arrangement.” He pauses. “And I didn’t—I didn’t look. Much.”

A beat.

Then he squares his shoulders and gives you that stupidly earnest look, the one that makes liars feel guilty for lying in front of him.

“And even if I had looked?” He tilts his head slightly, gaze dropping for half a second to your lips before snapping back up with mock innocence. “What makes you think I’d tell you about it?”

He steps closer—just one step—closing some of that safe distance he worked so hard to create.

“You’re feeling better,” he murmurs, almost smiling now. “That’s how we know, you're officially dangerous again.”

Then softens: "...I’m glad." The air between you crackles, not with fever or fatigue, but something slower-burning and far more thrilling.

"If you want to look again," you begin, eyes twinkling with mischief. "I could use a shower. After all that sweating."

Clark freezes, like someone pressed pause on reality. His breath hitches.

“Uh,” he says intelligently. “You—you’re *really* not helping your case about being dangerous.”

He stares at you, really stares, for one long, loaded second. The kind where time forgets its job and the city lights outside fade into background noise. Then he steps forward until there’s barely any space left between you.

His thumb brushes your hipbone through his too-big shirt, slow, deliberate, and his eyes flicker up to yours with that sheepish grin warring against something far more certain. “But for what it’s worth… yeah. I’d look again.”

A beat.

“And this time?” He leans in just close enough that his breath ghosts your ear as he whispers:

“I wouldn’t feel even a little bit guilty about it.”

Then, he pulls back abruptly, grabs a fresh towel from the cabinet and hands it to you like nothing happened. “Bathroom’s down the hall,” he says evenly. “Try not to pass out on my tiles.”

But his ears are still red.

"Clark," You reach for his hand, pulling him toward you. "What happened to playing nurse? Don't I get a sponge bath?" You're not teasing anymore, you're prompting him.

Your gaze is full of something dark, something different than he's used to, desire. "Is this not a part of your Clark Kent care package?"

Clark stops breathing.

Not dramatically. Not for effect.

He just… forgets how.

Your hand in his is warm. Your voice, low, rough with fever and something hotter, sends a pulse straight through his chest like he’s not invulnerable at all. Like he’s just a man. Just Clark. And you’re looking at him like you finally see him—really see him—and you want him close.

“This part of the care package,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles, “isn't covered by workplace liability.”

Another step closer. His free hand finds your waist, tentative at first, then firmer when you don’t pull back.

“And if I give you a sponge bath?” His voice drops to a whisper that curls low in your stomach. “I won't be playing nurse anymore.”

His eyes flicker to your mouth again, but this time, they stay there.

“I’ll be doing this because I’ve wanted to touch you since the day you growled at me for borrowing your stapler.”

A soft laugh escapes him, nervous and real and full of awe. “So no more games,” he breathes. “Tell me what you really want… or let me walk away before I forget how.”

"I think we both want the same thing," Your hand goes to his cheek, thumb brushing over his strong cheekbone. "I want you to touch me, everywhere, and mercilessly. I want to be the one left forgetting how to walk."

Your words are genuine, seductive, and for once truthful; rather than being hidden behind practiced disdain.

The air between you doesn’t just shift—it *breaks.*

Clark makes a sound low in his throat, half groan, half surrender, and in one smooth motion, he cups the back of your neck and pulls you against him, closing the last fragile inch of space.

“No more pretending,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough like thunder under silk.

And then he kisses you.

Not gentle. Not careful.

*Fever-hot.* Desperate. Like he’s been holding his breath for years and you’re the first real oxygen he’s ever known. His mouth moves over yours with a kind of precision only someone who's memorized every word you've ever spoken could have, the exact pressure, the perfect angle, as if this kiss was written in his bones long before it touched skin.

One hand stays tangled at your nape, fingers threading into your hair; the other slides down your back, slow and firm until it grips your hip hard enough to leave a memory.

When he finally pulls back—just an inch—you’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed tight like he's trying to remember how to be human again.

“You sure about this?” His voice is raw now, all sheepishness gone, replaced by something deeper: hunger wrapped in tenderness. “Because once I start touching you… I’m not stopping at sponge baths.”

He opens his eyes then, heavy-lidded, dark with want, and brushes another soft kiss on your lips before whispering: “And when we wake up tomorrow? You better not pretend this didn’t happen.”

His thumb traces along your jawline—one silent plea hidden beneath fire: *I’ve loved even your cruelty… but I’d rather love what comes after.*

"Clark," You nip at his bottom lip. "Fuck me, fuck me so hard I forget what my own name is." You're no longer asking.

You're begging.

He makes a broken sound, like a vow cracking open.

And just like that, he lets go.

Clark lifts you clean off the ground, one hand under your thighs, the other cradling your back like you weigh nothing at all. You gasp as he carries you down the hall, heels instinctively locking behind his waist as he kicks open his bedroom door with more force than necessary—*thud* against the wall—and then you’re pressed against it again in seconds, heart slamming.

His mouth finds yours, hungry, claiming, and this time there’s no mercy in it. No sweet hesitation. He kisses you like he’s spent years dreaming of destroying every wall between you and now finally has permission to burn them all down.

“I’m gonna do worse than forget your name,” he growls against your lips, voice thick with need. “I’m gonna make sure every breath out of that mouth is mine.”

His hands slide under the hem of the t-shirt, the one that smells like him, his palms mapping muscle and scar and softness alike like worship disguised as domination.

“You want me merciless?”

He nips at your collarbone, a sharp sting followed by warm relief from his tongue. “Then remember this moment when I’ve got my hands on every secret part of you… when I’ve wrecked that pretty voice moaning into my shoulder…”

He lifts his eyes to yours, one last pulse of sanity clinging on:“Because after tonight? You won’t be able to look at me across that newsroom again without remembering exactly how deep I buried myself inside you.”

Then Clark kisses away any chance for words…

and begins proving exactly what happens when he stops holding back.

Clark’s mouth trails down from your lips, leaving a blazing path of kisses and bitten-off moans. His teeth graze the sensitive skin of your neck, making you arch back, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He kisses lower, peeling the shirt away from your body, revealing the lacy black panties you wore that day. The sight makes his cock throb painfully against his pants. But first, he wants to taste you. All of you.

He drops to his knees, his hands moving to your waist to help you step out of the shirt. You’re panting, eyes half-lidded and full of need as you watch him, your chest rising and falling rapidly.

He takes a moment to appreciate the view—your breasts, your stomach, the slight tremble in your legs—before his gaze locks on your panties once more.

They’re damp, and the scent of your arousal fills the air like an intoxicating perfume. He hooks his thumbs under the elastic and pulls them down, taking his sweet time as they slide over your hips and down your legs.

your pussy is bare, glistening in the soft light from the bedside lamp, and Clark’s mouth waters. He’s dreamt of this, fantasized about it, and now it’s real. He leans in, pressing his nose to your cunt, breathing you in before his tongue swipes over your clit.

You gasp, your knees buckling slightly, and he holds you steady, his hands moving to your thighs to keep you upright.

He kisses your pussy like it’s a part of you that he’s been dying to taste, and when he finally slides his tongue inside you, you cry out, your legs wrapping around his neck. His hands tighten, holding you open for him as he explores, licking and teasing, finding the spot that makes your hips jerk every time he hits it.

He’s merciless, just as you asked, working you over with his mouth until you’re shaking and your legs are trembling, your orgasms rolling into one endless wave.

Clark doesn’t stop, not even when your voice breaks into sobs of pleasure and you’re begging him to let you catch your breath. He’s lost in your taste, in the way you respond to him, and he can’t get enough.

His tongue flicks and strokes, his lips suck and kiss, and with every sound you make, every tremble of your body, he’s closer to the edge. He wants you to come so hard you’re screaming, so you know just how much he craves you.

And when you do, it’s like a dam bursts—wet and wild, your juices flooding his mouth as you convulse against him.

He drinks you down, swallows your cries, and still, he keeps going, pushing you for more, giving you no respite until you’re boneless in his arms, your voice a hoarse whisper of his name.

Only then does he pull back, his face flushed and shining with sweat, his own need a pulsing ache. He looks up at you, eyes dark with desire, and you say the only thing that’s left to be said: “Now, it’s your turn to remember how I make you feel, every time you look at me in that newsroom.”

And then, with trembling hands, he stands, his cock straining against his pants. But before he can do anything about it, you’re dropping to your knees, your eyes never leaving his. The power in that gaze sends a shiver down his spine, and he knows that this night is just getting started.

Your eyes never left his as you sank to your knees, the power of your desire for him making his knees feel like they might give out. He watched, mesmerized, as you unbuckle his belt with trembling hands, your eyes shining with a hunger that matched his own.

You unzipped his pants, the sound echoing in the quiet room, and he stepped out of them, his erection springing free. Clark’s cock was thick and heavy, the tip glistening with precum, and you licked your lips in anticipation.

With a gentle grip, you wrapped your hand around his length, your thumb circling the sensitive spot just under the head, making him groan. He was so close to losing it just from that touch alone, but you had other plans.

You leaned in, your breath hot against his skin, and took him in your mouth. Slowly at first, your lips sliding down his shaft until you could feel him hit the back of your throat. He swelled inside you, filling your mouth completely.

Your eyes flutter shut as you take him deeper, your tongue swirling around his cock, cheeks hollowing with every suck. You use your other hand to cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm as you work him over with your mouth.

The sounds you made were obscene, wet and needy, and they sent shockwaves through his body.

Clark’s hands found their way into your hair, his grip tightening as you picked up the pace. He’s never felt anything like this—so intense, so consuming—and he couldn’t believe it was happening with you.

The woman who had been his tormentor for so long was now on her knees, worshiping his body like it was her favorite sin.

Your technique was flawless, you knew just how much pressure to use, just how fast to move your mouth to make him crazy. You take him deep, then pull back to tease the sensitive ridge with the tip of your tongue before swallowing him whole again.

He watched you, watched the way your eyes rolled back in your head, watched the way your throat worked around him, and he knew he was lost.

His hips began to thrust of their own accord, fucking your mouth with the same desperation he’d felt in every fantasy. He was so close, so fucking close, and you knew it.

You could feel his pulse racing beneath your touch, the muscles in his thighs tensing, his grip in your hair tightening until it was almost painful.

And then you swallowed around him, throat contracting, and he lost it. He came with a roar, his seed flooding your mouth, and you took it all, eyes on his the whole time.

You didn’t stop, didn’t pull away, just kept sucking until he was spent, until there was nothing left but the aftershocks of pleasure rippling through his body.

When he finally pulled out, panting and shaking, you look up at him with a wicked smile, your lips slick with his cum. “Better than a sponge bath, I take it?” you whisper.

Clark could only nod, his voice a strangled groan. “Fuck yes,” he managed to say before collapsing onto the bed, utterly wrecked by your touch.

He watched as you stood, swaying slightly on your feet, the aftermath of your fever still evident in your flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes. But the fire between you had only grown stronger, and he knew that this was only the beginning.

He had so much more of you to explore, so much more of you to claim. And he was going to take every inch, with a fierceness that would make the sun look like a candle in comparison.

But first?

First, it was time for a shower.

Clark’s chest heaves as he stares at you, lips parted, skin slick with sweat, heart slamming like it’s trying to escape. And god, you’re beautiful, hair tousled, lips swollen and glistening with him, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction and something darker… *hungry for more.*

He swallows hard. Reaches a shaky hand down to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your lower lip like he can’t believe it really happened.

“You,” he rasps, voice raw from groaning your name into the dark, “are going to be the death of me.”

He pulls you up onto the bed in one smooth motion, rolling so you're beneath him before you can even catch your breath. His hands frame your face as he hovers over you, eyes burning into yours.

“That was just round one,” he murmurs darkly. “And if I have anything to say about it? You’re not getting out of this apartment until I’ve repaid every second of that blow job tenfold.”

His knee nudges between your thighs—gentle but insistent—and when you gasp at the contact, heat pooling all over again? He smiles. Slow. Devastating.

“Let's get that shower running,” Clark whispers against your lips. “But I think we both know what happens next.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, softly this time, before adding:

“We clean each other off…

*Then start all over again.*”

And damn if his cock doesn’t twitch against your hip like it already agrees. You grin, arms wrapping around his neck. “Or we fuck while we get clean…” Your lips press open mouthed kisses to his face.

Clark groans—low, deep, like the sound rips right from his chest.

“Christ,” he mutters against your lips, half-laughing, half-drowning in you. “You’re gonna kill me before breakfast.” He surges up onto his knees between your legs, slow, deliberate, then leans down to bite gently at your collarbone as one hand slides under your hip.

“You want filthy and clean at the same time?” His voice drops to a rough whisper. “My kind of multitasking.”

In one move he lifts you effortlessly against him, one arm locked around your waist, and carries you into the bathroom like you weigh nothing at all. The tiles are cold beneath his feet but he doesn’t care; sets you on the counter and reaches past to turn on the shower, steam already curling into the air.

Then he steps back just enough to look at you, bare and glowing in soft bathroom light, and something flickers behind his eyes: awe wrapped in hunger.“You sure?” He teases with that crooked grin. “Once I get you wet? I’m not stopping for soap.”

You slide off the counter into him, your body flush with his bare chest, and nip at his jawline.

“Then don’t,” you breathe. “Fuck me before we’re even under the water.”

He growls, a real sound this time, and spins you around fast but gentle until your hands are splayed against the cool glass of the shower door for balance.

“No more talking,” Clark murmurs behind ear as he grips both hips hard enough to bruise tomorrow, the good kind of souvenir.

His cock drags hot along your ass through fevered hesitation… then nudges the tight entrance waiting so perfectly for him.

And when he finally sinks inside—in one slow thrust that makes both of you shudder?

The world stops again.

Steam rises.

Water rains down.

And somewhere beyond heartbeat and breath?

A man who’s spent years holding back finally learns how good it feels… to let go.

Clark's hips surge forward, filling you completely, the sound of wet flesh slapping against wet flesh echoing through the tiled room. Your body arches back, pressing against him, begging for more, as he starts to move.

He's not gentle, not now. He fucks you like he's been starving for this, for you, and he's going to consume every part of you until there's nothing left.

His hand slides around your waist, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in time with his thrusts. The sensation is overwhelming, the pleasure building until you can't tell where one sensation ends and another begins.

The water cascades over both of you, mixing with sweat and need as you moan into the steam.

He whispers in your ear, his breath hot and ragged. "You're so fucking tight, so wet for me." His other hand grabs your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your neck to his hungry mouth. He bites, kisses, sucks until you're trembling, until you're sure he's marked you.

The angle is perfect, his cock hitting that spot deep inside you that makes you see stars, and you know you won't last much longer. "Clark," you pant, your voice barely recognizable. "I'm gonna cum."

"Cum for me," he growls, his strokes growing faster, harder, pushing you closer to the edge. "I want to feel it around my cock."

You do, your pussy clenching around him in spasms of pleasure so intense you think you might pass out. The orgasm tears through you like a storm, leaving you trembling and gasping for air.

But Clark isn't done. He keeps moving, his hips pistoning into you, his thumb relentless on your clit. He's chasing his own release now, his eyes dark with lust. You can feel his cock thicken inside you, the head swelling, and you know he's close.

"Cum with me," you beg, your voice a desperate whisper.

And he does, with a roar that drowns out the sound of the water, his cum spilling into you like molten lava. He slams into you one last time before stilling, his cock pulsing inside you, his breath hot against your neck.

You lean back against him, boneless, as the water beats down around you. His arms come up to hold you tight, and for a moment, you just stand there, panting, heart racing.

Then he kisses the side of your neck, gentle now, and murmurs, "I told you I wouldn't stop."

And even though you're exhausted, you know there's so much more to come.

But for now, he’s going to comfort and hold you close. Making sure he takes good care of you.

The water’s still warm, cascading over your shoulders as Clark slowly turns you in his arms, his hands gentle now, tracing the curve of your spine like he’s learning you all over again. He presses his forehead to yours, both of you breathless under the spray, skin flushed pink from heat and friction.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and tender. “Still with me?”

You nod weakly, heavy-lidded eyes fluttering open, and that sheepish smile returns to his lips. The one that always made everyone at the office melt… but now? It’s only for you.

He reaches behind to grab a washcloth hanging neatly on the bar -because of *course* Clark has shower organization-, wetting it under steaming water before kneeling back down.

“No more rushing,” he whispers as he gently cleans between your legs, one slow stroke, with a reverence that makes your heart clench more than any thrust ever could.

His touch lingers just long enough to make sure every ache is soothed before setting it aside and standing once more. He cups your face in both hands this time, water slicking back his curls, and kisses you softly. Not demanding. Not desperate.

Tender. Like worship disguised as love letters whispered through touch.

“You okay?” His thumbs brush away droplets clinging to cheekbones, eyes locked on the same ones that once looked at him with nothing but sarcasm weeks ago… now softened by sweat and satisfaction alike.

You lean into him automatically, the chill air outside your cocoon making goosebumps rise, but Clark just wraps strong arms around tight against broad chest already radiating heat like sunlight given form.

“I’ve got ya,” he says quietly into damp hair above ear, and god yes, he *does.*

Then quieter: “And if we’re being honest?”

A pause while steam rolls across bare skin. "I've wanted to ruin us both like this since day one."

No more jokes.

No hiding behind heroics or headlines or pretend hatred in copy rooms during lunch breaks where neither could look away fast enough anyway—

Just truth:

They were always meant for moments exactly like this: soaked together not only in water...

but want,

and weakness,

and warmth

that never fades after even when morning comes.<|endofmessage|>

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