pairing: the creature/adam frankenstein x fem reader
themes: hurt/comfort, warm domesticity, adam learning to love, forest setting, quiet moments, romantic tension, gentle touch, innocent jealousy, mutual trust building, slow burn and established relationship ♡
a/n: i thought about this while listening to the twilight soundtrack heheh, i hope you guys like it, i apologize if there are any errors in the text, english is not my first language, so enjoy it! xoxo
w/c: 1.3k
The forest always smelled different after the rain; the cabin was filled with that damp aroma, as if the earth were breathing deeply and seeping between the wooden walls of the cabin. Adam noticed this more than any human; every change in the weather altered his body, as if his skin remembered things his mind couldn't yet put into words.
That afternoon, he was sitting on the floor, his legs awkwardly bent, watching you take the bread out of the oven. The smell of wood smoke filled the place. He didn't really talk much, but he was close enough that his presence was already part of the place.
Suddenly, a voice was heard from outside; a man was asking if anyone was in the cabin, seeking refuge from the cold.
It wasn't unusual for travelers to get lost in that forest, and although you raised your head like a calm person receiving a simple visitor, he reacted as if someone had thrown ice water on him, getting up too quickly and retreating to the darkest corner of the cabin, that place where the light never quite reached. He didn't want to take the risk of being seen.
He knew what he was to others: a poorly armed shadow, a being who caused fear even before opening his mouth.
You opened the door just enough to speak to the traveler. There he was, soaked from the rain that had just passed, holding his backpack against his chest and with his face reddened by the cold.
"Excuse me… could I take shelter for a moment? The rain took me by surprise," he said, barely audible.
From that moment on, you let him pass, stepping aside to let him cross the threshold and quickly closing the door to prevent any more icy air from entering. The traveler stayed near the door, not daring to move forward, until you pointed out the space in front of the fire.
"Sit there, warm yourself up a bit," you told him in a kind but firm voice.
You kept talking to the stranger, offering him a slice of baked bread. He thanked you and warmed his hands for a moment. You talked about the basics: where he was coming from, where he was going, and if there were wolves nearby.
Meanwhile, Adam remained silent, pressed against the wall, hiding as if the sound of his own breathing might betray him. He wasn't looking at the traveler; he was looking at you. He was seeing how your face lit up a little when you were kind to someone, how your voice grew warm, and how that stranger stared at you, spoke to you with confidence, and smiled at you.
And something burned inside him.
It wasn't anger, but it was similar — a strange pang, as if his chest were too small for such a feeling.
Until something minimum happened, but for him it was huge.
The traveler touched your hand as he said goodbye. Adam felt that pang again, stronger this time. He didn't understand why; he only knew that something inside him was protesting, an uncomfortable pressure that seemed to want to push him towards you.
As soon as you closed the door, the tension dissipated a little. You turned around to look for him and found him where he was, pressed against the wall, with his shoulders rigid and his gaze lowered.
You walked slowly towards him.
"He's already gone," you told him, reaching your hand towards his arm.
Adam trembled when you touched him; it was a small tremor, as if your touch were the only thing capable of ordering what was jumbled inside him. His enormous, trembling fingers moved slowly toward yours, seeking contact and checking that you were there.
When you intertwined your hand with his, he let out a deep, relieved sigh.
He didn't speak, he didn't know how to describe what he had felt; he just leaned his forehead towards yours, breathing with you, letting your presence calm that feeling that had no name for him.
That night, when the sky was already dark, he suddenly got up from where he was sleeping. He approached you silently; it wasn't usual for him to wake you, but he did so with that excessive care he had, and he touched your shoulder as if he were afraid of scaring you.
"Come…" he whispered very softly, almost shyly.
You grabbed your cape and went out with him into the forest. He walked slowly, careful of every stone, every root, so that you wouldn't trip. He didn't explain to you where they were going; he simply kept walking until he reached a meadow hidden among tall trees. The air was filled with a soft mist.
And then they began to appear.
Fireflies, first one, then several, until the meadow seemed to fill with tiny lights drifting between you.
Adam stopped; he didn’t move. He only watched you while you set your gaze on this unexpected spectacle. He listened to the way your breathing changed with the surprise, that small sound you made when you grew thrilled without meaning to. To him, that sound was more important than all the lights in the forest.
“You… like it?” he asked, hopeful in a trembling way.
“Yes… it’s beautiful,” you whispered.
When you took a step to see the spectacle more closely, he took your hand — this time without doubts, without awkwardness. His fingers wrapped around yours with a new, gentle confidence, as if he had finally understood that he could take your hand without being afraid of hurting you.
"I saw them… the other day," he said, his voice low. "I wanted you to see them too."
You lifted your head to look at him, the fireflies' light reflected a little on the scars of his face.
"Is that why you brought me?," you said, smiling.
"Yes… because I saw it and thought of you," he said.
Adam didn’t know that what he was doing was a date; he didn’t know he was taking you to the most beautiful place he knew because something in him wanted to see you happy. He only knew he needed to share it with you.
You stepped a little closer. He stayed perfectly still. You let go of his hand to lift it to his cheek — cold, yet soft to the touch. His eyes widened at the gesture, as if the universe had stopped just to teach him something new.
"You were acting strange today," you said, caressing his skin.
He blinked.
"I felt… something when the man touched you here," he said, pointing at your hand. "I didn’t know what it was, it just hurt… here." He brought a hand to his chest, over his heart, wearing a confused, vulnerable expression.
Your other hand rose to his face, holding it gently.
"You don’t have to understand everything right now," you said. "You’re learning."
Adam lowered his head a little, bringing his forehead to yours, closing his eyes.
"With you… I’m not afraid," he whispered, with an honesty that seemed to strip him bare."With you… I feel good, and I don’t want anyone else… to pull you away from me."
There was an innocence in his words — without any intention of possessing you, only the fear of losing the one good thing he knew.
You stroked his cheek with your thumb.
“I’m here, and I’m not leaving your side,” you promised.
Adam drew in a breath as if your words were the most precious thing he had ever heard. His hands, large and awkward, settled on your waist with such careful gentleness it seemed he feared breaking you. For the first time, he embraced you of his own will, without hesitation, without you having to ask.
And while the fireflies kept glowing around you, he understood something.
That warmth he felt for you wasn’t confusion.
It wasn’t fear.
It was affection.
It was the desire to protect you.
It was love, even if he didn’t yet know how to call it that.
And it was growing inside him like something that finally had permission to exist.
Morning tenderness. Five years of history in stolen touch.
word count: ~3.9k
Characters: Male Reader (OC: Minho) x ITZY Hwang Yeji
Intro | Masterlist | Series Index
Interlude (Chapter 0.5) | Next Chapter
A/N: Welcome to this series - a passion project that started as something just for me and grew into something I couldn't keep to myself. This is a long series, essentially a k-drama-pornhwa in literary form, where the smut is written as a love letter to the idols who inspire it.
The story starts gently… but I promise it will take you somewhere that matters. It’s funny and heartbreaking, chaotic and tender, steamy and achingly romantic all at once. I hope you enjoy the whole journey 💗 New readers: please read the intro to learn more about the characters :)
The first thing I woke to was warmth.
Not the oppressive heat of Jeju's summer sun - that would come later - but that intoxicating warmth of Yeji's body pressed against mine. My eyes cracked open to the pre-dawn glow filtering through the master bedroom's sheer curtains, casting everything in soft blues and grays.
The villa was silent except for the distant crash of waves and Yeji's steady breathing. Management had rented this place as a reward - a week-long escape following their latest world tour, somewhere the girls could decompress away from cameras and schedules. Private beach access, infinity pool, enough bedrooms that everyone could spread out. The kind of luxury that came with exhausting success.
What management didn't account for was what five young women in their twenties would actually do with that much privacy and freedom.
I'd arrived late last night - past midnight - after the rest of ITZY had gone to bed. Yeji had been waiting by the side entrance, dressed in an oversized hoodie and tiny sleep shorts, her finger pressed to her lips in a conspiratorial "shh" gesture. She'd pulled me inside quickly, her eyes darting toward the other bedrooms.
"They've been asking questions," she'd whispered as we crept upstairs. "Yuna keeps teasing me about having a 'secret boyfriend.' Ryujin's making bets on whether we're dating. It's annoying."
"Are we?" I'd asked, half-joking, and she'd punched my arm.
"You know what we are," she'd said, but her tone was softer than her words. "I just... I don't like them speculating about you. You're mine. They don't need to know the details."
We'd fooled around for a bit when we got to her room - lazy, tired kissing that tasted like the wine she'd been drinking earlier, her hands wandering under my shirt while I palmed her ass through those shorts. But exhaustion won out. We'd stripped down to minimal clothing - her in just panties, me in boxers - and collapsed into bed, her back to my chest, my arm draped over her waist.
Now, hours later, I was acutely aware of every point of contact between us.
Yeji was still asleep, her breathing deep and even. We'd shifted during the night - she was still on her side facing away from me, but my body was molded to hers like we were puzzle pieces designed to fit. My morning wood pressed insistently against the curve of her ass, separated only by thin cotton. My hand rested on her flat stomach, feeling the rise and fall of each breath. Her skin was impossibly soft, still slightly warm and carrying the faint scent of her perfume mixed with something uniquely her.
I shifted slightly, and she made a small, unconscious sound - not quite a moan, but close. Her ass pressed back against me, and I bit back a groan.
Easy, I told myself. Let her sleep.
But my hand had other ideas. It started moving on its own, fingers tracing lazy circles on her stomach, gradually drifting upward. Her abs were defined even in rest, the product of countless hours of dance practice. I traced each ridge, feeling her muscles twitch slightly under my touch.
My fingers reached the underside of her breasts - she'd gone braless to sleep - and I paused, waiting to see if she'd wake. Nothing. Just that steady breathing, maybe a fraction shallower now.
I cupped her breast gently, feeling the weight of it in my palm. Yeji's tits weren't large - perky B-cups that fit perfectly in my hands - but they were incredibly sensitive. Her nipple hardened immediately under my touch, a tight little bud that begged to be pinched.
I obliged, rolling it gently between my thumb and forefinger.
"Mmm..." This time the sound was definite, her body arching slightly into my touch. But her eyes stayed closed, her breathing still regular. Half-asleep, maybe, or pretending.
Emboldened, I pressed my hips forward, grinding my cock against her ass while my hand worked her breast. My other arm slid under her neck, allowing me to nuzzle into her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo - something floral and expensive.
"Yeji," I murmured against her ear, my voice rough with sleep and arousal. "You awake?"
"Mmm... no," she mumbled, but I felt her push back against me, a deliberate roll of her hips. "Still sleeping."
"Liar," I whispered, and bit down gently on her earlobe.
She gasped, her whole body shuddering. "Minho..."
My hand left her breast and slid down, over her taut stomach, to the waistband of her panties. I paused there, fingers playing with the elastic.
"Can I?" I asked, my lips still against her ear.
"You're asking now?" she breathed, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "After you've already been groping me?"
"Consent is sexy," I replied, and she laughed - a low, husky sound that went straight to my cock.
"You already know the answer, idiot," she said, her hips rolling back against my hand. "Don't make me say it."
I slid my hand into her panties, and fuck - she was already wet. Not just damp, but properly slick, her pussy lips parted and ready. My fingers found her clit immediately, that sensitive little pearl already swollen, and she whimpered when I made contact.
"Someone's eager," I teased, circling her clit with gentle pressure.
"Shut up," she gasped, her hips bucking into my hand. "You woke me up by - ahh - by feeling me up. What did you expect?"
"This," I said simply, and slid two fingers inside her.
She was tight - despite her reputation, despite all the industry names she fucked, her pussy always felt like it was trying to memorize every ridge of my fingers. Her walls clenched around them, hot and wet and absolutely perfect, drawing me deeper like she never wanted to let go. I pumped slowly, curling my fingers to hit that spot on her front wall that made her see stars.
"Fuck," she hissed, her hand reaching back to grip my hip, nails digging in. "If you're going to do it, do it properly. Don't half-ass it."
"Who's half-assing?" I asked, adding a third finger, curling them deliberately. The stretch made her gasp, her thighs clamping around my hand. "I'm being thorough."
"I've had - ahh - better."
"Liar."
"Prove me - fuck - prove me wrong then."
She twisted her head to look at me over her shoulder, her cat-like eyes challenging even through the lust. "You woke me up like this. So you better finish what you started."
"So demanding," I murmured, but I was already pulling my hand free, bringing my slick fingers to her mouth. She sucked them clean without hesitation, her tongue swirling around each digit, and the sight nearly made me cum right there in my boxers.
"Now?" she demanded breathlessly. "Do you know how long it's been? Six months of tour, three weeks since I was at your apartment and that was -" She bit her lip, frustrated. "Just fuck me. Properly this time."
I yanked my boxers down just enough to free my cock, the tip already leaking precum. With my other hand, I pulled her panties aside - not off, just aside - exposing her glistening pussy.
I lined myself up, pressing just the head against her entrance - that perfect ring of resistance, silky-tight and already slick. Her breath caught, and I felt her try to push back, to take me in, but I held her hip firm.
"You said properly, right?" I murmured against her ear, pushing in just the tip. Just the first inch, letting her feel the stretch. "Want to make sure I do this right."
"Minho -" Her voice was strained, needy. Her pussy clenched around just my head, trying to pull me deeper, and fuck - the grip was incredible even at this angle.
"What?" I pulled back, teasing her entrance with shallow pressure. Not quite in, not quite out. "Use your words."
I felt her nails dig into my thigh, her whole body tensing with frustration. I pushed in again - shallow, maybe two inches - then pulled back before she could adjust. Her hips rolled, trying to take more, but I kept my grip on her waist, controlling the depth.
"Stop - just -" She gasped, and I could hear her control fracturing. "Fuck me. All of it. Now."
"Now?" I asked, finally positioning myself properly, tip pressed right where she needed me.
"Yes - fucking - now -"
I pushed in, slow and steady, and her demand dissolved into a broken moan. The angle was different in this position - spooning let me go deep, hitting spots that made her entire body shudder. Her pussy stretched around me, gripping like she was trying to fuse us together, taking every inch as I sank into her heat.
"Fuck," I groaned when I bottomed out, my hips flush against her ass. "You feel incredible."
"You're - ahh - so deep," she panted, her fingers reaching down to wrap around the base of my cock where it disappeared into her pussy. I felt her delicate, perfectly shaped nails tracing where my shaft stretched her open, that obscene point of connection where her slick lips gripped me tight. "Don't move yet. Just - let me feel you."
We stayed like that for a moment, connected and still, and I felt that familiar tension - the one we never talked about. The one that made her grip me differently, breathe differently, look at me differently than I imagined she did with anyone else. With me, she didn't perform. She just was. Vulnerable. Real. Mine, in a way that neither of us would ever admit out loud.
"Okay," she whispered finally, pushing back against me experimentally. "You can move."
"Can I?" I asked, not moving. "Or should I wait for more permission?" "-
"Don't be - ahh -" I'd started moving, cutting off her complaint. "- a dick about it."
I started slow, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, establishing a lazy rhythm that matched the peaceful morning atmosphere. Her pussy was molten around me, slick and welcoming, and each thrust made wet sounds that filled the quiet room.
"That's it," she breathed, her hips rocking back to meet me. "Just like that. Slow. I want to feel every inch."
My hand snaked around to her clit, rubbing in time with my thrusts, and she whimpered. "You're going to make me cum already," she warned, but it sounded almost annoyed - like her body was betraying her.
"Good," I said, picking up the pace slightly. "I want to feel you cum on me."
"Cocky," she gasped, but her pussy was already clenching rhythmically.
It didn't take long. Her breathing got faster, her pussy fluttering around me, and then she was cumming - hard - her whole body going rigid as waves of pleasure crashed over her. She bit down on the pillow to muffle her scream, and I felt her juices flood around my cock, making each thrust even slicker.
"Don't - ahh - don't stop," she gasped as her orgasm subsided, and I realized she was still pushing back against me, chasing more. "Keep going. You haven't - you need to -"
I fucked her through the aftershocks, my own orgasm building fast. "Where?" I managed to ask.
"Surprise me," she panted, and that was all the permission I needed.
I pulled out quickly, rolling her onto her back. Her eyes were glazed with post-orgasmic bliss, her lips parted, and I straddled her chest, my cock - glistening with her juices - pointed at her face.
"Open," I commanded, and she obeyed, her tongue extending.
I stroked myself twice, three times, and then I was cumming - thick ropes of white that splashed across her face. The first hit her forehead, the second her cheek, the third painted her lips and tongue. She moaned, her eyes closing as I marked her, and when I was done, she licked her lips slowly, savoring the taste.
"Delicious," she purred, her fingers scooping up the cum on her cheeks and bringing it to her mouth. "But we're not done, are we?"
"Not even close," I replied, my cock already twitching back to life at the sight of her - face covered in my cum, her chest heaving, her pussy still leaking from her orgasm.
"Good." She wiped cum from her cheek with one finger, bringing it to her mouth. "Because now it's my turn."
"Your turn?" I was still catching my breath.
"To ride." She sat up, pushing me onto my back with surprising strength. She hooked her thumbs into her panties - still bunched aside from earlier - and peeled them off, tossing them somewhere on the bed. "You got yours. Now I get mine."
She straddled me in one fluid motion, her thighs bracketing my hips. Cum was still dripping down her face - a streak across her nose, another at the corner of her mouth - but she didn't care. If anything, it made her look more feral, more wild.
"You have no idea how hot you look right now," I said, my hands finding her waist.
"Oh, I know," she replied with that trademark smirk, reaching between us to grip my cock. "I can feel how hard you are."
She positioned me at her entrance and sank down in one smooth motion, taking me to the hilt. We both groaned at the sensation - her pussy was even tighter after her orgasm, gripping me like she never wanted to let go.
"Fuck," she hissed, her head falling back. "You fill me so perfectly."
She started to ride, slow at first, rolling her hips in figure-eights that had me seeing stars. Her hands braced on my chest, her nails digging in slightly, and I watched in awe as she worked herself on my cock - up and down, grinding her clit against my pelvis with each downstroke.
"You like watching me?" she asked, catching my stare. "Like seeing your cock disappear into my pussy?"
"Yes," I groaned, my hands gripping her hips harder, helping her bounce. "You're fucking gorgeous like this."
She leaned down, bringing her face inches from mine, and suddenly everything slowed. The world narrowed to just us - her cat-eyes boring into mine, her breath mingling with mine, the feeling of her pussy clenching around me with every thrust.
She kissed me. Deep, passionate, her tongue invading my mouth like she was trying to consume me. I kissed back with equal fervor, one hand tangling in her hair while the other gripped her ass, urging her to move faster.
Time seemed to stretch. Each thrust felt like an eternity and an instant all at once. I broke the kiss to look down at where we were connected, and the sight nearly undid me - my cock, thick and glistening with her juices, disappearing into her greedy cunt over and over. Her pussy lips stretched obscenely around me, swallowing me whole with each downstroke.
"I love watching you fuck me," I breathed. "Love seeing how wet you get. How your pussy just takes my cock."
Her rhythm faltered. "It's - ahh -" She struggled with the words, pride warring with vulnerability. "When I'm with you, it's -" She cut herself off, biting her lip.
"Say it," I urged, sitting up slightly to capture one of her nipples in my mouth.
"It's yours," she gasped finally, the admission clearly costing her something. "My pussy is yours, Minho. Only yours."
The words hit me harder than they should have. We were FWBs. She fucked other people. But in this moment, with her riding me like her life depended on it, covered in my cum and declaring ownership, I believed her.
"Gonna cum again," she warned, her movements becoming erratic. "Gonna - fuck -"
"Cum for me," I commanded, and I felt her pussy spasm around me so hard I thought she might break my cock. Her nails raked down my chest, leaving red marks, and I felt another gush of her juices coating my shaft and balls.
I couldn't hold back. "Off - I'm gonna -"
She lifted off me quickly, and I pushed her onto her back, straddling her torso once again. My cock was right between her tits, and I came with a roar - thick ropes of cum painting her chest, her tits, her stomach. I aimed lower this time, covering her toned midriff with white, marking every inch of her abs.
"Fuck," I panted, collapsing beside her. "That was -"
"We're not done," she interrupted, taking my hand and pressing it between her thighs. Her pussy was still slick, still swollen. "One more. I need you to fill me up."
"Yeji, I don't know if I can -"
She moved closer, her cum-slicked body pressing against mine, her hand quickly wrapping around my still-hard cock. "You can," she said, stroking slowly but with unmistakable hunger. "And you will." Her voice dropped, something desperate bleeding through. "I want to feel you dripping out of me. Want to - " She hesitated, just for a heartbeat, like some part of her knew this was reckless. "Want to keep you inside me as long as I can."
"Only for you," she replied, pulling me on top of her. "Now fuck me. Hard. Make me scream."
I positioned myself between her legs, and she wrapped them around my waist immediately, pulling me close. "No teasing this time," she demanded. "Just fuck me."
I slammed into her in one brutal thrust, and she screamed - muffled only by the pillow she grabbed and bit down on. I fucked her with abandon, the bed creaking under us, my hips pistoning as I drove into her over and over.
Her tits bounced with each impact, still covered in my earlier load. Her face was a mess of cum and sweat, her makeup from yesterday smeared, and she'd never looked more beautiful.
"Harder," she begged around the pillow. "Fucking - ruin - me -"
I grabbed her waist with both hands, using the leverage to pound into her even deeper. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, along with her muffled screams and my grunts of exertion.
"You feel that?" I growled. "Feel how deep I am? How your pussy is squeezing me?"
She nodded frantically, her eyes rolled back.
I alternated my grip, searching for angles that made her scream louder. Sometimes I grabbed her waist with both hands, using the leverage to pull her onto my cock with each thrust, controlling the rhythm completely. Sometimes I hooked my arms under her knees, folding her nearly in half, changing the angle so I could hit deeper - felt her cervix kiss the tip of my cock on every downstroke.
Other times I pulled her into a tight hug, my arms wrapped around her back, our chests pressed together as I rutted into her like an animal. In this position I couldn't get the same leverage, couldn't fuck her as hard, but I could feel every inch of her body against mine - her tits crushed against my chest, her breath hot against my neck, her pussy clenching around me with nowhere to escape the fullness.
Her nails dug into my back, raking long scratches down my shoulder blades every time I shifted position. I knew she was leaving marks - probably deep enough to draw blood - but I didn't care. The pain only made me fuck her harder.
My hands found her tits, squeezing roughly, kneading the soft flesh still slick with my earlier load. Her nipples were hard as diamonds against my palms, and when I pinched them - hard - her whole body arched off the bed, back bowing beautifully. A muffled scream tore from her throat, the pillow barely containing it.
I didn't let up. I grabbed both breasts, using them as leverage - gripping them like subway handles on the morning commute, except infinitely better and significantly more likely to get me arrested if I tried this on the Seoul Metro. Each thrust made them bounce in my grip, and I felt her pussy clench in response, getting impossibly tighter.
She was nodding frantically now, eyes still rolled back, her hands clawing desperately at my shoulders, my back, anywhere she could reach. Her legs locked around my waist even tighter, heels digging into my lower back, pulling me deeper with each thrust.
I released one breast to grab her jaw, forcing her to look at me. Her eyes were unfocused, pupils blown wide, tears leaking from the corners - not from pain, but from the overwhelming intensity. She looked completely wrecked, and I'd never seen anything more beautiful.
My other hand stayed on her breast, alternating between rough squeezes and gentle circles around her nipple, the contrast making her shudder. Her pussy was practically convulsing around me now, so wet I could feel our combined fluids dripping down my balls with each thrust.
She was covered in my cum, eyes barely focused, just taking everything I gave her, and it was the hottest thing I'd ever seen.
"I'm close," I warned. "So fucking close."
"Inside," she gasped, spitting out the pillow. "Cum inside me. Fill me up. I need it - I need you -"
Her words pushed me over the edge. But something made me pause - made me reach for her panties, the ones I'd pulled aside earlier. I grabbed them and stuffed them in her mouth, muffling her screams.
"Can't have the others hearing," I panted, and then I let go.
My third orgasm hit like a fucking train. I buried myself to the hilt and came deep inside her, my cock pulsing as I filled her pussy with load after load. It felt endless, my balls clenching as I pumped everything I had into her willing body.
"Fuck, Minho - mmmph!" Yeji's scream was muffled by the panties as her orgasm detonated through her body. Her pussy seized around my cock in rhythmic pulses, each contraction rippling along my entire length like waves crashing against shore, trying to pull me impossibly deeper. Her walls fluttered and spasmed, a relentless massage that milked every drop from me.
Her entire body went rigid beneath me, back arching so sharply I thought she might break, every muscle locked tight. Then she started shaking - violent, uncontrollable tremors that radiated from her core outward. Her legs trembled around my waist, thighs quivering against my hips. Her nails dragged down my back in long, desperate scratches as her hands lost all coordination.
I could still hear her through the fabric - raw, primal, broken sounds that were half-scream, half-sob, absolutely euphoric. Her eyes rolled back completely, showing only whites, tears streaming down her temples. Her toes curled so hard they had to cramp, her whole body convulsing in waves as the orgasm just kept going, prolonged by every pulse of cum I pumped into her.
She looked completely undone, utterly destroyed in the best way possible.
I collapsed on top of her, both of us shaking, and for a long moment, we just breathed, still connected.
"Holy shit," I finally managed.
"Mmm," she agreed around the panties, which I gently pulled from her mouth.
I started to pull out slowly, and we both watched as my cock emerged - still semi-hard, coated in our mixed fluids. Her pussy gaped slightly, stretched and leaking, a thick glob of my cum already dripping out.
Yeji scooped it up with her fingers and brought it to her mouth, swallowing with a satisfied moan.
"Fuck, I love vacation sex," she purred.
Intro | Masterlist | Series Index
Interlude (Chapter 0.5) | Next Chapter
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Author's note:
I added Chapter 0 later on, once the story stopped being a “Minho has a wild pool encounter with Yuna after getting kicked out of the shower by Yeji” one-shot and turned into... whatever this slow-burn, emotionally devastating FWB romance is becoming.
Originally, we were supposed to open right at the end of their morning sex scene. But the more I wrote, the more I realized their chemistry needed a foundation - something warm and intimate to show what they already mean to each other before everything spirals. So this prelude exists to anchor the story in their shared softness before the chaos begins.
You meet Joel Miller at a speed-dating event, and despite knowing that he will only be in the city for one more night, you go on a date with him. Only time will tell if that was the right decision, or not.
Summary: With the Grand Ball only a day away, preparations are in full swing across Darkwick Academy. While helping Sho choose an outfit for the event, you find yourself facing an entirely different challenge: keeping your jealousy under control. Sho naturally finds the situation hilarious. As admirers gather around him and his shameless flirting pushes every one of your buttons, what begins as playful bickering quickly turns into a heartfelt reminder of where his attention truly lies.
The Grand Ball is tomorrow and that fact has managed to turn Darkwick Academy into complete chaos. Students rushed through hallways carrying decorations, invitations exchanged hands, dresses and suits were discussed with utmost seriousness. Meanwhile, you were standing on the first-floor receiving area, trying very hard not to lose your patience. Specifically because of one person named Sho, the infuriatingly talented and unfortunately for your peace of mind, ridiculously handsome. The sound of shoes against marble echoed through the corridor and you looked up.
Then immediately regretted it. "...You've got to be kidding me."
Sho leaned casually against the railing above you as if he had stepped out of some romance novel. His white polo was partially unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up carelessly to his elbows, a mustard necktie hung loosely over his neck. His silver-blue hair looked slightly messy, as though he'd been changing outfits for the last hour knowing him, he probably had.
One hand rested lazily on the railing. The other toyed with the necklace hanging around his neck then he bit lightly against the chain and winked directly at you and you just stared, Sho grinned.
"Oh?" His voice dripped with amusement. "That look means you like this one. You looked for three whole seconds."
"No, I didn't."
"You absolutely did."
"I was judging your fashion choices."
"Sure." The smirk on his face grew wider. "You were staring."
You folded your arms. "I was not."
"Liar."
"You are unbelievably annoying."
"And yet you're dating me."
"..."
"..."
"...Unfortunately."
Sho burst out laughing, the sound echoed through the hall and you hated how much you liked hearing it. Unfortunately, there was another problem, several girls stood not far behind you and they were very obviously staring at Sho; whispering, giggling and pointing. One of them nearly squealed when Sho pushed his hair back. Your eye twitched and you slowly turned around, the girls froze as you smiled in an unfriendly way. The kind of smile that silently communicated: Leave immediately. The girls visibly panicked, one grabbed another's arm, the entire group hurried away while bowing apologetically.
"S-Sorry!"
"We were just looking!"
"We're leaving!"
Within seconds, they vanished and a laugh followed from a distance, you turned. Sho was practically folding over the railing, as if he looked entirely too pleased with himself. "Oh, that was priceless."
You narrowed your eyes. "Not a word."
"I didn't even say anything."
"You were thinking about it."
Sho wiped a tear from his eye. "You scared them."
"They were staring and you're my boyfriend." The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
Sho blinked then smiled, a real smile this time different from his usual cocky grin, the kind he reserved only for you. Sho apparently wasn't finished causing trouble, a moment later he pushed himself off the railing and descended the staircase, slowly like he knew exactly what he was doing, which he probably did. You watched him approach, one, two, three steps until he stood directly in front of you, closely as his blue eyes sparkled with mischief.
"What?"
You immediately grew suspicious, that expression never meant anything good.
"What what?"
"That look."
"What look?"
"The one that says you're about to be annoying."
Sho laughed. "You know me too well."
"Unfortunately."
"There it is again."
You tried to maintain your composure, he reached up and gently flicked your forehead.
"Ow."
"You've been glaring at everyone all afternoon."
"They keep looking at you."
"And?"
"And I don't like it."
The confession escaped before you could stop it. For a second, neither of you spoke, Sho stared then his grin returned worse than before. "Oh, you're jealous."
"I am not."
"You absolutely are."
"I am not."
"You are."
You pushed his shoulder, Sho didn't move.
"You enjoy this way too much."
"A little."
"A little?"
"Okay." He laughed. "A lot."
Your irritation only grew which somehow made him happier and you hated that, Sho leaned closer.
"You know something?"
"What?"
"You're cute when you're jealous."
Your face immediately heated. "No." You shoved him again, he caught your wrist effortlessly enough to stop you, his thumb brushed lightly against your hand. The teasing expression softened slightly.
"I mean it."
You blinked. Sho's gaze remained fixed on yours.
"I know I joke around a lot." He admitted it immediately. "But I'm serious about one thing."
The playful atmosphere faded, his voice lowered. "Tomorrow, I'm dancing with you."
Your heart skipped.
"No one else." His fingers tightened slightly around yours.
"Got it?"
You looked away because looking directly at him suddenly felt impossible. "...You better."
Sho laughed softly. "There she is."
The comfortable silence lasted only a few seconds, Sho possessed an incurable condition known as being Sho. He leaned down near your ear far too close, you could feel the warmth of his breath. "If you're this jealous now..." His voice became a teasing whisper. "...maybe I should reward you tomorrow night."
You froze completely, your brain stopped functioning. "What."
Sho's grin widened. "Oh, you heard me."
"SHO."
"What?"
"You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?"
"You know why not."
His shoulders shook with laughter. "You should see your face right now."
You pushed him away immediately hard this time, he actually stumbled a step because he was laughing too much.
"You're impossible!"
"And you're adorable."
"Stop it."
"No."
"Stop."
"Never."
The two of you continued arguing all the way down the corridor. At least, that's what it looked like from the outside, beneath every complaint and every teasing remark was something neither of you needed to say aloud, trust and affection. The certainty that tomorrow, when the ballroom lights illuminated the academy and music filled the grand hall Sho would be waiting for you out of everyone in the room, he would only be looking for one person. Despite all your jealousy, all your worries, and all his shameless teasing, you knew that whenever Sho's eyes found yours, they never lingered anywhere else for long and that was proof enough.
NOTES:
⌯⌲ Inspo song: Gule Gule
⌯⌲ OUGH he’s FLIRTY IN THIS CARD
⌯⌲ Ao3 vers.
pairing: tree farmer! clark kent x baker!afab!reader
summary: you and clark dated, but broke up in the middle of college. when you bump into him in town after years separated, you gain a bruise and a chance to rekindle your relationship with him
contents: exes to lovers, small town romance, yearning, slight angst, happily ever after, mentions of clark and lois, never explicitly said but implied dead ma kent, car accident, hospital visit,
wc: 6.1k
winter romance masterlist | buy me a coffee
You were once sure you’d found the love of your life. In your teenage mind, the future had already been sketched out in glowing colors, and at every turn you could see Clark Kent smiling beside you. He’d been your playmate since childhood: you rode your bikes together down Main Street, built forts in your backyards, and every December the two of you helped your mothers transform the town square into Smallville’s most dazzling Christmas scene—evergreens wreathing lamp posts, garlands draped along windowsills, and spiced cider simmering in giant copper pots.
When high school arrived, you both grew taller, your voices cracked in chorus, and beneath casual hugs, the air seemed to hum with something more profound. You’d brush past his shoulder in the hallway and feel heat bloom across your collarbone.
He’d lean in to help you with a locker jam and the soft press of his hand against your wrist lingered much longer than necessary. Neither of you protested the heightened awareness of each other’s nearness—if anything, you welcomed it.
Then came that unhurried summer, stretched out like golden honey. You spent afternoons poolside where the water’s chlorine tang clung to your skin, then drifted home to chase lightning bugs through cottony grass until dusk. One late night, you lie together on an old quilt in a neighbor’s field, the sky a riveted canopy of stars. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of hay and honeysuckle. You watched constellations unfold as he traced shapes with his finger, and somewhere between the Perseids and the distant hoot of an owl, you felt your breath catch.
He turned to you, moonlight pooling in his dark lashes. You saw each tiny flicker of warmth in his eyes and the curve of his smile. In the hush, you traded dreams—his plans to study journalism, your desire to travel the world—and every word was a thread weaving you closer. Then he reached up, fingertips ghosting across your cheek as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. A spark flared inside your chest, electric and undeniable.
“Have you ever thought about what it would be like if we were more than friends?” he whispered, voice low.
Your pulse thundered. “All the time,” you admitted, voice trembling.
In that exhale of a moment, the world tilted. Lips met in a kiss that felt like coming home, grounding and inevitable. From then on, you were inseparable—sharing milkshakes, sneaking into the homecoming dance, navigating the dizzying swing of first love with hearts racing in tandem.
But by your junior year of college, something shifted in him. You don’t remember exactly when his certainty cracked, only the hollow ache when he said he needed space, a pause you were powerless to argue away. He spoke with a calm conviction that startled you into agreement—because you’d always known you deserved someone who fought to stay.
After that, there were weeks of awkward silence, half-formed emails you never sent, and finally, a quiet unraveling. You walked away heartbroken, certain you’d never heal from the loss of Clark Kent.
Small towns are built on gossip, though, and you heard everything. You learned that he was dating Lois Lane, an up-and-coming reporter whose keen smile and quick wit seemed to brighten his eyes in the local paper. Each photo of them together; from awards ceremonies, charity drives, to triumphant case reveals, both comforted and tore at you. You were glad he was happy, and stunned by how swiftly he’d moved on.
Years passed. You caught wind of his breakup with Lois, then heard whispers that he’d returned to Smallville after nearly a decade in Metropolis. You heard tales of him helping neighbors fix roofs after storms, rescuing kittens from towering oaks, and offering a steady hand and friendly grin to anyone in need. Still, you balanced between relief and a naive hope you’d never have to see him again—hoping your memory of him might remain as pure as that star-strewn summer night.
Now you’re rooted in town, running your family’s cozy bakery with your mother since your father’s death. The smell of toasted almonds and melting butter is your new normal. It’s the week of the Christmas festival, and mother is juggling orders for ginger snaps, yule logs, peppermint brownies and everything needed for the festival—so she sends you on a last-minute errand for supplies.
You step out into a world dusted with frost. Streetlamps throw golden halos over slick patches of ice. You tug at one glove, teeth gritted, reciting the list in your mind: vanilla extract, sweetened condensed milk, almond flour, sugar.
Your gaze is fixed on the branch of a holly tree above you, red berries glinting, when your foot catches an invisible lip of ice. You lurch forward, glove half on, list tumbling away, and you collide with something solid, careening backwards. The world spins, the too-bright streetlights smear into streaks. Your palms slash the pavement, and your backside slams down hard, the air whooshing from your lungs in a burst of shock. Pain blossoms across your hands—raw, stinging—and you lie there for a second, your heart hammering.
Lifting your head, you blink through a haze of ringing in your ears and see a broad-shouldered man glaring down at you, with three other men behind him.
“Why don’t you watch where you’re going, you idiot?” And then to the people he was with, “Women don’t know how to do anything without a man.” Making his little entourage laugh.
“Well, that’s not in the holiday spirit, is it?” A familiar voice—warm and lightly amused—floats up from behind you.
You look up, and there he stands: Clark Kent, framed by garlands of holly and the gentle swirl of falling snow. His dark overcoat is dusted with flakes, and his sweater peeks from beneath his wool scarf. He offers a tense but polite smile to the three men who loiter before you, something protective lingering in his eyes. Then those clear blue eyes sweep back to yours, softening in a way that makes your heart flutter.
Before you can speak, he reaches out a steady hand. You gratefully accept it, letting him pull you to your feet. His fingers find the small of your back, resting just above your hip, grounding you.
Time seems to pause between you: the faint jingle of distant sleigh bells, the luminescent glow of lanterns dancing across his face, even the breathless whisper of falling snowflakes. A hushed “Hi,” passes between you, so tender it catches you off guard. His hand gives a gentle squeeze at your waist, and then, steeling himself, he pivots both of you toward the offenders, his eyes now steely with quiet authority.
“I believe you owe her an apology,” he says, voice calm but carrying across the square. “You were very rude, and she didn’t deserve that.”
A murmur ripples through the gathered townsfolk, their curiosity piqued by the unexpected confrontation. Your pulse quickens, not from fear but from the reassuring certainty that Clark won’t let those men harm you again.
You feel the townspeople’s gazes on your bundled shoulders—some indignant, some eagerly gossiping about what scandal might unfold beneath the holiday lights.
Sensing your tension, Clark gives your hip a reassuring squeeze. The tallest of the three men opens his mouth, bristles of defiance on his chin, but finds himself stalled by Clark’s unwavering stare. Finally he huffs, “Um, yeah, all right. Sorry, lady. Shouldn’t have said that.” He shoots Clark a sideways glance, seeking approval.
Clark shifts his weight, eyes flicking back to you, silently asking if that suffices. You nod almost imperceptibly. The three men hastily shuffle off the sidewalk, crossing the street to disappear into the dim glow of shop windows. With them go most of the onlookers, though a cluster of busybodies, primarily middle-aged women clutching shopping bags, lingers.
Clark’s arm drifts from your back. “Sorry about that. Are you all right?” he asks, concern softening his features. He notices your hands, cupped together against your coat, and swiftly lifts one to examine it. You see the tiny glints of gravel embedded in your palm.
“That looks painful,” he murmurs, thumb brushing away a stray pebble. “Here, let me—”
You pull your hand back and shake your head, cheeks feeling warm beneath your scarf. “Oh, no, it’s fine, Clark. Really.”
You clap your palms together, sending the rest of the grit clattering to the ground. “I’ll wash them when I get home, put on some ointment. Promise I’m okay.”
He nods, though a trace of worry still lingers in his gaze. An awkward hush falls, broken only by the distant clatter of a horse-drawn carriage and the soft crunch of snow underfoot.
“Thank you for stepping in,” you say, breath still uneven from the confrontation. You offer him a small, grateful smile. “I would’ve handled it, but… I appreciate your help.”
Clark exhales, a puff of warm air curling into the cold night. There’s a faint grin tugging at one corner of his mouth, the same half-smile you used to love. “I know you could’ve handled it,” he says gently. “But I couldn’t just stand there—especially once I realized it was you.”
Your pulse jumps, an involuntary rush of heat beneath the winter chill.
He rubs the back of his neck, a little sheepish now. “I was actually helping a couple figure out what size tree would fit their living room. They looked about ready to strap a ten-footer onto their Mini Cooper.” A soft laugh escapes him. “I was headed to grab a new measuring tape when I saw those guys bump into you. And… well.” His eyes slide to yours, softer now. “I wasn’t about to let that go.”
For a heartbeat, you can’t quite breathe. Something in the way he said you—quiet, intentional, like he’d felt the shock of seeing you just as deeply as you did seeing him—makes the snow seem to still around you.
You shake your head lightly, trying to ground yourself, fingers tightening around your shopping bags. “I’ve got errands to run,” you manage, though your voice wavers with something you hope he doesn’t hear. “But really… thank you again, Clark.”
He steps back just enough to let you pass, but not so far that you don’t feel the ghost of his warmth as you move by him. The lanterns cast golden halos on the snow around you, fading behind you with each step as you walk away.
Still, you can feel his gaze on your back—warm, familiar, almost hesitant.
And his words linger in the crisp evening air, echoing in your mind long after you’ve gone: Especially once I realized it was you.
The next morning, you were once again in town, this time at Perks & Pies, the trendy new coffee shop with exposed brick walls and the scent of cinnamon hanging in the air. Emily, your best friend, sat across from you, her auburn hair swept into a messy bun, fingers tapping against her steaming mug as you both finalized details for the activities booth.
"Alright, that's enough for today," Emily declared, closing her leather-bound planner with a satisfying snap. "We were plenty productive. Now tell me about you and Clark." Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
You hesitated, the warm latte suddenly bitter on your tongue. "What do you mean?"
Emily rolled her eyes dramatically, leaning forward until her chunky knit sweater nearly dipped into her coffee. "The entire town is buzzing about your 'romantic recoupling' with Clark. Mrs. Henderson at the post office practically cornered me for details."
Your cheeks burned hot as you opened your mouth to protest, but the words died in your throat as a horrific sound cut through the air. Tires screeching against ice, panicked shouts, followed by the sickening crunch of metal and wood splintering.
You and Emily locked eyes for a heartbeat before bolting outside into the biting December air. The town square, which had been transformed into a winter wonderland of twinkling lights and red ribbons, was now a scene of chaos. A blue sedan had skidded across the ice, plowing directly into the row of half-assembled stalls—including your family's booth, now reduced to a pile of broken planks and scattered decorations.
Your stomach dropped like a stone. Mom had mentioned going early to organize. You sprinted forward, boots slipping on patches of ice, the cold air burning your lungs as panic clawed up your throat and tears pricked hot behind your eyes.
"Over here!" The familiar deep voice cut through the commotion. You whipped around to see Clark waving frantically, his broad shoulders hunched protectively over your mother. She sat on an overturned crate, looking small and pale, a makeshift compress of snow wrapped in Clark's plaid scarf pressed against her arm as she waited for the paramedics, their sirens wailing in the distance.
You sprint across the distance towards your mother, heart hammering in your ears. You drop to your knees, hands trembling as you brush stray tufts of hair from her face. “Mom, are you all right? What happened? Are you hurt badly?” Your voice cracks with panic.
Next to you, Clark’s gaze follows every movement. You feel the weight of his concern before he shifts beside you. His hand settles on your shoulder, firm and reassuring. “I was helping set up the stalls,” he explains quietly, voice steady against the chaos. “I saw the car skid, managed to pull her clear just in time.”
Your mother grimaces but can’t resist a teasing jab at Clark’s expense: “Always playing hero,” she scolds through a weak smile. Clark arches an amused brow; the two of them exchange banter as if drawn back to years of friendly rivalry.
You share a quick laugh, even as flashing red lights and the sharp smell of antiseptic draw closer. Paramedics arrive, their uniforms crisp and efficient, and gently lift your mother onto a stretcher.
Before they wheel her away, you turn to Clark, gratitude shining in your eyes.
It’s like being twenty again—those days when you thought you knew him inside out, back when every glance held promise.
Clark presses your shoulder with a soft comfort, then snugly wraps your scarf around your neck as a committee member, Jeffery, bursts onto the scene, frantic.
“What are we going to do about the festival?” he wails, “It’s only days away, and now the stalls are ruined!” Jeffery stops to look at you, as if remembering the accident could have hurt people.
“Your mom, is she okay?”
You give him a slight smile, “I’m about to head to the hospital to find out. I’m sorry about the festival. I can help when I get back?”
Clark jumps in, shaking his head, calm but firm. “Don’t worry—this is my problem. You’ve got bigger things to handle right now.” You nod, relief and exhaustion mingling in your chest, unaware of the storm the committee plans to unleash.
Later that afternoon, the hospital corridor is hushed, fluorescent lights humming overhead. Your mother lies asleep, her wrist encased in a snug plaster cast, a small fracture the only serious damage from the crash. You sit beside her, fingers wrapped around her cool hand, when a soft knock stirs you.
Clark stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the hallway’s pale glow, cradling a bouquet of daisies and lavender. He steps forward, leaning close so you can hear his gentle whisper: “How is she?” He sets the flowers on the bedside table—vibrant petals against the stark white sheets.
“She has a small fracture,” you tell him, voice hushed. “No baking for six to eight weeks.”
He nods thoughtfully. A pause. “Well, I could help you bake the treats,” he offers, and his lips quirk into a hopeful grin. “I’m no master baker, but your mom always thought I did alright.”
“Oh, Clark—it’s really okay. I know you have the farm,” you begin, cheeks warming with gratitude and fond memories.
“It’s okay, I’ve hired some people who can take over it for the night. Let me help.”
Before you can refuse, your mother’s soft but firm voice cuts in: “Oh, what are you talking about? You can’t take on all that baking alone—Clark knows more than he lets on.” She lifts her arm to gesture, careful not to jostle her cast.
“We even planned to have Emily help just with packaging. You need every hand you can get.”
Her other hand finds yours on the bed, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I should’ve been more careful. I’m sorry for all this trouble.” Tears glint in her eyelashes.
You shake your head, brushing away a stray lock of hair. “Don’t apologize, Mom. Accidents happen—we just got lucky, everyone’s okay.”
She looks to you, hopeful. “So… Emily and Clark. Are they helping?”
You glance at Clark, whose eager smile lights up the room, then back at your mother and nod. Relief softens her features.
You settle back against the pillows, squeezing your mom’s hand once more.
In your mind, you can’t help but smile: Emily is never going to believe this.
You tie on your flour-speckled apron and set to work in your mother’s kitchen. The counters are piled high with mixing bowls—one heavy with butter and sugar, another with sifted flour dust drifting into the air like winter mist. Egg yolks glisten yellow in their glass bowl, vanilla beans perfume the room, and the hum of the oven feels almost like a lullaby. You whisk, you fold, you roll; the scent of cinnamon, nutmeg, and chocolate wafts up, and you hope it’ll all come together before the festival’s opening bell.
Emily slips in before sunset, carrying a steaming mug of coffee. She claims she’s “helping,” but until the cookie dough is shaped and waiting for its first bake, there’s little for her to do. She perches on a stool at the island, her hair loose around her shoulders. The mist from her breath curls in the chilly air drifting through the cracked-open window, as she listens to you tell her about the hospital and your mom.
“Wow,” she teases, stirring her own cocoa, “flowers for his mother-in-law? He’s really trying to charm the jury.”
You force a laugh as you level a rolling pin into your dough. “Shut up,” you mutter, though a warmth spreads in your chest. “He was just being kind. You know they’ve always adored each other—she practically treats him like her own.”
Emily’s eyes narrow playfully. “And you?” She sips her cocoa, then raises an eyebrow. “Word around town? You two looked mighty comfortable together.”
Your heart stutters, and you press a fingertip into a sugar mound, smoothing it. “Em, come on. It’s not— We broke up.” You pause, stirring your words like a stiff batter. “He asked for it.”
Her gaze sharpens, curiosity flickering in her green eyes. She leans forward, head tilted, studying your face as if reading tea leaves. Then she claps her hands, startling you. “So— you still love him, don’t you?”
Your spatula hovers mid-air. The kitchen seems to hold its breath. Before you can summon any denial, there’s a knock at the front door.
Relief blooms in your chest. You turn to Emily, dropping your guard. “I never stopped,” you confess softly, voice catching on an unspoken question. “But I’ve got questions, and I’m still hurt. Promise not to tell or act weird?”
Emily’s teasing smile softens into something sisterly. She rises and enfolds you in a hug, the cocoa fragrance clinging to her. “Of course. You’re my favorite person. And wanting someone is fine—just make sure this time it’s different. You deserve only the best.”
She releases you as another knock sounds. You squeeze her hand, then hurry to the door.
Clark stands there, cheeks pink with cold, his breath puffing in little clouds. In his hands is a grocery bag spilling with jars of homemade jam, extra chocolate chips, and a proud bundle of cranberries.
He ducks inside, shrugging off his coat to reveal the sweater fully. You can’t help but trace the memory of those late-night study sessions when he first slipped it on, cheeks lighting up.
“Hope it’s not weird, I still love this thing,” he says, untying his scarf. “It’s comfortable.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Weird? No. Honestly, I’m shocked it’s survived this long.”
He glances down at the frayed cuffs, then back up at you with a softness that makes your breath stutter. “Well… things last when you take care of them.” His smile shifts, warmer.
“Some things are worth holding onto.”
The words land between you with surprising weight, drawing your eyes to his—and for a moment, everything stills. The cold outside, the bustle in the kitchen, the years since college… all of it blurs. It’s just him, looking at you like he means it.
A sharp beep-beep-beep from the kitchen shatters the moment. You blink, clearing your throat. “That’ll be Emily,” you say, stepping back and motioning for him to follow.
You lead Clark down the hall, and as soon as you push open the kitchen door, he spots Emily pulling trays of golden cookies out of the oven. She glances up, eyes bright.
“Oh! Hey, Clark!” she chirps.
“Hey, Em,” he replies, already rolling up his sleeves as if he’s been drafted into service before he even arrived. “How’s your grandma?”
It doesn’t take long for him to be swept into the rhythm of the room. You hand him a cooling rack, and he’s instantly sliding in beside you, moving with a quiet attentiveness that syncs effortlessly with your motions. Emily folds boxes, you pipe icing, and Clark dusts powdered sugar like he’s been part of this assembly line for years. The kitchen becomes its own little universe—warm, crowded, alive.
A few minutes in, while tying off a bag of gingerbread men, Emily declares, “You know what this needs? Christmas music. The holiday spirit has to infuse the cookies. It’s science. Don’t argue with me.”
You arch a skeptical eyebrow. “Emily, no part of that sentence was scientific.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Clark nodding enthusiastically.
“Seriously?” you ask, turning toward him.
He gives you a sage, almost solemn nod. “It’s only proper,” he says, deadpan but with amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Emily claps once, triumphant. “See? Overruled!” She’s already halfway across the kitchen, phone in hand, cueing up the first carol.
You groan, but Clark just laughs under his breath—and somehow, the kitchen feels even warmer.
Working next to Clark feels like slipping back into a favorite chair—comfortable, familiar, shaped perfectly to you. His arm brushes yours now and then, casual but warm. The kitchen smells like butter and cinnamon, and with every accidental-touch-that’s-not-really-accidental, you remember nights in college when you’d end up in his apartment baking at midnight, stealing bites of dough and swapping stories until sunrise.
“Okay,” Emily says, sliding over another tray, “I need someone strong to break apart this peppermint bark.”
Clark reaches for it at the same time you do. His hand lands over yours. Warm, large, and steady.
“Looks like you’ve got two volunteers,” he says with a grin.
You try not to stare at the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.
“Please,” you scoff lightly. “Last time you tried to break bark, you shattered half the tray.”
He gasps dramatically. “Slander. You wound me. Also, I was 10, give me a pass.”
Emily snorts. “I was there, it was pretty bad.”
Clark’s eyes show his incredulity at the situation. “Unbelievable. Betrayed in my moment of generosity.”
“You’ll live,” you tell him, nudging him with your shoulder.
He nudges back, a little closer than necessary. “Only because you’re here to supervise.”
Emily groans, loud and theatrical. “Oh my god, just break the peppermint before I age a decade.”
You both laugh, but Clark keeps his gaze on you a second too long before finally turning to the bark—where he proceeds to break it perfectly clean down the middle.
You blink. “That was… shockingly competent.”
“Told you.” He smirks. “I’ve matured.”
“Debatable,” Emily mutters, but she’s hiding a grin.
Minutes blur into an hour, then two, then more—time slipping away as easily as flour dusting the counters. The three of you move in a rhythm that feels choreographed: Emily tying ribbons with flourish, you piping clean, practiced swirls of icing, Clark sneaking in to swipe finished cookies to the cooling rack. He hums along to the Christmas playlist Emily put on, and every so often, he leans in conspiratorially to comment on a song.
At one point he murmurs, “Remember when we tried to make peppermint mocha cookies freshman year and accidentally used salt instead of sugar?”
You groan. “Clark, I thought we swore never to speak of that.”
Emily pauses mid-wrap. “Hang on. You poisoned each other?”
“We didn’t poison—”
“It was one time—”
You speak in unison, then burst out laughing. Clark bumps his shoulder into yours, softer this time. “Still one of my favorite disasters.”
Your cheeks warm, looking away from his to focus on your task. “Only because you weren’t the one who ate a full cookie.”
“I would’ve, if you hadn’t beat me to it.”
His voice is low, teasing, but underneath is something tender, something familiar, something dangerous.
Emily watches the two of you with a knowing little smirk but doesn’t comment—just ties the next ribbon a little tighter.
The clock nudges towards nighttime when Emily finally dusts off her hands. “Okay,” she sighs, “I should go check on Grandma. She’ll try to climb a ladder to hang more decorations if I don’t watch her.”
She gathers her things, then turns to hug you first, squeezing tight. “You guys are a good team,” she says lightly, almost sing-song.
Clark steps in for his hug, and Emily pats his back twice. “Try not to burn the place down,” she warns.
“No promises,” he replies, and you elbow him.
Emily grins. “I can come back in a bit if you need more hands!”
“We’ll manage,” you assure her.
Clark nods. “We’ve got it covered.”
Emily’s eyes flick between the two of you—amused, a little knowing—before she heads out the door. It swings closed behind her with a soft thump, leaving you and Clark alone in the warm, flour-dusted kitchen.
The room suddenly feels quieter.
And warmer.
With Emily gone, the kitchen seems to inhale and go still, like even the walls know the atmosphere has changed. It’s suddenly quiet enough that you can hear the soft scrape of Clark’s breathing, the gentle click of the oven, the low hum of carols still looping from Emily’s phone.
Clark stands beside you at the counter, close—too close. Close enough that the warmth of him brushes the edge of your sweater, close enough to feel the ghost of what you used to be.
You’re both pretending to focus on the final batch of batter, but your hands keep reaching for the same spoon, the same bowl, the same scattering of cinnamon. Each accidental touch feels anything but accidental.
“You remember when we tried this recipe?” Clark asks quietly, his voice lower than before.
You glance up. He’s already looking at you.
You force a smile. “You mean when you doubled the nutmeg and we nearly died?”
He huffs a soft laugh, one that warms your ribs. “You said it tasted ‘chaotic.’”
“It did.” Your throat feels tight. “But it was… fun.”
The word hangs there, weighted.
Slowly, he nods. “Yeah. It was.”
There’s something unspoken beneath it—something that smells of regret and want and the years between now and then.
You scoop the last of the dough onto the sheet, your hand trembling just a bit, and slide the tray into the oven. When you straighten, Clark is right there. His fingers brush your waist to steady the tray. The touch lingers too long, his breath catching like he didn’t mean for it to.
You swallow. “Thanks.”
He murmurs, “Anytime,” but the word sounds like a confession.
You start cleaning to distract yourself, but it only pulls you closer. The sink splashes; your arms graze; his shoulder nudges yours. He hands you a dripping dish, and your fingers close around his. Warm. Solid. Familiar in a way that hurts.
He doesn’t pull away.
You don’t either.
“Feels like old times,” he says softly, almost as if confessing.
“It does,” you whisper—because denying it feels impossible.
Clark turns toward you fully. His hand hesitates near your cheek, close enough for you to feel the heat of it. His eyes flick to your mouth, as if he’s remembering exactly how it felt to kiss you.
Then—slowly, inexorably—he leans in.
Your breath stutters. You lean, too, drawn by gravity or memory or something you still haven’t shaken loose.
He’s only inches away when—
The lights flicker. Once. Twice. Then the room plunges into darkness.
You both jerk back, the spell shattering as completely as the light.
For a beat, all you can hear is your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.
“Perfect timing,” Clark mutters under his breath.
Your stomach twists—not with annoyance, but with the sting of something you were so close to having again.
You turn to the oven with your phone flashlight. When you open the door, the cookies stare back at you: pale, collapsing, very much not cookies.
“Oh come on,” you groan, pressing a hand to your forehead. “I cannot fail at this today.”
“Hey—”
“No,” you cut in, pacing. “I have seventy-two cookies to finish. I have people counting on me. I can’t—this can’t—”
“Hey.” His voice sharpens—gentle but firm. “Breathe.”
You try. It barely works.
Clark steps closer, the outline of him steady in the dim glow. “We’re not out of options. The kitchen at the tree farm is fully wired and equipped.”
You blink. “Equipped? Like… commercial?”
He nods. “I’ve been setting it up so I can start selling food next season. It has everything you need. We can finish the baking there.”
You hesitate, old wounds tugging at your ribs. “Are you sure?”
He meets your eyes, steady. “Yeah. I want to help.”
There’s sincerity in his voice—dangerously soft, dangerously familiar.
You exhale shakily. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Clark smiles faintly, a smile you feel in your chest more than you see.
And just like that, the two of you gather the dough, trays, and supplies, stepping into the cold night toward a farm full of history—and complications neither of you is done with.
The drive to Clark’s farm felt tight with unspoken things, the kind of silence that wasn’t empty at all but crowded—thick with the ghost of almost-kisses and years-old wounds neither of you ever really cleaned out. The truck’s heater hummed under the quiet, blowing warm air over your frozen fingers as you fidgeted with the zipper of your coat.
Outside, snowflakes drifted lazily through the headlights, each one tumbling like a tiny parachute before dissolving on the glass. You swallowed, throat tight.
“About what happened back there—” you began, voice uncertain.
Clark’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles paled. He didn’t look at you when he said, low and ashamed, “It… probably shouldn’t have happened.”
A raw, involuntary scoff tore out of you—sharp, bitter, unmistakable.
Clark’s head whipped toward you, hurt flashing across his features before he turned back to the snowy road. “What was that for?” he asked as he turned into the long, snow-dusted driveway of the farm. Gravel crunched under the tires. He pulled the truck into park, the engine rumbling into stillness.
You stared at the dashboard because looking at him felt like peeling open an old wound.
“Just—” Your voice shook. “Just that you always seem to know what’s best for two people. As if you’re some omnipresent force who can see the future, so you get to decide everything. You did it when you said breaking up was ‘for my own good,’ and you’re doing it now.”
Your words hung between you like frost, forming on the cold air before either of you could breathe them away.
Clark blinked, stunned. “That’s not—”
But you didn’t let him finish. The air in the cab felt suffocating. You inhaled deeply, the sharp pine of his air freshener filling your lungs, grounding you just enough to move. You shoved open the truck door, and winter slapped your cheeks immediately—cold, biting, cleansing.
“I’ll stand by the tree farm entrance and call Em to pick me up,” you muttered, climbing out and grabbing your tote. Then, softer, cracking, “This was a bad idea.”
You slammed the door and trudged into the ankle-deep snow. Each footstep left a clean imprint behind you, the kind that would vanish with the next gust of wind—just like the future you’d once imagined with him.
The metallic clunk of Clark’s truck door echoed across the stillness. Snowflakes clung to your eyelashes as you kept walking, vision blurring with cold—or maybe not just cold.
“You think I wanted to let you go?” Clark called, voice carrying easily through the quiet, slicing straight into your spine. “You think any part of me wanted that?”
You stopped.
But you didn’t turn.
“You’re the only thing I’ve ever been certain about,” he said, each word cracking open something he had clearly tried to bury. “But I couldn’t live with myself if I held you back from the life you deserved.”
The world went silent. Even the snow seemed to fall more slowly.
Finally, you turned.
Moonlight spilled silver across the field, catching on the flakes tangled in his dark hair. His chest rose and fell hard, visible clouds of breath forming between you.
“Too late,” you said quietly, even though your heart thundered. “The life I wanted always had you in it. And you decided to take that away.”
The words landed like a blow.
Clark’s face crumpled—eyes shining, jaw tightening as though he was holding himself together by a thread. His shoulders sagged, all that stubborn self-control slipping for the first time tonight.
Snow gathered on his lashes as he whispered, voice breaking, “I thought I was doing the right thing.”
You took a slow step toward him, then another, the crisp snow crunching beneath your boots. Each step felt like crossing a distance far greater than the few feet between you—like closing the space carved by years of silence, heartbreak, and things left unsaid.
Clark stayed exactly where he was, not moving, not breathing, watching you with eyes that looked like they were bracing for impact.
A breath shuddered out of you, the cold burning your lungs as the truth rose unsteadily up your throat. “You know what I thought?” you whispered, stopping just in front of him. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore.” His eyes flickered, pained, but you pressed on. “You said it was for my own good, that letting me go was the right thing, and I… I believed you. I thought you’d already made peace with a future without me in it.”
Your voice trembled despite your best effort to steady it. “And I wasn’t going to be the woman who begged a man to stay. I wasn’t going to fight for someone who’d decided I wasn’t worth choosing.” The confession left you feeling stripped open, the winter air biting at the rawness between you.
For a heartbeat, Clark didn’t speak—didn’t move—just stood there looking wrecked, as if every word you’d said had carved itself straight into him. The silence between you was thick and fragile, and you suddenly realized you didn’t want it to be distance anymore. Not tonight. Not after everything you’d finally dared to say.
So you closed the space.
When you finally reached him, you lifted a gloved hand to his face. Snowflakes had gathered along his temple, tiny crystals catching the moonlight. You brushed them away, letting your fingers slide through the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead.
The warmth of his skin seeped through the fabric, startling you with how familiar it felt.
“Why can’t you see how incredible you are?” you breathed, voice soft but trembling. “Why is that the one thing you’ve never understood?”
A shaky exhale escaped him—half laugh, half sob.
He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against yours. The touch was feather-light, almost reverent. His breath mingled with yours in the frigid night air, warm and unsteady. For a moment, the world narrowed to the two of you inside a fragile snow globe, flakes swirling around your bodies like the universe giving you one last quiet chance.
“I regretted it,” Clark whispered, voice cracking open like thin ice. “Every day. Every hour. I thought I was doing the right thing, letting you go. You talked about traveling the world, about going places I couldn’t follow.” His hands clenched and unclenched uselessly at his sides, aching for something he didn’t dare reach for. “I just… I loved you too much to let you resent me someday. To feel like I trapped you. To watch you look at me and see everything you didn’t get to do.”
His forehead pressed harder against yours, as if he were fighting himself, fighting the memory of every moment he’d told himself he had to let you go.
“I was terrified,” he confessed, voice breaking. “Terrified of holding you back.”
Your chest tightened, not with anger this time, but with something deep and bruised and aching. You lifted both hands to his face, cupping his jaw, feeling the roughness of his stubble beneath your palms. His lashes fluttered, breath stuttering, as though he couldn’t believe he was allowed to be this close again.
“Clark,” you whispered, throat thick, “you don’t get to decide what would’ve held me back. You don’t get to choose what my life should look like.” Your thumbs brushed along his cheekbones, gentle, grounding. “How about you let me decide what makes me happy?”
His eyes opened at that; blue, desperate, hopeful, wrecked.
Before he could speak, before fear or guilt or doubt could steal the moment again, you closed the remaining sliver of distance.
You pressed your lips to his.
It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t careful. It was a kiss full of years lost and years longed for, full of everything you’d both swallowed down since the day everything fell apart. He tasted like cold air and the warmth of old memories, like vanilla from the cookies you’d baked earlier, like every possibility you thought you’d never get back.
Clark let out a sound—quiet, broken—and his hands rose finally, finally, to your waist, pulling you in as though he’d been holding himself back for far too long.
And for a moment, the world stopped.
Just snow falling softly, breath mingling.
Just two people finding each other where they’d left off.
a/n: and we’ve started winter romance series!! i actually have another one written, i just need to edit it.
again, struggling with not holding onto them until i’m 100% happy, but these are suppose to be light and fluffy and romancey.
as always, likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. here’s a kiss from me to you for being so lovely 💋
[This is a personnal writing challenge, rules in the notes if anyone is interested, check tags for info.]
I sit at my window with a cup of coffee. Well, “coffee”. Turns out none of the plants they put on board of the Hail Mary were coffea plants, and I finished the meager stocks of coffee about a month ago despite using the same filter three or four times. As it turns out, living without coffee is much harder than I expected. So much so that Rocky had actually been the one to offer to try and make me something close to coffee. There were many trials and errors as Eridians’ tastebuds are very different from humans, but after a month of research, a very proud team or Eridian chemist brought me a brown powder which turned out to be a mix of a spice that had similar effects to caffeine, and the seeds of multiple local plants which put together made a rather good "coffee". Upon watching me take my first cup, Rocky had observed eagerly, and when I gave him positive feedback, he had answered with “Rocky happy that Grace happy. Grace finally stop being cranky, question?” I stopped being cranky.
I look at the cloudy sky of my dome. Today is one of the days where I do not see the younglings and prepare the next class instead. Lately they’ve been asking a lot of questions about Earth’s oceans, so I have been planning for a lesson around sea mammals. Not my preferred topic, although I used to enjoy chaperoning the field trips to the local aquarium, so I have been reading on the topic for the past week. I can already hear them teasing me. “Dolphin mammals, question?” “Grace also mammal, question?” “Why Grace not live underwater, question?” “Humans bad at survival.”. After that, I’ll make a lesson about fish, so they really see how poorly designed we are. I would lie if I said I didn’t consider making them watch Jaws as an introduction. The fact that this movie did not deter me from ever stepping foot on a beach ever again was solely due to the amount of blatant misinformation about sharks I could not help but notice.
I close the book in front of me, wrap myself in my sweater and head for the beach. I think the lesson would be funnier if it was interactive, and I’ve been meaning to find a way to incorporate the beach in my lesson plans for a while, and this was the perfect topic. As I walk on the shore, I brainstorm a few ideas.
“It’s hard to grasp how insanely big the ocean is… Could I make a real size blue whale puppet fit in here? I could have Rocky drop it from the sky and they’d be like ‘wow! blue whale really big! amaze, amaze amaze!’ That could be fun. Really fun. They wouldn’t get it if I said ‘we’re gonna need a bigger boat.’ Maybe I should make them watch Jaws.”
I look at the sea behind me. It didn’t look at all like the tourist-y sands of Amity Island. No sharks in there! Nothing at all. No risk of something threshing around in the sea, no water turning red from the blood of a poor German tourist coming to admire the glory of American beaches. Although now that I am looking at it. The water does seem to be a bit darker than usual. Really dark actually. Even considering the clouds, this is not a normal colour for a sea to have. And not only is it dark, it looks reddish. And as I step closer to the water, it becomes less and less ish and more and more red. Is one of the machines leaking? Did some minerals from outside filter in the water by accident? Then the smell hits me. An unbearable smell of iron. Whatever this is, I do not like it. I step away from the water and hurry to my house. As I do, I start hearing an alarm blaring through the dome as the sky starts glitching. Nope. No no no no no. Back inside I go. I close and lock the door behind me before urgently pressing the intercom Rocky had installed into the house.
“Hey! Hey Rock! Everything okay?” I call into the machine. "Any surprise red goo you forgot to tell me about?”
“Hi Grace friend. Rocky not know. Foreign body detected in Grace’s dome.”
“Foreign body? Foreign body? Foreign as in not from Earth or foreign as in you don’t know what it is?”
“Foreign means don’t know what it is. It is new mystery for Grace and Rocky to explore! Happy, happy, happy!”
“Okay. Okay. Okay. Can you see what it is?”
“Eridian scientists collect samples, then Rocky and Grace investigate!”
I glance at the window. The machines have stopped. The water is sitting still, redder than any body of water I have ever seen.
“Is there any way you can get me out of here while you figure this out?” I ask.
“Rocky come get Grace. Grace stay inside.”
“You got it.” I nod, staying close to the device. After a few long minutes, the alarm finally switches off and I dare to look at the beach again. The machines are still down and I can smell the iron from my house. The water is still red and quiet and… does it look thicker than it was?
New Human Activity Detected resonates in my ears from the same speakers that sounded the alarm.
There is someone there. Someone is standing on the beach. A red silhouette that leaves a trail of crimson on my so far peaceful beach as it slowly walks forward.
“Grace hear me, question?” I hear over the intercom.
“Hey! Yeah, I can hear you.”
“Eridian scientists know what makes water red. The body is no longer foreign!”
“Cool. Great. What is it?”
“It appear water red because something mixed with water. Something human blood.”
“... what?”
“Scientists detected a leak. Leak closed. But many blood passed through.”
“Rocky, there is someone on the beach.”
“Someone?”
“A human. I think? It’s human-shaped?”
“Is human shape a friend of Grace?”
“I think I would remember meeting them.”
“Grace greet new human friend, Rocky arrives.”
I peek outside again and I see the silhouette stopped walking. It’s just… staring forward. I start to think, what if it’s someone sent from earth? That wouldn’t explain the human blood, but god knows what kind of technology they’re developing there. What if they sent someone to bring me back? I don't want to get out. I don't want to go alone, but if whoever is standing there must be completely lost. Maybe they're hurt.
I slowly open the door. Please be human, please, please, please be human. I haven’t spoken to a human in a long time, but surely they’ll understand my fear given the circumstances. I step outside, stay by the door and after observing the immobile shape for a few more seconds, I call:
“Hello!?”
No reaction. Maybe they couldn’t hear me. I take a few steps closer, reaching the small fence in front of my house.
“Hey! Hello!?” I call again. Nothing. I step closer again, until I am about ten meters away from them. I wish I could see them clearer now, but they are just as red and just as frozen in place as they were fifty meters ago. I can only see one side of his face but I still decipher long black hair sticking to his skin like blood clumps, one dark eye and a beard. He looked human. And exhausted.
“Hello?”
His neck snaps in my direction and I see the rest of his face. The eye I could not see was bloody, of an unnatural color, teeth similar to what you would see on an anglerfish grew on the side of his face. His other arm is missing. Not human, not human, not human! My body acts before I can even think. I try to get away, manage to step on my own foot and I fall to the ground like an idiot. Next step is awkwardly crawling away and trying to get back up while who or whatever is in front of me jumps away after hearing the shriek that came out of my throat. He takes a step back and lowers himself slightly, looking about a third as panicked as I was. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he finally speaks.
“Are you… Are you real?” he asks. His voice sounds weak.
“W… What?”
“Are you real!?” he presses, sounding increasingly panicked as he starts to look left and right.
“Yes I’m real, of course I’m real!” I answer. His breath is loud and irregular, I can feel fear and confusion radiating from him.
“I don't believe you. I don't... I'm not falling for this again. What’s my name?”
“I don’t know!”
“What is my name!?” he asks again, pointing at me like an accusatory policeman.
“I don’t know! Where I’m from people introduce themselves and then I know their names! Maybe it’s different where you’re from, and I’m sorry I can’t guess your name, and I’m sorry I screamed but I didn’t expect company and you’re kind of scary looking! I promise I'm real and I am not trying to fool you, although that is probably what someone who wants to fool you would say, but I actually, actually don't want to fool you, as in I have no reason to try and fool you because I don't know who you are because, again, where I'm from, you don't guess other people's names!” he listens to my senseless rambling and it seems to calm him down. He lowers his arm and looks at me, bewildered.
“You… You’re real. Oh fuck, you’re real. I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I…” he stumbles forward, almost falling. He’s blinking repeatedly and he doesn’t seem like he’s quite looking at me. “I’m sorry I scared you…” I somehow find my way back on my feet while he keeps mumbling apologies.
“It’s okay, man, happens to the best of us. Are you okay? You should sit down-” He shakes his head and falls to his knees. His breathing had settled, but it wasn’t making his situation less worrying. I notice his arm has been severed recently and is still bleeding. I help lower his body to the ground, calling Rocky who I just hear arriving. The stranger opens his mouth again, like a fish out of the water and he speaks again.
you work as the assistant to the biggest dick in heaven and the mutual annoyance the both of you have for each other turns into something a little more complicated.
tags: gn!reader, fluff, a dash of mutual pining, (but Adam would NEVER admit to it), Adam is kind of an asshole, RoGi makes up lore about how heaven works, RoGi also makes up info about Adam’s helmet
[I don’t write a lot of Adam as a character so apologies if this is super inaccurate!! This whole game is meant to get better at characterization for a few of these characters that i haven’t written so some of it might not be perfect.]
1.2k words under the cut
Adam was known as many things in heaven: the first man, a routine flirt, the funniest guy in heaven, and many other things. You knew him as the first dick.
You’d been working with Adam as his loyal assistant working on various projects around heaven. Planning events, infrastructure, and general goings on in the court of heaven. You spent nearly all of the time you spent working with him, and it was truly infuriating sometimes.
Sometimes he’d hit on you (which wasn’t anything special considering how much of a flirt he was at all times), sometimes he’d try to distract you while you were doing the work that he was supposed to be doing, sometimes he just disappeared. That last thing wasn’t too bad when it happened, but considering that you work for the guy it wasn't great.
You were working with Adam on planning a renovation for a park near the court of heaven. Despite literally being in heaven construction and renovation still happens – and needs to be planned for. Some things about this place have never made sense to you.
You were cooped up in you and Adam’s joint office, tucked away down a hallway in the court. It wasn’t really a joint office, though. It looked like it was, but Adam didn’t really stay for long. He only came in to grab you for something that was not what you wanted to do. There were two desks, Adam’s desk being a good bit bigger than yours (out of both ego and his taller stature), with their own sets of decorations. You kept your desk relatively tidy, making sure you could actually work there and get things done. Adam’s desk was a mess which realistically didn’t matter. Had you ever actually seen him sit and do anything productive there?
You were leaning over the big table in the middle of your desks. Papers were strewn about while you figured out the puzzle that was following the instructions of the court for what they wanted this park to be. It was much too small of a space to fit everything they wanted, but actually getting them to change their minds on something was probably more difficult than making it work no matter how absurd the challenge was.
You heard a loud bang from the door on your right. You knew instantly that only one person would have any reason to come in.
“‘Fucks up Y/N!?” He yelled rather loud as he came through the doorway.
You sighed at the table, “Hi, Adam.”
You were exaggerating a little bit. It didn’t ruin your day to see him, but you were preparing yourself for whatever conversation he was gonna have.
You looked to the right only to be greeted with the white cloak covering Adam’s chest. You looked up at him, mask still on his face, and saw a wide grin. “Watcha’ doin?” The way he said it like a 12 year old was a little bit endearing.
“Well I’m-” you started before being cut off.
“BOOOOORING! Y’gotta let loose a little – I see you working all the time.” That last phrase was accented by him banging on the table, across from you, with each syllable. A few papers flew off with the sudden motion.
You didn’t hate the sentiment, but everything this guy said made him sound like a dick.
“Well I’ve been carrying this duo for the past 2 weeks. Do you even know what all of this stuff is?”
“Uh… no, but I know what could be on top of it-”
“No!” You put your head in your hands out of sheer embarrassment, both first and secondhand. The way Adam said some of the dumbest things and most obvious attempts at innuendo on such a consistent basis with absolutely no shame was honestly admirable. You wished you could do what he did.
“You’re telling me that you still don’t want-”
“No.” You were as stern as you could be towards the angelic frat boy. There was a certain charm to him that made it so you couldn’t completely shut him down, no matter how bad his attempts at hitting on you were.
He let out a defeated sigh as you straightened up. You grabbed your bag off of the table and pulled a folder out, grabbing a few specific papers off of the table. Some of the ones you needed fell to the floor with Adam’s banging on the table but you just wanted to get out of there. You’d been in your office throughout the entire morning and you were kind of done staring at papers for the day.
Adam started talking again, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. “Seriously, Y/N? I make all of these fucking moves and you reject them – every time!” He walked around the desk to get in the way of your path out. “All I want’s a single kiss – just one. You should be honored to have me asking like this. I am the hottest guy around, and you-”
“Really, Adam?” A grin slowly crept its way onto your face. He was acting like a child, but it wasn’t in an annoying way like how some of the other higher ups in heaven often were. You acted like you hated him – and don’t get it confused, Adam was unbearable sometimes, you knew more than anyone – but he was also funny. He was charismatic, confident, and he wasn’t that bad of a guy, really.
That reflection made you soften a bit, not so bitter towards the angel who, in reality, you should have been a little annoyed with. You decided to entertain him, but you weren’t about to give him exactly what he wanted.
You took a step forward, now looking right up at the angel. His eyes narrowed through the mask, the yellow circles shrinking to semi-circles. You got up on your tippy toes while trying to keep your balance. It would be truly mortifying to fall over while teasing one of the most famous people in all of history.
You brought your head up as far up as you could; your mouth barely reached his mouth. Kissing him on the mouth was a very tempting idea, but you wanted to do something that would really confuse him.
You hopped on your toes once and planted a quick kiss onto his mask, about where his nose was. You felt a little bit of his nose from under the mask; the texture was similar to carbon fiber in the way the front slightly bent under the pressure, but it was the gesture that counted.
The yellow circle of his mouth opened and stayed for a minute. His eyes were wide now in pure shock. Adam’s shoulder seemed to drop a little bit; his posture overall dropped from the tall confident stance he kept at all times.
“Was that enough for you?” you asked, cocking your head to the side slightly as you questioned him.
“I- well I, uhm,” he stammered, seemingly still in shock. He tried to steady his voice, “no, actually. I meant on the lips.” His voice wasn’t steady whatsoever, but you accepted his attempt at feigning confidence and discontent at your gesture.
You pulled the strap of your bag up around your neck, letting it rest on your side. “Sure it wasn’t. Maybe you’ll get what you want later.”
You walked past him to the door, opening it and leaving him speechless.
