the highest recorded wet bulb temperatures in the world occur in india, jsyk. in odisha, they’ve hit 34.6 degrees celsius. the human survivability limit is 35 degrees celsius but the body faces significant risks, potentially fatal risks, even at 30 degrees as it starts failing to cool itself, like i’m talking organ failure levels of risk. climate change isn’t coming to peak, it’s been in the global south where you can’t see it or feel it.
imagine temperatures that high and humidity as high as 75%—you make more heat than you can ever cool. your sweat cannot evaporate fast enough. you literally boil alive. heat deaths in india are underreported and they already hit the thousands. there is no plan, for a nation of almost 2 billion people. no plan. nothing.
cw : est. relationship, men who yearn, physical affection, slightly suggestive, pet names, high effort boyfriend, tattoos & piercings mentioned, not proofread, art f-tality0
ⓘ Featuring alt!choso boy friend hc's !
alt!choso is a hopeless romantic first and foremost. If he finds something he likes, he wants to share it with you, which is why your wardrobe has almost doubled since getting with him.
He'll buy matching band shirts, necklaces, shirts he's outgrown, rings, everything he thinks you'd like he'll find a reason to give you.
alt!choso has a beautiful collection of jewelry for all of his various piercings; he'll let you hold him down & switch out each little piece for fun. Jokingly grumbling for you to at least match them.
He'll pretend he's annoyed until the moment you roll off him & hold one of his mirrors up to show the mismatched jewlery.
alt!choso surprises you with DIY gifts all the time. He took up pottery in his free time & makes you little trinkets—he even surprised you with mini versions of yourselves for your birthday.
alt!choso is a very physically affectionate person; he'll walk up behind you and just press quick kisses into your shoulder while wrapping his arms around you.
He also loves when you toy with his hair & scratch at his scalp while cuddling.
alt!choso buys you posters of your favorite bands & gives them to you with your favorite candy each time he gives you one.
alt!choso lets you take the lead in bed; whether you're on top or not, whether it's rough or gentle, the pace, how long, everything's always up to you.
alt!choso loves it when you trace your fingers over his tattoos, humming in contentment at each soft touch & questions about each design scattered on his body.
He'll lie down & let you color in a few whenever you ask, as long as the markers are gentle on the skin.
hi. i know i've been MIA and i wish i came back on a better note but shit really hit the fan. I am in an urgent need for 500$. i am so upset that i am shaking because i have to bear a loss for a mistake i did not make but i have to because i signed an agreement at the start of this job. i'll link my ko-fi and paypal. i hate to greet you like this asking for money and i know it sounds pathetic but i am hanging on by thread and i don't know what i will do or it will end up taking my life and sanity with it. that being said, you are not forced to donate or help but if you can please do and help me. reblogs are much more appreciated. thank you so much to everyone in this community.
kofi
paypal
i'll tell you the story below
so i am a freelancer and i was asked to order CK underwear for them but the model he wanted was no longer available on any website so informed him but then he got upset and said i wasn't looking carefully and sent me a link to a model and asked me to buy it. i arranged it and we had to buy that internationally and pay customs and all that. only for him to text me and say it is the wrong product. i checked with the CK team and it was what he linked to me. now i couldn't even return or replace because we had to dropship and have it shipped internationally so the return window was expired. he told me i had to bear the loss and i communicated that i ordered what he linked to me and he said it was the wrong fabric and that he explained to me. but the thing is me and his other assistant in bali reviewed the whole thing as well as sent him confirmation twice before the order and he approved it. i am aware this is some sort of power play and i feel horrible because i have to bear the cost of a mistake i did not make, at least not entirely. the underwear was 300$ for the set and the rest 200$ was for shipping, customs and taxes. you know the worst part is, he is a billionaire. like actual billionaire but it only further proves that money cannot buy compassion or empathy but only fuel that hollow ego inside because this is the same person that orders me to buy 1500$ bouquet for funsies for him. so yeah this is power play but unfortunately i cannot do anything for now except pay and be done and dusted. as you know i recently had a surgery and i can't pay upfront so i really need help right now. if you can, please do consider helping me
SYNOPSIS — Helping the quiet TA, who shrinks himself down to avoid taking too much space, come out of his shell. You’re slowly understanding why he thrives in an environment where he’s told what to do — and he shows you why he’s hesitant to be in charge.
TAGS — MDNI (18 + only) nsfw. work contains explicit sexual themes and content. piv. Gentle Giant!Choso, Dork!choso, overly freaked out!reader. Nerd!choso, SIZE KINK, sub to top(M), Switchy. rough. making out. couch sex. lifting. mutual masturbation. Changing positions. Missiònary. excessive use of sexual innuendos, dacryphilla, inconsistent writing (?). Choso will do anything you ask. PWP. Teasing, Degradation (both). pet names. crack.fluff. reader is nice to him obv. but freaked out.
WC: 14k — art by k4eny on twt
a/n: Hello blog, IM VERY HAPPY W THIS ONE and i promise to not leave u high and dry! this is highly inspired by an augustinthewinter audio (im a #freak) — Also what if I release my drabbles HEH
75%
The score read on your last mock test for your Historiography class. Your worst subject for the semester by far. Next week was going to be your midterm. Now, since your professor, Mr. Gojo, knows his students a little too well, he facilitated a surprise mock text to see how much you all understood the lessons.
A chorus of curses and groans start filling up the classroom with each student receiving their results as they’re handed out.
“…Now I can assure you, if you guys are worried about scoring higher than each other, it won’t matter because theoretically almost all of you failed.”
Another set of groans and a little bit of laughter comes from the class. You’re back to looking down on your paper, flipping through the pages to check every question and each correction out of habit, noting down what you have to improve on. Then you stumble upon the last page with the words;
Feel free to ask for help :) You smile, knowing exactly who wrote this without them being in the room. You look up to double check and you’re right, it was just your prof still going on about Khaldun or something — you tune him out to make way for the giddy feeling rushing through your stomach.
Usually you’d hate for people to offer help when you’re forced to do something you were unprepared for, taking the sentiment as a passive aggressive version of getting called incompetent but this time, you ponder while rereading the sweet little note in green ink— of course he used green ink to avoid students from being discouraged — and it's one of those times your stupidity has done you some good.
It’s an hour and a half later when class ends, people filing up to leave the doors of the lecture hall when a voice calls out to you.
You smile at your professor, a little strained, but it’s okay, you tell yourself, you expected it. You walk up to him, bag on your shoulder, unzipped because you rushed down. You’re still smiling when you’re there, already preparing for what he has to say.
The smile falls and you sigh, “I know that look.”
He’s standing with his arms crossed, dark shades balanced on his straight nose, looking down at you with nothing short of paternal disappointment. “Yes, and you shouldn’t be too familiar with it either. Seventy-five? really? I thought we were talking recommendation letters last week, turns out you’re barely passing my class?”
You swallow back, not really knowing what to do so you kinda just stand there awkwardly, waiting for him to air out his worries. “I know it's like, a little weird to put this much pressure on you but c’mon kid, you’re looking at being the next assistant after Choso to help your resumé right?”
You nod, still not saying anything, but you can’t deny how you perk up when you heard his name.
Your professor pauses briefly mid rant after spotting how you only met his eyes when he mentioned his current TA’s name, a light bulb flickers on in his head.
He squints, “You’ve been familiar with each other, correct?”
“Yes, sir.” You’re quick to reply, stopping yourself from physically gulping out of nervousness.
“He been showing you the ropes bit by bit?” he mutters, uncrossing his arms and leaning over the desk.
“Bit by bit, yes.” You echo, unable to reply without being scared of saying the wrong thing to tick him off.
“And…” He feigned thinking about it, fidgeting with he pen in his hand and tapping the butt end of it on a thick stack of paper. “…He’s also helping with lessons to keep your grades up?”
You say nothing, keeping your mouth flat and shut. You peer up at him, and shake your head slowly, “No sir.”
He tsks, standing up to his full height. “It’s not necessary but you’re aware there’s an average for you to keep up just to become a TA right? We wouldn’t want students biting off more than they could chew.”
You nod once more, though this time, a lot more fervently. “I—yes, sorry. I’ll-“
“Get to it, yeah.” He finished for you, tucking his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He waits for you to move, watching how you’re still standing there and waiting for him to also tell you to move. You’re so alike, he thinks.
He nods upwards, dismissing you. You thank him while you’re already turned your back, eagerly making your way to your next mission.
Gojo watches the door swing inwards from the impact of your departure, a smile in his tone when he mutters to no one, “That’ll give her some motivation.”
You’re rushing to your next class now, given the fifteen minute grace period you were granted had now been shaved down to ten, no thanks to your professor, forcing you to take two steps at a time when making your way to the other side of the building.
You’re looking down at your phone, deleting and retyping a message in your instagram dms. It’s when you pass the stairway that an unexpected force uncontrollably comes on to you. You thud against it, breathe caught, hand tightly clutching at your phone. You stumble on your steps, holding onto the closest thing you feel for. You don’t fall, you don’t even come close to the ground, but your knees certainly felt like they couldn’t carry you.
Because here you stood against a very worried, very tightly holding you, Choso Kamo. Your mind blanks, your class just a few doors away, forgotten. Unintentionally, a small smile spreads on your face.
“Hey, I was—“ He laughs nervously, “I was looking for you.” His hands wrap around your nearly limp arms, almost covering the expanse of it, yet held at a respectable position.
“You okay?” He tilts his head down to meet your eyes, a look of concern etching back on his terribly handsome face, he swallows thickly and you watch his adam’s apple bob decorating his thick neck.
He takes a second to peer back at the stairs, then back to you before he realizes how his grip still clutched on you. “I’m sorry.” He pulls his hands down at his sides, unsure of what to do with them. “I was about to-“
“-Me too actually.” Cutting him off, you couldn’t help but smile even wider, uncaring if you looked too excited. You raised your phone, “Was about to send a dm but I got class in like,” You flip the screen to face you, “two minutes.” A pinch of apprehension makes its way to you but you push it back.
His eyes widen behind his rectangular frames, lenses making them appear bigger than they actually are.
“Really? Shit, “ He cursed, regretful, “I don’t have class anymore so I could just wait out—”
“Sit in with me?” It comes out of you before you could stop it. “—or not.” You quickly add, retreating. “I could just go and email you.”
“No—I mean, Of course. Yes. Me, I’ll go.” He smiled with a toothy grin, ignoring how you said email instead of your socials in hopes you won’t bring up how he stuttered over his words. You’re caught off guard and before you know it, he’s already making his way to the door without even being sure which class it was.
He’s reaching for the handle when you stop him, “Oh, next door, please.” He nods bashfully, adjusting the strap of his comically small backpack on himself and apologizes under his breath. He follows you inside, you push, prying the door open. His palm flat against the wood, effortlessly holding it for you both.
Luckily your professor hadn’t been in class yet, so you weren’t spotted as the only late comer (technically no, with company, you weren’t.) The class was sparsely filled as it was only part of your minor and this schedule wasn’t as popular, so you could basically sit anywhere. You scan over the room, and you spot some seats at the very front. You’re about to take a step forward when you realize you’re being a little rude.
“Where d’ya wanna sit?” You ask, head tilted up with a smile. You try to ignore the gleefulness that comes with the idea you’re gonna be seated next to him. Again, you push this feeling down, knowing it’s completely unprofessional and straight up childish. Though conversely, what you feel for him is not in the slightest, childish.
“Back, definitely.” He answers a little too fast, blinking to check with you. “If you want.” He adds.
He’s so polite, you could just die.
You find comfortable seating by the right side of the class, second to last row and close to the back per request. This classroom was a little smaller, so distance from the whiteboard wasn’t really an issue.
You’re listening to your elderly professor repeat instructions about a future assignment and knowing he’s just going to be posting the guidelines, you just tune him out again, distracted. You have to learn to stop doing that.
But you’re shamelessly peeking at the side, Choso’s writing something down, you watch his face as he continues without a care in the world, back hunched down to get closer to the papers maybe, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in focus. You look down at what he’s writing when he flips the sheet over, the sound of the paper is quiet amongst the loud hum of the air conditioner.
He’s checking something, a test again? You wonder if yours is there. Something catches your eye, he’s even writing down notes in the side for each correction. Maybe he’s also writing notes of encouragement for others. You don’t wanna wanna act all sensitive but something in your chest dampens. A lick of disappointment knowing you weren’t just given a little extra effort.
You shift in your seat, suddenly aware that you completely distracted yourself again and let your overactive imagination take over. You bite your cheek, brushing off the disappointment and sit properly on your seat. It moves the entire table though, you moved a little too roughly. Choso backs up in his chair, the commotion throwing off your professor in his fruitless discussion.
You gasp before immediately turning to check on your hard of hearing professor. He mumbles some incoherent complaint but you don’t wait to think and just apologize, “Sorry,” and it’s hopefully enough to divert the attention from you both.
Choso grunts, “No—sorry, my chair was too loud.” He pulls the long, shared desk back with one pull of his hand, before hunching to go back to work. There’s already a furrow in your brows at the apology, and you’re staring at the side of his face, his hand behind his full, overgrown hair, expression mirroring your own except towards his papers.
You adjust back, only this time you’re a bit farther, scared he’ll probably sense you’re being a little invasive. So you keep your eyes up at the projected screen and let the silence pass, the light sound of the ballpoint scratching paper on the smooth surface of the table and your teacher murmuring mix behind the stupid thoughts interfering and prodding at your composure.
You made this unnecessarily awkward, eyes looking back down on the paper without trying. You’re still kinda curious what he’s writing down. He’s writing down notes to the side, red pen and all— red pen and all?
You do a double take, your uncontrollable, imposing, borderline deluded thoughts returning back to their place in your hopeless brain. Did he use a red pen for everyone or green? He used green earlier, definitely. What the hell? Why does it matter?
“Can I help you?” The inner monologue in your head ceases at the question. You glance up at him, a crooked smile on his face, dimple gracing his features. He waits for you to say something, you process how it's a little close to a tease. You’re unable to say something and end up nodding.
He smiles, achingly sweet and sincere, still waiting for a response. You blank out, unable to think of a proper fake answer in time.
A last flick of your gaze at the paper outs your thoughts, he looks down at them. “If you’re looking for any of your own, this isn’t your section’s.” He assures, trying to fill in the silence you were so talented in bringing out in your conversations.
You giggle out of pure giddiness, unable to hold it in as you act like a school girl and not a college student. It’s probably so strange to him that you’re acting this way — internally reprimanding yourself is your only avenue for self control at these moments. You hope he doesn’t think the same way. “No um, you’re so focused on writing nice notes for everyone and marking every point.“
He smiles wider, eyes turning into pretty crescents. He shakes his head once, sitting back on his chair, and finally not slouching. Your stomach flips noting how he occupies more than half the seat. He scratches his neck, eyes flicking back at the papers for a moment before meeting yours, then averting again.
“I don’t think…” He leaned over to read the name on the paper, “…Inumaki, T. thinks my detailed corrections, or rather critiques are very nice, nor the rest of section Z26.” he mumbled the last part, adjusting the collar of his pull over.
“critiques?” You inquire, unconsciously leaning to his side of the desk, closer so you could read them too. Choso hopes you can’t feel the warmth on his cheeks radiating right now.
He nods his head a little too quickly, despite not being able to see him from where you were. He’s dizzy with the scent of your floral shampoo under his nose, heady and pulling. “Yes, just to help with,” he falters again, your bare arm brushing against his own, clothed one when you point at a certain part of the paper while reading, knees hitting under the table when you’re closely looking down on the sheet. “With the, the uh, future tests yeah-”
Choso watches your lips move but he doesn’t hear what comes out. Right now, he’s pushing away such un-utterable, uncalled for thoughts when his view is your head over what would be is his lap, only being separated by this rickety table. It only gets worse when you shift your eyes at him, wide and up at his tired onyx ones, only now his are a little wider too, something past friendly reflecting in your before averting back down the white sheet.
You’re still reading the paper, taking in the info for each question. “Oh,”
He snaps out of his daze, immediately taking notice of your blank tone. “What’s wrong?”
You’re processing the words on the essay type test he’s checking and you realize you’ve never seen this kind of test before. “Y’know, now that I’m reading this, I don’t think we’ve answered this activity yet.” A beat, and Choso flips the paper down.
“Right, that’s probably not good,“ He places a spread out hand over the papers, sheets mix on top of each other, disheveled and disorganized, one nearly falling off the narrow table.
You’re already laughing, “You’re so clumsy,” your hand stopping one of them from flying out of place.
“No, you probably shouldn’t look at that too-“
“Relax, I don’t have the photographic memory to copy each answer. As much as I wish I did.” You mumble the last part, tucking the papers into an organized pile, facing outwards. “See? No cheating for me.”
Choso fights the smirk that inches his way under the skin of his cheeks, nodding to you. “I appreciate your integrity.” You return the look on his face except with the stack in your grasp right now, it reflects its white canvas like a soft light on your skin, a sweet warmth overcomes him. “I never told you why I was looking for you.”
You place the sheets separate from his pile of unfinished work. Pursing your lips, you make a noise of acknowledgment. “Oh, I was thinking the same thing. I didn’t know how to approach you ‘cause it was kinda embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing how?”
For a while, you contemplate how to make yourself sound less pathetic, trying to amp up how to sound flirtier without breaching whatever boundary of the title you held to him. You wanted to play safe, for now.
“Like to ask for help, I bet it's as funny as someone asking a stupid question since you probably didn’t have to do any of that when you were in my year.” You don’t have to confirm with him whether or not it’s true, Choso’s going straight to a master’s after graduating this year. You’ve been hyping yourself up to ask him out for a while, knowing that he’ll most likely drift from you as a friend with the work that comes with finishing one.
You truly weren’t looking for any kind of college relationship or even a fling, knowing such places bring unnatural levels of attraction to people who lack self identity, and if you’re being honest, college made you question that part of yourself when you first began.
Ergo, you focused on yourself for your first year to second. Now, you’re in your third year’s second semester and people are thinking about their thesis and fellowships. And here you were only starting to make career moves for your future in your third year.
But you digress, circling back to how all that led you to meet Choso. Someone you’ve made acquaintances with last year during an exhibit at the school’s anthropology museum. Yes, you had an anthropology museum — Jjk technical college was not cheap.
His hair was a tad shorter back then, guiding a bunch of first years through the new exhibit, excitedly discussing some bones and energy. The glint in his eyes was bright and he was wholly unfiltered, charmingly gauche. You had tried to pose a question at the time, wanting to entertain him out of definitely just pure curiosity for Bioarcheology, but second guessed yourself and never approached him again.
Until, it was that same year you found out he had been the TA for the professor you were aiming for next year (as a second year college student), and you found out he was resigning as the teacher’s assistant from a friend of a friend, and how Gojo had been already looking for a new one early on because Choso was that competent.
You want to say that maybe you joined just because professor Gojo was someone you highly look up to in the field of history research and will grant you a killer recommendation for a future career — which you know he will— there’s an underlying feeling where you also can’t deny that the idea of how it brings you closer to Choso made the position all the more appealing.
So this year, when Gojo read your CV and decided to accept you out of the many (3 applicants, one was an irregular student, the other a nepo baby), and encouraged Choso to start training you by now, it was like fate realigned itself to bring you closer to him.
Sort of.
Now he was in front of you- beside you, and casually replying with, “ I don’t mind spending my free time with you—tutoring and stuff.” He offers, completely unaware how he gets your stomachs in knots and your heart feels like it's trying to rip out of your ribcage.
“Really?” You ask too eagerly, he nods for extra reassurance. “It’s just, Historiography just isn’t something I’m good at but I’m also I find it interesting but it’s also really hard but— I also want this.” You size him up, towards his side of the table. “Y’know, this.”
He‘s about to point at himself, before looking at the papers and something clicks in place. “Checking papers on top of your thesis, dropping them off at Gojo’s office at 8 am, and getting death stares when I come across his students?”
You nod, almost even more eager, “Absolutely.”
“You’re perfect then.” He says, no hesitation whatsoever. You were eating it up and he was completely unaware. You giggle, heat rushing to your face.
You almost forgot how talking came easy with Choso. It was refreshing to meet someone you could hold a conversation with without feeling like you had to perform all the time, or wonder what to amp up or tone down. He had his intimidating moments at first, like being overqualified for a TA and the unmistakable height, or when you’re overthinking how to impress him and you don’t truly act yourself — but those impressions crumble effortlessly when you recognize him for his sincerity and obsession with the academe.
Choso can’t help but let a chuckle bubble in his throat, smooth and rich like a creamy cup of strong coffee. He’s analyzing your face, the apples of your cheeks are out with how wide you smile, he made you smile like that. The fact sits comfortably in his chest. He’s staring at your lips, maybe he can get away with it as him just looking down to your height, the few times he feels his own acted as an advantage for him.
“…any reason you use green?… Choso?” He blinks, and he’s back in the classroom and you’re now holding your own head with your palm, waiting for him to answer.
The back of his neck is hot with the thought you could probably notice him zoning out. “I like,” he searches your eyes, hesitating, and then, “I like green, so.” He nods, trying to rationalize his plain answer to himself.
You’re squinting, “Cool,” nothing behind your tone, just the air that still manages to sit awkwardly between you two, suddenly the old scribbles in the storage part of the desk was so interesting—
“And it's good for not like…” He swallows back his nerves, heart pounding in his ears. “I didn’t wanna discourage students.”
The admittance runs like oil down your back and you feel like you’ve hit him dead center in what you wanted to hear. “Right,” You look around, a false pretense of thinking in your expression, “So… why the red?” You ask curiously, pen in your hand scratching off the old paint under the desk in anticipation.
He paused like a deer caught in headlights, licking the dryness of his lips. Staring down the sheet of paper, yes it’s red indeed, he thinks. His lips part, you watch the smooth, glossy sheen of it move against the light. “I guess I have a favorite class.” He coughs, feigning the ease he was currently lacking with each word he carefully chose to speak.
Despite the urge to egg him on, you leave it at that, your bravery for the day already expended. You know if you continued you might say something a little irrational, and you’re also afraid to jump his bones too quickly. Though you’re pretty sure he could still hold you up if you tried.
Class ends anti-climactically, your professor waving your class off with a less than interested parting. You’re out of the classroom, Choso following behind when, “So, when do you wanna start? I’m free after class tomorrow and it’s the weekend. I don’t mind staying longer.”
You’re following his pace as you walk through the hallways of your building, aiming for the exit but you’re thinking about what happens after. You’re not fully sure where you’ll end up once you part. Do you just go? He stayed with you the entire boring class, (obviously the only reason why you want to stay longer and none other in particular) surely there must be something you have to do in return.
You’re nearing the exit and you can’t help but feel like you’re letting something slip if you go past the doors without making your thoughts known, “I have this thing with my best friend tomorrow, this is not a very good look for me— I promised I’d do this qualitative interview and—“
He’s quick to reply, “Oh yeah, I totally understand—“
Shit, okay you were not seizing the moment correctly. “You should come with me.” You turn over to him, unable to stop yourself.
Choso all but freezes, “What?”
Okay, no going back now, smacking your lips together before going for the kill. “—With me. Yeah, we could hang out and,” Could you still back out? No.
“Just, maybe study after? like we could study like… for the,” So much for not wanting to jump his bones, “…whole night.” You can’t look at him any longer, eyes scanning back the outside that now surrounds you. The noises of campus and the lamp posts are bright, projecting a warm white over you. But all this is not enough to comfort you from the trepidation finally shaking your brain.
You watch as Choso’s pale cheeks start to tinge into a flushy pink, eyebrows raising behind his glasses.
“Oh, okay, yes. Okay!” He nods taughtly, though willing.
You pause, “Okay?” trying to check if he’s serious.
“Sure.” You’re both standing opposite his body, shocked with what you’re hearing from the other as much as you were shocked from the words leaving yourselves.
A beat passes, leaves rustle, and amidst that you’re silently hoping it won't matter how you didn’t think this through fully. “Five o’clock sound good?”
***
It was a steady, calm-ish afternoon, your best friend Miwa was sat in front of you, laptops laid out on the table. She’s writing down notes and closing up her recording software and you’ve been fixing up your hair, clothes, and picking lint off it. You find a loose thread on your shirt when, “Hey,” You look up, alert. Miwa’s squinting at you, blue hair cast in a warm yellow from the mid-afternoon sun. “You good?”
You’re finger quits picking at yourself, “What? Yeah,” eyes flitting back to the pesky string sticking out of the hem of your top.
There’s a hum coming from in front of you, “You sure? You’ve been so fidgety this entire time.”
“I am not fidgety.” You say, fidgeting. A sigh comes out of you, and you lean back on your chair, hands coming on top of the arm rests. “You really okay with me bringing Choso?”
At this, Miwa’s lips curl into a smirk. “I knew it.”
Your eyes flick over to the side in thought, then back at her sly expression. “What do you know?”
She’s sitting up from her hunched posture over her laptop, and drinking from her cup of her almost lukewarm coffee, shrugging with her eyes still locked on yours.
Your thumbs come up from the arm rests, “What is it?”
She clears her throat, placing the mug on a coaster. She looks back up, a smirk still planted on her face. “Just that I didn’t know that he was your crush,” she expects you to reply, but you’re still waiting for her to elaborate. “Y’know, Choso.”
“I don’t have a crush on him!”
She squints, “Okay so we’re lying today.”
“It’s merely admiration— and some attraction at most.”
“That’s literally what a crush is based on.”
You’re blinking at her, feeling caught. You bite your tongue, knowing that your best friend out of anyone should be able to catch you in a lie. Or even a truth you lie to yourself about. You speak up, “Well?”
“Y’know I love you.” She starts.
“Oh no.” Dread seeps into your stomach, and you know if she starts somewhere along the lines of sugar coating, the following was about to be some bland truth coated around maybe an even bitter core inside.
“I like Choso! He’s been your friend for a while and I’ve never talked to him but he sounds really devoted to his work, maybe goodlooking, he’s smart, and he’s nice—“
“What would Muta think…?”
She chuckles, softening at the thought of her own boyfriend. “No, I just wanted to keep an eye out for you too when I say this.” She pauses, trying to find a way to word this as pleasantly as possible. “Cause you know how girls talk…”
You latch onto that last part, stomach churning in suspense. “Not really, I don’t.”
She stops herself from cackling at your nervous expression, “I just heard he’s always…nice.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Like too nice? I guess…it’s really hard to explain babe,“ She cuts herself off, sensing your growing apprehension. She observed how your hands are rubbing on the expanse of your cup, and bringing it to your lips to avoid saying something. She quiets down her tone, now kinda shy about mentioning it. She leans a bit towards you, “Like… in bed, y’know?”
You sputter in your mug, feeling unwelcome liquid scratch your throat. Miwa’s eyes widen when she watches you cough, eyes turning watery. “Ooh gag reflex, that’s not coming in handy.“
“Fucking shut up-“ You’re coughing still and she’s laughing uncontrollably now. “—I did not expect that.”
She’s wiping the corner of her corneas with a finger, “I—I’m sorry I just had to bring it up.”
You’re more composed now, eyes looking up at the clock, it’s ten minutes to five, and you’re trying to relax.
You don’t exchange looks with Miwa until a short moment passes for you to think.
“So have you thought about what it would be like?” You’re back to meeting her eyes, a silent exchange between you both. Miwa smiles at you, lowering her voice and putting a finger up to her ear like an agent, “Then I’m glad to relay information.” She’s giggling when you throw a tissue at her.
You’re already standing out of your seat and making your way to sit beside her. She motions her hand for you to come nearer, both turning your heads when the door chime rings and someone enters, calming down when it’s just some delivery person. You relax, side eyeing her.
Miwa inches closer, “Okay so I’m friends with this senior from my org and she had a friend who was seeing Choso, sort of? Anyways I mentioned once that you were replacing him and that you’re a little into him, sorry.” You’re beckoning her to continue, not caring much for the last part and nodding along.
“Anyways, it was like a one night stand thing and — don’t get me wrong I’m not trying to spread rumors or judge,” Another pause, and you’re already on the edge of your seat.
“Well? Go on,” You pull her in, arms tangled and clutching her, knee jittering.
“I heard he was kinda scared in bed? Like maybe he has a phobia or something.” Your knee stops, and you’re now confused, “It’s just kinda odd ‘cause the guys like a unit, right?” a crease forms between your brows. “Maybe he’s like… a power bottom?” she whispered, tone serious.
You’re nodding, taking in the information with actual consideration. “Possibly,” You’re fully facing her now, “Y’know…he is a TA.”
It’s Miwa’s turn to be confused, struggling to find the correlation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You fight the expression trying to pull on your lips, you nibble on the skin then let go, “I’d say he’s good at being told what to do.”
Miwa’s eyes widened, before adding, “Tell me when you find out.” A second where you’re both quiet and then you’re being shook by the shoulders, both of you squealing and chortling in your corner. It would be no surprise if you’ve caught the attention of other customers with your commotion.
She quits with the shaking, now smoothing over the fabric over your shoulders for messing up your top. “So what are you gonna do about it?”
You can’t help but entertain your imagination, “I mean I think I’m too conscious to be playing around too much.” Your friend nods along, supportive. Past these exciting thoughts, it was all a front for the feelings you struggled to word out, “I really like him, Miwa.”
She parts her lips but as if on cue, another chime from the door rings once more. He stood by the entrance for a brief moment, barely scanning the vicinity when he locked eyes on you, a cheeky grin lighting up his face.
***
“—I think they never made any real contact.”
“No, that’s definitely up for debate.”
Miwa watches your back and forth, pen in hand. Choso decided to be part of her research sample as well, given that he’s already here, he should make use of his time. And he didn’t mind, he liked helping out.
If only he could actually speak and answer the questions without you guys debating every time one of you made an opinion on something vaguely related to Miwa’s research topic. At first it was good, your opinions can be added too but now she’s running out of space in her storage with how long this unintentional joint interview was going.
“Okay guys, the interview questions are about historical revisionism. While I do see the correlation, how did we end up in Egypt and…?”
“Ancient Mesopotamia.” Both of you say, completing her sentence.
“I can elaborate.” Choso suggests, clearly unable to read between the lines of Miwa’s inquiry.
She stretches in her seat, her legs feeling cramped up with the lack of movement all this time. “Y’know what, I’ll hold you two to that. But first, let’s take a break!” It’s not even a minute until she’s out of both your and Choso’s sights, on the way to the restroom, pen and recorder left on the table.
“Y’know, I don’t think she likes me that much. I also think she’s too nice to tell me that.” You’re in the middle of cracking your neck until you’re moving your attention to him.
“Don’t worry too much about it, I think she just isn’t up for hearing any more strong opinions on exported textiles.”
“That’s if they were truly exported—“ You shove his arm, and he’s laughing at your face, not even moved from the push. He’s pretending to rubbing his bicep in feigned hurt, lifting his arm in the process, almost flexing. You try to ignore how they felt so hard under your fingertips. You check him out unintentionally, taking notice of how the hem of his layered shirt hangs enough to show the lower part of his stomach. Out of respect, you look the other way.
You swallow thickly, ears hot. “I think I’ll get another snack. Want anything to eat?” You’re already standing up and off the chair, limbs wobbly from the long period of time you spent sitting on the deep arm chair.
There’s a sudden burst of noise coming from the entrance of the café, very loud and boisterous. You can’t help but let your jittery self get distracted, there stood an entire group of men, looking like they just got off practice. You’re wondering why one of them looks vaguely familiar, but there’s a body blocking your view out of nowhere with what you realize is Choso’s chest.
There’s an odd, slightly frantic look in his eyes you haven’t seen on someone as easygoing as him. “Um, how about I go with you?”
You’re looking up at him, a little skeptical on why the sudden change of tone, but agree anyways.
You’re in the short line along the display and point out pastries that you could try when a voice calls out to the person beside you. “Cho!”
It’s easier for you to check where it’s coming from as Choso was in front of said voice. You recognize the pink hair from the group coming in earlier. He’s about 2 inches away from being as tall as Choso, hair damp like he just came from a shower, and a sports bag was strapped across him.
A pat on his shoulder signals your dark haired companion to turn, seeing a sight he’d been trying to avoid earlier. Of course he had to be the one ordering for his group.
“Hey man,” Choso greets, strained, a guard visibly coming up around him.
“What’s up, you don’t say hi to family anymore?” The sentiment, although on paper sounded sweet, in reality was like a taunt. Something you don’t wanna dissect to avoid reading into it too much. “Who’s this?”
You peer over at both of them, their attention now on you. Still unable to read the room, you focus on Choso to see how he wants this to play out. He steps in for you, “You know her, I mentioned the TA thing like a while back. She’s a friend, though she is replacing me.”
He gestures to the pinkette’s side, introducing him.
“My brother by the way. Same year though.”
Sukuna nods at that and smiles, canines showing. He reaches out with his hand, and you meet it halfway. “Ryomen Sukuna.” Huh, he’s not a Kamo.
“Pleasure,” You’re squinting your eyes, there’s something a little unsettling about him that you can’t place, but you’re not trying to jump into that.
“I didn’t know Choso had any siblings — ones on campus, no less.”
You let go of his large, callous hands, moving an inch closer to the cashier when the customer before you has their turn to order. “Have 2 terms to catch up with and I don’t really see this one around either ‘cause I did training camp in Barcelona last semester.”
You nod in acknowledgement. Silently, you’re comparing them, unknowingly looking back and forth between him and Choso a little too obviously.
“We don’t look related do we?”
Before you could defend yourself, a dry chuckle beats you to it. “We get that a lot.” He squeezed where his hand was planted on Choso, who visibly tenses. “Different mom, same dad. He doesn’t take after him though, if you’re worried—“
“Alright, I don’t think she wants to know about that.”
“Speak for yourself,” You laugh nervously, trying to ease the tension you could feel multiplying tenfold. He pats Choso’s shoulder before bringing his hand down to the side, not before looking at the side of his brother's face as he semi-whispered, “At least one of you doesn't have their panties in a twist.”
“I would if I were wearing mine.” A very long, awkward silence overcomes all three of you. That is until a nearly genuine smile breaks out of Sukuna’s angular features.
“Ha, what the fuck,” He mutters in amusement, “You’re both weird, that’s cute.” A dry chuckle eases the anxiousness you were struggling to place the source of. Though at the cost of your own dignity.
The line to the cashier moves, it’s yours and Choso’s turn now. He’s first to leave his brother’s side, not even bidding him a glance as he moves past you. “Nice meeting you,” you voice out, still on edge, Sukuna just nods in acknowledgement.
***
It’s around 6:40pm when Choso walks you to your apartment outside of campus. There’s a slight tension in the air that you’re struggling to bring up, it’s been there for the remainder of your meet up, not having said a word since you’ve left the café. You’ve been trying to make a move and talk to him but he’s had his eyes on the ground this entire time, rarely up, and definitely never on you.
He was about to walk in the pedestrian lane when you tug on his backpack. He’s caught in the pull, looking up to the red walking signal reflecting on the road. He walks back to stand next to you, still not saying a word. “What’re you thinking so hard on?”
For a moment he turned his head to you, a little too quick to not look like he wasn’t anticipating you to bring it up yourself. He looks ahead once more when you’re walking now. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
You start to feel a little guilty for not clarifying sooner, wondering if this entire time he thought he should’ve apologized for something he couldn’t control.
“It’s alright, it wasn’t unpleasant for me.”
He almost laughs at that, “Right, and I was jumping for joy.”
The air shifts, it’s not so tense anymore, just between that and uncertainty directed at something else entirely. “I felt really dumb earlier.” He adds, looking back down on the pavement. “I couldn’t say anything to make him leave us alone.”
You’re a few blocks nearby to your place, walking a little ahead of him so he could follow you now.
“Again, it wasn’t that bad. You don’t have to apologize.” Once more, silence fills the space between you both and it feels like you’re unable to remove this weight you feel affecting your interaction.
Now you’re both looking at your feet as you wait for cars to pass the street you’re crossing and for the timer to finally get to zero. Your foot is stepping over a dry leaf to fill in the lack of communication, the sound crunching in the quiet in a loud, distant manner.
“I just kinda get made fun of for acting like this—weak.” You crane your neck up to meet his eyes, and you’re right to think he’s still looking down. “It’s just annoying how even until now it’s expected of me to bite back on others ‘cause I look like I should.”
There’s a furrow in his brows, and he’s tightly clutching on the strap of his bag. “Like I’ve accepted that, sort of. I’m already conscious of it— but maybe people like to pick on me when it's obvious I’m not gonna do anything.”
You’re making another turn together, he’s leading with the path he’s familiar with and you follow, his words don’t falter. “Maybe ‘cause it makes them feel less small or some shit — I don’t know.”
After processing the words that left him, it brought you back to your conversation with Miwa. How you laughed about his past history with women and how you basically gossiped about his insecurities. Guilt swirls in your stomach, realizing this might just be a little worse than you treated it to be. You keep quiet, deep in your own thoughts, letting him say what he needs to.
“And of course my own brother is like that too.” He rants, tracing back to the behavior he displayed earlier. “He’s my brother and I love him, yes. But frat guys could be such dicks, y’know? I was like his first practice hazing dummy lite…in a way.”
You nod, acknowledging him. “Right, right.” You’re turning to the street ahead of yours, just about a block away now.
“It’s hard to not let those insecurities take over.” He groans, “I spent so much of my life trying to make my best first impressions, and I feel like it backfires on me with the wrong people—I hate that.” He’s scratching the back of his head. “Sometimes I just wish I looked normal. That way I wouldn’t literally feel like the elephant in the room.”
At that, you turn almost as if you’d heard the worst take in your life, brows scrunching. “Normal?”
He shakes his head, “Yes, normal. Like I can wear normal shoes and sit on couches normally.”
“I like that you’re not.” You say, insensitively. “I mean you’re not not normal. But I like…it.” You slow down, trying to backtrack on what you just let slip.
He’s blinking down on you, a look of surprise etched on his slowly flushing face. “…Why?”
Your breath is caught in your throat, not knowing how else to explain it. No going back. Remember?
“I feel safe, even if you don’t…bite back. And on top of that you’re kind. I think that matters a lot.”
Choso stares at you like you just grew a tree on your head, but in truth, he’s just trying to tone down his elation. “Really?” He asks dumbly, already cursing himself in his head for looking like he wants to hear you call him that again. Safe.
You dip your head, agreeing once more. “I’m a girl so I may be a little biased but if I were also a little taller, I wouldn’t have to deal with some idiot guys trying something on me, and I could also defend myself easier.”
“Oh yeah—Yes, that's totally different from my problems.” He clarified, trying to catch himself from sounding ungrateful. You watch the way his expressions shifts from blank to stressed and bite back a smile. “There’s obviously people with worse problems than being bigger than a doorway.” He’s looking down and pushing his glasses up, almost ashamed.
You turn to the road leading up to your street, your apartment just at the end of it. “Is that like 6’3 or…”
“Huh?” He meets your inquisitive eyes, “Uh, just a little more.” He replied, shying away from your stare. You’re thinking about all the objects that could possibly match up to Choso’s figure.
“Those chillers they got in 7’11?”
“Hm, nope. Like 2 inches more, maybe.”
Your stomach does a flip you had to ignore, “You’re lying. Six foot six?”
“Without shoes, yes.” He nodded, met with you side-eyeing him. “Well you’re free to go with me to my annual checkups and see.” He defends, a smile finally appearing on his face at your skepticism.
You squint, stopping yourself from looking too excited with the many, unbecoming thoughts storming your brain. “I’ll hold onto that.”
Shortly after, you find yourself standing in front of the building to your apartment. “I’m sorry about dumping all that on you, It was a lot.” He looks around before letting out a barely there sigh, “I’ll get going now—“
“Are you forgetting?” You look back and Choso’s standing stiffly, feet planted on the ground. “We’re…studying, remember?”
Choso’s throat bobs at your sly tone, convincing himself there is nothing behind it. “You did a lot today I just thought we were tired—“
“We don’t have to study then.” You’re looking around and thinking to yourself before landing back on his face, “I mean you came all the way here, you could come up and have some tea?”
The notion has his chest puffing out to regulate the way his heart started beating like its pounding from behind his sternum. He doesn’t say anything, his eyebrows raise behind his glasses, his usually sleepy eyes now wide. He nodded and let out a strained, “Okay.”
***
The door to your apartment swings open with a loud creak. The lights switch on, a warm white cascades from the ceilings.
Your keys make a clinking noise against the ceramic jewelry tray you leave on the dresser by the entrance. The door is wide open, you feel Choso trailing behind a couple steps away.
He’s standing kinda stiffly, “Do I take my shoes off or—“
You’re shaking your head, stepping aside to let him in. “My neighbors are kinda sticklers for people who leave their shoes outside in the halls.” He walks past the doorway, head craned down. It’s supposed to look like he was trying to avoid getting hit by the frame of it, though he’s only finding a way to hide his face naturally.
He picked his head up when he heard clanking from the kitchen which meant that you were inside. “I hope you’re not allergic to pollen? I like to put honey in mine.” You ask, your voice still clear as the space isn’t big at all, but in his head it’s distant. He’s trying to calm himself down, taking in your apartment.
It’s small, kitchen tight and you’ve no space for a table. You use the counter as one, your bed, desk, and sofa all in the same space. However, the lack of furniture made it wide, the “living room” taking the least space with just a little coffee table and the tv on the floor as the only decor.
“You didn’t say anything so I didn’t add any honey.” He finds himself turning on his feet when he’s met by your figure, coming from the kitchen with two— red and yellow —mugs. You hand him the yellow one, he takes it with a ‘thanks’. You make a move to sit on the couch, trying to get cozy. Choso’s still standing, sipping on his cup awkwardly.
“You can sit if you want.” Choso’s eyes flick over to you. You realize he had shed his bag on the entrance, still it looks like something is weighing on him.
“I’m okay, I might launch you out of it—“
“Sit with me.” You pat the spot beside you on the couch, your fawn-like eyes up at him.
It turns his legs into jelly. Thoroughly convinced, he sits beside you, trying to be as careful as he can so the side of the couch doesn’t sink to his weight too much.
He winced at the audible sound of the springs under the cushions, “Sorry.”
Quietly, you assess him. How stiffly he sat, how much of the seat he took up despite keeping himself at the edge of it. If he sat back, would his knee brush against yours? Though you feel a little bad for taking advantage of his reactiveness towards you. However, something deep inside you is undeniably excited with the thought.
On the other hand, Choso feels like he’s watching himself act in third person, deliberating what part of his body he should move next to not look too obnoxious or stiff. He doesn’t know if he should just let the silence pass till he runs out of tea, or maybe till it turns lukewarm. You shift in your seat, he feels your gaze heavy on him. You don’t say anything, you just stare at the side of his face. His throat bobs.
He looks over to you for a split second and meets your eyes, you raise your brows at him, a smirk growing on your sweet face.
An anxious laugh bubbles from his throat, the tips of his ears tinging red. “I think you’re aware of how you’re making me nervous.”
You couldn’t stop the way the smirk spreads into a wide smile. “I was thinking of how to get you to talk, is all.” You tilt your head to the side, checking out how the light from your room lamp makes his jaw seem sharper. His hair nearly fell on his shoulders, built and perched with his elbows on his knees, posture a little hunched, but he still sat taller than you. Nothing short of tempting in your eyes.
He follows your gaze, “What?”
“You’re also thinking of something.”
His brows pinch, he hates how good you are at prodding at him when he clearly doesn’t know what to say. “I’m always thinking.”
You nod, “And still, you haven’t said anything since we went up.”
Choso pauses his already stiff self. You place your mug down, crossing your legs on the couch. He brings his attention back to you but you’re already intently looking at him. He flinches back.
Sighing, “What do you think I’m thinking about?” You purse your lips, shrugging at his question. He shakes his head, a smile fighting its way on his face.
“Then I’m happy you only brought me here to drink some tea.” A roll of his eyes comes out of sarcasm, reaching for his own mug on the table, stretching his arm out.
He’s about to pull his hand back when your smaller one lands on top of his. The contact would have made him drop the glass into little pieces if it weren’t for the coffee table underneath. He lets down the cup, missing the coaster you laid out.
“That’s my mug….” You point at the red cup in his grasp, yours. You let the words linger like the pads of your fingers on the back of his hand, “Hm, you’re really warm.”
He blinks, unable to ground himself back to reality because maybe, maybe you’re trying to make a move on him. He’s unable to look into your eyes,
“Uh,” He falters, the warmth on his cheeks multiply and spread out when you inch closer, the warmth of your own body makes him feel like he’s overheating.
“How else could I get you to go up with me?” You say, goading another reaction out of him.
“I-I mean you could just ask and…I wouldn’t say no,“ You’re closer to his face now—too close. But you’re still not looking at eye level — not close enough.
“I think I’ve done a lot just to be around you, Cho.” He almost melts at how the stupid nickname his brother calls him sounded so good coming from your honeyed lips. Choso gulps, audible and embarrassing in the silence of your apartment.
He started off this conversation on the edge of the couch, somehow it feels like you’ve backed him into it.
“Y’know, the TA stuff, asking to study—do we look like we’re studying now?” Your arm skates over his hand, up his arm, the touch leaving goosebumps in their wake.
You watch how his jaw all but clenches at the feeling, a newfound confidence makes you unbelievably giddy, driving you to push more. “But what I wanna know is,”
He feels like he’s running out of breath before he could utter a word when your palm lands up on his hard chest, feeling for the erratic thumping of his heartbeat underneath the fabric of his shirt.
Your head is craned up, lashes bat at him, “What are you willing to do…?”
He’s looking deeply into your eyes, searching for the answer to your question, not realizing how his neck is craning down at your height in return. Several beats pass — he feels a tug on his shirt and then he’s closing the distance between your lips.
He whines on the soft, wet skin, sucking gently, eyes falling shut. His hand finds your cheek, the other reaching for your side when you tangle your arms around his neck. The pace is hungry yet fervent, tugging and melting against the other. You pull away slowly, lips parting from each other wetly. You’re smacking your own lips before smiling up at Choso, giggling.
His eyes are hazy, glasses crooked out of place. His hands are covering your back and smoothing over your clothes, “I can do anything— whatever you want.”
If you weren’t already grinning wide enough, now you’re fully Cheshire-like. Pushing yourself closer towards him, “Anything?” He nods eagerly, you’re pulling him in, hungry.
His hand is on the back of your neck now, holding. There’s something about his touch that feels like it’s keeping you together without feeling too possessive. Caring with a dash of hesitance. One you’re looking to break through tonight.
Your lips travel down his neck, leaving hot, lingering kisses along his throat. “Oh, mmh-“ He bites his lip immediately after nearly letting out the low noise from chest, eyes shutting when you find the particularly sensitive spot on his neck. You feel his fingers dig rougher on your hips, you’re on your knees now, determined to cover every inch of him in your touch. Your weight falls on him when he tugs you, the hands planted on his shoulders squeeze out of instinct.
“You good? I-I didn’t mean to, ah—“ He tried to move his head away from your persistent lips, but a shiver that runs through him stops his actions. You’re sucking on his skin, humming proudly, undettered from your little slip. His hands brush down your sides, they plant themselves lower on your waist.
You plant kisses all the way back to his chin then meet his lips again. You’re eye level, a sinister glint in your eyes. You stick your tongue out, half lidded gaze and staring right at him — brushing the wet, pink muscle along Choso’s bottom lip, teasing. Heat rushes on his face, blood rushes on his crotch. You’re killing him.
You suck on the pink flesh, tugging then letting go, he’s pulling you in closer by the back of your neck. He wants you on him, mind unable to decide how — just everywhere is fine. You drop your palm down between your bodies and on the garter of Choso’s sweats, feeling for the hardness underneath.
He hissed as your fingers brushed what would be his shaft, “Um, sorry, can we make out a little I think…” He holds your head closer to his face, breaths mingling as you catch them. “I’ll get less hard— nervous, I think. Sorry,” You hummed in agreement before landing back on the flushed skin of his mouth, quieting him down with your lips.
You giggle against him, chasing as he squirms, palms settling on his shoulders. You pull off him with a peck, feet planting back on the carpeted floors. Choso now sat far into the couch, slacked with legs spread. His mouth parts as you start undressing, stripping off into your underwear.
He sizes you up and down, taking in your soft, bare skin, your strapless bra and cotton panties under the warm lights of your apartment. It elicits a heavy throb under his pants. Choso’s breathing feels uneven and the air grows thinner when you settle back on the couch, only now between his spread out legs.
You’re steadying yourself, his hands find a place on your warm, now bare skin. You smooth over the wide expanse of his chest, then land on his neck, even warmer than you. “This okay?” You ask, to which he only replies with a nod.
You’re about to lean into him when he reaches for his glasses, but you stop him before he tries to pry the piece of metal off. “They stay on.”
His breath catches in his throat, stomach dipping. A part of him he’s not quite sure whether he wanted to acknowledge, liked when you tell him what to do.
He lets his hand fall, you adjust the rims on the bridge of his nose. “You’re so pretty.” You’re holding his face with both hands, tilting it upwards to you. A lopsided grin appears on his face at the comment, eyes shying away and down from your face and to the body on him.
“Thanks- Thank you,” He replied poorly. His palm skated from your waist and to your back, laying above the clip of your bra. His lips are caught between his teeth as he takes in the feel of your skin against him, he looks up. “You’re awfully pretty as well.”
He was never good at expressing himself,only with what he was sure of. But this was new, you pushing, him taking, it was all new. But he meant every word he said to you. He leaned in to catch your lips against his. Fuck, if only you could tell how much he meant it.
He’s slotting his tongue in between your parted mouth, leaning further in and you’re falling back, but he’s catching you — keeping you to him. You work together smoothly, as smooth as silks rubbing against each other. You clutch on to him tightly as if he’ll slip if you don’t. You taste like jasmine tea and he’s wondering if the sweet taste is from the honey or just you. He’s holding you by the neck and pushing your back into him.
You finally move to settle on his lap, the kiss unwavering so you’re first to pull away, “Choso—“ He catches the sound of his name in your mouth, chasing, taking, and taking. There isn’t any place on your body that isn’t covered by him, your arms, your back, your legs in between his that caged you. You moan at the thought against his greedy tongue, entirely consumed. But you’re impatient and already wet, the fabric of your panties has been riding up for the last 10 minutes. So you squeeze his arms weakly, but it’s enough for him to let air flow between you.
“Shit, Sorry—” He’s frantic and searching your eyes, but he’s met with your hazed out ones and your swollen, drooly lips. He wiped the corner of it, chest heaving. “I need to— you’re driving me insane,” He chuckles, deep and uncertain with how true the fact felt. He’s brushing your hair back gently, “I’m sorry,” he lets go of you as you’re pulling away.
You’re upright now, letting your feet back down. You’re bending over to his lap, palms resting on his spread out limbs, “You need to make it up to me,” You’re once again reaching for his sweats, the imprint of his shaft taking form at the side. He gently lays his hand on your wrist.
“Are you sure?” His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, the frames of his glasses are now on the tip of his nose bridge. But there’s a wave of genuine uncertainty blanketing his expression.
You’re blinking up at him, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
It’s a tangled knot in his chest, one bundled in embarrassing moments and unsuccessful hook-ups. He stuttered over his words,
“Just that before I’ve-“ he pondered if he should risk you laughing at him, but you’re expectantly looking into his eyes, and your hands are already on his lap, a little more and you’d be right where he’s aching for you. “I’m scared of making it…unpleasant?”
His hand rubs up and down your arms, you’re tuning him out and thinking of how you should go about sitting on him. He continued to ramble on, “Um, like I’ve been told it was…“
“Too big?” You ask, attention now on him. Externally you’re collected, stating it like a remark. But internally you know it’s a fact. You feel a little bad thinking about it but now you’re piecing together your earlier conversation on what Miwa’s friend’s friend might’ve been complaining about.
Choso all but nods, eyes scanning your room as if that would keep yours away from him. “I could just help you, y’know. We don’t have to—“
You’re turning over and maneuvering his hand out of his lap, sitting on his thigh. For a moment, you’re a little hesitant, hovering. “I mean I’d like it if we did, but I’m also…” His words trail off, holding your hip and securing you on his lap, unbothered as your weight settles on one thigh. He clears his throat, “I’m okay with, um, anything.”
You’re leaning into him, on your side, hand trailing underneath the hem of his shirt, grazing his clenched abdomen. He jolts, causing you to jump in your seat. Your eyes widen for a moment before relaxing, hand skating lower under the garter of his sweats with a simpering grin on your face. You’re kissing his cheek, gentle and slow as your hand palms over his hard, covered cock.
He’s watching your move under the fabric of his gray sweats, feeling your smaller fingers squeezing and rubbing the base of it. It hurts, he thinks. In a way that something stings and feels good at the same time. You’re squeezing at his tip when he throws his head back on the couch, groaning loudly. You take the opportunity to mouth on his neck again.
“Can you please— Can I please take it off?” He asks politely, but the grip on your hip feels anything but. You hum, still licking at the expanse of his neck.
You’re pulling his pants down with his help—mostly him just taking it off himself, desperate and aching. He’s bare from the waist down now when you settle back on his thigh, sweats and boxers discarded on the floor.
You’re now shamelessly gawking at his erection bouncing against stomach, slapping against it. The warmth of your hand catches him off guard, finally making contact skin to skin. You tug on the shaft, immediately taking notice of how your fingers struggle to close around it and were squeezing on accident.
“F—oh, god. ” He rests his head on your shoulder, sweat building on his forehead. You start moving your hand up and down, already slippery from how he’d been oozing in his boxers the entire time. He’s quiet behind you, save for the heavy breathing on your skin. You go faster. “Your hand’s so tight,” it comes out in a whimper. A wet, mouthing sensation can be felt on your shoulder, he’s biting your skin to muffle himself. But It doesn’t work, his throat lets loose with each reaction.
His eyes roll up from your shoulder when he feels you lean forwards and away from his chest, cock twitching when a wet glob of spit drips on him from your tongue.
You’re both watching your hand work up and down, bringing both onto the shaft, he’s cursing as you go faster.
You’re throwing your other leg over his thigh, straddling him in reverse, before resting back on him. Choso's hands come up to hold you under your knees, keeping your legs apart. He watched as the movement stretched the fabric, pussy still clad in underwear, drenched and barely covering it. But he can’t help but peek lower, your hands exclusively paying attention to his erection.
You joke, “It’s like I'm jerking myself off.”
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, the vibrations thrum against your back and you turn them into moans as you suddenly go faster. “Sucks though, I can’t feel it.”
You’re unable to see his expression behind you, but you can hear how his moans are muffled between his teeth, “You’re s-so eager.”
You reveled at how shaky he’d sounded. “One of us has to be.”
And then a strange noise akin to the tearing of fibers can be heard from below. You gasp as it happens in front of you, hands slowing its ministrations. You realize you’re watching him rip your underwear, exposing your wet, shiny pussy. “Hey—“
He’s adjusting himself from under you, bringing his other hand under your thigh, your legs tugged higher as he starts rubbing right on your clit.
He’s rough and accurate on where he wants to touch you, deliberate in his movements. He’s quick but he isn’t rushing either, his only motive was to get you to falter in his stead as you were doing just the same.
Your voice shrinks into breathy pants, the slick sound from your poor clit syncing in with each, “Ah, ah, Cho—“
“You’re making me so, so hard, baby—” You’re both an obscene sight to behold, playing with each other, spread out, grunting or whimpering. Both sloppily still trying to let your lips tangle with each other despite the inconvenient position. Both a mess, your tits spilling out of your bra, and his glasses all fogged up.
You grind into him, “Feels so good,” rubbing your juices on the cock you’re jerking with now one hand, coating his chubby length. Your body felt like it was on overdrive, moving your hips up and down as you clenched on nothing, gushing freely.
You’re biting your lip as your hips grow erratic, brows pinching and your abdomen clenches on itself. “I-I’m close.”
Choso lets a groan escape,“Fuck, really?” realizing he’s making you come first. It’s a miracle he’s held off this long, he wonders if he’ll hold up if you let him inside. The thought makes him move your hips on his cock, assisting you as you use him to get yourself off.
He doesn’t know if he’s breathing so hard because he’s getting tired or because he knows getting your clit rubbed nudges you a little closer to the edge when you start to get louder. He breathes against your ear, “Come on me, please.” He’s mumbling now, less at you and more to himself. “I wanna see you cum on me, please, please—”
Your legs begin to shake in his hold, fighting to shut close but the grip under your knees forces you to come with your legs spread wide, pussy making a show of spasming against Choso’s cock, voice breaking as you whimper. “That’s it baby, that’s it,”
Choso is completely enamored, the sounds of your high pitched whines in the air was like music to him, the way you writhe against his body was this entrapping dance. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.
He notes how you were still in your bra, he whispers something about it, but you’re just nodding your head with your eyes shut, riding it out. Then he’s unclipping the strap with one hand, the fabric falling off and releasing your perfect tits.
You then relax your back to him, twitching still. But then he’s thrusting his erect cock up between your folds, the stimulation starting to make you wetter again, your breath can only catch up so fast. You’re attempting to lift your hips with a squirm.”Gi-give me a sec—”
Choso quickly lets your legs fall to the side and pauses, sitting up and moving your head to face him. “Shit- we can stop here,” he assured, breathy and worried. “I didn’t mean to, I was just looking at you. You looked-” So fucked out, “I’m sorry.“
“Sh-shut up,” You look away and Choso stiffens under you. Was he too rough? Before he could even utter another apology, you spoke, “I’m fine, I just need to— breathe.“
He watches you quiet down from underneath you, he’s rubbing your thighs comfortingly. “I am sorry,” The silence lingers, only getting tenser with each beat that passes.
And then you start chuckling — at nothing in particular. Your breathing slows down, and you look back to check on him. He looked so worried, brows pinched and his lip jutted out. A lazy smile breaks into your features, leaning down to catch him in a chaste kiss so he wouldn't see the expression on your face. “I liked it, okay?”
His breath hitched in his throat when you spoke against his lips, “Yeah?”
You’re nodding, smile now exposed. You kiss him again, powerless against his sweet lips. He relaxes, hand coming up to the back of your head. “I wanna-“ A kiss, “Fuck you now,” A slower kiss, “Please.”
He’s backing up to read your face, reassessing. Within the silence, something passes between you two. Amidst the air that smells of sex and vaguely of tea, there’s this mix of warmth and uncertainty—and whether or not to dive in it — that lingers in between.
He’s nervous under your gaze, once again, looking for a way out of your eyes that traps him so effectively like no other. He’s looking down at his still, very much, erect self. “I don’t have a condom.”
You’re thinking to yourself before you reach for the side table of your couch, scrambling for a box you kept there in case.
Choso’s scrambling to rip the plastic off before fishing for one packet. “I’m not really sure if it would fit so, maybe just try it,” You remark as you’re being maneuvered out of his lap and on the side of the couch. He fumbled with the rubber a couple times, pulling it down before it snapped a little too tightly on his girth. He tugs it down on him until a tear starts spreading on the side of the translucent material.
“I’m sor—“ He hissed as it snapped against his skin, “See I can’t even fucking…I don’t think this is quite right—” He’s cursing to himself, obviously a little sexually frustrated. For someone his size he still managed to look somewhat like a defeated puppy.
You’re tugging the broken thing off, relief blooming in his chest but it’s short lived as he’s reminded of how he might not even have sex with you anymore. “But no, we really don’t have to.” He says, discouraged.
“You can fuck me raw, I’m on the pill.” He internally groaned, pulled back out of his head. You just had a way with your words.
He does a complete 180, eyes widening, shifting from beaten to optimistic. He reminds himself to curb his excitement though, slowing down. “You can be on top—set the pace?” You’re already moving to sit on his lap.
He’s nodding his head at you, and finally rips his shirt off himself, now completely naked. You’re staring down at him, licking your lips at the sight of his milky skin and toned chest. He pulls you out of your thoughts, voice small and distant.
“I’ll pull out, yeah?” He’s swallowed back thickly, more of reminding himself to do that. “Just be slow okay? I didn’t prepare you that wel—um,"
His voice trails off when you’re already lining yourself up with his reddened tip. “A little at a time—Oh,” You’re already sinking down, unrepressed.
The stretch is long and constant, to the point it feels like you’re rethinking how fast you jumped on this, except you remember you’re already lowering yourself very carefully.
Your jaw hangs open in a silent scream when you get past the head, sinking lower, your walls throb against his member. You’re bracing yourself with a palm, Choso’s chest is covered in sweat and heaving. “You’re so—‘s really tight, oh fuck you’re so warm,” He whined out, unable to complete a sentence.
He’s leaving a trail of hot, open mouthed kisses on your neck and then back on your lips to keep your mewls at bay. You’re kissing back, he’s only half way in when you start moving. Choso’s breaths turn ragged against yours, pulling you closer to him. You catch your breath, “It’s stretching me out so much, Choo-” You whine, slowly rolling your hips.
He’s squeezing your waist before trailing his hands down your ass, “You’re doing good, you’re doing really good.”
He’s looking down at your progress, struggling to tell where you ended and he begun, now nearer to the base of his cock. He throbs inside you. “Fuck, a-are you okay?” He’s looking back up at your face, taking in your lips, bitten and swollen under your teeth.
He lets out a shaky whimper, “You’re taking so much.” His eyes finding their way back to your hole swallowing him. “So good, baby.”
You tuck your feet over his thighs for leverage, pulling off his cock slowly then sinking back down, and back up. You repeat the motions, torturously slow, your slick creating this lewd noise from each rock of your hips as you go deeper. Choso’s hands are on your thighs, weighing you down but he’s really holding back from actively pushing — still you’re sinking, taking more.
You start to bounce, struggling to hold yourself up with your palm on his chest, the slight sting of the stretch dulling out to a deep pressure. It’s a lot easier now, you go even faster with the help of your growing arousal slicking up his cock. Every touch you leave on each other now feels highly sensitive, your tits pressed against Choso’s hard chest, his hands squeezing on your ass for dear life. You’re left unable to keep up conversations or teases to each other now, heads completely in a different space. You're left babbling incoherencies as your tingling nerves derail your focus, the only thing clear was to go after what felt good.
But you falter, your knees slowing as they start to ache but you push yourself further, desperate, taking even more of Choso’s length. You find yourself losing balance and lean over, panting. You lift your hips, then let your ass fall back into his lap, a strained mewl leaving your throat, “I-I need help. I need you, Cho—need you t’a fuck my pussy,”
He groans out at how high your voice got, fresh from its suppressed whines. “Okay I’ll help,” He’s quick with his hands, holding you by the globes of your ass, and pulls you up. He bites back a noise, hearing and feeling your tight pussy gush and clamp on him as he lifts until it’s just the tip. “s’ okay if I thrust a little?” He whispers against your ear, growing desperate as his cock pulses in anticipation. You nod fervently in his neck, arms circled around him. “Okay baby, I’m gonna. I’m gonna help this pussy- fuckkk”
It’s noisier now, from your skin, sticky and slapping against each other, to your gasps turning into moans against each other’s open mouths. Choso’s now taking all the work, lifting your ass and bringing it down to meet his aching cock even faster than you could have. He starts meeting your pussy half way, thrusting up wards and it knocks the wind out of you.
Moans spill out of you with each thrust up, breaking and then bursting out of you. You’re clinging to him, bodies impossibly close, skin rubbed up against skin. “You’re so fucking loud, honey—do you like it?” His groans turn into grunts with how he’s physically exerting his body, on a mission to see you break apart on top of him.
You reply with a noise of acknowledgment, barely audible amongst the slapping and heavy breathing. You’re body feels hot all over, from inside and out. He’s deep enough inside you in places you didn’t even know was possible to go that far in, and the best worst part is you haven’t even reached the base of him yet. A new objective makes itself known in the part of your brain that still functioned, a dimly flickering idea.
“Ch-choso can you, ngh—“ You’re bringing your face out of his neck to face him, but he’s still busying himself with his thrusts, “I want you deeper, c-could you do that f’me?”
He’s letting out a high pitched whine he when lets you down, about to throw his head back when you catch his lips in yours, tugging on his hair and pulling roughly. “You’re stronger than me Cho, c’mon. Make me cum on your big cock—“
He groans, planting his feet on the ground, before you know it you’re up in the air, now standing. You cut yourself off with a moan, both of you do —sighing out when he lifts your ass up before dropping you on his painfully hard cock. “You’re so filthy when you talk, y’know that?”
It feels like he's all the way to your lungs when he finally bottoms out in you, which would make sense since it feels like you aren’t breathing anymore. You cry out once more, wiling your eyes and muffling the noises in his neck, biting down. “Are you crying?” He asks, concern prodding between his excitement, but the thought manages to make it’s way to his cock, fucking you on him rhytmically slow and deep. You let out a choked sob, “Fuck you’re crying—not even going that fast.”
“Then g-go faster,” You managed to voice out between moans, your hips wiggling in his grasp. He groans in response, kneading your ass to stop you from getting ahead of him.
“You tell me if it’s too much- just, you have to tell me a-alright?” You’re clenching on him, still trying to bounce. “Shit, Okay.”
The slower sounds of your skin slapping each other turn into rapid, sharp sounds. Choso grunting from each thrust, now fully unrepressed. In seconds, the image you’ve crafted of him as this shy, hesitant boy, crumbles. You’re fully moaning out now, his cock nudging deeper and repeatedly in that spot that triggers your insides. “I’m so full, fuck-“
He’s hiccuping his moans out, turning into whimpers as he pumps you up and down even faster, his nails digging into the meat of your ass. “You’re taking me so good baby,” He’s thrusting up when he lets you fall on his cock midway, his muscles forgetting to strain. “Fuck, take it, take it—“
He dives in against your lips, tongue invading your whimpering mouth. You try your best to kiss back, eyes nearly closing while he’s drowning you in him. You’re clenching on his cock a lot tighter now, his balls drenched in your arousal, slapping against your other hole from the impact of his motions.
“I think I—I’m gonna cum-“ You pull away from Choso who lets out a breathy moan, licking your lips to chase yours. You’re falling limp against him, hips rendered useless when he’s already fucking you on a pace outside of your own stamina.
Your insides are pulsing around his member, your moans growing even louder. Choso’s deep enough into you when he feels his cock twitch, “I need to pull out—“ You’re immediately protesting, letting out noises of disapproval. “No, no baby I’m gonna cum if you—“
“I don’t care.“ Fuck. Choso holds himself back, his pre-cum oozing out makes your sopping hole even more slippery at the thought of filling you up to the brim. He’s thinking of ways to keep himself from cumming right this very second when you’re already so fucked out and desperate, high up in your own head.
His dick twitches again and he’s biting his lip, slowing his carry on your body til you’re stopping altogether. Before you could say anything else, he’s pulling out and placing you on the couch, lying down. You’re complaining, spreading your legs as much as the cushions on your side could let you.
Choso’s holding his cock, squeezing at the base to calm himself down but he opens his eyes to your gaping, hungry hole, presented to him like an offer, “C-cum inside me, Cho,”
His resolve breaks within a blink of an eye, already laying above you and wrapping your legs around his waist. You feel like crying out of joy when he finally makes his way inside, thrusting slowly and hissing from how tight you still are. “I need to be on top of you, I need to—“ He mumbled, eyes already hazed out and clambering for satiation.
He topples over you as he finds his balance, now setting a newer pace from earlier, caging you with his body while his thrusts grow even faster.
The sensation is much more different now, a stretch added with the forces of his thrusts now fully landing on you.
He’s watching every twist of your face and moan spill out. Scanning your body downwards while he lays a palm on your lower abdomen, “If I cum inside you’re gonna bulge right h-here, d’ ya want that?”
You’re squealing against him when he presses down, his cock nudging where he’s digging his fingers from the outside. Your walls flutter against his member, sucking him in and pulsing wetly. Choso’s grunting against you, hips growing faster as he watches your eyes get even more hazy and your face twisted.
Your eyes are rolling back when he starts rubbing on your clit, already impatient with wanting to feel your pussy tighten impossibly around him.
He’s whispering incoherencies to you, face on your neck when he pulls back his hips and pushes back in deeply as he continues rubbing you.
You cry out, shuddering against Choso as the coil in you snaps, holding onto his wrist as your legs secured against his ribs.
He lets out a shaky moan, pumping faster when he chases his orgasm while you ride yours out on him, bodies grinding up against each other intimately.
A curse lets you know that he’s finally reached his climax, thrusts growing slow and deep while pumping you full of his sticky cum. Your eyes are glossed over, your throat sore from your own voice when he’s riding out his high, panting and leaving kisses all over your face.
Your chests are pumping against each other, both catching your breaths. Your hand finds its way to his face, turning it so he could look back at you. His cheeks are red and his glasses were no longer on him, probably losing them from how much you’d been switching positions.
You’re brushing his hair from his face, tucking a long strand onto his ear. Your body still feels like it’s on fire but it doesn’t compare to how even after all that, his stare on you still makes your heart skip a beat. You let out a breath, gathering yourself.
“What do you think?” His eyes scans over your face, “Better than coming up to study?”
Choso shifts on his elbows as he’s laying on top of you.“Yeah that was…” He takes a moment to think of a better way to describe it, a smile spreading on his face. “Really good.” He settles with honesty instead.
He’s thumbing over your shoulder, a hundred thoughts trying to materialize themselves in his still mushed up brain. “I’ve never done it like that, before I mean.“
He’s looking up to meet your eyes, and you’ve got a glow emitting from you, drawing him in. He hesitates for a moment but then, “And you? How’d you feel?”
You huff out a soft chuckle, realizing how ironic this all was. How you’ve still managed to not destroy the awkwardness that came with affections even when you’ve skipped over to, well sex. Choso waits for your answer, something swirls tight in his chest, uneasy but still patient.
You’re brushing back the hair on his scalp, taking in how much less guarded he looks without glasses. “Yeah, I feel…safe.”
He smiles, that knot in his chest untangling. To no surprise, he finds the thread it’s bundled from may be connected to you. “Yeah?”
sero's smile is lopsided, nearly sliding off of his face the eay he nearly slides off the booth when he turns to you. the izakaya is loud and the air tastes of cigarettes and stale beer, but the food is good and the drinks are cold. It's been your spot for your friend dates (freights) for years; this seat's cushion is probably permanently shaped like your ass.
"Hey." Sero leans towards you, hand bumping into your thigh. "Can I eat you out?"
You blink. Then, blink again. "What?"
There's no shame in his glossed over eyes. "Can I lick your pussy? My mouth is, like, craving it so bad."
That makes you scoff.
"You're drunk."
"Uh, duh. That's the best time to eat it." Sero's eyes travel down to the high hem of your skirt. "I can get all sloppy and weird with it."
"I'm all sweaty-" You aren't sure why you're even entertaining this, but that makes Sero hunch over the table and groan.
summary: what was supposed to be a gentle evening exposes Clark’s deepest fear: that someone else could give you the life he can’t
warnings: 18+ smut, graphic depictions of sex, f oral receiving, p in v, porn with plot, needy! clark, clark is sad and just wants to make you feel good :(, insecurities, anxiety?
It wasn’t often that Clark made it home before you.
Most nights, you beat him there by hours, the space already warm. Your shoes by the door, the soft light from the kitchen, the sound of you moving around in clothes far more comfortable than those you’d worn to work.
He knew the routine by heart. You’d change the second you got in, slipping out of your work things and into something soft—fluffy socks, an old robe if it was cold, or, his personal weakness, one of his shirts that you found in the back of your wardrobe.
If he was being honest with himself, he’d started leaving them behind on purpose, just for the chance of coming home and finding you wrapped up in something that still smelled faintly like him.
Worth it, he could always buy more shirts.
Worth it every single time.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get home sooner. God, he did. Most days he was already thinking about you before he’d even finished his first coffee at the Planet. Wondering if you were thinking the same thing. Wondering what you were doing, if you’d eaten, if you’d remembered to take your coat when it got cold.
But articles ran long, deadlines moved, and sometimes the sound of something breaking three streets away would reach him through the windows before he even realised he was listening for it.
He hated that the world always seemed to need him most when you were waiting so patiently for him. Hated it even more because you never made him feel bad about it.
But the moment he finally walked through the door always made it worth it.
The hum of your voice from the kitchen, something soft playing through your speakers.
You said you liked to cook for him.
He’d offered a hundred times to pick something up on the way, to make up for his punctuality. To make it easier, faster, less work after your own long day, but you always waved him off like the suggestion was ridiculous.
You said it relaxed you. Said you liked knowing he was eating something you made.
Said it like it was the most normal thing in the world to take care of him like that.
He never quite knew what to do with all your kindness. The small things still caught him off guard, made the warmth creep up the back of his neck before he could stop it.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever stop feeling that way.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
Tonight, though, the flat was quiet when he opened the door.
Clark let himself in with the spare key you’d pressed into his hand months ago. The lock clicked softly behind him, and he closed the door gently.
It felt strange, walking into the empty space first. Everything looked the same.
Your books stacked unevenly on the shelf, the plants you swore you remembered to water—even the ones he secretly helped along when you forgot. Your mug from that morning in the sink.
All the usual things. All the proof that this was your place.
And still, without you in it, the space felt incomplete.
If this was how it felt when he got home first, he suddenly wished he’d made it home sooner a lot more often.
He shrugged off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over the back of the chair. You’d texted him a few hours earlier, telling him you were running late, promising you’d make it up to him when you got home.
He’d smiled at the message when he read it. You really didn’t have to make anything up to him. You never did. Just coming home was enough.
If anything, this just meant he had time to do something for you for a change.
Clark made his way over to the fridge, pulling the door open and leaning down slightly as he looked through the shelves, taking stock the way he’d seen you do a hundred times before.
He was careful about it; he didn’t want to use the wrong thing, didn’t want to mess up whatever plan you might’ve had for the week.
He reached for the container of leftovers first, then paused, putting it back exactly where he found it.
Absolutely not.
You’d probably pack that for lunch tomorrow, and he liked the idea of you walking in to the smell of something cooking a lot more than the sound of a microwave.
He shifted things around instead, scanning the drawers until he spotted what he was looking for—a few stray cloves of garlic tucked down at the back of the vegetable drawer, half a bunch of basil wrapped in a paper towel, a lone chilli pepper rolling slightly when he moved the onions.
That would work. That would work just fine.
You always said the simple ones were your favourite anyway.
He straightened up, already thinking it through. There’d be tomatoes in the cupboard. Pasta too, somewhere on the second shelf, the one you kept meaning to organise but never quite got around to.
Perfect. Simple.
Something warm for you to come home to.
And he knew he could make a darn good pasta.
It was one of the first things his ma had ever taught him, standing beside her in the kitchen back home, listening to her explain that good food didn’t have to be complicated, just made with care. He could still hear her voice sometimes when he cooked, telling him to taste as he went, to trust himself, and to always make enough for everyone at the table.
He liked to think she’d smile if she could see him now, standing in a kitchen that wasn’t hers, cooking for someone who had somehow become just as much home. He was pretty sure she’d tell him he’d done well for himself. Say she was proud he had someone at his table worth making dinner for.
He liked to think she’d say he picked right.
That he’d found someone good.
Someone she’d love too.
He set the garlic down on the counter and reached for the chopping board, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows without thinking. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall to his left.
Plenty of time.
He let himself smile a little, picking up the knife. Might as well give you something good to come home to.
You always did the same for him.
Clark was stirring the sauce when he heard the front door open. The tomatoes had burst and cooked down just right, the garlic mellow, the basil already starting to sweeten the air. Another five minutes, maybe less, and it would be perfect.
“Clark?” You call out, tired. Soft, but still tired. “You in here?”
Right on time.
“In the kitchen!” he called back, setting the spoon down and stepping away from the stove. He wiped his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder, already turning toward the doorway before you even appeared.
He could hear you coming closer, the shuffle of your steps, the soft thud of your bag hitting the chair in the other room.
Your head peeked around the doorframe, and the second he saw the look on your face—apologetic, tired, a little sheepish, a small smile you wore when you thought you’d disappointed him—his chest tightened.
“Sorry I’m late,” you said, stepping into the kitchen.
He shook his head immediately, already moving toward you without thinking about it; the distance between you needed fixing as fast as possible.
“Hey, no—don’t do that,” he said with a soft smile. One hand coming up automatically to rest on your arms when you got close enough.
You don’t have to apologise to him. Not for anything out of your control.
You gave him that look again, like you still weren’t convinced.
“I said I’d be back earlier,” you murmured.
He let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head as he looked down at you, his thumb brushing absent-mindedly against your sleeve.
“Hey,” he said again, waiting until you actually looked up at him. “It’s okay. Really. You’re here now. That’s all I wanted.”
You nodded, then glanced past him toward the stove, nose twitching slightly as the smell hit you, and your eyes widened just a little.
“…Did you cook?”
He felt the back of his neck warm instantly, that bashful heat creeping up before he could stop it. He rubbed the side of his jaw with his thumb.
“Well… yeah,” he admitted. “You said you were gonna be late. Figured I could manage dinner for once.”
It’s the least he could do.
You stepped past him toward the stove before he could say anything else, leaning over the pot with a small sigh, breathing in the scent like it was the best thing you’d smelled all day.
“That smells amazing,” you groaned, glancing back at him over your shoulder with a grin.
He huffed out a quiet laugh.
“It’s pasta,” he shrugged humbly. “Kinda hard to mess up.”
You turned, still smiling, and before he could stop himself, he was already moving closer, drawn in by your grateful expression. The domesticity of the moment.
He needed to cook more often.
He closed the distance in two easy steps, one hand finding your waist on instinct, the other brushing down your arm as he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours in a familiar kiss.
You let out a sigh against his mouth, warm and tired and relieved, and it went straight through him.
It was ridiculous, the way one small sound from you could undo him like that.
Gosh, he missed you today.
He smiled against your mouth, one arm tightening around your waist as he lifted you, setting you up on the counter beside the stove as he’d done it a hundred times before.
“Careful,” he murmured, still smiling against your lips, one hand lingering a bit longer than it needed to, just to make sure you were steady.
Not that you ever weren’t. He just liked the excuse.
You let out a small giggle, bumping your knee lightly against his side.
“You’re in a good mood.”
How couldn’t he be?
He shrugged, glancing back at the pot before turning the heat down another notch.
“Got home early,” he said with a shrug. “Felt like my turn to do something for you.”
You gazed at him, smiling at his words.
“So you made dinner for me?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, proud but slightly embarrassed at the acknowledgement of his hard work.
He’d had strangers thank him before, whole crowds even, but nothing ever made him feel this awkwardly pleased the way you did when you looked at him like that.
“Well… yeah. Didn’t seem fair you always do it.”
“You’re trying to spoil me.”
He snorted softly under his breath.
“Pretty sure that’s my job.”
His favourite job.
You laughed at that, and he ducked his head again, turning and stirring the sauce just to give himself something to focus on.
“So,” he added, “What about you, huh? What’d you get up to today?”
You swung your feet lightly against the cabinet, completely relaxed.
Good.
“Nothing exciting,” you said. “Work, mostly. Had lunch with one of the new guys though.”
Clark’s hand paused for just a second.
“Yeah?” he said, keeping his voice easy. “New guy?”
You nodded.
“Yeah, Daniel. He started a few weeks ago. We ended up grabbing lunch together after a meeting.”
Daniel.
The name settling somewhere in the back of his mind, whether he wanted it to or not.
“…Daniel?” he repeated, voice slightly higher. He glanced over his shoulder at you, trying very hard to sound like he was just making conversation.
You tilted your head, thinking.
“I think I mentioned him before? Maybe?”
Your brows pulled together as you tried to remember, then you shrugged.
“We’re the only ones around the same age in the department,” you said with a small chuckle. “Kind of felt natural we got paired up. We’ve been grabbing lunch together the last few days.”
The spoon dragged a little slower through the sauce.
Last few days.
Did you mention that before?
“Oh yeah?” he said, keeping his tone light.
“Yeah,” you went on, still talking easily. “You’d like him, actually. He’s kind of similar to you.”
He glanced back at you.
“…Similar how?”
You smiled, completely genuine.
“He’s just… nice. You know? Always the one who remembers people’s birthdays, makes sure everyone’s got what they need. Stayed late the other night to help one of the interns finish something.”
Clark looked back at the pot, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly, though it didn’t quite make it into a smile.
“Sounds like a real hero,” he said quietly.
You laughed, missing the way his shoulders had gone just a little stiff.
“No, he’s just… thoughtful,” you said. “He actually hung around after work the other night too, when you got held up. I didn’t even realise how late it was until we were the only ones left in the office.”
The other night.
The night he’d been halfway across the city instead of walking through the door with you.
He swallowed, eyes fixed on dinner, which now felt slightly inadequate as the guilt began to gnaw at him.
“…That so,” he said, voice steady, even if his chest felt a little tighter.
You nodded, still oblivious.
“Yeah, he was waiting on some notes from his boss, I was finishing up my draft, so we just… talked for a bit. He’s easy to talk to.”
Easy to talk to.
Clark let out a quiet hum, forcing himself to place the spoon down before he bent the handle clean in half.
Of course he was.
Normal hours. Normal life.
No disappearing mid-sentence because someone somewhere needed saving.
“Sounds like you two are getting along.”
“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “He’s been having a bit of a rough time, though.”
He glanced back at you again.
“What happened?”
You frowned slightly.
“His girlfriend broke up with him a couple weeks ago. Knocked his confidence a bit, I think.”
His expression softened automatically. He couldn’t help it.
“Poor guy,” he murmured.
“I know,” you agreed. “I don’t know all the details, but he seemed really upset about it. We ended up talking about it for ages the other day. He just needed someone to listen, I think.”
Clark nodded slowly. Of course you listened, and that was the thing.
You made people feel better just by being there.
Made him feel better just by being there.
He reached across to turn the stove on the lowest setting before facing you once more, slotting himself between your knees. His free hand reached out without him thinking, settling lightly against your thigh where you sat on the counter, thumb brushing once.
“That’s good, honey,” he smiles down at you. “I’m glad you’re not stuck over there on your own.”
Without him.
The words came out quieter than he meant. His tone was small and honest, slipping out before he could stop it.
You didn’t seem to notice anything in his voice, just shuffled a little.
“Yeah. He’s easy to be around,” you said. “And he’s opposite me, you know? Same mornings. We end up hanging out without really planning to.”
He nodded slowly.
Same routine. Same life.
Didn’t have to disappear halfway through dinner. Didn’t have to text apologies from five blocks away. Didn’t have to leave you sitting alone at a table because someone somewhere needed him.
You kept talking.
“He stayed late the other night too. When you got held up? We were the last ones in the office. He didn’t want me walking back to the station on my own.”
It shouldn’t have bothered him.
Honestly, he was glad someone stayed with you. It was a kind gesture by a coworker that stopped you from being alone that late.
He was grateful, but there was something else there too.
His mind immediately pictured you sitting in that office after hours, laughing at something some other guy said, walking out together side by side…
“Clark?” you said, tilting your head a little.
Your voice gently shook him back into the room, blue eyes catching yours as they focused. He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there for a moment, hands resting on your legs, like he was trying to settle his stomach that wouldn’t quite sit still.
He knew it was stupid.
You hadn’t done anything wrong. You were just talking about your day. But all he could think about was how easy it sounded. How much of your time happened in places he couldn’t always be.
He swallowed, glancing down at the counter while his mind kept circling the same thought.
He couldn’t always be there when you stayed late. Couldn’t always walk you home, couldn’t always make dinner, couldn’t always give you the kind of normal time other people seemed to have without even trying.
His thoughts drifted for a moment.
Dinner suddenly felt almost juvenile compared to what he really wanted to do for you. Sweet, sure—but not enough. Not when you looked this tired.
There had to be something more. Something only he could give you.
He ran through the list in his head without thinking; every little thing he knew made you smile, until one idea settled in and stayed.
Oh.
Oh.
Yeah. That.
That he knew how to do.
He knew how to make you come undone after a long day without you even realising that was what you needed.
Knew the exact places to touch that made the tension leave your shoulders, the way your breath caught when his hands moved across your bare skin, the way you melted into him like your body already trusted him to take care of the rest.
He knew the sounds you made when he took his time.
Knew how your fingers curled into the sheets when he got it right.
Knew how to make you forget about work, about long days, about anyone else who’d had your attention before you walked through the door.
It’s not much, but it would work for now.
“You know,” he said quietly, voice low, a little rougher than before,
“I figure I owe you a better evening than just pasta.”
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the look on his face more than the words. He could hear your pulse quicken at his insinuation.
“Clark, we don’t have to—”
He was already moving before you finished the sentence.
He reached past you without breaking eye contact, turning the stove fully off, the soft click of the burner cutting through the quiet kitchen. He stepped in close again, coming to stand between your knees where you sat on the counter, his hands settling lightly on either side of you, not touching yet.
His blue eyes lifted to yours, soft and searching, asking without saying a word.
You looked tired.
He could see it now that he was close enough. The faint tension in your brow, the way your shoulders hadn’t fully relaxed since you walked in.
That he could fix.
His hand came up slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to, his fingers brushing along your cheek, thumb tracing just under your eye like he could smooth the tiredness away if he was careful enough.
You let out a breathy sound at the touch, the sound soft and surprised, and the corner of his mouth lifted, the tension in his chest loosening just from hearing it.
There you were.
He leaned in then, slow, giving you time to meet him halfway, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss.
You melted into him almost immediately, arms coming up around his shoulders, and that was all it took for his hand to slide to your waist, pulling you a little closer on the counter without thinking about it.
He deepened the kiss carefully, listening more than leading; he felt your breath change, your fingers tightening slightly at the back of his shirt. He let his mouth drift from your lips to your cheek, then lower, pressing slow kisses along the side of your jaw, down to your neck, unhurried, patient, like he had nowhere else to be for once.
Your breath hitched under his mouth, just barely.
Gotcha.
His eyes closed for a second, forehead brushing your temple as he let out a sigh, one hand sliding around your back, his thumb moving in slow circles like he was trying to work the tension out of you one touch at a time.
“C’mon, sweetheart…” he murmured softly against your skin, almost pleading. “Dinner’s done… missed you all day…”
His lips brushed your neck again, slower this time, listening for every little change in your breathing.
“Can’t I make you feel good for a while?”
Please.
He pulled back to look at you, hands still warm at your sides, waiting.
Your cheeks were flushed now, eyes a little softer at the edges, heartbeat spiking slightly.
He didn’t move. Didn’t touch you again. Just waited until you gave him the permission he was almost desperate for.
“Yes,” you sighed with a nod, arms sliding around his shoulders again as you leaned into him. “Please…” you murmured against his lips.
Finally.
His whole face softened and he let out a sigh that almost sounded like a laugh before his arms wrapped around you properly.
“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.
He lifted you easily from the counter, holding you close against his chest, arms under your legs, careful even now.
Strong arms stayed steady beneath your thighs as he carried you down the short hallway, your legs tightening around his waist as you went, drawing him closer.
The bedroom door was already half-open; he nudged it wider with his shoulder and didn’t bother with the light switch. The city glow filtering through the curtains was enough—soft gold and silver across your skin.
The way he liked you best.
He lay you down in the middle of the bed like you were something delicate, straightening just long enough to pull his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion.
The fabric hit the floor. His eyes never left yours. You looked up at him with soft, half-lidded gaze, and that was all it took to undo him.
Gosh, how did he get so lucky?
He crawled over you slowly, caging you in with his forearms. One large hand brushed your hair back from your forehead tenderly.
“You gonna let me take care of you?” he murmured, voice low. Asking once again for your consent.
You nodded eagerly, already pawing at his bare shoulders to have his lips meet your own again. He obliged immediately, kissing you slow and deep, revelling in the way you gave yourself to him without hesitation.
When he pulled back, his thumb traced along your bottom lip.
“So pretty,” he whispered, the words impossibly softer than the touch.
You huffed out, slightly flustered by the praise. Your fingers tightened against his wrist as you looked up at him, eyes heavy.
“Please.” You asked from under him, doe eyes almost pleading for him to touch you more.
Oh, sweetheart.
Who was he not oblige such a sweet request?
His fingers were careful as they moved to your shirt, unfastening each button one at a time, slow enough that you could feel the warmth of his hands long before the fabric gave way. Goosebumps followed every small movement, your skin reacting to the light brush of his knuckles as much as the cool air hit your exposed flesh.
You were always so receptive to him, always so open. Taking everything he offered you and more. It made his mind dizzy.
Not that he thought he deserved it.
He shoved the thought to the back of his mind as he continued undressing you, not allowing your pleasure to be sidetracked by his own insecurities.
Tonight, he wanted you to forget everything else.
He pushed the shirt from your shoulders with such softness. One hand slid behind your back, fingers finding your bra clasp without looking. His hands moved lower next, sliding the rest of your clothes away until nothing was left but warm skin under his palms.
He leaned in again, lips brushing over the newly bared areas, kissing along your collarbone, your shoulder, the centre of your chest, taking his time with each touch like he was memorising you all over again.
“Beautiful.” He breathed against your neck as your face heated.
It really was the only way to describe you—soft and pliant, bare and so needy for him already.
He was going to give you everything tonight. Take his time until the only thing left in that sweet head of yours was him.
It felt like he owed you more than that anyway.
His hands settled on your thighs, spreading them gently.
“Need to taste you first, honey,” though it sounds more like a plea. “Just lie back for me, can you do that?”
Let him make you feel good.
Let him make it up to you.
You nodded eagerly, cheeks already warm, no convincing needed.
He lowered himself between your legs, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh.
“Missed taking care of you like this,” he said, mainly to himself, fingers already spreading you open before any words could escape you.
He dipped his head down, mouth closing over your clit, tongue lapping in the rhythm he knew drove you wild.
A small whine pulled from your chest and he hummed in approval, the sound vibrating against your skin. One broad hand stayed splayed across your lower stomach, holding you down so you couldn’t chase his mouth even if you tried.
He needed you just like this, exactly where he could take care of you properly.
As he kept going, a gentle cry burst out of your mouth, your hands coming down to tangle in his hair, pulling him without thinking. He could only groan as he felt you tug him closer.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed, pressing his lips against your thigh. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He truly wasn’t.
He was in heaven between your thighs. Your warmth, the softness of your skin as he pulled more sounds from you. The way you tensed, squeezing his head as he sucked harder.
He was taking his time, savouring you, stroking his tongue across every fold, every nerve ending, until he was sure you’d be seeing stars.
He owed you that.
Your moans got longer, the feeling of your body unwinding around him, letting him know that he was still good at this. Letting him know that it was only him who would make you come undone like this.
He pressed two fingers inside of you, humming in appreciation as you cried out.
“Ah, Clark—“
He curled his fingers, feeling your walls begin to tighten, throbbing as your sounds grew more desperate, more beautiful.
He swore his name had never sounded so sweet.
“That’s it, angel, almost there.”
Your back arched; he pressed you back down with that hand on your stomach, keeping you right where he wanted you.
Let go for him.
When you came, it was with a sound that made his entire body tingle. He stayed between your legs the whole time, licking you through every aftershock until you were whimpering beneath him.
Always the prettiest sight he could ask for.
When your shaking subsided, he kissed his way back up your body, careful not to overwhelm you just yet. He pressed his forehead to yours while you caught your breath.
He saw the blissed-out look in your eyes, the hazy smile, the sheepish look as you giggled at him, like he had just given you the world, and he couldn’t help but smile too.
Your hands shifted to the top of his slacks, giving them a small playful tug as you met his blue eyes again.
“Not fair,” you pouted. “Wanna see you too.”
He let out a small chuckle, but he was elated that you wanted more. Wanted more of him.
Always so eager.
“Yeah?” He asks as his nose nudges against your cheek, lips brushing your flushed skin. He smiles when he sees you nod, your face almost desperate.
He leans back to unbuckle his belt, trousers following quickly after as he pulls them down his hips. He can feel your eyes on him as he undresses, his muscles twisting in the dim light under your gaze.
He watches the way your eyes glaze over, your breath getting stuck in the back of your throat, the way your thighs rub together at the sight of him bare before you.
“You’re so handsome, Clark.”
The words stop him in his tracks.
Spilling from your mouth without thought. Like it was the simplest truth. It stuttered his movements as he could feel the heat bloom across his face.
The fact that you still say these things after all this time never fails to make the world tilt ever so slightly. It nearly knocks him off balance.
Focus.
He needs to make you feel good tonight, needs to make you feel good every night.
If making you come over and over was what it took to keep that soft look in your eyes, to keep you reaching for him instead of anyone else, he’d do it as many times as it took.
Gladly.
Every single night.
“Baby…” he breathes, pushing his hair back off his forehead. “You keep talking like that, I’m not gonna last five seconds.”
You glance up at him, a teasing glint in your eye.
“Then I guess I’d better keep talking, huh?”
You’ll be the death of him.
“Sweetheart…” he groans softly. “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”
You take mercy on him and bite your lip as he drops the last of his clothes aside and begins to crawl back over you, allowing his warm, solid body to wrap around you once more.
He breathes in deeply against the side of your neck, his breath tickling as he leaves soft, open-mouth kisses against your jaw.
The way he is positioned over you, caging you in, not allowing friction in the one place where you really want him.
“Please—“ you wrap your legs around his hips, trying so hard to get him closer. “Clark—fuck—I need more.”
“Language, baby,” he coos, pressing his lips once again on your flushed skin. “I got you, alright? Need you to relax for me.”
You nod, giving him a gentle peck as your hands slide up his bare back. His muscles flex under your palms, shivering like it’s the first time.
He was already hard—aching, really—his cock heavy and flushed against your thigh. He’d barely been paying attention to himself tonight.
No—tonight was about you.
Reaching down between you, he guides himself to your entrance slowly, watching your reaction. The blunt head of him nudges against your slick folds.
So wet, so ready for him.
He pauses there, eyes locked on yours.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers against your lips. “I’ll stop, alright? just say the word.”
Just say, and he’ll stop.
“I need you, Clark,” you plead, “Please, I need you so bad.”
Every ounce of self-control he had went into holding himself together at the sound of your voice, his sweet girl begging him to make her feel good.
He feels you fluttering around his tip, walls trying to suck him in. His chest rumbles as he slowly pushes forward, rolling his hips gently so he fits with little resistance.
“God—“ you whine as your head hits the pillow behind you, nails digging into his shoulders.
“I know, baby—“ he soothes, almost fully inside you. “I know—”
He groans into your collarbone as he bottoms out, allowing himself to look between your bodies. Your arousal is coating the bottom of his shaft. It makes him nearly burst right then.
“So good for me, angel, so good—“
His praise has you clenching as he thrusts into you once more, mewling gently under him.
It begins lazily, savouring every twitch of your body. Long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you, his hips rolling again and again as his breaths get heavier.
Every breath that caught, every time your hands tightened around his shoulders, pulled his focus right back to you, even when his mind kept trying to wander somewhere it shouldn’t.
Gosh, he’d almost forgotten how you looked falling apart like this.
Soft under him, lips parted, trusting him completely.
How long had it been since he pleasured you like this? A week? Two?
Far too long.
His jaw tightened slightly as his hips faltered for half a second before he forced himself back.
“Feel good, honey?” he murmured against your temple, “Tell me I’m doing it right.”
He had to be.
He had to make this good for you.
He shifted his angle just slightly, the way he knew made your breath stutter, pressing his lips to your temple as he heard your sweet voice.
“So good—“ you breathe out. “Always feel so good.”
He really hopes so.
Superman could keep the whole city safe, sure. That was the easy part.
But this? This was the part that really mattered.
It was up to Clark to take care of you. Up to him to make sure you felt wanted, felt seen, felt good.
“Don’t get enough of you,” he admits, voice cracking slightly. “Not nearly enough—gosh—“
You moaned under him again, letting him know he was hitting your sweet spot when you arched up into him, chest brushing against his own.
Yes, just like that.
He needed to see this, to know that he could still do this for you.
“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he whimpers as he can feel you getting closer. “Say it—please angel—gotta hear you say it.”
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, both of pleasure and pure determination. The kind that made his vision blur just enough that he had to blink them away to focus.
He couldn’t be done with you yet.
He kept moving, steady and deep, listening to every single sound you made. When your nails scraped lightly down his back, he slowed even more, letting you feel every thick inch.
It was then that you looked up at him, concerned eyes completely filled with love.
“Clark… I love you.” You say slowly as you cup his face. “You don’t even have to ask.”
He lets out a choked sound as his movements still, breath catching in his throat.
His forehead drops against yours, eyes squeezing shut. One of his hands comes up to cover yours where it rests on his cheek, pressing into your palm.
“Say it again,” he asks softly. Needing to hear it once more.
There is no hesitation in your reply.
“I love you, Clark,” you say as you squeeze his hand gently. “I’m always yours.”
A soft moan escapes his throat as your words wash over him, the sweetness of your tone spurring him on.
He pulls back ever so slightly, searching your face for any sign of dishonesty. He finds none.
“I love you too,” he says, though his voice sounds sadder than he means. “Just… don’t stop saying that, please?”
He doesn’t give you time to question his statement before his lips are back on yours, hips rolling once again in steady movements, reassured somewhat by your gentle words.
The sweetness starts to fray at the edges as the pleasure builds. His thrusts stay deep but grow a fraction harder, a little more urgent, like the need to prove himself is winding tighter in his chest.
His dark curls begin to drift onto his forehead. His kisses are messier now, almost desperate, tongue sliding against yours as his hips snap forward with a little more force.
He could feel you getting close again, the way you tightened around him, the way your thighs started to tremble. He didn’t speed up. He just kept that same devastating rhythm, grinding deep on every stroke, one hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit with two fingers.
“Come on, baby,” he coaxed, voice soft and pleading. “Let go for me, I got you—please—.”
“Clark—” It came out broken, desperate, and he felt it like a punch to the chest.
He groaned, hips stuttering for the first time, but he caught himself immediately, forcing the pace back to that slow, worshipful roll.
“Again,” he begs through gritted teeth.
Say his name again.
Tell him it’s only him.
“Clark… oh god, Clark—”
Your orgasm hit you like a wave—long and rolling and endless. He felt every pulse, every flutter, and he kept moving through it, fucking you gently through every aftershock, drawing it out until you were gasping and shaking beneath him.
Only then did he let himself chase his own release, but even that was careful. He buried his face in your neck, lips pressed to your pulse point, and came with a quiet, shattered groan of your name, hips pressing deep and still as he filled you.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your shared breathing, slow and heavy. Clark stayed buried inside you, arms lifting slightly as he held himself up so he wouldn’t crush you.
His chest rose and fell against yours, warm skin caught the faint city light filtering through the curtains. Dark curls messy, and when he finally lifted his head, his blue eyes were soft and a little glassy, still hazy with pleasure and something deeper.
You looked completely spent beneath him, hair a mess against the pillow, lips still parted from catching your breath.
He gently eased out of you, mindful of how sensitive you were. Then he shifted his weight, rolling to the side and lifting himself off you completely so you could breathe easier.
Immediately, he leaned back in, peppering the softest kisses all over your face—your forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, each cheek, and finally your lips.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice still rough. “Did I—” he hesitated. “Did I do alright?”
You let out a tired laugh, reaching up to push his hair back.
“Clark, you know you did.”
His smile didn’t quite settle.
“Yeah?” he asked quietly, like he needed to hear it again. “You sure?”
You nodded, thumb brushing along his cheek.
“I promise.”
He held your gaze for a second longer, searching your face, checking for any cracks. When he didn’t find any, he leaned down to kiss you once more, softer this time.
“I’m gonna grab a towel,” he murmured against your lips, already starting to shift off the bed.
You let him move for half a second before your hand caught his wrist. fingers wrapping around it gently but firmly.
“Hey,” you said softly.
He paused immediately, turning back to you.
His kind eyes wide and vulnerable as they met yours, his lips slightly swollen from kissing you, and there was a faint pink still high on his cheeks.
“Yes?” he asked, voice attentive. Always ready to give you whatever you needed.
You sat up a little, the sheet shifting, and reached for him again, fingers brushing along his jaw.
“Clark…” you say as you hold his gaze. “Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?”
Darn it. He should have hidden it better.
“Huh?” he says quickly, like he’s been caught off guard. “Nah—no, nothing’s wrong, baby. Honest.”
He tries to smile, tries to make it sound easy, but he can already see the way your brow pulls together, the way you tilt your head just slightly.
“You sure?” you press gently. “I mean… you seemed… I don’t know. Different?”
Different.
He lets out a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, voice a little strained despite himself. “Was it… was it not good for you?”
He couldn’t stop himself from asking.
He could go again, if you needed him to. Could try harder, slower, whatever you wanted.
Do it better this time.
If you asked him to stay between your legs all night, making you forget, he would. Gladly.
“It was,” you say softly, before glancing down. “I just… I don’t know.”
He swallows, jaw tightening for a second.
He didn’t want this to turn into that kind of night.
Didn’t want you worrying about him or feeling like you had to fix something. He just wanted to give you a good evening. He wanted tonight to be special.
Or at least… as special as he could manage on short notice.
“I just missed you,” he says finally, forcing a small smile as he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.
He bends to grab his clothes from the floor, shaking them out before pulling his briefs back on, then his shirt, movements a little quicker than usual, keeping that little bit busy to ignore any further questions.
“Besides, it’s getting late,” he adds with a shrug, dragging the shirt over his head, voice casual. “Figured I should probably—”
“You’re leaving?”
Your voice is quiet.
Oh, sweetheart, no.
It makes him freeze instantly, one arm still half through the sleeve. He turns around so fast he nearly trips over his own foot.
“No—I—” he blurts, eyes wide. “I’m not. I’m not leaving.”
He wouldn’t do that to you immediately after something like this. He didn’t think he could bear it.
You give him a small smile, already reaching over to the bedside drawer, pulling out one of his oversized t-shirts and slipping it over your head.
“It’s okay if you are,” you say gently, like you don’t want him to feel bad about it. “If you heard something or…”
The only thing he can hear is the tone of your voice. That tiny bit of disappointment you’re trying to hide. It hits him right in the chest.
“No, hey—no,” he says quickly, stepping closer, hands half-raised, not knowing whether to touch you or not. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t saying I had to go. I just—”
He stops and exhales hard, running a hand through his hair, cursing the words that don’t come out right.
“I meant it’s late,” he says, softer now. “Like… I should probably serve dinner. Or something. I mean, we haven’t eaten yet, so…”
You blink at him.
“Oh.”
He gives a sheepish shrug, suddenly feeling very big and very unsure, standing there before he sits down on the bed.
“I mean, it’s the least I can do.”
As the words leave him, your expression softens, understanding gracing your features. Everything suddenly clicked into place, understanding before he even said anything.
You stay silent as you look at him, vulnerable atop the mattress. He knows what that silence means, that you want him to say more. That you’re waiting for him to find the right words and talk to you, rather than pushing his own feelings down when they’re inconvenient.
You always make him talk more than he planned to.
He looks down at the floor, then back at you, then away again.
“I just—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head.
“It’s alright, we can—”
“No, it’s just—,” he tries again, a little too quickly. “I just… I don’t know.”
You don’t say anything.
For someone who writes for a living, he sure does struggle with finding the right words when you’re around.
You sit there, watching him, patient as ever, hands folded in your lap, waiting for him to get the rest out.
He lets out a quiet breath through his nose.
There’s no getting out of this.
“…Feels like I haven’t been around much,” he admits finally.
Your face softens even more.
“Clark—”
“I know, I know,” he says, holding up a hand, already rambling. “I know you don’t mind. You always say you don’t mind. You always tell me it’s fine, and I believe you, I do, I just—”
He rubs the back of his neck again, sighing.
“I just keep thinking one day you’re gonna…” he breathes in, not wanting to say the next words. “Maybe you’re gonna get tired of that,” he mutters.
You blink.
“What?”
He stills, not meeting your eyes.
“Waiting. Eating dinner by yourself. Me showing up late, or not at all. Falling asleep before I get back.” He lets out a humourless laugh. “Feels like that’s not exactly… boyfriend of the year material.”
You stare at him, completely melted already, but he keeps going, words spilling out faster now that he’s started.
“I mean, you could have somebody who’s actually around,” he continues. “Anybody, really. Somebody who doesn’t disappear in the middle of the night because the police scanner goes off.”
He finally looks at you, and his expression must be worse than he thought. The way your lips turn slightly downward, face looking that little bit sadder.
He never should have started.
This is exactly what he didn’t want.
“I just… I don’t know. Feels like I’m not doing enough for you lately,” he admits. “And I hate that. I hate feeling like you deserve more.”
Deserve more than him.
He hears the rustle of the sheets as you sit up on your knees. You go to wrap your arms around him, but he beats you to it, gathering you up on his lap on instinct. Holding you close to him, allowing him to hear your heartbeat soothes him slightly, but he still struggles to look at you after his admission.
“Clark,” you say softly, drawing him back.
He looks down at you, eyes still a little uncertain.
“You think I don’t know who I’m with?”
He goes to speak, but you beat him to it, silencing whatever argument he had formulated in his head.
“You think I’d trade you for someone who just… makes it home on time?”
“Yeah, but that’s not—“
“You’re the most attentive, patient, ridiculous man I’ve ever met,” you go on, thumb brushing over his cheek. “You take care of me better than anyone ever has.”
He still doesn’t seem convinced. It makes sense on paper—yes—but surely you’re just saying that to spare his feelings. Someone as special as you deserves far more than that, not stolen kisses before he has to take off through the open window.
He shakes his head faintly.
Surely that’s not true.
“I’m not always here to do that.”
“Yes, you are.”
He lets out a quiet scoff, looking away.
“Yeah, right.”
You tug his face again until he looks back at you.
“When you’re out there,” you say softly, “saving the world every day… you’re taking care of me.”
He goes still, trying to understand what you’re getting at.
“You make it safer for me to live here,” you continue, voice warm, smile returning. “For me to walk home. For me to sleep. For me to sit here and wait for you without being scared.”
“You think that doesn’t count?” you whisper.
He swallows hard, not quite knowing what to say, your words settling somewhere in his chest where all the doubts usually lived. He’s waiting for a sign that you’re being dishonest, or being just the right amount of honest to spare his feelings. But there isn’t any.
You just keep looking at him the same way you always do—like none of this is really that complicated at all. Like loving him is the most obvious thing in the world to you.
“…You really mean that?” though it’s more statement than question.
You smile, thumb still brushing along his cheek.
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
He huffs out an almost a laugh, shaking his head as his eyes drop for a second.
“Honey…” he mutters, now embarrassed. “You always know the right thing to say, don’t you?”
Always know how to keep him steady.
You grin.
“Well, someone’s gotta look after the city’s Superman.”
He snorts softly at that, finally looking back at you, and there it is—that stupid, boyish smile he always gets when you call him that.
“I just…,” he says, rambling now, words coming easier now that he’s started. “Feels like I should be doing more.”
You shake your head immediately.
“I don’t want somebody else,” you say simply. “You’re the one I want. Even when you show up through the window instead of the door.”
That makes him laugh, a real one this time, head tipping forward as he presses his forehead against yours.
“Hey, that only happened twice.”
“Three,” you correct.
“…Okay, three.”
He sighs, eyes closing. He opens them, about to say something else when—
Your stomach growls.
He feels your heart beat speed up as you groan, immediately hiding your face in his shoulder.
“Oh my god.”
Clark stares at you, then lets out the softest, most offended little gasp.
“Well we can’t have that,” he says, like this is suddenly the most serious problem in the world.
You laugh into his chest.
“I’m fine.”
“Nope. Not happening.” He shakes his head firmly, already sliding one arm under your knees. “Absolutely not. I just gave you a whole speech about taking care of you, I can’t let you starve five minutes later.”
Before you can protest, he lifts you clean off the bed, settling you against his chest.
You let out a surprised laugh, grabbing his shoulders.
“Hey!”
“What?” he says, grinning, already heading toward the door. “Doctor’s orders. You need food.”
“I’m not a patient!”
“You are when you don’t eat.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, arms sliding around his neck as he carries you out of the bedroom.
Halfway down the hall you tilt your head at him.
“…Do I have time for a shower before dinner?”
He stops instantly.
“Of course you do,” he says. “You just say the word, I got all night.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“All night, huh?”
He grins, a little crooked, a little bashful.
You snort, and he laughs under his breath as he pushes the bathroom door open. He sets you down gently on your feet, hands lingering at your waist.
“You alright?” he asks softly.
You nod.
He leans in automatically, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then one to the corner of your mouth.
“Clark,” you laugh, pushing at his chest. “Go. I need to shower.”
“Right, right,” he says, but he’s still smiling.
He backs toward the door, hands up in surrender.
You point at him.
“Out.”
“Yes ma’am.”
He slips out into the hall, closing the door behind him, staring at the wood like an idiot.
You really love him.
I mean, he knew that, but the reassurance had eradicated any doubt he held in his chest. He rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head to himself as he walks back toward the kitchen.
He flicked the stove back on, checking the sauce he made earlier, giving it a slow stir.
Still good.
He smiles to himself, leaning one hip against the counter as the warmth fills the room again.
From down the hall, he can hear the shower start. A second later, soft humming.
He turns the tap on, filling a pot with water for the pasta, setting it on the stove, still listening to that faint little tune drifting down the hall.
Tonight was good. Better than good.
And as the water starts to heat, he finds himself smiling at absolutely nothing, already thinking about what else he can do.
Maybe garlic bread. You like the garlic bread. Maybe dessert if he can find something sweet in the cupboard.
He shakes his head, chuckling quietly to himself.
He needs to slow down. Step one: feed his girl.
He glances toward the hallway again when your humming gets a little louder, warmth settling right behind his ribs.
Yeah.
He thinks he can do that.
a/n: first clark fic wooo!
but no, i know im late but i immediately knew i had to write for him after seeing the movie. please let me know what you think, i havent written in months so i still feel im suuuper rusty
there will most certainly be more where this came from if people want so lmk ! <3
i sincerely apologize for what you are about to read
cw: mdni, dubcon(?), portal pocket pussy, unintentional cheating, male infertility, creampie, take the phone away from me pls
jin itadori gifts his asshole twin brother a pocket pussy thinking it'll help with his anger issues. sukuna finds it fucking dumb yet on one desperate night when he's got no fling to call since he pissed them all off and he's at his brother's house, he ends up putting the thing to use.
it's ridiculous really, his tatted face heating in embarrassment when he licks at the pearly little clit of the plush pussy that's tarty sweet and warm against his tongue. toy or not, he can't fucking help that he's a munch, dipping his hot, wet muscle into the fluttering hole, slathering it in his saliva as he groans at the slick oozing onto his awaiting tastebuds. when it swells and clamps down on his swirling tongue, he tips his head back, adam's apple bobbing as his tongue is coated with the dripping cum.
now that his thirst is temporarily satiated, he shucks off his jeans, cock smacking against his abdomen that flinches and bunches as the thick, dark-veined shaft lolls against it heavily. he pumps it in his fist a few times then slaps his weeping tip against the clit, smirking when it jumps. then he eases it inside the sopping cunt, jaw slack and brows knit as he watches the hole stretch wide around his girth, swallowing him slow and snug.
he can hardly hold himself back from working the squelching, drooling pussy up and down his cock, slobbering the pulsing length of it in tangy, honeyed juices that foam around his base in a creamy ring as lazy grunts and slurring groans spill from his mouth and into the quiet guest room.
meanwhile, back at the ranch aka his brother's bedroom, his wife who absolutely hates sukuna because he's been nothing but trouble and stressing out her husband for as long as you've known is gasping and moaning high-pitched, fucked-out sounds as a thick cock—that definitely doesn't belong to your husband who can't fuck you since your pussy is already filled—pounds into you relentlessly.
“ah-ahh-hah, fuck, fuck, fuck, it's too much,” you whimper, sweat beading on your forehead, expression pained from the sheer overload of pleasure wracking through your system. legs kicking out, your writhe and squirming to get away from whoever is fucking you but you just can't—
jin is frazzled, glasses askew as he runs his hands through his touseled, coral tufts that are already in disarray as he tries to figure out how the fuck this is happening. it makes no sense. the pocket pussy linked to yours is tucked away in his nightstand, unused. he's saving it for his business trip in a few weeks so how—
“oh my god, it's so big, i can't, i can't,” you cry out, tears glittering as they run down your cheeks, sobs ripping from your throat as you fall back onto the bedding. “jin, do something, please.”
a strangled noise leaves your distressed husband. “i'm sorry baby, i don't know how this could be possible. maybe they mixed it up at the shop and made it a portal pussy or something.”
you hardly hear him, feeling the cock dragging within you throb and kick, your eyes knocking into the back of your skull. “shitttttt, he's gonna come inside. he's coming, he's—angghhh!”
the man you married watches in horror as your pussy spasms and convulses, you coming with the stranger before thick, creamy cum drizzled out of your abused cunt in syrupy streams as you pant and sigh, bones melting.
a loud, belly-deep groan sounds from the other end of the house and your husband stills, realisation dawning him like a bucket of ice water dousing him on a below zero day.
shit, shit, shit! that's right—he gave the tatted, dickhead version of him a pocket pussy as a gag gift. he was sure the man would scoff and chuck it in the trash but not only did he just use it—jin accidentally swapped his own with his twin!
his wife would fucking murder him if she found out.
(though this may work in his favor because you both have been trying to have a baby only to be told that jin is infertile by a few doctors and since sukuna is basically him, maybe he can knock you up. your husband won't mind, he wants a baby with you bad—)
as your husband slowly descends into a spiral of madness, you're seeing stars, boneless and blissful as you stare at the ceiling after what might have been the best sex of your life.
don't get you wrong, sex with your husband is good, really good. but he's so gentle, aggravatingly gentle. sweet and slow, dragging out the act as if there's no destination in mind which would be satiating if you weren't a lustful vixen who enjoyed being manhandled and fucked hard. sometimes he doesn't even make you cum, your cunt squeezes as if you did orgasm but it's as anticlimactic as an interrupted sneeze or cut-off yawn.
so you shamefully hope that you never find out who actually has the pocket pussy and that they fuck you like that more often.
as for sukuna, he's found his new obsession, staring at the pocket pussy in his hand with starry, droopy eyes and a dopey, sleazy grin on his face.
blame @yenayaps for egging me on to post this travesty
⡴(frat!choso) 7 months after bagging the girl gojo struck out with ⡴ 0.7k words
“i can’t stay the whole time.” choso says to gojo (the whole room really) who’s currently going over the ‘game-plan’ and jobs for the frats fundraiser tonight. “i got a date—well not a date, but…”
gojo looks confused, eyebrows pinched together. “i’m sorry,” he near laughs, “you have a date?”
geto seems a little bit amused aswell but smacks gojo’s arm lightly and tells choso, “with who?” everybody else sitting around the living room hums in agreed question.
“it’s not a date.” he himself sounds confused as to what it is.
“what, ya got a hookup you not telling us about?” gojo quizzes. it’s amazing how fast he can lose focus completely.
“no, it’s not that.”
“you smoking with a girl?” geto asks. choso shakes his head no.
“guy?” someone quips with a laugh from the kitchen, probably toji meal prepping for the next few days. choso shakes his head again.
gojo leans back on the couch and plops into a pillow. “…kay. so what are you doing with her? and who even is she?”
“i’m meeting her parents.” he replies. somebody in the room spits out half their drink, everybody else’s eyebrows snag up their forehead. “i have to leave at 7:30.”
“wait-wait-wait,” toji steps out the kitchen as if he didn’t hear that right. “you have a girlfriend you didn’t tell us about and you’re meeting her parents ?”
choso looks embarrassed and plays with his hair a little. “i mean i told nanami.” he mumbles, looking over to him from the other side of the couch. nanami nods in agreement.
“he needed advice and a dress shirt,” he confirms while gojo’s jaw is halfway to the floor. “lord knows you guys wouldn’t help him.”
“nanamiiii,” gojo pouts, body slinging aimlessly further off the couch like a slinky toy, “you knew and didn’t tell me? i am great with advice !”
geto pokes gojo in the ribs playfully, “you’re really not.” then turns to nanami, “who is she? did he not tell us cause we don’t know her?” choosing to ask second hand like choso isn’t even there.
nanami shakes his head no, “you guys know her, gojo hit on her once.” nanami actually chuckles to himself in his hand, recalling the memory apparently everybody had forgotten. “he got rejected.”
gojo pulls himself up in an instant, “you stole my girl choso? not cool man!” in an even bigger pout from before.
choso replies bad, still fiddling with his hair, “she was not your girl.”
“which girl are we talking about? gojo’s got like a 30% success rate.” toji asks, now also distracted from what he was originally doing.
“fuck you, zen’in.” gojo quips.
choso ignores gojo’s comment, tells toji (everybody) your name and continues, “she rejected gojo at the start of the school year when he saw her with shoko and shoko told her he’s a douche.”
gojo yanks up his makeshift blindfold (really a dishcloth from the kitchen) like it’ll make him hear better, scrambling up in disarray, “SHOKO’S FRIEND?” he yanks back down his blindfold and returns to his half off the couch, nearly upside down state. “and you’re meeting her parents?” he crosses his arms and mumbles, “bro-code’s out the window i guess.”
“oh i remember that!” geto says, nearly laughing his ass off remembering gojo’s dissapointment. “when’d you meet her cho?”
“that night. we fucked and she asked me out the next day.” choso replies.
“oh you’re fucking kidding me.” gojo groans out.
geto’s now fully doubled over on the couch laughing, along with half the other frat members.
“lemme see a photo of her.” toji asks. choso pulls out his phone and displays to him his wallpaper, you and him sticking your blue and red tongues out after drinking too many icees at mini-golf. “cute.”
choso gets about 50 more, ‘lemme see’s before gojo leans up and looks at the screen too. apparently he’s the only one who realizes it’s a live photo and presses down to see the animation. he then sees choso turn and lick your tongue, leaving a purple mark on yours before the screen reverts to the still image.
he immediately falls back again, “oh fuck you, choso.”
"If you just let me. I can be him. You can call his name. Pretend he's touching you."
Six months since 𝓨𝒖𝒕𝒂 started pursuing you.
The setting sun over jujutsu tech glared you down as your back pressed into the bridge's wooden beams. Was Satoru's glare in the horizon? Was his judgement in the sky? Were his chastises whispered in the wind that kissed your cheek?
His eyes were above you.
His hair tickling your forehead.
His hands on you.
His. But not his. Not your husband. Not Satoru.
Just the man who wore his skin.
Yuta shedded his a long time ago. A miscalculation. A medical horror. Returning to his body became impossible and so, he remained in the man who was once yours. Now twenty three, and all he wanted?
You.
Before you, he stood. Looming over you the way that Satoru did. Caressing your cheek the way that Satoru did.
Whispering to you the way that Satoru did.
"I have his memories," he said, thumb tracing a familiar line on your cheekbone. "I know how he touched you. I know how he loved you. I can love you the same."
He leaned closer. Diminishing both the space between you and your shame.
"We can play pretend," he promised.
The same way Satoru had promised that he would come home.
The same way you had promised him that no one else would ever hold your heart, your body, your soul.
You broke your promise.
All it took was a kiss. From lips you remembered. From a mouth that worshipped you every day of your short marriage.
Your downfall were his hands. Familiar. Once yours. The wedding ring he still wore out of reverence for his sensei.
A kiss. A touch. A memory. That's all it took.
All it took for the sheets to welcome your back. For your thighs to welcome his head. Your hands greeting white hair that you once stroked so tenderly when the world caved in on him.
Your Satoru.
Not your Satoru.
Satoru's body.
Your Satoru's body.
Between your legs. Worshipping you. As he always did. With big, scarred hands spreading you apart. With a tongue that knew every inch of you. A voice that praised you.
The same way your husband would.
"So sweet, taste so so good, sweet girl," the groan soaked into your slick. An aphrodisiac of its own. Seeping into your veins. Dizzying your mind.
"Toru," you whimpered.
Toru.
Satoru.
Your Satoru.
He's not your Satoru.
But you moaned for him as if he was.
Tugged onto his hair. Ground into his face. Whimpered his name— as if he was.
Two orgasms on his tongue alone. Yuta proved that he had committed to his sensei's memories. He knew exactly how to fuck you on the pink muscle. Where to touch. What pressure.
His thumb stroked along your slit. Tracing the quivers as his lips occupied your clit. Sucking on its pulses and worming out another devastating orgasm out of you.
Three. You came three times.
The same number Satoru worked you up to before he kissed you. Held you. Fucked you.
Yuta committed to the routine. Kissed you. Spread your thighs.
Pressed his dick to your twitching cunt.
Shushed your cries.
Held you.
Fucked you.
Your body forgot, but your mind didn't. The stretch burned and tears pricked at your eyes— but your mind keened. Slipped. Soaked in the memory of him.
Of your husband.
Of Satoru.
As Yuta's hips engraved new memories into your thighs.
As his fingers blossomed new bruises.
As his mouth kissed you with a new hunger.
Your arms hugged around his neck. Breath stuttering. Voice breaking. Every plunge of his cock stroked the fire deeper into you. Unravelling your mind into a messy heap of tears and needy.
Rough pants fanned above you. His brows pinched at the centre. One hand gripping your thigh and the other cupped beneath your head. Yuta's thrusts were as nasty as Satoru's. Deep, fast, taking you apart from the inside out.
"That's it. There you go," he huffed, white lashes fluttering. "There's my girl."
"Sat— toru," you sobbed. Because maybe crying would make it real.
Maybe it'd wake you up from this terrible nightmare.
"You're doing so well, sweetheart." His voice slipped into your ear. Clenched your heart. Squeezed your cunt as your nails raked down his back.
"Toru," you whimpered. "T-Toru, toru please. I need— I need you. I need you."
His thumb found your clit, your back bowed into the pleasure. Another sob shook from your lungs. Reaching out for him. Not Yuta. Not his body. Him.
But it was Yuta who cupped your face. With Satoru's hand.
Yuta who bottomed out. Fucked you deeper. With Satoru's cock.
Yuta who whispered to you. With Satoru's voice.
"I'm here." He lied, so sweetly.
As his hips drove faster— and faster. Grinding into all of the sweetspots that Satoru knew. That were now at his disposal.
"I'm here, I'm right here, sweetheart." He lied, so gently.
As he hugged you close. Took you higher— and higher. Perfectly choreographed to the memory he committed to.
Playing with your clit, with Satoru's fingers.
Praising you, with Satoru's words.
Kissing you, with Satoru's lips.
"I'm gonna cum," you cried, and he licked your tears away. Cradled your face. Whispered tenderly.
"Cum," eyes so blue, eyes once yours, stared deep into your soul. Deceived you with promises that had already been broken. "Cum for me. Cum for 'toru, baby. C'mon."
The heat, the need, the memories— they all rushed into a knot that snapped in the pit of your stomach. Your eyes rolled back. Body arched. Tensed.
"Satoru— t-toru. Toru, miss you. I miss you."
You sobbed his name when you came.
Clung to his shoulders.
Squeezed his cock.
But you knew.
That it wasn't him that held you.
Wasn't him that smacked his hips into yours.
Wasn't him that groaned deep, even if it was his voice.
Wasn't him that stilled, that moaned your name, that filled you to the brim and kept pumping as you shook with whimpers.
Eyes so blue. Eyes once yours.
But in your heart, you knew. Satoru was dead.
Knew that the thing wearing his skin wasn't him.
And that the only one who caressed your face, kissed you, told you that he loved you— wasn't your husband.
frat!kuna taking care of you at your first frat party . . . (shy!reader)
the bass was so loud it vibrated in your teeth.
you were standing just inside the front door of the massive frat house, clutching the hem of your sweater like it was a lifeline. the place was packed—bodies grinding, red cups everywhere, someone yelling “CHUG CHUG CHUG” in the distance. the air smelled like cheap beer, weed, and way too much cologne.
you felt completely out of place.
ryomen sukuna—your boyfriend of three weeks, the walking red flag with pink hair and tattoos crawling up his neck—was right beside you, one big hand resting possessively on your lower back.
he looked right at home. black button-up half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, that lazy dangerous smirk already on his face. people kept nodding at him as they passed, some even doing double-takes when they saw you tucked against his side.
“you good, baby?” he asked, voice low enough that only you could hear it over the music.
you nodded quickly, even though your heart was racing. “yeah. just… loud.”
he snorted, thumb rubbing a small circle on your back. “told you it was gonna be loud. you still wanted to come.”
“i wanted to see what your world looks like,” you mumbled, cheeks heating up. you were the shy bookish girl who spent friday nights in the library, and he was the infamous frat president who threw parties that ended up on the campus group chat for all the wrong reasons.
sukuna leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “my world’s a lot less interesting when you’re not in it.”
you blushed harder. he’d been doing that lately—saying sweet things in that rough voice like it was nothing. it always caught you off guard.
he guided you deeper into the house, keeping you close so no one bumped into you too hard. when a drunk guy stumbled past and almost spilled his drink on you, sukuna’s arm shot out, steadying the cup with one hand while pulling you tighter against his side with the other.
“watch it,” he growled at the guy, voice low and dangerous.
the guy mumbled an apology and scurried away.
sukuna looked down at you, smirk softening just a fraction. “you want something to drink? non-alcoholic. i know you don’t do the hard shit.”
you nodded, surprised he remembered. “just soda is fine.”
he disappeared for maybe two minutes and came back with a can of coke and a bottle of water. he handed you the coke, then cracked the water open for himself.
“stay close,” he said, leaning in again. “if anyone bothers you, tell me. i’ll handle it.”
you sipped your drink, feeling a little warmer. he wasn’t acting like the wild party animal everyone warned you about. he was… attentive. almost gentle.
an hour later you were tipsy.
you only had two drinks (sukuna made sure they were weak and watched the guy pour them), but you were a lightweight and the music was making your head spin in the best way. you were giggling at everything, clinging to sukuna’s arm as he led you to a quieter corner of the backyard.
“you’re cute when you’re drunk,” he muttered, guiding you to sit on a low stone wall.
“i’m not drunk,” you protested, even though you were swaying a little. “i’m… pleasantly buzzed.”
he snorted and crouched in front of you, hands on your knees to steady you. “yeah? then why are you trying to take your shoes off?”
you looked down. sure enough, you were fumbling with the straps of your heels.
“they’re uncomfortable,” you whined.
sukuna sighed, but there was a little fondness to it. he gently batted your hands away and undid the straps himself, slipping your shoes off and setting them beside you.
“better?” he asked.
you nodded happily and leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his neck. “you’re being really nice tonight. i thought you’d be… you know. wild.”
he raised an eyebrow. “wild how?”
“throwing people in the pool. shotgunning beers. starting fights. the usual frat king stuff.”
sukuna chuckled, low and rough, and stood up, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest.
“i can do all that shit any night,” he said, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back. “tonight i’ve got you. and you’re too soft for that chaos. so i’m keeping you safe instead.”
your heart did a stupid little flip.
“you’re sweet when you want to be,” you mumbled into his shirt.
“don’t tell anyone,” he warned, but he was smiling against your hair. “ruins my reputation.”
someone yelled his name from across the yard—one of his frat brothers waving a beer pong paddle.
sukuna didn’t even glance over. “busy,” he called back, loud enough to be heard over the music.
the guy laughed and gave a thumbs-up, clearly used to it.
you tilted your head up at him. “you can go play if you want. i’ll be okay.”
“nah.” he leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to your forehead. “i’m good right here.”
later, when you started feeling a little too warm and dizzy, sukuna noticed immediately.
“alright, lightweight,” he said, scooping you up bridal-style without asking. “time to go home.”
“but the party—” you protested weakly.
“the party will survive without us.” he carried you through the crowd like you weighed nothing, people parting for him automatically. someone tried to hand him a drink; he ignored it.
outside, the night air was cooler. he set you down gently by his car, keeping one arm around your waist while he opened the passenger door.
“in you go, princess.”
you climbed in, giggling when he had to help you with the seatbelt because your fingers were clumsy.
on the drive home he kept one hand on your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles.
“you had fun?” he asked quietly.
you nodded, head resting against the seat. “yeah. you were… really sweet. i didn’t expect that.”
he glanced over at you, that lazy smirk back on his face.
“don’t get used to it,” he said, but his voice was soft.
you smiled sleepily. “too late. i already like this version of you.”
he didn’t answer, but his hand squeezed your thigh gently.
when you got back to your dorm, he walked you all the way to your door, making sure you got inside safely.
before he left he leaned down and kissed you—slow, warm, tasting like the one beer he allowed himself.
“text me when you wake up tomorrow,” he murmured against your lips. “and drink water before you sleep.”
you nodded, floating a little.
he waited until you locked the door behind you before he walked away.
except… he didn’t actually leave.
ten minutes later there was a soft knock on your door.
you opened it, still a little dizzy, and found sukuna standing there with a bottle of water, a pack of plain crackers, and your favorite hoodie that he must have grabbed from his car.
“you’re still here?” you asked, surprised.
he shrugged, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “figured you might need help getting ready for bed. you’re swaying like a damn pendulum.”
you let him guide you to sit on the edge of your bed. he knelt down, helped you take off your shoes, then handed you the water and crackers.
“small sips,” he said. “and eat a couple of these so you don’t feel like shit tomorrow.”
you obeyed, watching him with soft eyes as he moved around your small room—plugging in your phone, turning off the big light, leaving the lamp on low.
when you finished the crackers he took the wrapper and tossed it in the trash, then helped you change into comfy pajamas (his hoodie, of course).
“come here,” he said, pulling back the covers.
you crawled in. he kicked off his shoes and slid in beside you without being asked, pulling you against his chest.
“you don’t have to stay,” you mumbled sleepily, even though you were already curling into him.
“i know,” he replied, one hand stroking your hair. “but i’m staying anyway. someone has to make sure you don’t choke on your own tongue or something.”
you laughed softly. “romantic.”
“shut up and sleep, princess.”
you did, warm and safe in his arms, the distant thump of the party long forgotten.
having a quickie in the morning before work with clark but it gets soooo irresistible you both have to keep going and going and going until it’s not a quickie anymore. gradually getting creamier and filthier to draw it out long while he fucks you so good from behind. twenty minutes passes by, then thirty minutes, then forty five…. you’ve made his dick a mess after cumming on it so hard so much but Clark just keeps going like a fuck machine on blast, getting greedy and wanting more of your fluids to get on him until you’re dry mouthed and dehydrated from leaking all that you’ve got. spanking you and jiggling your ass with his hand while he teases just the tip in.
then it’s passed the time he’d normally leave for work, briefcase and tie still hung up by the door waiting for him to go about his daily responsibilities but he just can’t. get. enough of that pussy this morning, his pre cum so slippery webbing between your inner thighs while he’s gasping and humming in your ear while he slides his full dick all the way in. wondering if the wet warmth he’s feeling squeeze him so good was part of your stomach cause he’s so. deep.
then he yanks you up with no effort whatsoever to switch positions so he’s sitting up and you’re on top, getting you ready for you to ride his dick. you can’t help the breathless crying leaving your throat while you slowly sink up and down to fulfill his demands while he praises you for going as long as he wants, calling you his creamy pretty slut. the clock on his nightstand literally shows he should be clocked in sitting at his desk right now. taking phone calls. getting the mountain of paperwork ready for the meeting he has scheduled before his lunch. clark breathily asks that you keep bouncing when his phone starts to ring, work calling him to check in and ask why he hasn’t shown up. if something happened or if he’s on his way, since its so out of character for him to be as late as he is right now. he holds his breath and closes his eyes with one hand holding the phone to his ear, the other pulling on a lip of that sloppy pussy still enthusiastically grinding all up on him.
‘yeah….yeah I’m sorry, just think I caught s…something, not really um. not feeling too good. probably best if I don’t come in today,’ he clenches his jaw when you raise your hips and his dick slips out mid excuse. clark could only put on his best fake-cough to try to keep the act going, squeezing your hip to quietly beg you to put it back in. grip getting more rough by the second until you whimper a sorry and take him to put it all back inside in one go. his boss says to call earlier next time because they need him but tells him to feel better soon and try to get healthy before tomorrow. clark agrees with a yeahyeahyeahmmmhm I’ll take good care of myself today bye and hangs up without another word, throwing his phone carelessly back to the nightstand and slamming his hips so hard his balls nestle up to your puffy used up and exhausted clit.
‘called out of work for this so let’s make it worth it, yeah? keep bouncing, good girl. that’s it. don’t be a bad girl and let it slip out again. I want it on me all day, got it?’
. . . .
yeah I know I’ve wrote morning d!ck before but yum no resistance to post this here I have hella stuff to work on thank you all so much for the love <3
fem! reader, mdni. 0.9k words. it all kinda feels like too much for reader so she cries just a smidge (you're getting too good a dicking) no use of safe word or crying kink or anything like that, just some momentary comfort then they continue
it's not so much that you're sensitive, rather you feel a lot. and with Clark, you almost always feel everything.
he has that effect on you, especially when he's on you.
maybe tonight you were just feeling particularly fragile. maybe a little overwhelmed by your day and it all coalesced into a heaping pile of vulnerability right underneath Clark. he's sort of smothering you, skin fused with yours as he keeps you enveloped within his tight hold. like a kind of caging, your tits sandwich with the beef of his chest above you — pressure firm, as if he's eager to stay exactly as is.
it's slow. it's deep and controlled, his grinds into you. each push of his cock reaching further and further into you; so much so it's like you can feel him knocking at your lungs, hindering and staggering your every breath.
his happy trail skims at the lower of your stomach with each wind atop you, fuzzy hairs rubbing against your skin with the obscenely close distance he has above you. with the closeness of it all, he has his face buried in the crook of your neck; lips slightly parted on your collarbone as he sears sporadic, timely kisses just below.
yours is somewhat similar, head tipped back into the pillow, chin occasionally nudging and bumping at the meat of his opposing shoulder with each pant you choke out. you hold him tight and dear, arms enveloped around his back with fingers hooked into his skin, nails just shy of making visible marks either side of his spine.
Clark's great with you, in every sense of the word. you knew that if you were to say something, to announce it — he'd hear you and act upon it. you knew that if you told him you were starting to feel too much, he'd stop. though you weren't sure if that's what you wanted, for it to stop.
your pants and gasps grow silent in that way they often do when he's fucking you this good, your sounds of utter bliss becoming unsystematic in the time in which they're choked out. and it's as your body holds out on lewd and vocal response that you feel your eyes well — tears brimming quickly and thickly.
he's so lost in it that he doesn't realise, doesn't notice the slight salty smell blooming in your eyes or hear the difference in your hearts rhythm. he's selfishly consumed by the warm wrapping of you cunt around him and the feel of your skin against his that he's grown unaware.
and it's only when he feels you clamp suddenly around him and hears you hiccup a stifled sob, that he pulls his face from the side of your throat. he peers himself up and his eyes flicker over your face; movement quick and attentive so as to assess you sooner.
his winds halt, and it's then you tighten your thighs at the lower of his hips. like you're wordlessly telling him to resume, directionally trying to nudge him into you, even. though he's far, far stronger than you so that doesn't happen. instead, he lifts himself off you ever so slightly, keen to see more of you for a moment.
"too much?" he whispers his ask, voice sort of regretful — like he knew himself to be the reason for your tears.
your arms tighten around him and you reach up to kiss his lips. kissing him again, you pull back and shake your head; motion small and sure.
"positive?" his eyes soften a smidgen, brows furrowing as he looks down at you.
his gaze drifts to the little trail of wet running off the side of your face, and it's then he retracts his hand from behind your head to rid the evidential mark of something overwhelming. he's careful as he swipes away the bead of wet, thumb moving in a gentle caress to absorb the tear.
you nod against him and reach up to kiss him once more. one hand from his mid back trails downwards, palm gliding down his skin until you reach the top of his ass. your clasped hold pushes on him, like you're silently directing him to continue and wind into you again.
and while your pushes and nudges are tempting, he knows he can never fully continue until he knows the reasoning behind your tears. he'd feel wrong to resume while you're so clearly wracked with reluctant emotion.
but you know him well, you can piece together what the expression on his face means. so you reassure him, rather than answer strings of questions.
"it's just really good," you assure.
he smiles shyly a moment. his forehead lowers to yours, weight pressed firm to you as he nuzzles the tip of his nose into yours just below his.
"you're sure?" he hums, speaking soft against you.
you nod slightly and his head moves with yours. "positive," you hum, and further your pandering tries on the top of his ass.
"you'd tell me if you weren't?" he confirms, swallowing thickly as he eases his hips into you again.
you choke out a gasp when you feel him fully inside again, the entirety of his well-endowed, kryptonian cock filling you to the brim.
"of course."
the only way he can continue now, is if he can see your face. if he can see your eyes and the faces you make as he repeatedly pushes into you.
he can't enjoy himself if he's not sure that you are too.
summary: jimmy and lois find the perfect gift for clark “i love my wife” kent.
pairing: husband!clark kent x wife!fem!reader
word count: 1.6k
contents: silly fic with minor warnings. clark loves his wife. kissing, pet names and snoopy loving? and that’s about it mwah mwah
a/n: this is for my own self indulgence lmao
“Yes, honey—”
Clark stepped out of the elevator, one foot tripped over the other, briefcase, ID card and newspaper slotted between each finger on his left hand, whilst he cradled a styrofoam cup of hot coffee in his right. Phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear, he narrowly missed a journalist on the shorter side as she ducked beneath his arm to get past him.
“I love you too, honey. Yup.” He continued. Perry White came into view, his cigar hung between his lips as he tapped at his watch and mouthed, ‘Late again, Clark.’ to which Clark cringed and mouthed a sincere apology with his mind elsewhere, “—Sweetheart, I really have to go…No, no, I didn’t forget my glasses.”
The bullpen was alive as he stepped into it. TV’s scattered across the room, never changed from news report channels in the chance that they miss a new lead on recent events involving the conflict with Lex Luthor and Superman. Reporters hunched over their desks, ink stains on their pinkies, coffee rings stained their drafts. Everyone looks. . . busy. Intense. Like, the real deal journalists.
Cat Grant sat atop of her desk, aimlessly chatting and Lois Lane, who was nose deep in her laptop, pretending to listen with intermittent nods to engage her co-worker to keep talking.
Jimmy Olsen swivelled round in his chair, away from two ladies, to greet Clark who was rounding up his call with you.
“I love you too, honey. OK—Yeah, got it. Eight o’clock sharp. OK, I love you, bye. Bye.” Clark huffed out with a smile as his phone dropped from his ear and onto his desk. Styrofoam cup placed on top of deadline reports, Clark acknowledged his friends with a curt nod; smoothing the tie you picked out for him as he sat on his chair that squeaked.
Jimmy leant back in his chair, “You talk to her all the way to work?”
Was that not a given?
Clark looked up from his briefcase to Olsen who looked bemused by his query.
It was no secret that Clark Kent doted on his wife. He’d spend every millisecond of the day around you if Metropolis didn’t charge such an alarming rate for a one bedroom shack on the third floor of an apartment complex. He wore his golden band — engraved with your fingerprint on the inside — with the upmost pride, polished and gleaming in the Metropolis sunrise every morning.
Naturally, it had become a hot topic amongst the bullpen journalists, busy with deadlines but not too busy to prod fun at Clark for his sweet devotion to his wife.
Daily Planet second. You first.
He was quick to respond, “You know I do, Jimmy. Is it a crime to enjoy my wife’s company?”
“No, no—” Jimmy held his hands up in faux surrender, “—You wear marriage well, dude. Oh. By the way…” He yanked the second drawer at his desk open and pulled out a wrapped present, “Happy Birthday, buddy.”
Clark extended his arm to grab the present, brow furrowed at the Snoopy patterned paper.
You loved Snoopy, he’d have to save it.
“…It isn’t my birthday.” Clark stated.
Lois chimed in, “We know.”
Clark’s eyes drifted from Jimmy, to Lois who hadn’t even broken concentration from her screen, and then back to Jimmy who was hiding a smile behind his cracked sports mug.
Suspicious.
“Open it, dude.” Jimmy encouraged.
Nodding, Clark sceptically peeled at the layer of 90s inspired wrapping paper — ironically — a blue and red eyesore. He was careful enough not tear it recklessly because in the forefront of his mind, he knew that you basked in nostalgia. And, this EBay find would put a darn good smile on your pretty face.
He also tried to recall the last time he ever gifted one of the close-knit crew — excluding Steve — a present with no ulterior motive.
Right. Never.
Paper folded back, Clark deadpanned at the gifted t-shirt within, his large fingers pinching the fabric of the shoulders to pull it upright in front of him.
Jimmy smiled widely, idly tapping at the ceramic of his mug, awaiting Kent’s verdict on the joint present from Lois and him. It was wholly Jimmy Olsen’s idea, but Lois wasn’t one to stray from a lighthearted joke; especially if it was directed at her interview snatching nemesis.
Clark scanned the front and read out the enlarged font, “Let me ask my wife—” He dropped the t-shirt into his lap and stared at his friends, “That’s funny.”
His statement didn’t match his tone.
“And true.” Jimmy added.
Lois, who finally tore her eyes from her screen, turned in her chair and gestured to the item of clothing, “You know she will love it, too.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Clark chuckled, folding the t-shirt whilst shaking his head, “Thank you both.”
“Are you going to wear it for your date tonight?” Lois teased as she stood from her position to go grab a coffee — no holding off on the sugar.
Clark returned his focus to his laptop, posture terrible, knees locked together as he leant to enter his password. He mumbled quietly, “Don’t know, Lois. Let me ask my wife.”
Jimmy cackled.
Later that night, Clark returned back to your shared apartment after turning in three different reports on Superman to a beaming Perry White. He was visibly tired, eyes sore behind glasses from the hard concentration of staring at black and white on his screen until the words made sense and they were Daily Planet, print newspaper worthy.
“Honey?” The front door clicked behind Clark, his suit jacket foregone with his white dress-shirt rolled up to his elbows, the top two buttons undone to let the white t-shirt peek from underneath.
You called, “Kitchen!”
Clark haphazardly tossed his jacket onto the coat stand, taking a mental note to wedge a piece of cardboard under the shorter foot to prevent it from keeling over. One foot in front of the other, he made it to the claustrophobic kitchen you adored so much. He leant against the doorframe with his arms folded, a warm smile spread across his face as he watched you smack your beloved pink toaster with force.
He let you mumble to yourself — and for him to admire you from afar — for a moment before pushing off of the doorframe. Hands smoothed across your hips, he dropped his head into the crook of your neck and inhaled.
“I told you I would buy you a new toaster.” Clark mumbled into the skin of your neck, “That thing is old, and a fire hazard.”
You huffed, “It’s vintage.”
Clark chuckled softly, turning you to face him with little resistance.
“Hi.” He mumbled and kissed you.
“Hi.”
“Missed you.” He whispered between another kiss, his smile growing wider when you accepted three more.
You pulled back and planted your hands on his broad chest, “You saw me this morning. And, for a brief moment at lunchtime…” Clark pouted, “OK. I missed you too.”
Clark kissed you again for good measure as you fiddled with the collar of his dress-shirt with your brows pinched at the undershirt. It wasn’t his usual crisp white vest, a greyish-black letter peaked from beneath the button down. He watched you closely as the cogs turned in your head over a simple matter. Something he loved entirely.
You never missed the small things.
The toaster’s cough interrupted your thought process, your burnt toast flung into the air and dropped onto the tiled floor with a ‘thunk’.
You’d have to ask him about the shirt afterwards.
Bending down with a grimace, you grabbed the smoking toast by the corner of the crust — Clark quick to put his hand over the corner of the countertop to save a headache for you — a few strings of curses leaving your mouth as you dropped the charcoal toast onto your plate; sucking at your thumb to soothe the burning.
Without a thought, Clark grabbed your wrist, pulling your thumb to his mouth and pressed a gentle kiss to the reddened pad.
“My hero.” You spoke lovingly with a quick scratch to your husband’s chin before reclaiming your hand to butter your toast. You continued, “How was work today? Any news on that Superguy…Superman?”
Clark pinched your hip.
“Turned three in.” He dragged a hand down his face before the thought pinged from the back of his mind, “Oh, look at this—” You turned as Clark pulled the wrapping paper he saved for you from his back pocket, “—Snoopy. And that old style wrapping paper you like.”
You grinned with a glint in your eye, “We’ll keep it, mushy.” Knife in hand pointed at his chest, “New undershirt?”
“Ah. Yes. Jimmy and Lois bought it for me.”
Clark tucked his chin to unbutton his shirt just enough for you to be able to read the print.
“Ta-Da.” He sung.
You folded your arms, “Let me ask my wife, huh?”
“Silly, isn’t it?”
“I love it.” You let out a laugh of approval, “Very fitting for you, although, we’ve already discussed that you do not need my permission for big decisions.”
You were referencing last week. You had held an intervention for your husband and his tendency to mull over big decisions by conferring with you. The last time Clark Kent had said: ‘Let me ask my wife.’ was over if he wanted to sign up to a benefits card at Chaney’s.
He didn’t take that decision lightly. So, he called you.
Despite the intervention, Clark would always call you for the final say.
Clark nodded dopily, “Yes, honey. But, I like calling you to ask. You take it so seriously.” He bit into the buttered and burnt toast you offered and pulled back with a scrunch of his nose. Cheek full of bread, he spoke, “Still up for dinner at eight?”
Toast with two bites into it, discarded, you wiped your hands together and nodded enthusiastically.
hey there! i had an idea but it’s a little heavy so please completely and shamelessly disregard if you are in any way uncomfortable writing it!
i was thinking about dad!clark x reader who maybe came from an unsafe household growing up and always wanted to raise her kiddos better and with more love she was ever given. maybe she thinks she’s doing it all wrong and clark comforts her that she is a good mom… idk, maybe i’m just projecting but i feel like clark would hug me if i was sad :)
let’s project together <33 (sorry this took so long)
pairing: husband!clark kent x f!reader. word count: 1.3k content: toddlers!! the realities of being a parent, and unfortunately sometimes the reactions that come with it. reader has a lot of self doubt and worry, tears and mentions of family related trauma and abuse — very minimal but still there. clark is a honey.
Toddlerhood wasn’t made for the faint of heart.
All routines flipped on their heads, a looming sleep regression around every corner, molars cutting through gums and the best of all: resistance against authority.
Now, make it double.
The twins were unmistakably strong-willed and passionate about their newfound gain of consciousness to everything at eye-level and above. On two wobbly, and rather chunky legs, both would find themselves in situations that weren’t deemed as ‘safe’ for anyone who had experienced the terrible consequences of their actions.
Clark had already wrangled one from inside the dishwasher, their grip tight on the machine door as they let out an ear-splitting screech. Hope, the other twin, and aptly named by your husband, was twisting her body in an unnatural way to avoid the diaper change you had been attempting with as many distractions as you could possibly find within reaching distance.
“Hope!” You grabbed her ankles, “Come on!”
“No!” Hope fought against your grasp and you were pleasantly reminded that you had chosen a man with incredible power and abilities that have seemingly been passed down to his daughters.
You could feel the frustration bubbling in your chest. Like a popcorn kernel. Feeling hot, bothered by the distant wailing of your other child, you wanted nothing more than Hope to comply with a simple diaper change so you could tend to your other baby with some maternal love.
Somewhere, in a parent book, this would be called overstimulation.
Yours was in capital letters. Marked in red.
Clark entered the living room with Joy — again, his suggestion — thrown over his shoulder. Her tiny feet kicked at his chest, fat fists pummelled his back. You met his gaze for a moment to remind yourselves that you definitely decided on this moment together, and the little goblins were everything you could’ve hoped for.
“I’m sorry, honey.” Clark spoke over Joy’s screech, “I’m not meaning to bring her in here for you to deal with.”
You got one of Hope’s feet into the diaper leg, “It’s fine.” Two feet, and you gave up on buttoning her vest. You placed her on the floor and grabbed Joy from Clark, “Joy, we cannot climb into the dishwasher. Even if it’s empty. Daddy might’ve turned it on with you in it, and then you would’ve been soggy toast.”
With little time to react, Joy’s head came into contact with your nose. A clean hit, and a nice ‘thwack’ sound to emphasis on how hard she had thrown her head back at you in protest.
You squeezed your eyes shut, ears ringing as you compartmentalised the instant infuriation you felt from being struck. Something that came with being a parent meant that you needed to digest things at an unnatural speed to prevent reacting to a tiny human that has no concept of how to handle their big feelings.
Clark immediately took Joy from you, his voice muffled as you held your nose. Luckily, she hadn’t hit it hard enough to make it bleed, but enough to make it throb.
The kernel was expanding.
Smell the flowers, blow out the candles. Ms. Rachel had thought you that one.
And then, all of the practices you had read about being the kindest version of a parent with healthy habits that allowed their kids to blossom, was soon diminished when Hope began grabbing at your legs and doing her trademark screech.
The living room felt ten times smaller, and you — with the throbbing nose — were in high demand.
You hadn’t meant for it to come out the way it did. Nails dug into the palms of your hands, the kernel in your chest finally popped.
“Can everyone just leave me the fuck alone, for two goddamn minutes!”
The room fell silent. You opened your eyes, the guilt flooding your stomach as you stared at your husband. Clark didn’t look upset, nor disgruntled by your outburst. But, he didn’t say anything; which made everything feel worse.
He scooped up Hope in the meantime, “I think it’s nap time for you girls.”
Clark left you in the living room, and you sat with the weight of how the twins stared at you with their enormous eyes. Nauseated with the idea that the last interaction with you was a negative one, when all they needed was your affection to feel better.
That familiar feeling you knew all too well. Being shut out, screamed at for needing a parent, tiptoeing on eggshells around them to prevent an outburst. An occasional back of the hand, or a threat of a belt if you spoke out of turn. Being loved from a distance without any vocalisation that you were loved at all.
You dropped your head to the palm of your hands.
You weren’t sure how long you had sat with that idea for. The negative thoughts swarmed you like an enraged beehive, the immediate failure was suffocating. The silence was even worse.
“Honey?” Clark’s soft tone came from above you. You lifted your head to see your husband standing in the hallway.
The tears were there in an instant.
Face crumpled, your shoulders shook when the influx of tears flooded your waterline. Lips pulled into a deep frown, a little sob escaped the back of your throat and Clark was there without an ounce of hesitance.
His large palm came to your back, soothing in the way it rubbed up and down your spine as he bent at the waist to try see your face.
“I’m doing this all wrong.” You admitted through a thick wave of emotion.
Clark frowned, “What are you doing wrong?”
“This!” You gestured to yourself and then in the direction of the nursery, “All of it. Being a mom — a good mom — that doesn’t punish their kids for having feelings. God, Clark, did you see the way they looked at me? I’m pushing them away and they’re only 18 months old. They’ll be in therapy, or, or ripping wings off of butterflies at five years old.”
You continued, “I can’t make the same mistakes. And, I am. I lost my temper. They’ve gone to sleep thinking I hate them.”
Clark chewed on your confession for a bit. Allowing you time and the space needed to vomit up your self-deprecating ideas.
When you eventually stopped, Clark nodded.
“Honey. If no parent got openly mad at least once, I would say they’re lying.” He paused, and you looked up at him, “Just because you shouted, doesn’t take away that you are an incredible mother to our kids. You have nurtured them, given them tools at such a young age that has helped them communicate with us. They know so much sign language, because you studied the ins and outs of it. You’re the first person in a room they look for, the first kiss and cuddle they give out. And, I’ll finally admit it. Both girls smiled at you first.”
You wiped your nose and laughed.
Clark added, “You’re allowed to still have emotions yourself. Bad ones. Golly, the amount of times I could’ve punched a hole in the wall trying to get Hope to get her diaper changed.” His hand went to the nape of your neck, “An outburst like that isn’t continuous, you’ve been patient, kind and most of all…loving. And it reflects in them. You’re a good mom. They won’t be traumatised because you slipped up and raised your voice. And I’m sure it will happen again. Just like it will for me. OK?”
“OK.” You sighed.
“I think Joy will rip the wings off of butterflies either way.” Clark added with a shrug before he pulled you into his side to plant a kiss to your temple.
“Yeah. I don’t doubt that.”
“Exactly. Honey, this is all a learning curve, stop being so hard on yourself for any blips along this long road ahead.” Clark kissed your temple again, “You’re not your parents. Trust me, I’ve met them.”
“I know, sometimes I can’t help but think that way.” You pulled away from Clark, “Thank you.”
Clark smiled brightly at you and pressed a kiss to your lips, “I love you. How’s the nose?”
“A not-so-gentle reminder that she’s got a head made of steel.” You said and rubbed at the tenderness in your nose.
“At least she gets something from me.”
As you two began to share a laugh, fingers intertwined for comfort, the faint crackle of the baby monitor had both your heads turn on a swivel.
Joy’s face was up at the camera, or, more so her nose. You both stared at her with your breaths hitched, hoping she’d lay back down and close her eyes.
But to no avail, her mouth came into view and a big toothy smile told the both of you that she was fuelled from her 15 minute nap.
“Mama?” Her little voice echoed.
Clark turned to look at you with a knowing look as you stood.
He smacked your backside as you passed him, “I told you so.”
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